Chapter Twenty-Seven

The chair was large—larger, even, than she’d thought it as a child. Her weight was not enough to create an indentation in the leather, her width not enough to touch each arm.

So it was.

She could not fill her father’s chair, let alone his footsteps or the needs of those who depended on her.

Cat shifted in the chair, trying to occupy more space. It didn’t work.

“All is not lost, my lady.” The soft words emanated from the doorway. Mr. Sparks stood there, framed by an ancient oak entrance.

This room, one of the oldest in the original Abbey, was not the official estate room, but the small space every baron and baroness before her had used for real work.

“You know me too well.” Her laugh held no mirth. An expanse of wood stretched out before her, scarred and scratched and worn from years of quills and ledgers. Stuffing peeked through tears in the chair beneath her bum. Around her was paper, leather, instructions, accounts. Nothing of comfort. Not even a fire. There was nothing here to demonstrate wealth, only dedication—in a space smaller than the butler’s pantry.

It was this desk her father had sat at each day, far removed from the formal space Wycomb commandeered at Ashdown Abbey. That formal area had always been for show and for storage of old accounts.

Here, in this tiny closet, the Ashdowns toiled.

“I’ve known you since birth, if you count the years before I began working for your father.” Light flashed over the lenses of Mr. Sparks’s spectacles as he stepped into the little room. “I don’t know what to tell you, my lady, except not to give up. There is always a solution if you look hard enough.”

“I’ve looked,” she said dryly. “Everywhere.”

Her looking had revealed nothing but threats, contracts, and a man that warmed her body but could not marry her. Her head tipped back against the cushion, hands curled around the arms.

She did not fit the chair.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t bring in her own chair. She was still Baroness Worthington. She still held the largest inheritance in Britain, and she still had power.

If she chose to use it.

Leaving behind the seat she could never possibly command, she stood, braced her hands on the scarred desktop. “Marriage to Hedgewood might be the only choice for now, but damned if I’ll accept it.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Sparks blinked, green eyes wide.

She couldn’t tell Mr. Sparks of Jones, of the investigation, of Wycomb’s dealings on the docks. But— “I refuse to give in without a fight.”

“My lady.” Alarm reverberated in voice and body, both edged with fear. He strode through the doorway as intent as any man ready to stop catastrophe.

She did not care.

“I came to a decision this morning, Mr. Sparks.” Just after an honorable common man had kissed her in the woods. Jones had touched her. Not just her body, but something deeper inside. His touch lingered there, giving her strength. She had accepted the role of observer to stay safe, but she would no longer. Wycomb wanted her to marry Hedgewood so immensely he was willing to threaten her at knifepoint.

She would find out why.

“I’ll not marry Hedgewood. I only have to discover my opening.” She grinned at Mr. Sparks. “Can you request a copy of the marriage contracts from the trustees? Will they provide it, do you think?”

“Yes, of course.” He removed his spectacles and used his waistcoat to frantically rub the lenses. “What are you planning?”

“To not marry Hedgewood.”

“Do not openly defy your uncle, my lady.” Mr. Sparks gripped the only other piece of furniture in the room—the small sideboard still holding the whiskey her father had preferred. “’Tis best to do it in secret, as we have been. Open defiance will only result in—well. I don’t even know.”

“Pain.” She already knew. “So be it.” She strode to the sideboard, lifted the decanter. Candlelight flashed over crystal, over amber-gold liquid. Pulling out the stopper, she sniffed at the liquor within. Yes, her father’s favorite.

She flipped over a snifter. Poured.

“We’ll be leaving in a few hours, I’m told. This is good-bye. But I’m not a pawn.” Cat raised her glass, saluted first Mr. Sparks, then the account ledgers lining the wall and the bottles of ink scattering the desk.

“I’m the Baroness Worthington.”