she knew it was not. He would not have asked the maid to announce him. ‘Did the gentleman give his name?’
Emmie held out a square of white paper. ‘His card, ma’am.’
Mr Brian Jones, solicitor, the card stated in bold black letters. On the reverse, a rather crabbed script added cryptically, man of business to the Duke of Mere.
‘Show him in, please. And ask Mr Gilvry to come up, if you will.’ The girl raised questioning brows, but hurried off without a word.
Rowena moved from the writing desk to the sofa and sat facing the door.
The man who stepped across the threshold a few moments later was surprisingly young for such a responsible position. In his mid-thirties, she thought, and reasonably fair of face, if one ignored the tendency of his long nose to sharpness and the slight weakness of his chin. But his pale blue eyes were sharp and his smile positively charming. He was dressed quite as soberly as one would expect for a lawyer, though his cravat was perhaps a shade flamboyant in its intricacy.
‘Mrs MacDonald,’ he said with a deeper bow than someone of her station warranted. An odd little slip for such a man.
‘Mr Jones. Please, be seated.’
He settled himself into the armchair opposite without a sign of any nervousness. Indeed, if anything, he looked confidently in control. A small smile hovered on his lips as he waited for her to speak. She could wait him out. Her father had taught her the game of negotiation almost before she had learned how to sew a fine seam. But with her future in the balance, she wasn’t in the mood.
‘You received the message about my husband’s death from Mr Gilvry, I assume?’
He arranged his face into an expression of sympathy. ‘I did. May I offer you my condolences on your loss,’ he said, inclining his head. ‘Indians, I understand.’
She nodded. ‘So I gather.’
‘Most unfortunate.’ A touch of colour tinged his cheeks. ‘Did you—’ He coughed delicately. ‘Are you certain he did not survive the attack?’
His eyes were fixed intently on her face. A strange feeling rippled across her shoulders. Her scalp tightened at the shock of it. It was something like the sensation described as a ghost walking over one’s grave, only more unpleasant. A premonition of danger. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one who had wondered about the truth of Samuel’s death. ‘If you require confirmation, Mr Jones, you must inspect his remains. They have been returned to Scotland at his wish.’
Distaste twisted his mouth. ‘Not me. I never met Mr MacDonald in person.’ He coughed behind his hand. ‘I have arranged for someone in the duke’s household to confirm his identity.’
The duke’s household? ‘My husband never mentioned the Duke of Mere once to me during our marriage.’
‘Ah, dear lady, it is a distant connection. Your husband’s branch of the family has long been estranged from its senior branch. He visited Mere shortly before his departure for America. It was Mere’s wish that relationships that were broken be mended. The identification is mere formality, you understand, but a necessary one.’
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?’
