Mr. Lionel turned an angry, radish red. If his head were a pipe, it would be smoking. “Your husband would not have taken kindly to this if you don’t mind me saying.”
“In fact, I do mind, and you’re correct. My husband was a kind man. Thankfully, I do not suffer from the same affliction.” It was a lie, but she’d been working at being brave, and these were four people who would gladly use her nature of kindness against her.
Ignoring the odious man as he left the room, she slid another ledger from the stack that teetered on the desk. The record book was heavy, too thick, and full of loose papers. It flopped open, and a few errant pieces of foolscap fell to the floor. The whole thing looked as if a chicken had scratched out numbers leaving notes behind for the rooster to make sense of. She supposed she was now the rooster.
Accept what is good. That was her mantra. She loved the study this hour of the day. The sun struck beams of warm light directly across the rosewood desk, making it the perfect time for working. Henry had often sat right where she stood, dictating a letter or working on the very books piled high at her right hand.
“Ahem, excuse me. No one was manning the door, so I let myself in.”
Freddie looked up to find a man in her study. He was pointing behind him, indicating the absence of a butler or her steward. Of course, Mr. Lionel—who’d just been thoroughly sacked—had gone to do her bidding, presumably, and this gentleman, by the looks of him, had wandered in unchecked.
She spread her hands over the open pages to keep them from folding in on themselves. “May I help you?”
“I believe I may help you if you’re the baroness?” The man removed his hat, revealing a head of hair as dark as the rivers of grain in her rosewood desk. The strands of red undertones, lit by the filtering sunlight, softened the hard lines of his face.
She blinked, taking in his fine, azure-blue coat, perfectly tied cravat, buckskin breeches, and Hessians, an outfit to rival any well-bred country gentleman. Or a highly paid solicitor. Perhaps even a barrister. “I am Baroness Danderly, Lord Danderly’s widow. Did the League send you? Are you here to help me with my husband’s books?” The man was quite handsome, with dark eyes and a brooding smile. Just the sort the Widows’ League would send, she imagined. Josephine had inferred they would be more than happy to send a companion to warm her bed. Lord, she hoped he was just a solicitor.
Cade had not expected to waltz in without an introduction, but nothing could be done for that now. The woman behind the desk was younger than he had expected.
Henry had been in his thirties, and for some reason, Cade had imagined his widow would look like a widow, dressed in dreary black, hair severely piled, with a dull mouth, sluggish eyebrows, and a despondent posture. He had expected her to be a bit out of sorts and out of shape. But she was quite forthright and had a comely figure, which he chastised himself for noticing. She wore a sunny, cream, muslin day dress embroidered with fine apricot applique along the neckline. She was quite gorgeous in a natural sort of way. Of course, he was a bit of a connoisseur of women. He’d been collecting them for a dozen years since the age of seventeen. He blamed his low expectations of widows on the magazine images he’d seen of widow’s weeds.
She was no common widow.
At least not the kind he’d anticipated. If he was shocked to find her wearing something other than black, he didn’t show it. It was, in fact, refreshing.
“In a manner, yes. I’ve come to help with the books.” Or to help himself to the books. One lay open on the desk, with her hands pressing the willful pages down. He itched to have a look.
“May I assume you are the solicitor? I hadn’t expected the League to respond so quickly, but since my steward has failed to find someone trustworthy, I’m more than happy to entertain the League’s choice.”
What was this? The League? Who or what the hell was the League? And solicitor. She thought him a solicitor.
No, she thought him thee, solicitor. Dare he? It was all happening too fast. The mistaken identity, the books stacked right there on the desk next to the one that lay open. Somewhere in that leaning tower of paperwork was the information he needed. It wasn’t his idea, this mistake she’d made, but now that she’d suggested it, he couldn’t stop himself.
“Yes,” he answered before his conscience alerted his stubborn will. “The solicitor. The League sent me. Have I arrived at a bad time?” He told himself it didn’t matter. A little lie wouldn’t hurt anyone, not when he only required perhaps half a day to find the answers. Had Lord Danderly finalized the books concerning the property that lined his? His only dilemma now was to get in and out before the real solicitor came to call.
“You’ve arrived at the perfect time, Mister…?”
“Uh, Mister… Cade.” Dammit. Couldn’t he have been more clever than to use his given name for a surname? Mentally, he rolled his eyes. Physically, he slid the brim of his hat nervously through his fingers, round and round, like a spinning top hat. Caden. Caden. He hoped to God she didn’t have a clue who the Duke of Justamere was. Not his name. Not his description. Not anything. He didn’t spend much time in this part of the country. The villagers barely knew him, if at all. And the servants here were not likely to recognize a man who didn’t frequent the milliner or the apothecary.
“Mr. Cade. The League acted quickly, bless their hearts. Mr. Newhouse will be happy about that.”
“Mr. Newhouse?”
“My steward. He’s been interviewing solicitors, and the League knew that, of course.”
“Of course.” He cleared his throat. The League must be a firm.
“I asked them not to bother, but here you are, and I cannot tell you how relieved I am. My husband’s books are…” She sighed heavily. “They’re a bit of a mess. I can’t tell where Danderly made entries and where the family solicitor made entries. Items have been crossed out and over, and somehow it looks more like code. If you could unscramble them, I’d be grateful.”
“That’s why I’m here.” He couldn’t help the sigh of relief, knowing that perhaps no solicitor would be coming to take his place. Looking over his shoulder did not sound appealing.
She blew a strand of hair from her eyes, then swiped at it when that didn’t work.
The woman was charming and refreshingly alive, especially for someone who should be mourning.
“I’m afraid this will take some time. Where are you staying, Mr. Cade? I assume you came from a London firm.”
“That is where the League does most of their business, yes. But I’m, uh… staying in the village at the local pub where they have rooms to let.”
“Surely you could afford a better hotel.”
“I’m frugal,” he prevaricated, taking several steps inside the room.
“Well, that won’t do, will it? You can stay here. There’s plenty of room, and it will give us time to chat.”
Chat? Just how scrambled were those books?
Two
Freddie folded the leather-bound file closed. She’d perused three of them already, and all were equally a mess. It was as if Henry had fought the old solicitor with pen and ink and come out the loser. Thank goodness for Mr. Cade. She’d had doubts for a moment, but the League had done a thorough job of removing her brother and sister-in-law, so she assumed this handsome man was just as competent. Although, she was wary of her own intuition, what with her mind creating scenarios about real marriages and what they were like behind closed doors. She’d never been attracted to Henry that way. They’d been friends. A shy smile at the altar and pleasant conversation had been the only marriage she knew. Josephine had suggested that widows might miss their marriage bed. She thought she hadn’t missed a thing.