Page 45 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

H arry’s London house was cold without Bartle and his wife.

Thankfully, there was a footman, a groom, and a maid in residence, all startled out their wits at Harry’s sudden return.

They’d flown about the house, ripping sheets off furniture and making up his bed.

Food was another matter. Poor Betsy wasn’t much of a cook.

Which didn’t matter because Harry had little appetite.

He stared out the window of his study, watching a carriage roll past on the street outside, before returning to review Pryce’s notes.

Three withdrawals had been made by Lucy, totaling roughly ten thousand pounds.

A small fortune. Scopes, his man at the bank, assured Harry that nothing else would leave the account, even if Mrs. Estwood demanded it.

Cold comfort. The damage had already been done. Some of it caused by Harry himself.

He’d considered his wife quite a bit during the journey to London, far more so than any thinking he’d done while swilling that bottle of scotch and accusing her of attempted murder.

But after leaving the bank that day in Middlesbrough and seeing the indisputable proof that the drafts had all been made out to Sally Waterstone, Harry hadn’t been thinking clearly. Or at all.

In fact, he hadn’t come to his senses until waking up alone in the enormous bed upstairs, shivering because no fire had been lit and Lucy wasn’t beside him. Amazing that what had seemed entirely plausible after an excellent bottle of scotch was now patently ridiculous when one was sober.

I love you.

It wasn’t the first time she’d said so. He’d heard Lucy whisper it to him the day he had gifted her the kittens. Could see it in her eyes when she looked at him. Every touch of her fingers on his body and heart spoke the words.

He was a fool. Pure and simple.

Looking down at the newspaper on his desk, he reread the paragraph announcing the Earl of Dufton’s betrothal to Miss Clarice Ritton.

Harry knew the family. The Rittons were from Sheffield and involved in mining.

Clarice’s father had a bad habit of losing at faro.

And no matter how depraved Dufton happened to be, he couldn’t wed both Clarice and Lucy.

Which left Waterstone as the lone culprit. Honestly, Harry should have known. Dufton would have hired a more competent band of thugs.

He had no desire to pay a call on Waterstone, but at the very least his father-in-law deserved a reminder of what would happen should he bother Lucy again or attempt to have Harry murdered.

All Waterstone’s debts would be called in.

Harry would take his stupid horse farm, his house, and whatever else he could find.

Once the point was made, Harry would return to the house in Ormesby and try to—come to terms with the mess he’d made of things. Allow Lucy to explain her reasons for giving money to Sally. Retract his horrible accusation that she would have him murdered.

Maybe ease the ache in his heart from missing his wife.

An hour later, Harry was seated in Waterstone’s drawing room.

He took note of the spaces on the walls where paintings had once hung.

The lack of rugs covering the floors. The signs of approaching poverty seemed strange given the enormous sum Lucy had given her father on top of what Harry had paid for Pendergast.

“What do you want?”

Gerald Waterstone walked into the drawing room, lip curled in disdain. His face was puffy with a yellowish cast to it, and he’d lost weight. But he was hardly ill or bedridden as Lucy had claimed.

“Polite, as always,” Harry said. “Where is the charming Mrs. Waterstone? I understand congratulations are in order.”

Confusion rippled across Waterstone’s face. “Congratulations? On my poverty?” He sniffed. “Dufton was so enraged by the loss of my daughter’s hand, he took things out on me.”

“You mean the loss of Marsden. I doubt he cared whether Lucy came with it or not.”

“I’ll assume you came to gloat at my misfortune.” He waved his hand about. “Feel free. I’m a pariah. A poor one.”

“I paid you more than I should have for Pendergast.”

Waterstone huffed. “A gentleman must keep up appearances. Not that you would know anything about that,” he scoffed.

“I don’t regret one bloody thing I did to you.

You don’t belong in this world. Cozying up to the Duke of Granby to further yourself was clever, mind you, but you’ll never be accepted. ”

Well, Harry supposed there was something to be said for honesty.

“My congratulations is on the news of your forthcoming child. Oh, and on fleecing my wife out of ten thousand pounds. Clever of you to elicit her sympathy by saying I’d called in your debts, which we both know I have not. But if you approach her again, I will.”

Waterstone’s brows raised. “Ten thousand pounds?” A bark of laughter came from him. “Do I look like I am in possession of such a sum? Look around you. I’ve nothing. And I haven’t spoken to that stupid chit since she left London. You made sure of that. Now, get out.”

Uneasiness shifted in Harry’s mid-section. Something wasn’t right.

Lucy had clearly stated that Harry had called in her father’s debts and that, along with a child, was what had compelled her to give Sally such a large sum. She’d also said Waterstone was bedridden. Taken ill.

“Where is Mrs. Waterstone?”

The older man’s lips thinned. “Away,” he said in a tired voice.

“And is she with child?”

“Sally?” he snorted. “Not by me. After Lucy mucked things up, she left. I think she’s…taken a lover.” Waterstone sat, deflating in an instant. “I’ve nothing now. No wife. No business prospects. Certainly, no wealth to speak of, thanks to you. All I have left is my horses,” he said brokenly.

“I thought you sold your stallions and mares.” Lucy had said as much.

“I would never.” Waterstone looked at Harry, aghast. “Sell my horses.”

“Only your daughter.”

“She would have been a countess. Now”—he sneered at Harry—“she’ll be nothing more than a mother to your passel of ill-bred brats. Rest assured, I wouldn’t welcome Lucy if she begged me. She is a disgrace.”

“Good to know.” Harry rose and strode towards the door without bidding Waterstone good day. He needed to return to Yorkshire. Mrs. Waterstone was far more clever than he’d given her credit for.