The Last Time We Met - By Lily Lang Page 0,33

“I am fully aware your husband is currently quite comfortably ensconced in that old cottage in the stable block.”

Beatrice managed to recover immediately and drew herself up. “Even if my husband did not die, we intend to see him charged with assault.”

“I do not think you would care for the consequences should you decide to press charges,” said Jason silkily. “If you do, I shall see to it my lawyers sue you for every penny of Miss Thornwood and Lord Thornwood’s inheritance that your husband and son have squandered.”

“That is calumny, sir, and I certainly shall not stand for it—”

“Furthermore, my lawyers shall charge you, your husband and your son with attempted murder,” Jason continued. “You see, in a drunken stupor at my club last night, your son informed me he would soon have the blunt necessary to pay the rather large debt he owes me because he is to become the next viscount. When I asked him how this was possible, he indicated that after William and Miranda had fled, you had come up with the rather brilliant plan of bribing the magistrate to find William Thornwood on charges of murder, and then having the boy ‘accidentally’ shot during the arrest. With the boy dead, the title and estates would pass, naturally, to your husband and then your son. Not only I, but a certain Mr. Murray, would be willing to testify to that effect in court.”

Beatrice stared at him, her mouth dropping open and giving her the appearance of a landed fish.

“Finally, madam,” he said to Beatrice, “if you do not depart Thornwood Hall at once, your son shall find himself in debtors’ prison. Unless, of course, you can produce the fifty thousand pounds he owes me?”

Beatrice snapped her mouth.

“Excellent,” said Jason. “I shall expect you and your husband to be gone from the house by morning.” He smiled thinly. “My footman, Mr. Briggs, shall supervise the packing to ensure no Thornwood silver or china finds its way into your luggage. Now kindly take yourself off. My forbearance has its limits.”

By late afternoon, Beatrice and Clarence, furious at Jason’s high-handedness but helpless against the steely force of his will, had departed the grounds. When they were gone Miranda sent a message to her brother and her old nurse Hannah, bidding them to return immediately to Thornwood Hall. They arrived from Jason’s estates in Buckinghamshire in the early evening, bumping up the long drive in an elegant carriage.

“But what happened, Miri?” William demanded, once the first round of embraces and greetings had been exchanged, and brother and sister had retired to the lovely airy chamber known as the Peacock Room, which their mother had made especially her own. “Uncle Clarence wasn’t dead after all? I should have hit him harder!”

“No, he isn’t dead,” said Miranda severely, “and I’m glad of it too, for it would have been a great deal more complicated to have you cleared from charges of murder than charges of assault.”

She explained quickly the plan Beatrice had concocted to help Laurence inherit the viscountcy, and when she had finished, her brother snorted and said, “Aunt Beatrice always did have more malice than brains. But how did you manage it? How did you get Uncle Clarence and Aunt Beatrice to leave?”

Miranda tried to stall. “It wasn’t easy. They weren’t pleased to be packed off like that, I assure you.”

“I wish I had been here to see their faces,” said William.

She permitted herself a small smile. “It was enormously satisfying,” she conceded.

“I can imagine,” said William. “But where have you been this last fortnight? Why did you make me go with those men to Buckinghamshire? Hannah and I were so worried about you until we heard from you a few days ago.”

Miranda sighed and succumbed to the inevitable.

“I went to London,” said Miranda, glossing over the thirty-five mile walk in the freezing rain and the week she had spent without food or shelter. “I went to Blakewell’s.”

There was a long silence. She did not permit herself to meet her brother’s gaze, instead studying the material of her skirts with absorbed attention. At last, William repeated in a very soft voice, “You went to Blakewell’s? The club?”

“Yes,” said Miranda. “I didn’t know where else I could go. You know Papa did not have many friends and his lawyers were useless when I tried to write. Blakewell’s was easy to find, and when I told Jason what had happened, he agreed immediately to move you to his estate in Buckinghamshire