“Yes, thank you,” Quin replied.
“It shall be brought directly.”
Quin nodded but was already to his study door. The room beckoned him to enter, a crackling fire glowing in the hearth. He withdrew a few books of study and set to work. Tea was brought in. Then biscuits. The solitude was his companion, and he didn’t realize how much he’d missed it. The quiet.
He spent the next hour and a half sorting through the scholarly accumulation before he decided to tackle the reason he’d come to Cambridge.
He slid open the drawer to his right and withdrew a fresh sheet of paper. In short order, he scribbled a few questions and signed his name, then withdrew the Duke of Wesley seal, watching as the bloodred wax hardened with the stamp.
He called out, knowing the butler wasn’t far. After all, it was a much smaller residence than his London home.
In a few moments, the butler entered the study.
“Please dispatch this to Morgan.” He didn’t use his friend’s full title; they’d known each other since long before the titles mattered.
The butler nodded and took the letter.
Morgan worked for the War Office and was excellent at finding information. With him returning to Cambridge, the timing was good. If anyone could find out information about Lord Bircham, it was he.
“Will there be anything else?” the butler asked.
Quin shook his head, feeling the fatigue from the trip catching up with him. “No, that will be all. And I’ll take supper in here.”
The butler nodded.
Quin watched as the man left, closing the study door with a soft click. The sound of the fire crackling lured him into a sense of peace, and he soaked up the glory of a quiet evening at home. Here the ghosts of London wouldn’t haunt him. One way or another. Or so he hoped. He’d find out when he fell asleep, and he wasn’t sure if he hoped his dreams would be haunted or not.
Fourteen
To tempt, and to be tempted, are things very nearly allied…
—Catherine the Great
Catherine could not sleep. In fact, when she closed her eyes, it was as if she became more awake.
She rose from bed and padded over to her chair by the low-burning fire. There hadn’t been much change to her grandmother’s condition, and if she didn’t improve, the solicitor would likely recommend that Lord Bircham be contacted.
How she hated that he could hold any power over her future! Someone she didn’t know, who hadn’t any understanding of her or her grandmother, was to be given power over an estate he didn’t earn or inherit, all because he was a male relative.
It was bloody well infuriating.
And she wasn’t going to sit back and let it happen.
No.
She’d fought through too much pain, survived too much to allow her future to be dictated to her. This was her family, her estate, her future, and she was going to have a say in it, come what may.
But she needed information.
Who was this Lord Bircham? She had only met him once, and it was so long ago. The fire burned lower in the grate as she watched the embers stir and flare, her thoughts swirling. Who would be the best informant? She could have—should have—asked Quin, but he had done so much already. She didn’t want to rely on him, not for this, though she did have the sneaking suspicion he wasn’t asking for permission, simply going and finding information regardless.
If so, all the better. But she wasn’t going to wait for him.
She wished there was some random gossip she could uncover—it would be the easiest way to find out information—and as soon as she thought of that, a plan formed in her mind.
Who else knew everything except for the ladies of theton? If there was a scandal, or rumor of one, they would know.
What she needed was someone she could trust, who wouldn’t turn her situation into new gossip, someone who would just give information, not take it. Lord Penderdale—Morgan—had mentioned his younger sister was debuting this season; Joan was her name. Perhaps she would know something? Yet as she considered it, Catherine disregarded the idea.