Page 2 of The Earl She Once Saved

Mr. Bell nodded after him. “Fair enough.”

It was not only triumph which satisfied men, Verity had learned, but the ability to return home and report that they had not been defeated.

She wrote out the agreement. Both men made their marks, bowed to her and departed together, already discussing which laborers might be spared for the hedge.

Aunt Cordelia waited until the door closed. “I don’t know how you manage them.”

“I allow them to speak until they have exhausted the pleasure of hearing themselves.”

“Men seldom exhaust that pleasure.”

“Then I interrupt.”

Aunt Cordelia gave a faint, reluctant smile and bent again over her embroidery. “Your uncle always said a lady ought not concern herself with ditches.”

“Which may explain why his flooded every spring.”

Before Aunt Cordelia could defend the late Mr. Prewitt’s drainage, the door opened. Mrs. Winifred Hale stood upon the threshold.

She wore a dark gown and ring of keys, who was also a widow, though nothing in her manner had ever suggested that propriety was the source of her authority. She was still young for the position and had been called too young for it by several people who later discovered that Win’s youth did not prevent her from knowing precisely how many sheets, candles, spoons, and secrets were contained within the house.

“Mr. Henshaw has arrived, my lady.”

The fire shifted in the grate. No clap of thunder disturbed the windows. No clock stopped. The morning remained what it had been a moment before: gray, orderly, and faintly scented with wet earth.

Yet Verity’s fingers tightened around her pen. “Show him in.”

Mr. Henshaw entered carrying the same leather case he had carried on his previous visit and wearing very nearly the same expression. Solicitors possessed many expressions suited to distress, such as solemnity, discretion and concern, but Mr. Henshaw had long ago settled upon regretful uselessness.

He bowed first to Verity and then to Aunt Cordelia.

“Lady Edgeworth. Mrs. Prewitt.”

Verity indicated the chair opposite her. “You have received word.”

It was not a question. Questions invited hope, and she learned to extend no hospitality to hope unless it arrived bearing evidence.

Mr. Henshaw sat. His case remained closed upon his knees.

“I fear I have nothing decisive to report.”

Nothing decisive.

It was a phrase of remarkable gentility. It made an absence sound almost like information.

“No body?” Verity asked.

“No.”

“No witness who has seen him?”

“None whose account withstands examination.”

“No letter, bank draft, arrest, burial record, or drunken confession in some foreign port?”

Mr. Henshaw’s eyes lowered briefly. “No, my lady.”

There it was again.