Page 44 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

H arry whistled as he pored over the plans for Marsden.

Another more extensive survey had just been completed, revealing the land’s true potential.

Samples had been taken, along with some initial excavations.

Construction on a building to house the mining operations and workers would need to be built, along with a road and dock for the River Tees.

He leaned back, papers in hand, and kicked his boots up on the desk, unsurprised to find small teeth marks in the leather.

The male kitten had been named Boots given his adoration and destruction of Harry’s footwear.

And Boots could be found, most mornings, asleep in one of Harry’s boots, which he now had to shake out before putting his foot inside.

The other kitten, a female, preferred chewing the buttons off Harry’s shirts.

Buttons, Lucy had named her for obvious reasons.

Harry didn’t mind the destruction of his clothing because his wife was rather effusive in apologizing for her pets. And, honestly, Lucy was so bloody happy, it was worth a pair of boots or a shirt.

His chest ached at the thought of his wife. He missed her, though he’d only left her arms a few hours ago.

A sharp rap drew his attention from the plans and thoughts of Lucy to the man standing beside his open office door.

Mr. Raymond Pryce, one of the secretaries Harry employed, stood, hat in hand.

Pryce had been traveling back and forth from Middlesbrough to Marsden, bringing Harry updates.

He also handled the ledgers and accounts for the household in Ormesby and Pendergast, now that the ironworks was back in Harry’s hands.

Pryce usually met with him every week or so but had missed the last meeting, given he’d been at Marsden.

“Mr. Pryce.” Harry sat up. “We’ve gotten off schedule, haven’t we?” Pryce was a competent employee. Rarely did anything need Harry’s oversight. However, today, his normally unflappable secretary appeared…distressed.

The younger man cleared his throat. “Mr. Estwood.”

“What is it?” Harry waved him forward. “Has something happened at Marsden?” He’d worried for some time that Dufton might attempt sabotage on the property, given what had happened at Pendergast.

“No.” Pryce held up a hand. “Nothing to do at all with Marsden. Just an irregularity at the bank, which I’m sure means nothing, but?—”

“Is it Pendergast, then?” Pryce had been instrumental in reconciling Pendergast’s accounts, a necessity given that Colm and Waterstone had lined their own pockets with funds meant to buy materials.

Colm, to his credit, was exceptionally clever.

He’d hidden his tracks well, but Harry had still found them. “More of Colm’s mess?”

“No…there’s a discrepancy in some of your personal accounts, Mr. Estwood.”

Pryce didn’t trust Middlesbrough’s branch of the Bank of England. Something to do with an uncle who had once been defrauded. “Go on.”

“As you requested, I place a specific amount in Mrs. Estwood’s account every month for her own personal use.” Pryce came forward and shut the door behind him. “The sum is rather large. You’re quite generous.” He frowned. “But the bank had to cover a draft she made recently.”

Harry shrugged. “A mistake which I’m sure you cleared up with Scopes at the bank. Mrs. Estwood is doing some redecorating.”

“Yes, but Scopes was not in error, sir. Mrs. Estwood’s account is overdrawn. I’m not sure how. Possibly, I thought, the bookseller in London, or—well, I’m not certain of the issue.”

Harry was positive Pryce was certain. A stone dropped in his stomach. Followed by another. “Was there more than one draft?” he asked carefully, already knowing what the answer would be.

I should have known.

Pryce cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“How much?” The pads of his fingers pushed into the wood of his desk to keep from breaking something.

“Nearly ten thousand pounds in total, sir. The most recent draft only a day or so ago. I—I should have caught it sooner. But I was at Marsden, and?—”

“Thank you, Pryce.” Harry cut him off, fingers digging into the desk so viciously he might leave marks. “I appreciate your diligence. Mrs. Estwood has ordered some furniture from London,” he said smoothly, partially from his own embarrassment at knowing his bloody wife was lying to him.

Pryce nodded looking relieved. “From a Mrs. Waterstone? Costly for furniture and drapes.”

“The pieces are rather old and valuable,” Harry replied to the confirmation of Lucy’s deceit. Her betrayal. “Thank you, Pryce. I’ll handle the matter with Mrs. Estwood. Maybe she’ll send everything back.” He kept the smile on his face, though Harry was furious.

“Sir.” Pryce exited, shutting the door behind him.

Her account would be frozen immediately. He shouldn’t have trusted her, no matter how much he—Harry sucked in a lungful of air.

Harry was so angry, he didn’t bother to question why Lucy would give such a sum to Sally, only that she had done so behind his back. He would return home after visiting the bank and confront his deceptive wife.

Not one more farthing would go to that prick Gerald Waterstone.

Lucy woke with a start, blinking her eyes.

She must have fallen asleep waiting for Harry to come home.

He hadn’t returned from Pendergast to dine with her, only sending a note that an important matter had come up.

Highly unusual. They always shared dinner, discussing the day and sometimes a bath. But not last night.

The light in the bedroom was dim, the gray mist of dawn just starting to appear at the edges of the new drapes she’d recently purchased. The fire was nothing but embers, but she could clearly make out the outline of a familiar pair of shoulders. “Harry?”

“Good morning, wife.” His voice, raw and scratchy, drifted to her.

“What are you doing?”

“Drinking. Contemplating promises made.” He paused to take a sip from his glass. “What to do when they are broken,” he choked out, the words bitter and cold.

Lucy’s fingers curled into the coverlet. He knew .

“I wath going to tell you.” The lisp returned, horrible and thick, urged on by her mounting anxiety. “ Pleath let me explain. Thally is with child, and?—”

“Not another word, Mrs. Estwood.” Harry came to his feet and moved to loom over her, reeking of spirits. “Was this all part of it?”

“What—?” Lucy couldn’t seem to make her tongue behave. Couldn’t compose herself.

“The scheme. Your plan. Make me fall in—” His words cut off suddenly as he took another swallow of…she sniffed the air. Scotch. She could tell by the scent.

“Were you going to just bleed me dry?”

Lucy shook her head violently. Breathe. Slowly. “No. Harry?—”

“Wait,” he snarled, clearly intoxicated.

“No scheme would be needed if I was simply murdered at the ironworks. Much neater. Tidy. You would inherit my entire fortune. And you’d have Marsden to bargain with once more.

Dufton and your father must be quite distressed things haven’t worked out as they planned thus far. I’m still alive. Somewhat.”

She fell back against the pillows at the accusation. Harry distrusted her so much, he would think she’d have him murdered . For Dufton, of all people?

“Well?”

There was such… vehemence in his tone. And for the first time since wedding Harry, Lucy was afraid of him. Which did not mix well with the anger building beneath her skin at his horrible accusation.

“ Thally came to me. She is with child. My father fell ill and is bedridden.” Lucy tried to keep her lisp at bay, but her tongue adamantly refused to behave. “What elth could I do?” She gripped the coverlet. Focused. “You called in his debts.”

“Have me taken care of, I suppose.” He shrugged. “Dufton should hire more intelligent thugs to do his dirty work.” He paced between fireplace and bed, circling around her like some great lion meant to tear her apart.

“How could you think that? I l ove you,” she whispered.

Harry snorted. “Love.” He turned and threw the glass he held into the fire. “Save me from your affections, Mrs. Estwood.” Stalking towards her once more, Harry’s palm reached up to cover his heart.

“No. That ithn’t —” Lucy slapped the coverlet despairing she’d ever get her words out. “No.”

“Don’t despair, Mrs. Estwood. I wanted Marsden and my ironworks. You fulfilled most of your bargain. I suppose expecting you to uphold the rest of your promises to me was a bit of a stretch. I’m nothing but a low-born mongrel, after all.”

“Only you care about the matter of your birth,” she stuttered. “I never have.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I don’t believe you. You and Waterstone can have a good chuckle once more, showing me my place. Or Dufton. I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’m on my way out, at any rate.”

“Where?” she managed to say, stricken to the very core of her being.

“Anywhere but here, Mrs. Estwood.”

He was leaving her. He wouldn’t listen.

“Harry, I love you,” she said clearly. Loudly. So furious at him for believing the worst, Lucy threw one of the pillows at him. How could he think her capable of murder, let alone his?

“Excellent aim, as always, Mrs. Estwood,” he said as the pillow hit his shoulder. “Dufton should have just put a pistol in your hand.” A caustic chuckle left him as he started towards the door. “I don’t wish to hear you anymore.”

Lucy flinched. “Sally needed money.” The lisp disappeared the more furious she became. “She is with child. My brother or sister. What else could I do? You called in his markers,” she flung at his departing back. “After you promised you would not.”

Harry didn’t answer. He flung open the door and slammed the heavy wood behind him without so much as another glance in her direction.

Lucy stared at the spot where he’d been, chest heaving, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Loyalty meant a great deal to Harry. He had no tolerance for deceit or betrayal.

Lucy had expected his anger when she admitted to aiding Sally, no matter how warranted.

But to accuse her of conspiring with Dufton of all people to have him murdered? For money?

“How could you, Harry?” she whispered. “How could you?”