Page 34 of Charming the Headmistress (Spinsters and their Suitors #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

T he rain had ceased by morning, but a chill lingered in the air at Haverton, sharp enough to sting Camden’s fingertips as he held open the pages of an aged ledger.

The fire behind him crackled low, casting flickering shadows across the study walls, and the scent of charred cedar filled the room.

Parchment, wax seals, and yellowing documents were strewn across his desk like a battlefield.

And in truth, that was what it had become.

Camden read the final paragraph of a lease agreement signed nearly sixty years prior, his eyes narrowing at the vague phrasing regarding the Greenbrook property.

No mention of the word "perpetual." No ironclad clause of donation.

Just language that sounded generous and vague—precisely the sort of document that someone like Weatherby could seize upon.

Camden’s hand curled into a fist over the parchment. He imagined Eleanor reading a letter like this alone, her expression composed, but her eyes filled with quiet dread. He could not bear it.

A knock came at the door.

“Enter,” Camden called, his voice sharper than intended.

Lord Kensington strolled in, brushing raindrops from his shoulder with deliberate nonchalance. “I see the war room is already established. Should I have brought a sword, or will wit suffice?”

Camden didn’t look up. “Wit. And every scrap of family memory you possess.”

“Dangerous,” Kensington replied, moving to the fire to warm his hands. “What’s the crisis?”

Camden stood and crossed to the table, where he laid a stack of legal documents beside a map of the district. “This. The Weatherby land claim. The original deed to the Greenbrook acreage isn’t as definitive as it ought to be. If they can press their claim, the school will lose everything.”

Kensington raised a brow. “Surely Miss Langford has some recourse?”

Camden’s jaw set. “Not enough. She is a capable woman, but I fear she will need more help than she realizes.”

“Which is why you’re gathering your weapons?”

Camden handed him a parchment. “Look at this. The land was part of a larger estate once owned by Reginald Weatherby. It passed to his daughter’s husband—who, if you recall, was something of a gambling miscreant.”

“William Loxley?” Kensington asked, eyes sharpening. “Yes, I remember. Tried to pawn his own mother’s silver teapot.”

“The very one. He died in debt, and the land was parceled out. Some of it went to Greenbrook as part of a philanthropic endeavor—championed by Loxley’s widow, not the family. Therein lies the weakness. The widow’s intentions were never formalized into an irrevocable trust.”

A pause stretched between them. Camden tossed the paper onto the desk with a muffled curse. “How could something so important have been left so exposed?” His voice was tight.

Kensington whistled low. “That’s a lawyer’s playground. So who’s making the claim now?”

“George Weatherby. A great-nephew. Claims he was promised the land verbally as part of the family’s ‘ legacy .’”

“George Weatherby?” Kensington made a face. “Stringy fellow with a mustache like a wet broom?”

Camden allowed a smile to twitch. “The same. He’s already spoken to investors in London who are interested in purchasing the land.”

“For what?”

“To develop it into an estate that can be sold most likely. Doesn’t matter. It would displace the school.”

There was a moment of quiet.

Kensington set the parchment down and turned toward the window. “And Eleanor Langford would walk away from it rather than accept rescue?”

Camden nodded. “She is determined to see something done. But based on the documents I’ve been seeing today, she will have very little chance of laying claim to it, simply because it was traditionally held as an academy.”

Kensington turned back. “Where does that leave you?”

Camden’s voice was steady. “I believe she shouldn’t have to fight this alone.”

Silence stretched between them—then Kensington moved to the sideboard and poured them each a brandy.

“So. What’s the plan?”

Camden took the glass but didn’t drink. “I’ve already written to Mr. Holcombe in London—he’s tracing the Weatherby lineage and hunting for any contradictions in the chain of ownership. I want to know if the claim can be challenged legally. Meanwhile, I’ve sent word to Lord Strathwick.”

Kensington blinked. “Strathwick? That fossil?”

“He was on the original Board of Governors at Greenbrook. If he gives a statement confirming the land was intended as a gift, it may sway public sentiment—and frighten Weatherby into withdrawing.”

Kensington nodded slowly. “That’s good. What else?”

“I’ve a mind to visit Weatherby himself,” Camden said, setting the glass down untouched. “Politely. With questions. Perhaps even an offer.” Each word felt heavier than the last. He would not let Eleanor face this storm alone.

“Ah,” Kensington murmured, eyes twinkling. “And all of this is purely in the interest of Helena’s education?”

“There is no need for jesting anymore about the subject.” Camden turned toward him fully now.

“I would do this for the school. But I would fight it with everything I have—for Miss Langford.” The memory of Eleanor’s determined eyes burned in his mind, the way her voice never wavered even when the world threatened to collapse around her.

And she had so completely captured his heart.

Kensington nodded once, serious now. “She’s not like other women.”

“No,” Camden said softly. “She’s not.”

Kensington sipped his brandy. “Then you’d best prepare. This won’t be a battle fought in drawing rooms. It will require lawyers, tact, and public favor.”

“I’m prepared.”

“Good,” Kensington said. “Because the one thing that matters more than winning her trust …”

Camden waited.

“… is proving she was never wrong to trust you in the first place.”

That afternoon, Camden dispatched three express riders and penned five letters—one to the Land Registry Office, another to Holcombe, a third to Weatherby himself requesting a private meeting, and two to former patrons of the school whose names still carried weight in society.

Then he saddled his own horse and mounted swiftly. He urged his horse faster. Each mile passed with the thunder of hooves beneath him, every gust of wind seemed to whisper Eleanor’s name. He thought of her resolve, her quiet strength, and felt his purpose harden like steel.

There was one man left to speak to in person—Viscount Allendale, whose father had also served on Greenbrook’s founding board and who now owned land adjacent to the Weatherby estate. If there was gossip to be heard or allies to be won, Camden intended to win them.

The ride was long, the roads still muddy from recent storms, but the wind on his face was bracing. It reminded him that there was work to be done. That words had to become actions. That Eleanor was not merely a cause—she was a woman he respected, admired … and loved.

He had said little of it aloud.

But it colored every decision now.

When he returned hours later, cold and tired, he carried with him a signed letter from Allendale offering public support—and a copy of a deed from 1753 that may prove the school had been intended to inherit the land outright.

He smiled faintly, not with triumph but with resolve.

He pictured Eleanor’s determined eyes, the way her face softened when she dared to hope. He would see this through. For her.

The battle was just beginning.

But he was not afraid of the storm.

Not anymore.