“I am Johnny. I am.”
“Give up, Emeril,” Phillip said, not unkindly. “If we compare Johnny’s letters with those of his younger brother, we’ll see that Johnny’s penmanship at some point came to resemble Emeril’s exactly. Nunn, you have the letters?”
“Every one, going back ten years.”
“I am Johnny, I tell you. If I don’t have sufficient calluses to suit his lordship, then I will have to plead months of idleness while I made my way home, and even in the wilderness, we use compasses.”
“Calluses don’t disappear that quickly,” Nunn said. “Shall you pen us a little missive, whoever you are?”
Flavia had at some point taken the place beside Mr. DeGrange. “No need for that. Johnny has a scar on his shoulder where Emeril accidently ran him through with a wooden sword. This fellow has no such scar.”
DeGrange patted her hand. “Been engaging in a spot of birdwatching, my dear?”
Portia’s mouth was hanging open.
Hecate wanted to dance a jig. “Thank you, Flavia, for putting us in possession of yet more evidence proving that Emeril, rather than Johnny, came home from Canada.”
“The settlement agreements are real,” Emeril said. “The signature is valid.”
“But that signature,” Phillip said, “is not yours, and there’s the rub.”
“Shakespeare,” DeWitt murmured. “He has you, sir. You have no claim on Miss Hecate Brompton whatsoever, and you owe her a sincere apology, assuming she doesn’t have you arrested for extortion or fraud or some other hanging offense.”
Portia elbowed her way past Edna and Eggy. “You cannot arrest him. He owes me a proposal.”
Emeril looked her up and down as if he’d never truly seen her before. “We’re cousins.”
“If royalty can marry cousins, so can we.”
Hecate took Phillip’s hand. “She has a point, and besides, Emeril, or whoever you are, your scheme was about to blow up in your face. I’ve signed over most of my fortune to Uncle Nunn.”
Phillip kissed her cheek. “Well done.”
Another general uproar ensued, and Hecate let it wash around her. She was content to stand hand in hand with Phillip, to be free of Johnny, of riches, of any expectations save those dearest to her heart.
“You signed it away?” Edna asked when the hue and cry had subsided. “Truly?”
“The money made me miserable, or I allowed you lot to make me miserable over it. I never wanted wealth, I didn’t earn it, and Uncle Nunn will steward those resources as well as I could. I wish you all the joy of squabbling over it, but you will no longer vex me with your importuning.”
Phillip took both her hands. “You’re sure?”
“You were right: Family is as family does. Will you have me without my money?”
“Will you have me if I never learn to dance a quadrille?”
Hecate purely beamed at him. The joy was both roaring and quiet, enormous and intimate. “I will have you, my lord. Depend upon it.”
Somebody cleared his throat.
Hecate looked past Phillip’s shoulder to see an older gentleman—the fellow who’d brought the traveling coach—looking uncomfortable at the top of the steps.
“If somebody wouldn’t mind handling the introductions, I would very much like—love—to make Miss Brompton’s acquaintance. My lord?”
Hecate abruptly needed Phillip’s arm for support. “Who is that fellow?”
“A prosperous Bristol merchant. Nunn has known him for ages. Let’s find somewhere private so you can make his acquaintance without an audience.”
“Let’s,” Hecate said. “Please, let’s.”
Chapter Eighteen
The murmur of voices coming from the foyer was leavened by the strains of a string quartet. Nunn and Edna, abetted by Charles, Eggy, and Emeril, were greeting the stragglers, and Phillip was far from dressed for the occasion.
He should have been mortified, but he was too busy holding hands with his intended to care. He’d shepherded her and Edward Ross to Nunn’s study, where nobody would dare intrude.
“Your mother,” Edward Ross said, “was a force of nature. She appeared at first glance to be the demure wife of another London dandy, but her conversation was insightful, her humor uproarious, and her determination… You inherited that. You clearly inherited much that is wonderful from your mother.”
Father and daughter had been talking for nearly an hour. Haltingly at first. Platitudes.
Thank you for receiving me.
You’re looking well.
Have you always lived in Bristol?
Ross had been born in Dundee, and traces of the accent still flavored his speech. Until the last two changes, Phillip had ridden in the coach with him and learned much of his prospective papa-in-law. In appearance, Ross was tallish, solid, going gray about the temples, and imposing about the eyebrows. His blue eyes had likely always been fierce.
Ross read voraciously, and he’d shown a prodigy’s facility with figures from a young age. He was known for scrupulous honesty in business and for driving a hard bargain. He did his own negotiating, leaving the lawyers to clean up details, and he was as yet unmarried.
By degrees, Hecate and her father were tiptoeing up to more difficult matters.
“Mama didn’t mention you often, but she was always complimentary. Said I must not blame you and that someday, she hoped, I might make your acquaintance. I did not dare.”
Ross rose and went to the sideboard. “I will presume to pour a round of brandy, to steady our nerves and, in my case, to celebrate. My daughter has acknowledged me more than civilly, and I…” He busied himself moving decanters about, back to Phillip and Hecate.
“I am celebrating too,” Hecate said gently. “Phillip?”
“My rejoicing is without limit.”
Ross collected himself and passed out the drinks. “I did not dare approach you. Firstly, I did not deserve to intrude on your life, and secondly, Nunn had assured me repeatedly that the Bromptons would turn any overtures from me to their own purposes should they get wind of them.”
“They would have.” Hecate took a sip of her drink. “They rifle the mail, listen at keyholes, lurk behind hedges… If only their enthusiasm for gathering information focused on something useful, like making investment decisions. Isaac loathes you.”
“A man I would have pitied, except that he took out his bile on you, who were innocent of any wrongdoing. One wishes he’d gone to Canada.”
Phillip sampled his brandy, a good vintage. “One wishes Emeril had stayed there.”
Hecate smiled a wicked little grin. “Portia might well be the making of him.”
Edward resumed his seat. They’d taken the chairs by the hearth, though no fire burned, and they were likely missing the promenade.
About which, Phillip did not give one hearty, Berkshire bedamned.
“Do you mind that I left Nunn in charge of the money?” Hecate had put the question to her father, suggesting she’d deduced a few pertinent details.
“The money was always yours to do with as you wished. Your mother invested the initial sum in the cent-per-cents, as conservative a place to put funds as any, but as you grew a bit older, she asked for your suggestions. You were reading the paper long before you should have been allowed to, and when you mentioned the tulip craze, she realized you’d been nosing about Nunn’s library as well. She began to heed your suggestions, modestly at first. By the time your mother left us, we already knew you had inherited at least some proclivities from me.”