him the previous night in a manner that was fully as public and embarrassing as she had promised, but he was man enough to take that. She had given him fair warning, he had underestimated her and he had been bested. No, what troubled him was the matter of David Ware’s last words.
Alex had never questioned his late colleague’s integrity before and it disturbed him to find himself doing so now, particularly as he had no reason to doubt Ware’s embittered words about his wife. And yet. And yet Joanna Ware’s pale stricken face was before his eyes and remembering her expression made him feel as though he had been kicked squarely in the gut.
“You assume that I am the one who was in the wrong … I am sorry you believe that.”
He had felt her pain then. He had not wanted to; he had no desire to be moved by this woman or to feel any affinity for her and yet he had not been able to help himself.
It was easy to canonize a man after his death, especially a man like David Ware, who had already been hailed as a hero. Joanna must have been a very pretty adornment to Ware’s fame, burnishing his glory with her elegance and style. But then something must have happened; everything had gone wrong between them.
“You assume that I am the one who was in the wrong …”
Somewhere in the recesses of Alex’s body he felt a wayward pang of sympathy for Joanna Ware. And yet his doubts lingered. On his deathbed Ware had called his wife a deceitful, manipulative bitch, harsh words, bitterly spoken. There had to be a reason.
Impatiently Alex dismissed his thoughts. He was not at all sure why he was expending so much time in thinking about Joanna Ware. It was infuriating and completely unacceptable that he felt drawn to her in some odd way in direct contradiction to what they both wanted. Yet he could not shift the feeling. It persisted. It made him angry and uncomfortable. He also profoundly disliked being dragged into David Ware’s personal affairs. When he had delivered his late colleague’s letter to the lawyers, he had thought that was an end to the matter and yet here he was; against his will he had been drawn further into Ware’s business.
He itched to be gone.
There was a flurry of noise outside the door and then the clerk threw it open with a somewhat theatrical flourish and Lady Joanna Ware swept into the room. Alex got to his feet. Mr Churchward leaped up, too, apparently so eager to greet his client that he managed to knock a pile of papers off his desk.
“My lady!” Churchward looked momentarily stunned and Alex knew how he felt. Joanna’s entrance had brought something bright and vital into the fusty room, chasing away the cobwebs and the shadows. For a moment Alex felt dazzled, as though he was looking directly into the sun. It was odd, he thought, for his overriding impression of Joanna had from the start been one of cool superficiality and self-containment and yet now she was all warmth and charm. It was like watching a different woman. She was shaking Mr Churchward’s hand and smiling in genuine pleasure to see the lawyer and her brittle façade was quite gone, replaced by a sincerity that seemed entirely genuine.
This morning Joanna was dressed in a primrose silk morning gown with a matching spencer trimmed with black lace. A delicious little hat sat on her upswept chestnut curls. She looked breathtakingly pretty, very young and disconcertingly innocent. It was a smart, stylish, expensive outfit, neat as a pin and yet somehow subtly seductive. Alex, unversed and uninterested in fashion, had not the least idea why the sight of so apparently respectable a gown should have precisely the reverse effect on him and make him feel distinctly unrespectable. It covered all of Joanna from neck to toe and it made him want to uncover her, preferably immediately and in intensive detail. He shifted slightly.
“I am surprised to see that your dog can move,” he said as the terrier trotted into the office in Joanna’s wake, the yellow ribbon in its topknot complementing her yellow silk perfectly. “I hope he has not found the exercise of walking from your carriage too onerous.”
Joanna turned. Her violet-blue eyes fixed on Alex and she did not look pleased to see him. Her luscious mouth tightened into a deeply disapproving bow, which contrarily Alex found extremely attractive.
“My dog’s name is Max,” she said, “and he is a border terrier and as such perfectly capable of vigorous activity. He simply chooses not to exert himself.” The dog, as though to make the point, graciously accepted a biscuit Mr. Churchward had taken from his drawer, curled up neatly in a patch of sunlight on the floor and went to sleep.
“Mr. Churchward did not tell me that you would be here,” Joanna added. “I was not expecting to see you.”
“I was not expecting to be here,” Alex said as he held her chair for her. “So both of us are disappointed.” He shrugged, turning to the lawyer. “As Lady Joanna has finally deigned to grace us with her presence,” he said, “shall we commence?”
“Thank you, my lord,” Mr. Churchward said frostily. He fidgeted a little with his papers and settled his glasses more firmly on his nose. “Madam.” His voice quivered a little and Alex realized that he was laboring under a strong emotion, “may I first say how sorry, how very sorry I am to be the bearer of yet more bad news in relation to your husband’s death. When we met a year ago to discuss the distressing terms of his will—” He broke off and shook his head. “It pains me greatly,” he added, “to bring yet more trouble upon you.”
“Dear Mr. Churchward—” there was more warmth in Joanna’s tone than Alex had ever heard from her before “—I fear you are making me nervous!” She smiled reassuringly at the lawyer though Alex thought there was an edge of anxiety beneath her assumption of ease. “You cannot be held responsible in any way for my late husband’s behavior,” Joanna said. “Pray do not concern yourself.”
Looking from Joanna’s composed features to Mr. Churchward’s anguished ones, Alex wondered for the first time about the depositions of David Ware’s will and about the codicil, that very document that he had carried back all the way from the Arctic at Ware’s behest. He had assumed that his late comrade had left his not-inconsiderable fortune to Lady Joanna to allow her to continue to live in the lavish style to which she was clearly accustomed. That would surely have been in keeping with Ware’s character, with his honor and his sense of duty. But now, looking at the lawyer’s gloomy face-and remembering Ware’s venom toward his wife-Alex realized that his assumption might well have been false.
“What were the terms of Ware’s will?” he interrupted.
Both Joanna and the lawyer jumped as though they had forgotten he was there. Joanna refused to meet his eyes, smoothing the material of her skirts in a quick, fidgety gesture. Churchward flushed.
“My lord, I beg your pardon, but I am not certain that it is your business.”
Joanna looked up suddenly and Alex felt the impact of her gaze like a physical blow, it was so keen and clear.
“On the contrary, Mr. Churchward,” she said, “I imagine that Lord Grant is here because David has somehow embroiled him in my affairs. If that is the case then he deserves to know the truth from the beginning.”
“If you wish, madam.” Churchward sounded huffy. “It is most irregular, however.”
“David,” Joanna said gently, “was irregular, Mr. Churchward.” She glanced back at Alex, took a deep breath and seemed to be choosing her words with some care. “My late husband,” she said, “left his estate to his cousin John Hagan in his will and cut me off without a penny.” She paused. “You may be aware, Lord Grant, that Maybole was bought with David’s navy prize
