Walter grinned. “I assure you it was not done intentionally, but what is clear to me is that we both have excellent taste in property.”
Mrs. Hartwood soothed her husband. “Forgive Hartwood. He’s still grumbling over losing out to you over the Forsythe house all those years ago.”
“What’s this about the Forsythe house?” Valentine interrupted. “My mother’s family lived there when I was a boy.”
“I own it.” He eyed the remaining dessert. Empress Pudding was a favorite and one of the Mertons’ cook’s specialties. He had not managed to convince the cook to share the recipe but he would one day soon. “Is anyone going to eat that?”
Mrs. Hartwood immediately declined, and silenced her husband with a stern look when he appeared to be about to accept. Everyone else remained silent so he glanced around—to see varying degrees of astonishment on Valentine’s and Melanie’s faces.
Melanie gasped. “Since when?”
“The house? Oh, the property was my very first investment.” Although it was no great secret, Walter considered his property investments, and his wealth to be no ones business but his own. Mr. Merton senior had dispensed with the property for a song long ago without one trace of hesitation, and had actually set him on the path of his own small fortune. He glanced at Valentine curiously. “Did your father not tell you of the sale?”
Valentine glanced at Melanie instead of answering him. “No wonder he has refused to discuss the house,” Valentine murmured to her.
“Ah. The Forsythe property was in quite a state the first day I walked in as owner. A leak in the roof had ruined the ceilings of a bedchamber and a drawing room. It took time to afford the repair. Once the building was sound, I leased it to a large family whose occupation as painters was put to good use to bring the home back to rights for a reduced rent.”
And he’d never looked back. He’d used that experience as a model for his future investments.
Walter shook his head. “I thought you knew. I’ll send a note round to the tenant to expect your visit if you still wish to go.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I should like that very much. I had such a happy time visiting my grandparents there as a child.”
He nodded in sympathy. She should cling to those happier memories and forget the sad ones. “Now then, Miss Merton, shall we fight for the last helping, or merely toss a coin and let fate decide for us who gets to eat what remains?”
He peered at her with one brow raised and, as hoped, she smiled at his ridiculous suggestion. “I certainly won’t fight with such slim odds of success. We all know it is one of your favorites.”
They would share, of course. He grinned, served her a modest amount, and placed the remainder on his own plate. “Any dessert is my favorite until I meet the next helping. Don’t waste that.”
“Has there ever been a battle won over dessert?” Valentine chuckled.
Mrs. Hartwood’s eyes widened. “Why, yes, there was, or at least there was in fiction. Over the summer I read this delightful little book. There was just such a scene as you described. Oh, what was that book called?”
There was a scene from a K.L Brahms book that described such an event; however, few knew that Walter was the inspiration for it. As a boy, he’d been slow to temper and Imogen had often annoyed him with her nattering. At one meal, she’d gone too far over something of no importance. A well-flung spoonful of brandy custard had silenced her until she’d retaliated and they’d gone to war. At first, he’d been amused his sister had remembered a long-ago battle over dessert and had used it in her book.
Until now.
Melanie laughed softly. “That’s in Findings from a Castaway? From what I can gather, everyone in Brighton has read the story and is talking about what makes the perfect dessert worth fighting over. I don’t believe I’d care to have food flung across our dining room, but it makes for a dramatic reading.”
“Indeed it does,” Mrs. Hartwood said with a shudder. “The scene is described so clearly I can almost see it happening when I close my eyes. Those charming porcelain kittens falling off the mantle and the dollop of custard sliding down that poor girl’s cheek.”
The girl had been Melanie at age ten or eleven.
Imogen had possessed terrible aim and had been responsible for the broken ornaments. Hitting Melanie had been entirely his fault. Melanie hadn’t been expected that day and had been caught by a misaimed shot of his. He winced, remembering her tears over her ruined dress.
Did she remember her part in it? He glanced at her but could detect no recognition in her expression. Perhaps she had forgotten all about it, along with her friendship with Imogen. It had been a long time ago.
“Well,” Melanie set her napkin aside, “I hope there will be no similar incidents in this house tonight.”
Her gaze lingered on him briefly before she turned to Julia. At the subtle rise of her brow, Julia urged Mrs. Hartwood to the parlor fo
r tea, leaving Walter puzzled and eager to know if the family secret was out or not. He truly couldn’t accurately gauge Melanie’s mood tonight and that meant he’d have to try to find out if she would make trouble for Imogen. He’d have to get her alone again.
He couldn’t wait.
Eight
“We simply must find that darling man a wife, and soon,” Mrs. Hartwood gushed as Melanie stirred half a spoonful of sugar into her cup of tea. There was always a point in every evening entertainment when matchmaking came up, so she wasn’t surprised. Since the remark was directed at Julia, and not to herself, she kept her mouth closed and her eyes down.