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Chapter

Nineteen

THE READING OF THE WILL

T he next morning, we assembled in the drawing room, a cold, sunless chamber in Walsh House that had always struck me as oppressively formal. Today, it felt more like a courtroom. The solicitor, a wiry man named Mister Greaves with spectacles perched precariously on his nose, had arranged himself behind a table stacked with paperwork, every sheet bristling with legal finality.

Julia sat beside me, cloaked in unrelenting black. A veil concealed her face, but the rigid line of her shoulders and the way her gloved hands twisted tightly in her lap spoke volumes. Across the room, Charles and Lucretia shared a small settee. Charles’s expression remained unreadable, but Lucretia looked positively radiant, as though Christmas had arrived early. Edwin Heller, Charles’s cousin, was also present. His position as heir presumptive gave him the right to attend, but I suspected his presence had less to do with legal entitlement and more to do with managing Charles. Any burst of emotion, especially anger, might provoke trouble with his cousin’s heart.

As the solicitor began the reading of the will, a maid glided silently into the room bearing a silver tea tray. The fine porcelain cups clinked gently as they were distributed, a soft domestic counterpoint to the solemnity of the proceedings. Charles accepted his with the air of a man reclaiming a small pleasure in difficult circumstances. He took a thoughtful sip, then gave a satisfied nod.

“This is rather excellent,” he said, glancing toward Julia. “Is it Darjeeling?”

Julia’s voice was quiet behind her veil, but steady. “It’s a special blend,” she replied. “I’ll send a packet to you.”

Charles inclined his head in appreciation and took another sip, entirely unaware of how neatly the moment would lodge itself in memory—harmless, courteous, and, as it seemed then, entirely unremarkable.

Mister Greaves cleared his throat with bureaucratic precision. “We are gathered here to read the last will and testament of the late Lord Percival Walsh. As his solicitor, I am bound to convey his final wishes exactly as set forth in this document.”

No one spoke.

He began with the formalities—titles, holdings, clauses that only the most devoted legal mind could decipher. Julia’s grip on her gloves tightened with each passing line.

“To my son, the Honourable Charles Walsh, I bequeath the Walsh estate in its entirety,” Greaves read. “Including properties, furnishings, household staff, and all accompanying entitlements.”

Charles gave no visible reaction. Lucretia, however, sat up straighter, her eyes gleaming.

“To Lady Lucretia Walsh, wife of the Honourable Charles Walsh, I leave the Walsh pearls and the portrait of the first Lady Walsh currently hanging in the blue salon.”

My stomach twisted. Still nothing for Julia.

“And to my wife, Lady Julia Walsh,” Mister Greaves said at last, “I leave the Dower House, per the terms of the marriage contract.” He looked up, blinking. “There are no additional bequests.”

The silence that followed was louder than any shout.

“No additional bequests?” Julia’s voice was paper-thin.

“I’m afraid not, milady,” Mister Greaves said.

Julia stood so suddenly her chair scraped harshly against the floor. “Then how am I meant to live? How am I to raise our child?”

My heart clenched. I rose at once and took her arm. “You’ll come with me to Rosehaven House. You’ll stay with us. We’ll provide for you.”

Julia swayed, and I feared for a moment she might faint. “I have nothing,” she whispered. “Less than nothing. I don’t even have a wardrobe suitable for mourning.” She glanced down. “Except for this gown.”

“You have us,” I said firmly. “And we will see to everything.”

Behind us, Lucretia exhaled a little laugh, quickly smothered. But I saw the way she practically bounced on the settee cushion, her eyes already measuring drapery and carpeting, likely envisioning herself presiding over the Walsh drawing room with all the grace of a particularly smug cat.

“Perhaps,” she said, her voice syrupy, “we might begin redecorating once the house is officially ours.”

I turned, slow and deliberate. “You may begin when Lady Julia has moved out and not a moment before.”

Her smile faltered.

Good.

As I guided Julia from the room, I couldn’t help but think that the dead could still wound the living in ways more vicious than any dagger. Walsh had not just abandoned his wife in death. He had ensured her humiliation, her ruin.

But she would not fall. Not while I drew breath.

She was coming home with me.