Marissa sat up in her chair. “Is she?” This was highly unusual. Lydia rarely left Brushbriar.
“Yes. I watched her coach depart Brushbriar and then passed her again on the road. She arrived at Pendleton’s house late last night.”
The only reason Lydia would ever have come to London was to ensure Simon married an heiress of her choosing, one wealthy enough to wipe clean the yawning hole of debt Lydia had driven the family into. And she would not have left Brushbriar unless she was assured Catherine had bagged Kendicott.
Poor, poor murdering Lydia, to have her old bones jostled in the carriage along the bumpy road to London. She’d probably stayed drunk the entire trip and doubtless hadn’t felt a thing. Marissa covered her mouth to stifle the giggle that bubbled up. She only wished she could see Lydia’s face when she heard the news that Catherine wouldn’t be marrying Kendicott after all.
“You’ve someone watching Pendleton’s home?”
Tomkin made a small sound of offense. “Of course, my lady. And two inside.”
“Forgive me for questioning your thoroughness, Tomkin. I know you’ve planned well. I wish to know what events Lady Pendleton will be attending and if her son escorts her. Another glass?” Tomkin, bless him, had thought of everything. The man was a treasure.
“Regretfully no, my lady. I’ve business to see to.” He reached inside his coat pocket and brought forth a small packet. “Everything’s here. I’ve a man whom I trust handling things at Brushbriar for me. When he’s sure Kendicott is no longer interested in Lady Whitfield, he’ll send word to me.”
“Very good, Mr. Tomkin. I’ll have the funds deposited in your account. I hope you’ll keep things just between us?”
Tomkin sat his now empty glass down on her desk and stood. “You may be assured. I will contact you when I have more information on Viscount Pendleton.”
“Not a word to the duke,” Marissa cautioned, her voice steely. Tomkin held her in healthy respect, but he was afraid of her nephew. Most people were. Sooner or later, Nick would find out what she was up to, but she hoped to be nearly finished by the time he did.
Tomkin bowed. “No, my lady. You may rely on my discretion.”
After Tomkin took his leave, Marissa poured herself another glass of whisky and wandered back down the hall to the drawing room. The vase of roses and peonies wasn’t quite perfect yet.
Marissa paced across the rug of the drawing room, taking in the spray of flowers from various angles. Humming to herself, she strode back and forth, sipping at her whisky and wondering if Simon had received word yet from their solicitors that in addition to contesting the ownership of the mine and freezing all the current assets, she was also insisting that if the survey map was deemed an original, which it would be, that all the previous profits of the mine be reverted back to the estate of the Earl of Morwick.
Brendan had sent her a letter just the other day asking what the bloody hell she was up to because a court appointed overseer had taken over the mine.
Marissa had declined to answer. She’d tell him soon enough when he arrived with Petra for the holidays.
How fortuitous Lydia was now in London She would be able to hear the news about the freezing of her assets from Simon firsthand. Marissa hoped the news would send Lydia to bed for a week. Murderous bitch.
A rush of grief and anger filled her. Reggie.
The pain, while not as acute as it had once been, was still there, lingering on the edge of her heart. Reggie had not deserved to be murdered and left to die in a cave, shot by a man he considered his best friend. Alone. All so that Lydia could have an entire staircase made from Blue John. She hoped when every piece of the miserable stuff was sold, Lydia lost a piece of her soul.
I’m so sorry, Reggie.
Marissa slapped the table so hard the vase shook. One of the peonies fell out. Shoving the bloom back into the vase, she marched over to the couch, clasping the whisky between her hands. In her pique over Haddon’s non-visit today and Jordana, along with the arrival of Mr. Tomkin, Marissa had nearly forgotten. Or perhaps she intentionally didn’t wish to think about it.
She’d dreamt of Reggie last night, something she hadn’t done in years, not even after the discovery of his remains. They’d been in bed together, laughing at a joke he’d made, his back to her. Curled up behind him, her fingers had trailed over his shoulders before pressing her lips to the base of his neck.
Marissa tossed back the remainder of the whisky, her hand unsteady.
When Reggie had rolled over in her dream, fingers threading through Marissa’s hair to pull her down for a kiss, it wasn’t her long-dead husband’s face she saw.
It was Haddon’s.
8
Trent looked out the window at the trees, most bare of leaves, as his carriage neared the park. Marissa was bound to be surprised when she saw that he had accompanied his daughter today. She wouldn’t be expecting him.
Good. Marissa could do with a few surprises now and again.
Stubborn.
She was testing the limits of Trent’s patience, and considering he had four daughters, that was considerable indeed.
Challenging.
Trent had known the moment he took her in his arms and danced with her at Brushbriar, lifting her chin as if daring him to charm her, that they would be lovers. He’d sensed her vulnerability, well-hidden behind a sparkling wit, concealed nearly as well as the ruthlessness flickering in her sapphire eyes.
Clever.
The conversation between them had never lagged. Much to his surprise, Marissa was not only well-informed on a variety of subjects, but her opinions were her own. His late wife had barely ever expressed an independent thought, nor had any of his previous lovers ever espoused their views. Marissa was an intelligent woman. One who, given her family’s reputation, would be unwise to
