“God’s teeth, Katie. Do not make me imagine you in lace.”
Impulsively, she threw herself into his arms and kissed him. “Tonight.” Then she ran away, knowing she’d left him standing there gawking.
Chapter Fifteen
Henry noted immediatelyKatie didn’t wear the flimsy night rail. She wore a gown that looked as though it had once belonged to an ancient housekeeper and buttoned up to just under her chin. He supposed the choice of attire was intended to make her look as unappealing as possible. But all those buttons were a temptation. He itched to unbutton them, one by one, and reveal what was underneath. Obviously, the issue was less what she was wearing and more his attraction to her. The sooner they found the documents he was looking for, the sooner they could stop meeting in the middle of the night, risking her reputation and tempting his self-control.
She seemed to be of the same mind, and he took the desk, while she started on yet another bookshelf. They worked in silence of necessity.
Henry had no sooner begun than he wished he were back in bed. His back ached in places he’d never thought of before, and his eyes were heavy with exhaustion. The last thing he wanted to do after climbing and carrying and hammering all day was search a library for half the night. He reminded himself that once he solved the mystery of the land Shrewsbury disputed, he’d be able to devote more time to figuring out what to do with his future. He hadn’t yet received a response to his letters from King and Rory. The letters might not even have reached them yet. And yet Henry was already thinking about writing themagain, because he was increasingly convinced they would have to return to Scotland.
To the witch’s lair—the scene of the crime, as it were.
It would take time for the three of them to work out a plan and arrange to meet at St. Andrew’s again, especially considering Henry wasn’t even sure if Rory was back on English soil. When his wife had been killed, he’d picked up his grief and departed for the Continent.
But Henry had already decided he could not stay here at Carlisle Hall. Katie was too much of a temptation, and even more of a temptation was the proximity to Dunwich and a game of cards. His mind had been turning to the closed door of the room at the Bear and Boar more and more often. He needed to go somewhere more remote, where he couldn’t easily find a game.
There was one place that met that criterion, a place he couldn’t gamble away if he did slip in his resolve. Carlisle Keep, his crumbling castle, had another advantage in that it was far north and close to Scotland.
That was perhaps the only advantage it had. He seemed to remember that when he’d gone in his younger years, the family stayed at the guardhouse, not the castle. Henry wasn’t sure the guardhouse was still habitable. He wouldn’t know until he saw it. He’d deal with the problem of repairs when he arrived.
He glanced over at Katie, who had come to search a cabinet behind the desk. How was he to tell her goodbye? How was he to leave her at the mercy of a father who’d abandoned her to a house he intended to allow to crumble to the ground?
But was that a worse fate than saddling her with an inveterate gambler who would probably fall back into his old ways and bankrupt them both?
“Carlisle,” she said.
He glanced up sharply, hoping he hadn’t spoken his last thoughts aloud.
“I think I have it. I don’t read enough French to be sure.”
“Let me see.” He took the papers and perused them, immediately wishing he had worked harder in French class himself. Like a child with his first primer, he stumbled through the initial pages of the document. “It’s a vineyard,” he said. “There’s no mention of the Malforts or the Marquess of Shrewsbury. The land was owned by a Frenchman named Reblais. Hold on.” He shifted several pages. “The deed to the land was signed in 1792. It doesn’t mention how Reblais acquired it, but he sold it to my father in 1802.”
“Ten years after he acquired it. The revolution was raging in 1792 and peace had been restored in 1802.”
“Yes, the timing is quite suspect. Do you think my grandfather negotiated with this Reblais in ’92 to put the land in his name so it would not be forfeit to the government? They were seizing any and all property owned by nobility or foreigners at the start of the revolution.”
“I think it’s likely. If that’s true, then your grandfather probably acted to preserve the land for my family. After ten years, why did he not negotiate a sale to my father?”
“My grandfather died in 1795. It’s possible my father didn’t know of the arrangement. Reblais might have written to say that the arrangement had expired and offered to sell the land back. Perhaps my father simply bought it because it seemed like a good investment.” He showed her a page of sums. “The vineyard is quite profitable—or at least it was in 1802.”
Katie shook her head. “If the arrangement was always to give the land back, then why did my grandfather challenge yours to a duel?”
“Misunderstanding?” Henry said with a wince. Of course, the most likely explanation was that his grandfather had seen a way to steal the land from the Malforts and done just that. It was impossible to know whether Henry’s father had known of theplan and been part of it, but Henry would have wagered—if he was still the sort of man who made wagers—ten pounds that Shrewsbury had made sure to inform the duke, when Henry’s grandfather passed away, of the land and his claim. And yet Henry’s father hadn’t given the land back when the ten-year lease expired. He’d kept it for himself.
“What will you do now?” Katie asked.
“Ask my mother about it and then write to the steward of the vineyard and investigate its worth now. Then I suppose I will write to your father and see if he’s willing to trade Carlisle Hall or the town house—or both, depending on how valuable the vineyard is—to get the land in France back.”
Katie closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against them lightly. “He won’t give you either of your properties back. He’ll demand the vineyard and argue he won the properties fairly. He wants nothing more than to take everything from you.”
“Surely he can be reasonable.”
She opened her eyes and folded her arms. “I wanted to go to Paris to paint, and when he discovered the plan, he dismissed my companion, forbade me from ever painting again, and exiled me to a house he’d just as soon demolish as pay to repair the roof or moldering interior. He’s not reasonable.”
“Then I’ll have to be creative.” Henry yawned. “Now, I am going back to the dower house and to bed.”
“Let’s set off for the Robins’s farm early. If we leave before Mrs. Murray wakes, she can’t ask questions.”
