Return of the Prodigal Gilvry

His smile felt just a little too forced. But then it was likely difficult to know what to do with one’s face in the presence of a supposedly grieving widow. He drew a notebook from his pocket and a small silver pen. He turned the pages as if looking for something. ‘It was a Mr Gilvry who discovered his body. It was his letter we received.’

‘Yes. He accompanied my husband’s remains from America.’ His voice made her wonder if he harboured doubts about Mr Gilvry. She pursed her lips. Where was he? He had promised to attend this meeting. ‘He will join us shortly.’

He looked around somewhat disapprovingly as if he expected Mr Gilvry to pop out of her bedroom.

‘Nothing can move forward until the circumstances of your husband’s death are fully documented and sworn to,’ he continued. ‘It is this—’ he glanced down at his notebook ‘—Gilvry I need to speak to. As well as verifying the death of your husband and...’ He frowned. ‘And the validity of your marriage.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘None of the MacDonalds were aware that Mr Samuel MacDonald had taken a wife.’

‘You will find it in the records of my parish church.’

Again that delicate cough. ‘Or if there are offspring? Our contact with Mr MacDonald was most perfunctory.’

‘No.’ She raised her chin. ‘No offspring.’ And she’d been glad of it, too, given how he’d left her in the lurch.

‘And Mr Gilvry?’

She glanced towards the door. Where on earth was he?

* * *

The call to attend Rowena and Mr Jones came at eleven. Damn it, not Rowena. Mrs MacDonald. All night he’d been thinking about the lovely pale skin glowing in candlelight over dinner, his memories of the challenge her slender curves and hollows presented to his own desires and cursing himself.

He’d made very sure the servants had seen him leave her room. He’d sent the maid up to help her ready for bed, too, so she would know nothing untoward had occurred. He’d done all he could to protect her from gossip. He would have to make sure this lawyer saw only mistress and servant.

Once more he was dressed in her husband’s second-best coat, pretending to be what he was not.

The atmosphere when he stepped into the room was tense. Mrs MacDonald sagged at the sight of him. He frowned. What had this lawyer being saying to her that would upset her usual calm?

He bowed. ‘You sent for me, Mrs MacDonald.’

‘Yes, Mr Gilvry. Mr Jones has some questions for you.’

‘Indeed I do,’ the dapper young man said. ‘On what date did Mr MacDonald meet his end? The day and the month.’

Drew had expected questions about the circumstances of MacDonald’s death. Dreaded them. But the date?

He hadn’t known at the time. He’d spent too long living by the seasons and the rise and set of the sun to be aware of dates. But he knew it now. The date was carved in his mind by words that chilled him to the bone. Unbelievable that any man would allow... ‘September fifteenth.’ He forced the words out.

The lawyer’s eyes flickered with some sort of emotion. Disappointment? He gathered himself so quickly it was hard to be sure. He smiled a prissy smile. ‘Are you positive?’

‘I am.’

The lawyer looked at him expectantly. When he said nothing, the man shook his head. ‘You have proof?’

A deep dark cold entered his gut. ‘My word should be enough.’

‘Any statement made is subject to being contested without proof.’

The cold expended to fill his chest. He had the proof. But to make his shame public, a byword.... There had to be another way. ‘If you dinna have the date, is it a problem?’

The lawyer tapped his chin with a well-manicured nail, making Drew aware of his rough weather-beaten hands. No longer the hands of a gentleman. Jones frowned down at paper before him. ‘It is true the date is not so important, once his identity is established. Without proof it is best if we couch it in the most general of terms.’ He looked up with a lawyerly smile. ‘And remain within the bounds of the law, you understand. Yes. Yes. It will serve very well.’

The man talked in such flowing periods, Drew wanted to hit him.

He picked up his pen and filled in some blank spaces on the document. ‘Hmm. Date of death, sometime in late September.’

Drew looked at Rowena. She was pale, worrying at her bottom lip and looking tense. She clearly sensed something was wrong and, damn it, so did he.

The lawyer pushed the paper across the desk. ‘Make your mark there,’ he said, pointing. ‘I’ll witness it.’

His younger brother Niall had always wanted to study the law. One of the things he had said when they talked around the dinner table was that it was a foolish man who signed anything he did not understand. And it was clear the lawyer thought he couldn’t read. He picked up the pen. ‘Why not write the fifteenth as I told you?’

‘You cannot put a date if you cannot prove it,’ the lawyer said. ‘It would not be right.’ He moved the paper out of Drew’s reach with a frown. ‘And as I said, it is not all that important. As long as we have the proof of his death.’ He gave a sly little smile. ‘As we will do, once the remains are carried to Mere.’

‘Then let us omit any mention of the date at all.’ Drew replied.

‘Will that be sufficient?’ Rowena asked, her posture stiff, her expression remote, yet stern. Drew sensed her anxiety.

The lawyer pulled his legal superiority around him like a shield. ‘If more is required, we can return to the matter at a later time.’

It seemed reasonable to Drew. Then why did he have this odd sense of worry? He glanced at Rowena. She also looked troubled, but she met his gaze and nodded.

He pulled the paper back across the table, scratched out the line and signed the document.

‘Mr Jones,’ Mrs MacDonald said sharply, ‘there are other matters pressing upon me at the moment with which I require your assistance.’

His gaze sharpened with wariness. ‘Matters, madam?’

‘Matters such as my husband’s will. His estate.’

‘My dear Mrs MacDonald,’ the man said with a condescension that again made Drew want to hit him, ‘probate of a will takes time. There are many formalities to be undertaken, as I have already explained.’

She gazed at him coolly. ‘I understand. But you must know something of his affairs. I am a governess. I must return to my position at once.’

His eyes widened. ‘Oh, most certainly not. You and Mr Gilvry must travel to Mere.’

Drew stared at him. ‘I have no intention of going to Mere. My own affairs take me in quite another direction.’

The lawyer shifted in his seat. ‘It was my understanding that you were to accompany Mr MacDonald’s remains to his final resting place. That is Mere.’

‘I prefer to leave that to you.’

The lawyer shook his head. ‘Until a third party has confirmed that the deceased is truly Samuel MacDonald, at which time the court will no doubt accept your information, Mr Gilvry, I cannot release you from your obligations.’

He turned to Rowena and, if anything, his smile became more oily. ‘I should not be saying this, but before he left, Mr MacDonald changed his will. Everything is left to Mere’s estate. Any settlements will be at the discretion of the new duke. You will not find him ungenerous, I assure you, once your claim is established.’