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“Oh, no, Lady Rosamund,” he corrected, reaching out to adjust the corner of the paper under her palms, in effect having the tips of his fingers grazing hers. “I am not surprised, merely captivated.”

“Captivated? Perhaps entertained?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. She managed to reply even though her heart was making strange leaps in her chest.

This was not how it should be. She warned herself not to be foolish. Across the room, Alice wore a small, knowing smile, as she sipped from her tea. Rosamund shook her head at her, as if to say, “It is not what you think.”

But what could it be?

Could she be unraveling while the secrets in the past did the same thing?

Eighteen

“Mr. Claver is a man with carefully measured words, Lady Rosamund,” Peregrine reminded her. He knew that Rosamund had heard of the man through her father, but he was not certain if it was merely in passing.

The carriage carrying Peregrine, Rosamund, and Alice stopped in front of an office with a brass plate showing the golden lettering, “Claver & Sons, Solicitors. Inside, the place smelled much like the Duke’s study, but with more damp ink and dust.

The solicitor himself sat in his office, behind a stack of yellow parchment. His dusty spectacles rested precariously on top of his hooked nose.

“Ah. Lady Rosamund. Your Grace, Lord Duke, and I believe…Miss Bellamy,” the old man greeted, watching them and already identifying what the issue at hand. Each new arrival gave a slight nod and murmured their greetings. “I believe you are here for the late Earl of Ashbourne’s private accounts.”

“Yes, Mr. Claver,” Peregrine confirmed.

The old man ushered the three arrivals to sit, and they promptly obeyed. Peregrine noted that the solicitor’s hand trembled a little. Old age? Anxiety?

“I fear I have nothing much to contribute,” the solicitor said. “All I have are those that Your Grace’s stewards had already audited. One observation that I could provide, though, was that Lord Ashbourne was quite a meticulous and responsible client until the Countess passed.”

Rosamund’s jaw dropped. She must have been surprised to hear her mother mentioned at all. “Why? Did he make alterations after my mother’s death, Mr. Claver?”

“No, my lady. He simply stopped seeking proper counsel,” the solicitor replied, sighing deeply. “He became quite secretive, and sometimes even reclusive. His transactions, I suspect, were done in secret. I merely guess at this, but he had withdrawn large sums from the country bank, doing so without the assistance of the office. Then, he made unannounced journeys to Brighton with no explanation. All that we could gauge was that the travels were sudden and urgent.”

The return journey to Rosewood Cottage was subdued. Peregrine could feel the heavy weight that seemed to have descended on Lady Rosamund. As if sensing the heaviness within the carriage, rain pelted against the glass, blurring the scenes outside.

Peregrine sat across from both Rosamund and Alice. He watched the former in her silence, so different from the woman he had come to know.

“Should I tell the coachman to stop at an inn so you can drink some tea, Lady Rosamund?” he asked. “You look exhausted.”

“No, thank you,” she replied softly, her eyes still on the droplets rolling down the window’s glass. “I would rather we keep moving. I want to be back at Rosewood Cottage.”

Nobody could fault her for feeling that way. It certainly would be better to be in a familiar place at a time like this. Her glove hands were clasped in her lap.

“What is it?” he asked, sensing something more emanating from her. He leaned forward to peer at her, as shadow hid much of her face.

Rosamund turned toward his gaze, her eyes still hooded. “I was thinking of the things we learned from Mr. Claver today. I realized that I do not know which frightens me more.”

“Frightens you?” Peregrine echoed.

“Yes. discovering that my father was more innocent of dishonor than you accused him of, or discovering that he was guilty of everything and I had spent the last few years defending him. Both would be devastating.”

Peregrine could understand her completely. She did not have to explain herself. Her eyes were directed at a faraway spot, her eyes blinking away tears as her throat worked to swallow.

“Whatever we do discover about him in Brighton or elsewhere, Lady Rosamund,” he began, “it will not erase the father you knew. A man should not be defined by his secrets and what he did in his hour of desperation.”

Rosamund’s eyes widened at that, droplets of tears lingering on her lashes. “How can you possibly say that after all that he did? You have judged him harshly before and now you are saying that?”

Peregrine’s chest tightened. She was right. He sounded like a hypocrite, but he meant what he did then, and he meant what he said to her just now. Both could be true.

“Because wrongdoing does not erase every good thing a person ever was,” he replied. “A man can make terrible choices, after all he is only a man, and still loved the people around him fiercely. His actions might have been brought by pride or panic, or something else that mattered then.”

Rosamund looked at Peregrine, then, as if she could truly see him. “Are you talking about my father, Your Grace?” she asked.