Chapter 18

Never had a conversation exhausted Olivia so.

As she and Mrs.Milton left the other ladies in the drawing room, her ears rang with the hidden questions and subtle slights

that had been lobbed her way.

They'd intended to identify her social flaws. And they'd succeeded—to a point. Olivia felt judged. A little tricked. But if

anything, the treatment made her more determined than ever to make this entire event a success.

Olivia turned to ascend the great staircase, but she was stopped by Mrs.Milton. "I've recently been informed that Mr.Avery

did not attend the hunt today with the other men. He is up to something deceptive, I'm convinced."

Olivia frowned, concerned at Mrs.Milton's sudden change in demeanor. "I'm sure it was nothing. Perhaps after dinner we could—"

"No, no. I intend to deal with this once and for all. And you will accompany me."

Unsure of what awaited her, Olivia quickened her pace to keep up with Mrs. Milton as they trod along the broad corridor, past the great hall, past the dining room, and to Cloverton Hall's far end—a part of the house that Olivia had not yet seen. Mrs. Milton suddenly stopped in front of a paneled door, pivoted, and knocked.

"Enter."

The muffled response had barely been spoken before Mrs.Milton wrenched the door handle and thrust the door open. She stomped

in, her arm still looped through Olivia's, leaving her no choice but to awkwardly follow into what could only be Mr.Wainbridge's

study. Its state struck Olivia: It was chaotic and messy. Crates were piled up against the wall. Uneaten food sat atop the

table.

Mr.Wainbridge jumped to his feet from behind a desk and reached for his discarded coat. "Aunt. MissBrannon."

"I will not be put off, nor will I be deceived, George," Mrs.Milton blurted before releasing Olivia's arm and pushing her

way farther into the chamber. "I know who Mr.Avery is, and about Avery & Sons. I demand to know why Mr.Avery is here."

Mr.Wainbridge only blinked in response. He looked from his aunt toward Olivia, as if she somehow held the explanation, and

then back to his aunt. "Mr.Avery is a friend."

"Is he now?" Mrs.Milton drew closer, bold and brazen. "How dare you attempt to profit from my husband's death by selling

off his antiquities collection. It's deplorable."

Mr.Wainbridge's expression twisted at the allegation. "I'm not exactly sure what you're accusing me of, but whatever your

issue is, perhaps we should discuss it in private. MissBrannon certainly does not want to be party to our conversation."

"No, no. Miss Brannon will stay." Mrs. Milton returned to Olivia's side. "I insist he leave immediately. Not a single item that belonged to my husband will be sold. Am I quite clear?"

Mr.Wainbridge donned his coat and stepped around the desk. "You've misread the situation. It's not my intention to dismantle

what my uncle built. It is my intention, however, to see that the estate is productive and cared for. I'm doing what is necessary

to secure a strong future."

"And you think throwing expensive parties and engaging extravagant entertainment helps matters?"

"I can only assume you are referring to this house party. And my answer is yes."

Mr.Wainbridge's amiable manner dissolved before her, and his dark brows lowered. He leaned forward and swept his arm out.

"This entire event is a calculated investment, which you'd know if you'd but asked me about it. Cloverton's finances are in

such a state that if I do not secure other forms of income, then the entire estate faces ruin. Not only that, but Isabella

will require a dowry, and I've none for her. I fear for her future! Instead of offering condemnation, I would think that you

of all people would understand the importance of prudence. I don't know how well you were acquainted with Cloverton's finances,

but—"

"I'm very well aware," Mrs.Milton hurled back.

"Then you know that in order for Cloverton Hall to avoid fiscal ruin, things must change. It's not profitable, Aunt. It hasn't

been in years. My uncle spent money on foolish things, without an eye toward securing the future."

Mrs.Milton lunged forward and slapped her palm across Mr.Wainbridge's face.

Olivia winced.

Mr.Wainbridge recoiled.

"How dare you speak of my husband in such a manner!" Mrs.Milton cried, her jowls shaking. "He was no fool."

He stared but did not retreat. He smoothed his hair, which had fallen forward in the slap, and sniffed. "I did not say he

was a fool. I said the money was spent in a foolish manner, and that I will not apologize for. I will correct the financial

situation of Cloverton Hall and its holdings, and you will not stop it, regardless of how many times you slap me."

Mrs.Milton's face flushed crimson and trembled with rage. "Will you then be the heir responsible for shaming the family's

name? For bringing dishonor down on over half a century of prosperity and goodwill?"

He scoffed. "On the contrary, madam. I'll be the one to save it. You loved your husband and I've no doubt he was a kind man,

but his decisions have had consequences. Yes, this house is grand, but what is that if the upkeep is unmanageable? It's on

its way to ruin! Yes, I fully intend to sell what I can of the collection. And I hope against hope that someone sees value

in it."

Refusing to concede, Mrs.Milton pointed her finger at him. "I will expose you for what you are."

"By doing so you would expose the truth of how your husband left this estate. Then what? I'd proceed with caution if I were you. I'm attempting to protect Uncle's reputation and going about this business as quietly as I can. If you cause a fuss, imagine what will be said! Tongues will not stop wagging with the gossip."

"Are you threatening me?"

"No, ma'am. You asked what my intentions were. And I have told you."

For several moments a painful silence reverberated around the room.

Then Mrs.Milton spun on her heel and stomped from the room, leaving Olivia with her host.

Reeling from the awkwardness of the encounter, she turned to Mr.Wainbridge.

He bowed but said nothing.

She curtsied and hurried to follow Mrs.Milton from the room at a distance, unsure of what to do or say.

If anything of what Mr.Wainbridge said was true, then he was truly in a difficult situation. Simultaneously, her view toward

Mrs.Milton was shifting. She'd accompanied Mrs.Milton on this trip with the intention of looking over the woman's private

collection, nothing more. Nothing should matter except the pieces she was evaluating. And yet, the cold manner in which the

woman treated her nephew alarmed her.

It saddened her, but unfortunately heated discourse after a collector's death was common. As intriguing as any collection

might be, they were really just items to be bought and sold. In this particular case, Olivia sensed Mrs.Milton was viewing

these pieces as a way to keep her husband alive. To still feel him. Sense his presence. Mrs.Milton was grieving, and Olivia

knew all too well that grieving did not often make sense.

***

Lucas remained still in the library. Should he intervene? He'd had no intention of eavesdropping, but it was impossible not

to overhear the argument between aunt and nephew.

When the shouting subsided, the footsteps retreated, and all was again silent, Lucas abandoned his position at the library's

table and rapped his knuckles on the ajar door that separated the library from Wainbridge's study.

Wainbridge had returned from the hunt not a quarter of an hour prior. Mud had splattered his boots and buckskin hunting breeches,

and his coat hung askew. His normal congenial expression had darkened, and he motioned for Lucas to enter. "We've been found

out."

Lucas placed a stack of portfolios he'd been carrying on a table beneath the window. "So I heard."

"How that woman thinks she has any say over what I do with my property is beyond me." Wainbridge crossed the cluttered room

to the sideboard, snatched up a decanter, and uncorked it. He poured two glasses, then lifted them. "Somehow she found out

about you and what you do."

Lucas accepted the outstretched glass. He knew the most likely source of that information—a woman with eyes the color of topaz.

In this moment he could expose the true nature of MissBrannon's identity. But to what result? At the end of the day, based

on what he'd overheard, Mrs.Milton was not interested in selling or distributing the Cloverton collection.

"What a nightmare." Wainbridge, drink in hand, flopped into the chair behind his desk, propped his muddy boot up on the desktop, and took a swig of the amber liquid. "Why can't she see and understand that this must be done? If I do nothing, Cloverton Hall will be lost to debtors. Then what?"

The words resonated with Lucas. He knew far too well the fear that came with standing on the precipice of ruin. He sat in

a wingback chair opposite the desk. "My opinion? She's mourning her loss and trying to hold on to the life she once knew.

You're not the first man to attempt to sell parts of an inheritance and have family members resist."

Wainbridge shook his head and took another drink. "Would you believe that I never visited Cloverton Hall before I inherited

it? I met my uncle once when I was twelve, and I'd never met my aunt. I was told that Cloverton was a massive estate, that

it was fabulously wealthy, and that my aunt and uncle enjoyed a great deal of power and influence. Their influence has proven

to be true, but other than that, nothing is as I expected."

Lucas leaned forward in the chair, rested his elbows on his knees, and held his glass in both hands before him, gauging when

and how to respond. It was another thing his father had told him: "Trust is built by listening, not speaking."

"And then," continued Wainbridge, "imagine my surprise to learn the stipulation that my aunt be allowed to live out her days

in this house! There is no escape from her! Taking a house in London was my hope of evading it, but now funds for such an

escape are gone. And she's so angry that there is no telling how she'll behave."

Wainbridge jumped from his seat and began to pace. "And while we're on the subject, who is this Miss Brannon? No one knows anything about her, but she seems to be my aunt's most trusted companion these days. Why on earth would she bring the lady if she meant to confront me in the manner in which she did? To humiliate me? To threaten me?"

Lucas waited until the room was again silent, and then he kept his tone soft and steady. "Let's consider it rationally. Mrs.Milton

would not risk shedding negative light on her husband's memory by saying a single word of this to the guests. I suspect she

knows this must be done—she just doesn't like it. And as for MissBrannon, I confess I don't understand that either, except

she might feel outnumbered, or as if she needs a witness to be heard."

"You're right." Wainbridge moved to the window, stared outside for several seconds, then turned to the sideboard between the

two windows. He picked up a Chinese huluping blue-and-white vase that was sitting atop the teak inlay. He held up the piece as if to study it and then shook his head.

"All of this commotion over silly things. It's not even that attractive. And what purpose does it serve?"

Lucas stood and reached for the vase. "You might not care for it, but if you let me do my job, I will find someone who thinks

the opposite."

Wainbridge scoffed and handed the item over. "Here, take it."

Lucas took it, fully knowing what to expect from the piece—the weight. The texture. The general feel of it. But when the porcelain

hit his hands, he stiffened.

Something about it was not right.

It was too light. The texture was slightly grainy when it should have been smooth like glass.

Lucas chuckled to mask his concern about the item, and he glanced at the other porcelain pieces on the tiered corner shelf. "Tomorrow I'll spend more time in here. I think there may be more value here than in the library."

Wainbridge turned back to the window. "Be my guest. Tomorrow there's to be a picnic, though. The painter's arrived, and if

the weather's in our favor, the ladies will spend the day painting on the lawn, and the men can watch or play lawn games or

the sort. You should probably make an appearance so no one else begins to wonder where you get to during the daytime hours."

Lucas looked down at the peculiar vase in his hand, smoothed his hand over the cobalt-hued design, and then placed it back

on the sideboard. "Come on. It's getting late. I need to get this dust off me before dinner, and you"—he motioned to the mud

splattered on Wainbridge's breeches—"might want to deal with that if you are to convince any of the ladies that you are a

worthy suitor."

Wainbridge cracked a smile. "It does not suit?"

"No. And be quick about it. If we're late, Tate will rob us of all the port, and then where will we be?"

The men exited the study, but as Lucas did, he cast one last look at the porcelain he had just held. It looked authentic from

a distance, but the feel of it told another story.