sitting forward with a sad smile. “I’d be lost without you, Owen, so this entire conversation is moot.”
Owen grunted softly. “If only himself were moot.”
Edith smirked at the wry comment. That undoubtedly would have cleared things up for her, if not several other people, as well.
Her late husband’s cousin was the heir to all holdings, though the only one of real value was the estate in Hertfordshire. Reginald possessed all the same narcissism and arrogance that Archie had been known for, but without any hope of the same charm, and he was hellbent on claiming every advantage the legacy had to offer. Including the wife of its last holder.
His desires had pushed her out of Haidh Park, just as she’d begun to make the place feel like home, and now he had followed her to London. Her already diminished finances, thanks to Archie’s vice-like will and ruthless solicitors, were tightened further still by Reginald, which he loved throwing around her neck like a noose.
The house she lived in, ramshackle and rough as it was, belonged to him, every square inch; it was by his wishes that she wasn’t out on the streets, as he frequently reminded her. He was quite content in the townhouse he’d had for years, and it suited him to have her in his debt.
Months of searching for available homes she could afford in London had proved to Edith just how pitiful her finances were.
She couldn’t afford anything.
There was nothing of her dowry to be spoken of, her father hadn’t made any provisions for her, and with virtually nothing to her own name, all that Edith could claim were a few dresses, her grandmother’s pearl combs, and the thoughts in her head.
Everything that she had brought to her marriage was still everything she had. The only thing she had gained in her widowhood were her friends. And they knew nothing of this.
Yet.
Edith rubbed at her brow, sighing heavily. She would have to tell them soon. The secrets that had been her constant companions for the last few years would not be kept secret for long, now that Sir Reginald had come to London.
There was no telling how they would respond to the news. She had no fear of upsetting any of them, more a fear of them raining down chaos upon London itself.
Charlotte Wright alone could be horrifying.
It was one of the things that Edith loved most about her, and the rest of the Spinsters.
Although now that she thought of it, only Charlotte was truly a spinster now. The others had married, and some had started families. The Spinster Chronicles still circulated as regularly as they ever did, and with just as much popularity, but the unifying aspect of spinsterhood was waning fast.
Edith had never qualified in that way, being a widow instead of a spinster, but the others hadn’t seen that as an impediment. Apparently, being married for the course of one day wasn’t long enough to truly be considered wedded in their minds.
If they only knew.
She shook her head now, straightening and smoothing her skirts. She had nothing to lose anymore and worrying wouldn’t solve anything. Bravery and boldness had never been the hallmark of Lady Edith MacDougal, especially when she’d married and become Lady Edith Leveson. Still, they would need to be her constant companions now. She would never survive her plan if she turned retreating and wilting, as she once had done.
She could never be that again.
“Mistress,” Owen prodded from the doorway. “The time?”
“I know.” Edith rose without grace or airs and faced Owen with resignation. “Am I daft to be getting on with this, Owen? Tell me truly.”
Owen shrugged his burly shoulders, his expression not changing. “There’s a verra fine line between daft and daring, mistress. Given what cards ye’ve been dealt, I’d say ye’d be daft to do otherwise.”
There wasn’t much hope or encouragement in his voice, but there was a certainty that steeled her spine and lifted her chin. “Verra true. I’ll just go up and let Simms flick me out for the evening. If you would have word sent to Lord and Lady Ingram, they have offered to fetch me, so I would not have to use my own carriage.”
“We don’t have a carriage,” Owen grunted.
A wry smile slid across Edith’s lips.
“Rather a convenient offering, then, wouldn’t you agree?”
She swept past him and made her way up the stairs, craning her neck back and forth, the strain of the interview with Sir Reginald making itself known in a profound