Page 35 of A Duke to Restore her Memory

“I assure you, ladies, every detail is in perfect order,” Mr. Edwin Montague said as he adjusted his spectacles with practiced precision, the morning light catching the silver smudges at his temples. “Though I must confess, the news may not be what you expect.”

Angelica sat perfectly straight in the leather chair, her dove grey, empire waist morning dress arranged with careful elegance.

The solicitor’s office felt unusually cramped that morning, despite the tall windows overlooking Bath’s fashionable Queen Square.

The scent of beeswax and old papers hung heavily in the air, mingling with the lavender water that her aunt wore too liberally.

“Come now, Edwin,” Lavinia’s laugh tinkled like cracked crystal. “You are being positively mysterious. Surely my niece’s inheritance is straightforward enough?”

Montague’s fingers drummed against the edge of his mahogany desk, each tap falling like a hammer blow in the quiet room.

Angelica watched those fingers—long and elegant, yet somehow predatory, like a spider testing its web. She had known this man all her life, yet something in his manner today made her skin prickle with unease.

“The matter of inheritance is never simple, Lady Warburton,” he replied, his voice as smooth as cream hiding sour notes. “Particularly in cases where the estate has been… encumbered.”

“Encumbered?” Angelica’s clear voice cut through the heavy air. Her hands made gestures that were deliberately precise, like the ballet positions she had learned as a child. “I do not quite understand. My father left everything in trust until my nineteenth birthday—which is today.”

Montague cleared his throat, reaching for a thick ledger bound in cracking leather. “Indeed, Lady Angelica. Your father did; however, certain arrangements and adjustments were made over the years. Necessary arrangements, surely you can understand, for the maintenance of Rosemere Hall and your own upbringing.”

Something cold settled in Angelica’s stomach, like a stone dropped in still water. She turned to her aunt, noting how Lavinia’s fingers twisted in her lap, crushing the fine muslin of her handkerchief.

“Aunt Lavinia? What is he talking about?”

“Now, dear, you must understand—” Lavinia began, but Montague cut her off with a raised hand.

“Perhaps I might better explain.” He opened the ledger, each page rustling like autumn leaves caught in a faint breeze. “Your father’s estate, while considerable, required careful management. Lady Warburton, as your guardian, had full authority to make certain… financial decisions.”

The cold in Angelica’s stomach spread outward, numbing her fingers where they gripped the arms of her chair. “What kind of decisions?”

“The mortgaging of Rosemere Hall, for one.” Montague’s voice held no emotion, as if he were discussing the weather rather than the destruction of her world. “Several times over, I am afraid, Lady Angelica. Then, there were the bonds drawn against your trust fund, the sale of various properties, the—”

“Sale?” Angelica’s composure cracked like thin ice. “Which properties?”

“The London house, the cottage in Devon, the hunting lodge in Yorkshire—”

“Is everything gone?” The words emerged as barely more than a whisper.

Montague spread his hands in a gesture of practiced sympathy. “The trust fund is depleted. Rosemere Hall stands on the edge of foreclosure. I am afraid, my lady, that you are, in the plainest of terms, penniless.”

The room seemed to tilt sideways, like a ship caught in a sudden squall. Angelica’s grip tightened on the chair, her knuckles turning white against the dark leather. She felt, rather than saw Lavinia reach for her hand, and jerked away from the touch.

“How?” she forced the word past her numb lips. “How could this have happened?”

“My dear girl,” Lavinia’s voice dripped with honeyed concern. “How did you think we maintained our position in society all these years? Your gowns, your tutors, your music masters, not to mention—”

“Enough.” Angelica raised a single hand, the gesture as sharp as a knife’s edge. She turned to Montague, noting how his eyes glittered behind his spectacles. “You were meant to protect my interest, Mr. Montague. How could you have allowed this to happen?”

“I merely executed your aunt’s perfectly legal instructions.” His smile reminded her of a cat watching a wounded bird before it went in to finish the job. “Though, I did attempt to counsel prudence—”

“Prudence?” Lavinia’s voice rose sharply. “If memory serves, you were the one who suggested the first mortgage! You said it was all perfectly sensible, that all the best families did it—”

“Perhaps,” Montague interrupted smoothly, “we might do better to focus on solutions rather than recriminations?”

Angelica watched the interplay between them, her mind racing like a horse at full gallop. Something was not quite right here—some piece of the puzzle remained hidden, like a shadow glimpsed from the corner of one’s eye.

“Solutions?” Angelica’s voice emerged steadier than she felt. “What possible solution could there be? You have just informed me that I own nothing—not even the roof over my head.”

“Ah, not quite nothing, Lady Angelica,” Montague reached beneath his desk, producing a small wooden box with elaborate marquetry. “Your father did leave this with me for safe keeping, with instructions to deliver it on your nineteenth birthday.”

Angelica’s hands trembled as she accepted the box. It was lighter than she expected, its surface warm from the morning sun. The lid bore an oval miniature, exquisitely painted—a woman’s face that made her heart catch in her throat.

“Maman,” she whispered, forgetting herself enough to let the French word slip out.

The woman in the portrait had her own yes, the same clear blue as an April morning. But where Angelica kept her expressions carefully controlled, her mother’s painted face held a hint of mischief, of secrets waiting to be shared.

“I believe the artist was quite renowned,” Montague remarked, watching her closely. “Jean-Baptiste Isabey if I am not mistaken. He painted many of the French aristocracy before… well.”

Before The Terror. Before everything changed. Before England and France were at war. Before her parents died on a dark road trying to reach safety.

“There is more,” Montague said, producing a sealed letter, the paper yellowed with age. “Written in your father’s own hand, I believe.”

Angelica stared at the unfamiliar writing—bold, decisive strokes that seemed almost familiar, and yet at the same time, not at all. The lines seemed steady, but if she looked closely, Angelica thought of how her father’s hands might have trembled sightly as he wrote them.

“I—” she swallowed hard. Then she looked up and saw the barely concealed intrigue in Montague’s eyes. “I think I shall prefer to read this in private.”

“Of course, my dear,” Lavinia said, reaching for her arm. “We should return to Rosemere—”

“No.” Angelica pulled away, her movements as sharp as glass breaking into shards. “I mean, I need a moment. Alone. Here.”

Montague rose smoothly. “My private office is at your disposal, my lady. Lady Warburton, might I offer you some refreshment in the parlor?”

Lavinia opened her mouth to protest, but something in Angelica’s face seemed to make her thing better of it. With a rustle of silks, she followed Montague from the room, leaving Angelica alone with her father’s last words.

The seal broke with a soft crack, and the paper held the ghost of her father’s cologne—sandalwood and ink and tobacco, scents that felt both familiar and foreign, bringing tears to her eyes.

My dearest Angélique,

The letter began, using her birth name rather than the Anglicized version she had adopted.

If you are reading this, then you have reached your nineteenth year, and I am no longer here to guide you. Know first that you were—are—my greatest treasure, worth more than all the gold in England’s vaults.

Angelica’s vision blurred, but she forced herself to continue, and she blinked hard to let the tears plunge from her dark lashes.

I fear you may have heard tales that paint me in an unfavorable light. Know that everything I did was for love—love of your mother, love of you, love of both my countries. I am not the man others may claim. Your mother and I died protecting something precious, something that goes far beyond mere fortune.

Her hands shook so badly she had to press the paper flat against the desk.

Trust your instincts, my darling girl. They are your mother’s instincts, and she was never wrong about people. Look beneath the surface, question what you are told—no matter who it comes from and remember that true wealth cannot be measured in pounds and shillings.

The last lines were written in a hastier hand, as if time had been running out:

Your mother’s jewelry box holds more than memories. Study it well. And remember—you are a daughter of two lands, and that is your strength, not your weakness. This is my plight to you: restore our family’s honor, and you will find your own fortune.

Your loving father,

Benedict.

Angelica pressed the letter to her chest, breathing in its fading scents. Her mind raced with questions, each one leading to another like paths in a maze. What had her father been protecting? What secrets lay hidden in her mother’s painted face?

A knock at the door made her jump. “Lady Angelica?” Montague’s voice held a note of carefully measured concern.

“Yes,” she called back, hastily folding the letter. “Please come in.”

He entered with the silent grace of a cat, Lavinia trailing behind him like an anxious shadow. Angelica noticed how his eyes flickered immediately to the box in her hands, and she saw a glimmer of something hungry in his eyes before he masked it with professional concern.

“I trust your father’s letter was… illuminating?”

“In a way,” Angelica said, trying her best to keep her voice neutral, though her mind was churning like a stormy sea. “He speaks of honor and hidden fortunes.”

“Ah.” Montague’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. “Yes, there have long been rumors about Lord Loxley’s… activities during the Revolution. Some say he secreted away a considerable fortune when fleeing France.”

“Rumors?” Lavinia leaned forward, her earlier contrition utterly forgotten now. “What kind of fortune, Mr. Montague?”

“No one knows for certain,” Montague’s fingers drummed against his desk again, in that same rhythm that set Angelica’s nerves on edge. “But, if such a treasure indeed exists, it would legally belong to your niece, now.”

Angelica studied the painted face of her mother, noting small details she had missed before. The artist had captured something in the eyes—a hint of challenge, of secrets kept safe behind a perfect smile reminiscent of the Mona Lisa.

“It rather sounds like you are talking about a treasure hunt, Mr. Montague,” she said, keeping her tone light even though her heart was racing. “How theatrical of you.”

His answering smile held too many teeth. “Life often is, Lady Angelica. Particularly where family secrets are concerned.”

“And what of my intended?” Angelica turned to Lavinia, whose face flushed bright pink beneath her powder. “I assume he is aware of our… situation?”

“Lord Hugh Tennant has…” Lavinia twisted her handkerchief again. “That is to say… well, I would rather think that given the circumstance he would feel…”

“I suffice it safe to say that this will cause him to withdraw his offer,” Angelica finished flatly. “Because I am penniless? Or perhaps because I am French.”

“Both, I imagine,” Mr. Montague interrupted smoothly. “Young men can be so… particular about such things.”

Something in his tone made Angelica look at him sharply. Had there been a hint of satisfaction in those words? Her father’s advice about trusting her instincts rang loudly in her ears.

“Then it seems I have decisions to make,” she rose, cradling the box against her chest. “About my future, and about my past.”

“Dear Angelica,” Lavinia reached for her arm. “Surely you are not thinking of pursuing this… this wild fancy of hidden fortunes? Think of the scandal it will cause!”

“I think it rather safe to say the mere fact that I am suddenly penniless shall cause more than enough scandal, Aunt.” Angelica’s voice could have frozen boiling water. “And, I am thinking of survival, since you have left me little choice in the matter.”

“Lady Angelica,” Mr. Montague’s voice oozed with concern. “If you would like my advice—”

“Thank you, but no.” She cut him off with a smile as sharp as a razor. “I believe I have had quite enough advice for one day.”

With that, she swept from the office, her back straight as a sword’s blade, though her mind whirled with possibilities.

Her father’s letter, her mother’s portrait, the mysterious fortune—all pieces of a puzzle that did not quite want to fit together—yet.

It was only when she reached the privacy of her carriage that she allowed herself to look at the box again. The portrait seemed to watch her with knowing eyes, holding answers to all of these secrets, just out of her reach.

Something about the painting tugged at her memory—a detail she should recognize, a connection just beyond her understanding.

What had her father been trying to tell her? And why did she have the unsettling feeling that Mr. Montague knew far more than he was saying?

She traced the edge of the portrait with one finger and felt something shift beneath the painted surface—like a whisper of movement, so faint she might have imagined it.