“Yes,” Clarissa answered, equally excited.
“I need my letter. I need a mug and tea.”
“I’ll pour the tea. Your hands are shaking too hard.”
“Yes, thank you. I need to fetch my letter.”
Ducking into her room, Gemma pulled out her bag and the stack of letters. The promise from her uncle was the one on the top, or so she had thought. Now she wasn’t so certain. She couldn’t find it. What if she’d lost it? Her heart pounded in her ears.
They were going to take The Garland from her.
No, they were not . . . but where was the letter she needed—?
Mrs. Warbler’s hand came down on hers. Gemma looked up, surprised, to the woman in the bedroom with her. “Don’t be afraid,” Mrs. Warbler said.
“What if I lose?”
“Well, that could happen. I don’t have the faith in Lord Marsden that the duchess enjoys. Granted, he appears rougher than he usually does and he is one of them, the Logical Men’s Society. However, he should hear us out. He has always been fair. He also has to live in this village. He knows the dangers of crossing the matrons. We are with you.”
Gemma nodded, afraid to voice her fears lest they take on life. She looked down at her letters and realized the one she searched for was right there in her hand. “I have it.”
“Then let us go present it to the magistrate.”
Just as they entered the main room, the front door flew open, the bell jangling wildly, and Mr. Thurlowe stormed inside. He was not alone. Several of the men who had stood sentry across the street over the past several days filed in through the doorway behind him.
“Thurlowe,” the earl called in good-natured greeting. “You are right on time for a cup of morning tea.”
Ignoring Lord Marsden, the doctor demanded, “What is going on here? Why was a guest in my home kidnapped?”
The dowager looked down her nose in a way only a duchess could manage. “Your hat, Mr. Thurlowe?”
He frowned as if not understanding what she’d meant, and then realized he was wearing his hat. He practically grabbed it off his head as if he couldn’t be bothered. The other men removed their hats.
“As for the charge of kidnapping,” the dowager said, “what nonsense. He was not kidnapped. We asked him politely to come with us.”
“All of you?” Mr. Thurlowe demanded.
“Of course. We didn’t want him to refuse,” the duchess answered. Hands came up to hide smiles—and Mr. Thurlowe knew it. His jaw hardened.
He hadn’t looked at Gemma. In fact, he seemed to be studiously ignoring her. Good.
She needed to ignore him, as well . . . instead of noticing that although he’d had a late night, he was impeccably dressed and appeared rested. Which was far from what she was feeling.
His men clumped around him, pushing their way into the room and crowding the matrons. One, a gentleman so short that he had to crane his neck to see what was going on, announced, “I’m here. What is going on?”
“We need your services, Shielding,” the doctor said. “There is about to be a legal hearing over who owns The Garland.”
Mr. Shielding took in everyone and then his officious gaze landed on the earl. “I didn’t hear you were back, my lord. I’m to represent the Society.”
“Ah, yes, good,” the earl replied. He looked over to Mr. Thurlowe and said in a false whisper, “You couldn’t find someone else?”
There was no answer but again, smiles were hidden.
The door was finally shut, only to be opened again by none other than the Duke of Winderton. He didn’t mill about but sauntered in as if the proceeding waited for him. He looked around as if surprised at the crowd. “The village has gathered, eh? Is there anyone left on the streets?”
Gemma had come to know him by sight but they had kept their distance from each other. There was something very angry about him, and she did not trust angry men.
The people in the room acted diffident with curtseying and bowing. “Good morning, Your Grace,” the Reverend Summerall said.
His mother was unaffected. “How nice of you to rouse yourself, Your Grace.”
“Always trying to please you, Mother,” he answered and looked around the room, his gaze landing on Mr. Fitzsimmons. The young man had been out toiling on Gemma’s behalf and he appeared the part. He stood on the opposite side of the room from his fellows. “Hello, Fitz,” the duke said. “We were expecting you to return last night.”
His words brought a flush to Mr. Fitzsimmons’s face.
“It appears he has changed sides,” said one of the Dawson lads—Gemma could not tell which one was which yet.
“Ah.” And then the duke’s gaze focused on Gemma. Did he notice the nasty bruise on her head? Did it matter to him? Mr. Thurlowe had implied last night that the duke might be behind the stunt. Seeing him this close, she’d place money on that suspicion.
She glared right back. And he’d not receive a curtsey from her.
His answer was the half smile someone would save for a kitten who amused them.
Well, she was no kitten.
Winderton turned his attention from Gemma to the group as a whole. “Did I interrupt?”
“No, you arrived just in time,” Mr. Thurlowe said. “Let’s be on with it.”
The earl frowned. “Why, thank you, Mr. Thurlowe, for making my work here easier. Ah, here is my tea.” Clarissa placed the hot mug on the table before the earl and backed away.
At that moment one of the Society members made a pretense of wiping his nose on one of the curtains. Gemma charged forward, ready to grab the man by the ear and give it a twist for having the manners of a schoolboy, except to her astonishment, Lord Marsden was ahead of her.
“Sweeney, leave the building.”
“My lord, I need to be here.”
“No, you don’t. Not until you have some manners about you. Out.”
Sweeney appeared ready to keep contesting the issue until Mr. Thurlowe stepped in. “You need to leave.”
For a second the man hesitated, casting an angry look around the room. He then grabbed the curtain, giving it a hard enough yank to tear it off its rod, and bolted out the door, the bell heralding his departure.
“Great. We have that done,” Lord Marsden said as if he wasn’t troubled at all by the makeshift circumstances. “Very well. I believe we all understand what is at stake. This situation is a bit unorthodox but I see no reason to postpone this hearing for me to shave. Mrs. Estep, please tell me your story.”
“Gemma—” she started to correct him and stopped. Let him call her whatever he wished if it meant she could have The Garland. She stepped forward.
Lord Marsden gave her a very male look-over. She ignored him, choosing to focus on a spot over his head as she told her story.
“My uncle Andrew MacMhuirich was the only family I had and the same was true for him.” She was proud that her voice didn’t betray her inner turmoil. “I visited him last year around the time the village was holding the big dance of the season. I helped him make rook pies and it was a good evening between us. The next day I continued my journey to London. I wrote a letter to my uncle Andrew that I had arrived and shared with him the news that my husband was dead—”