Azalea Page 7

  "Oh, uh... no, ma'am. I mean, I'm not Mr. Timmons at all. I am Peter Greene, his clerk. I—I'll tell him you're here. Miss Clayton, was it?"

  Mr. Greene disappeared through a heavy door at the rear of the room, obviously more intimidated by her presence than by the task of informing his employer of it, however unwelcome such information might be.

  Looking absently around at the innumerable leather-bound volumes lining the walls and stacked on the floor, Azalea mentally prepared her arguments against the possibility of Mr. Timmons refusing to see her. She had worked herself into a state of imaginary indignation when Mr. Greene reappeared and indicated, mainly by gesture, that she could proceed into the inner sanctum.

  The second office was immaculate in comparison to the dusty disorder of the first. An elderly and rather stout gentleman rose to greet her, bowing with old-fashioned courtesy.

  "Miss Clayton? I am honoured to make your acquaintance. Pray sit down. In what way may I be of service to you?" His tone was formally polite, but Azalea thought the man looked puzzled, and wondered what garbled account of her connections Mr. Greene had given him.

  "Mr. Timmons," she began tentatively, perching on the edge of the overstuffed leather chair opposite the desk, "I believe you knew my grandfather slightly and conducted business for his father, Sir Philip Simpson, before his death."

  "Of course, of course," replied the lawyer, now more at ease. "I remember young Gregory well, though I suppose I shouldn't say young exactly, as we are almost of an age. Is he still in Virginia? How is he?"

  "He died eight months ago, which is why I am here."

  "I am sorry," said Mr. Timmons sincerely. "I remember him as an unusually intelligent man. He went to America to teach at one of the universities, I recollect."

  Azalea lost some of her diffidence. "Yes, at the College of William and Mary, in Williamsburg. He became one of their most respected faculty members," she added with unconscious pride.

  "And in what circumstances are you left? He was your guardian?" She nodded. "What became of your parents?"

  "Both died when I was very young. My mother was his only daughter. My father was Walter Clayton, fifth Baron Kayce. On his death, my grandfather left me everything he had, on the condition that I sell the property and come to England. I am presently staying with my cousin, Lady Beauforth, in Curzon Street."

  "I know of Lady Beauforth," said Mr. Timmons mildly when she paused. "An estimable woman, I believe."

  Azalea took a deep breath before continuing. "Grandfather wished me to take steps to reclaim my inheritance. Indeed, I have found that I must do so, as a Season with Lady Beauforth will cost a great deal more than I can presently afford. On my grandfather's recommendation, I would like to engage you as my man of business here in London, if that would be acceptable to you?"

  "Why, of course, my child. I thought that was settled already." Mr. Timmons's eyes twinkled with a trace of humour. "It appears you have a measure of your grandfather's independence, and likely his intelligence as well. Otherwise, you wouldn't have come to me."

  Gratefully, Azalea pushed the packet of papers across the desk to him. "Here is a summary of the fourth Lord Kayce's will, which was sent to my father on his death. The estate itself, as I understand it, was entailed, but there was a substantial sum that was brought into the family by marriage and that should have come to me at my father's death."

  Mr. Timmons opened the packet and began sorting through the papers it contained. "I shall need to look over the original will, of course. It should be filed at Somerset House. I assume your father left none?" Azalea shook her head.

  "Not unusual in so young a man. We shall also need indisputable proof of your own identity —ah, here we are. Yes, these will be more than sufficient."

  He met her eyes solemnly. "I shall not attempt to deceive you, Miss Clayton. Lord Kayce, your uncle, is a very powerful man. He may very well attempt to counter your claims. After all, he could stand to lose a good deal of money as a result. Have you communicated with him at all?"

  "No, I haven't. From certain things my grandfather told me, I thought that might be... unwise. In fact, I'm not sure he's even aware of my existence." Mr. Timmons raised his brows at this and she hurried on. "In any event, I arrived in London only the day before yesterday, and thought it would be prudent to consult with an expert in legal matters before deciding upon any course of action."

  "A wise precaution," the lawyer replied noncommittally. "However, as you are under age, Miss Clayton, you will need a guardian —and the most natural person for that role would be your uncle."

  Azalea stared at the lawyer in dismay. "But I am perfectly happy with Lady Beauforth, and it was my grandfather's express wish that she act as my guardian. And... suppose Lord Kayce wishes me ill?"

  Mr. Timmons blinked.

  "Well," she continued more cautiously, "Grandfather once hinted at something like that, though he was sick at the time and I suppose I might have misunderstood him." Here, in the face of the lawyer's skeptical gaze, her grandfather's accusations seemed rather unlikely.

  "As to that, I cannot say." Mr. Timmons had retreated into cool professionalism now. "Though I would imagine that any danger from your uncle would be financial rather than physical. But the fact remains that in the normal course of things, Lord Kayce would legally be named your guardian until you come of age or, of course, marry."

  At this last word, her head came up. She believed that Mr. Timmons was a man she could trust and that he had a certain interest in her welfare, if only because of his memories of her grandfather. Decisively, she pulled the remaining papers from her reticule and handed them to the lawyer.

  "Perhaps this will make a difference."

  Frowning puzzlement gave way to incredulous amazement as the lawyer unfolded and perused the documents. "These appear to be genuine. Why did you say nothing of this before?"

  Azalea thought she detected a hint of suspicion behind the kindly brown eyes. She knew instinctively that her only course must be one of total honesty if she were not to lose Mr. Timmons as an ally.

  Adhering strictly to the facts, she explained the circumstances of her marriage and subsequent supposed widowhood. She then confided her belief that grief at Howard Morely's death had precipitated her grandfather's decline and eventual demise. Throughout the recital, she kept her voice carefully level, drawing on the control she had cultivated over the past six years.

  "It was only yesterday that I discovered that Christian Morely, now Earl of Glaedon, is still alive," she concluded. "I still do not understand how that can be, but I met him myself in Hyde Park."

  "I do seem to remember some furor over the Earl, or perhaps it was his brother, a year or two ago," said Mr. Timmons thoughtfully. "I cannot seem to recall the details, but something was in the papers, I believe. However, this would seem to be the answer to both of your problems. Glaedon is not so wealthy as your uncle, but he is quite well situated, I believe."

  He turned his keen gaze back to Azalea. "What is it, my dear? Is he unwilling to acknowledge you?" When she did not answer, his brows drew together. "I assure you he can be legally forced to do so. These documents constitute sufficient proof—"

  "Not precisely that, Mr. Timmons," Azalea broke in. "At least, I'm not certain that is the case. When I met him yesterday, he seemed not to recognize me, even when we were introduced. As a matter of fact, he was almost rude to me."

  Mr. Timmons opened his mouth, but Azalea hurried on. "So, if you don't mind, I'd rather not make these documents public just yet. I want to discover what is going on first. Perhaps it will transpire that I don't care to acknowledge him!" she concluded with a defiant lift of her chin.

  A half smile played about the old solicitor's mouth, but he seemed compelled to try again. "Understand, my dear lady—or Miss Clayton, if you will—that the resources you would have at your disposal as Countess of Glaedon could make all the difference in the world to your legal battle with Lord Kayce. It is unlikely—"

/>   "Please, Mr. Timmons, can you not understand?" she interrupted urgently. "Lord Glaedon already dislikes Americans. If I were to declare myself his wife now, not only might he not believe me, but it could serve to confirm his negative opinion. I also think it would not be very conducive to my future happiness in marriage. Promise me you will say nothing of this to anyone, at least for the present."

  Mr. Timmons regarded her gravely for a long moment, but finally nodded. "Very well, my dear. For the present, though it goes against my better judgement. I shall see what I can manage with the other documents you have given me. And I must recommend that you entrust the marriage papers to me as well, for safe keeping."

  "Of course." She leaned forward. "And you won't inform my uncle about my presence in London just yet either, will you?"

  He shook his head. "No, though he must be told eventually, of course. I am sure he will be very surprised. But you have given me enough to work on for the present, I believe, without complicating matters further. I shall send word when I have made some progress. My first step will be to obtain your paternal grandfather's will."

  Azalea thanked the older man warmly and rose. Nothing of substance had been accomplished yet, but her spirits were higher than they had been half an hour earlier. Merely sharing her dilemma with the capable solicitor was a vast relief, and it was with a renewed lightness in her step that she left Mr. Timmons's offices.

  Smiling brilliantly at Mr. Greene simply for the pleasure of watching him stammer in confusion, she tripped out the door and down the stairs to the waiting carriage.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 5

  Azalea's relief was short-lived, for Marilyn's greeting upon her return to Beauforth House served to remind her of the difficulties she had yet to overcome.

  "Cousin, I thought you would never return! Have you forgotten that my dear Glaedon is to call on us this morning?" she exclaimed as Azalea took off her cloak. "He would find it most odd, even rude, if you were out when he arrived. You would not wish to give him an even lower opinion of Americans, I am sure."

  "Oh, heavens no," replied Azalea, but her sarcasm was lost on her cousin.

  "I thought not," Marilyn said with a satisfied nod. "And pray try as much as possible to refrain from speaking while he is here," she added. "I saw yesterday how little he liked hearing your accent. Oh! One of my curls is come undone!"

  Marilyn hurried upstairs to find her maid before Azalea could respond to her outrageous suggestion. It was probably just as well, she realized belatedly. The retort she'd almost made would not have contributed to cousinly feeling at all. But neither that nor any other consideration would persuade her to apologize for her nationality!

  She was still seething when Lord Glaedon was announced a moment later.

  "Good day, Miss... Clayton, is it not?" he said as he entered the parlour behind the butler.

  "Yes, that's right. Good day, my lord. And how are you this fine morning?" Marilyn's recent caution prompted her to intensify her accent. She was rewarded by a slight tightening around Lord Glaedon's mouth.

  "Very well, I thank you," he replied tersely. "Is Lady Beauforth not in?"

  "Oh, yes. She and Miss Beauforth should be down at any moment, I should think. They have been kindness itself to me since my arrival from America," Azalea said deliberately. His presence was unsettling, especially now that she knew who he was. But that did not stop her from baiting him. She had to know just how deep his animosity went. And talk of America must surely make him realize who she was—and recall the claim she had upon him.

  "You arrived only a few days ago, I believe?" was all he said, however.

  "The day before yesterday. And already I am finding that England is vastly different from America."

  "I would imagine so," he said before she could elaborate. "We have had the benefit of several more centuries in which to become civilized. But then, our civilization is one thing you colonists fought so hard to free yourselves from, is it not?"

  Azalea blinked at this sudden attack. "Indeed—" she began indignantly, but broke off at the sound of Cousin Alice's voice.

  "Good afternoon, my lord. I hope you haven't been waiting long," Lady Beauforth called out. She was dressed today in varying shades of bright pink silk. "Ah, but I see Miss Clayton has been here to keep you company. You two met in the Park yesterday, I believe?"

  Marilyn came in on her mother's heels with a brilliant smile for Lord Glaedon and a breathless reply to the offhand compliment he made her. Both ladies had eyes only for their gentleman caller, allowing Azalea a chance to compose herself and subdue her sudden anger.

  Ringing for tea, Lady Beauforth waved Lord Glaedon into the most ornate —and least comfortable —chair in the room. Marilyn lost no time in seating herself by his right hand while her mother, chattering gaily, moved to his left. Azalea was left to shift for herself.

  "Do you still leave for your estates tomorrow, my lord?" asked Marilyn as soon as her mother paused in her recital of the past week's scandals. "I do hope you will return to Town in time for our theatre engagement the week after next."

  Her fluttering lashes and shy smiles amused Azalea, for they had plainly been cultivated for his lordship's benefit —or perhaps for the benefit of gentlemen in general. The effect was undeniably attractive and for a moment Azalea toyed with the idea of learning to emulate this behaviour before regretfully deciding that it simply wasn't her style.

  Watching Lord Glaedon as he responded to Marilyn's flirtatious sallies, Azalea found it hard to believe that this was the same man she had befriended, married and, yes, even loved, six years ago. This Christian was solemn, almost dour, rather than laughing and carefree, as she remembered him. Could the deaths of his father and brother have wrought such a change in him?

  Realizing that she was staring, Azalea pulled her attention back to the conversation, hoping to gain some useful insight into the intricacies of London Society.

  "...and Lady Gascombe cut her dead, can you imagine?" Lady Beauforth was saying, "Because her sister had become engaged to a merchant! But then, everyone knows what a high stickler Harriet Gascombe is—not that that's a bad thing in itself, of course. But poor Miss Fenworth is lost now, I fear. No one will receive her after that, I daresay."

  Despite her intention to listen quietly, Azalea burst in on the conversation. "I cannot believe anyone of sense would hold a young lady responsible for her sister's actions! Surely others have survived worse family connections than a merchant."

  Everyone round the tea table started as though one of the chairs had spoken. After a slight, uncomfortable pause, Marilyn tittered and Lady Beauforth answered, "Not after being cut at a public theatre by someone of Lady Gascombe's standing, I assure you, my dear. Though it is possible that her ladyship had another motive for her actions, I admit. It is rumoured that her own daughter and Miss Fenworth are rivals for at least one titled gentleman."

  "But how infamous!" exclaimed Azalea, forgetting that her purpose was to learn London customs rather than condemn them. "Surely anyone who knew that would see Lady Gascombe's actions for what they were?"

  "Now, now, my dear," Lady Beauforth said soothingly. "Remember, you are new to London and our ways. Marilyn, you must be sure to acquaint Azalea with some of the more notable names before we spring her on Society. We don't want her to offend." Lady Beauforth looked alarmed at the mere possibility of such a faux pas.

  But Lord Glaedon was looking at Azalea rather strangely. "Azalea?" he repeated when Lady Beauforth fell momentarily silent. "What an unusual name. I believe I once knew someone with that name —as a child, perhaps." He was frowning slightly in concentration.

  "My mother named me so, after a flowering shrub native to Virginia," she offered, hoping to jog his memory. Marilyn, however, glared at her.

  "Azalea, dear, would you be so kind as to pour out for us?" asked Lady Beauforth hastily, intercepting the glare.

  "Yes, they still teach that skill in the colonies, do they not?" said Maril
yn with a honeyed smile.

  So much for avoiding all mention of my origins, thought Azalea cynically, though her smile of acquiescence matched her cousin's for sweetness.

  As she poured, Azalea realized that her own personality was as far removed from what it had been six years ago as Christian's appeared to be. Glancing involuntarily at him at the thought, she found him regarding her intently, his black brows drawn down in a frown.

  "Oh! I do beg your pardon, Cousin Alice," Azalea exclaimed as she sloshed a little tea into Lady Beauforth's lap. "The— the pot was hotter than I expected." She cursed her inattention, especially when she saw Marilyn's smirk.

  "Mama, your faith appears to have been misplaced," Miss Beauforth commented liltingly. "I suppose I'd best do the honours myself. You'd not wish to risk hot tea on your own person, would you, my lord?" she cooed, fluttering her lashes at the Earl as she wrested the pot from Azalea's hands.

  For an instant, Azalea considered deliberately spilling the remainder of the tea over Miss Beauforth. As it was, she resisted just long enough so that when she released it, Marilyn narrowly escaped spilling it herself. Quickly, Azalea turned to Lady Beauforth.

  "I'm truly sorry, ma'am. Do allow me to blot that from your gown before it sets." Her irritation towards Marilyn was swallowed by dismay at the sight of the brown rivulets on Cousin Alice's fuchsia day dress. Ineffectually, she dabbed at the stains with her napkin.

  "Pray do not regard it, my dear." Lady Beauforth pushed her hands away gently. "Cartwright will have it good as new by morning."

  Azalea resumed her seat, trying vainly to control the colour she could feel rising to her face. Perhaps she hadn't grown up so much after all. Another quick glance at the Earl showed that he was studying her again, but now his look was thoughtful rather than forbidding.

  She immediately returned her gaze to her lap, but that brief glimpse had done nothing to calm her rapid pulse. Those blue-grey eyes, which had affected her so deeply when she was a girl, had a far stronger and more profound impact on her as a woman.