Heiress for Hire (Duke's Heiress #1) - Madeline Hunter Page 0,111
to think she knew she could trust him to never be like Finley, ever, no matter how provoked or how drunk or how angry, but he wondered if she could believe that about any man.
He had not weighed marriage in a specific way because of that, but he did not want to lose her either. He certainly did not want to watch other men pursuing her, even if he did not think she would change her mind about marriage.
“My thinking on finding some semblance of a formal alliance has taken other directions,” he said.
“You had better finish that thinking soon. I give you a fortnight at best before the calls start. She met enough people at my dinner for a few families to have a foot in the door.”
“I was expecting to annoy you today, not have you annoy me.”
“You annoyed me plenty. I’m just getting revenge,” Nicholas said. “I am actually enjoying myself. Say, are you going to tell me why uncle gave her that legacy?”
“No.”
Nicholas shrugged. “I suppose it was another example of his eccentric generosity. I have received letters from some other recipients. They are hoping, I think, that I am just as peculiar as he was and will continue the tradition of passing out gold coins on impulse.”
Chase stopped his horse and grabbed at the harness on Nicholas’s. “Now I am truly annoyed. You might have told me about this.”
“I assumed you knew. You asked about the gold. You were correct, by the way. There was another hoard in Whiteford House.”
“Not about the gold, about his eccentric generosity of giving out those coins.”
“He had to be doing something with them. What did you think? That he sat in his study making stacks and counting them?” Nicholas jerked his horse free of Chase’s hold. “I think that he never left his house without some of them in his purse or pocket. One here, ten there—one letter said he would show up at an orphanage at night and hand a little sack of them to the servant at the door. He never told them who he was, but they made it a point to find out. Now they are hoping the visits continue despite his death.”
“Have they?”
Nicholas rode on a ways before answering. “Once. I doubt I can continue. The pile in Whiteford House won’t last long. But better that orphanage get it than Walter, the greedy scoundrel.”
Which was exactly what Uncle Frederick had concluded, Chase thought.
* * *
Chase wrote out his case, the one he would make to Minerva. It was his best chance, he decided, to line up the reasons she might agree to his ideas about their future alliance.
He examined his final paper, the one without all the cross-outs and comments to himself about being an ass to include this or that. The list of benefits to her appeared sadly small. That his own list also appeared small hardly helped his mood.
He had never before seen in ink on paper how little a permanent alliance between a man and a woman had credence, once you removed practical things like financial support, heirs, and social demands. There was damned little left to encourage a woman like Minerva to give up one whit of independence and freedom.
Fortunately, he had no intentions of asking her to do that.
He checked his pocket watch, and realized he had to leave or he would arrive late to her house. His horse would already be waiting. He gathered his wits but left the lists.
As he crossed the apartment to his door, he saw Brigsby there, receiving a letter. Brigsby turned with the missive in his hand. He brought it over ceremoniously. “Hand-delivered. From the Home Office.”
Two thoughts rushed into Chase’s mind. The first was a curse that Peel had been so impatient. The second was a prayer that Kevin had heeded his advice and hopped a packet to France. He opened the letter. Peel required him to call this afternoon at two o’clock. Not a request this time.
“Brigsby, send word to Miss Hepplewhite that I will be delayed. Better yet, to be sure she receives the message immediately, carry it to her yourself.”
“May I ask, sir, if this has to do with one of your inquiries?”
“It does.”
“So you are not expecting me to be a messenger, which is not part of my responsibilities. You are instead asking me to serve as one of your—I believe they are called agents.” Brigsby considered that. “How novel. It might be interesting.”