him, as warm and soft and sensual as she appeared.
The door opened and Prebles entered. He paused and peered at Yates from behind his spectacles. Then he walked over and looked at the documents spread on the desk.
“Ah,” Prebles said with a nod. “I understand now why you appear annoyed, sir. The situation with that property is vexing, I agree.”
This was news to Yates. What situation with which property? What had he missed?
Prebles helped him out by lifting one of the deeds, then pointing to a map. “Did you visit it? Is it the dearth of evidence of rents that upsets you?”
Yates recognized the deed as one for a swath of property amid the swamps of the southern coast. “I went north, not south. Are there a dearth of rents because the land is not worked?”
“In part. It is not the best land, what with the sea so close and parts of it too wet for farming.”
“But there is more?”
“It seems that there is the chance, even the likelihood, that there may be another claim on it. See, look here at this earlier map. The land is clearly marked as Highburton’s. But on this newer one there is the notation that it may be contested.”
Yates noted the maps, then inspected the deed. The date on the vellum, written in a flourish even more dramatic than Prebles’s own hand, marked its transfer to the Earl of Highburton in the year 1693.
“If there is another deed, it would be peculiar if it predated this,” he said.
“That is what I thought. I have never found evidence it was sold, so the note on the newer map is unexplained. Yet there it is.”
Yates folded the deed and set it aside. “When next I speak with my father, I will mention it. Any rents collected would be minor, of course, and probably not worth spending the cost of time and money to go to court.”
“No doubt, sir. No doubt.”
“D o you want all of them? Every one?” Merriweather asked. Her chin held a stack of boxes steady as she carried them from the dressing room.
“All of them.” Cassandra eased the stack out of her arms and placed them on her bed.
After Merriweather made another trip, Cassandra sent her away, then sat down on the bed to examine the part of the legacy that Aunt Sophie had given her in advance of actually dying.
First she opened the two largest wooden boxes. Inside lay little velvet sacks and a variety of trinket boxes. These were the boxes that had held the jewels that she sold at Fairbourne’s last spring. The sacks and boxes were empty now.
That was not true with the other two containers. A rainbow of stones and a small fortune in settings greeted her inspections there. Not only jewelry rested in the trinket boxes, however. Little pieces of paper did as well.
She plucked one of the tiny notes and unfolded it. “Not to be worn when the Count of Emilia is in England,” it said, in Aunt Sophie’s hand. She placed it back with the garnetring it accompanied, then lifted an organza sack and tipped it into her palm.
A fine golden filigree necklace, more valuable in its workmanship than its metal, poured down. So did another little note. “Best to wear this only when Sir Charles and Lady Lightbown are abroad.” Several others also named specific individuals. A number simply instructed, “Not to be sold unless the jewels are reset.”
The notes implied the jewels had been gifts from lovers whose wives and family might object. They had tempered her excitement about receiving Sophie’s gifts. She had not cared for the notion of checking who was and was not in London, or likely to attend a party, before donning a piece of jewelry.
What if she made a mistake? Would some man be horrified to see her walk in wearing his love gift? Would the man’s wife guess the jewels had been bestowed on a lover by her husband?
It was good of Aunt Sophie to take such care with others’ happiness, but Cassandra’s reaction had been to never wear any of these baubles herself.
She reached for the first box again. One by one, she
The door opened and Prebles entered. He paused and peered at Yates from behind his spectacles. Then he walked over and looked at the documents spread on the desk.
“Ah,” Prebles said with a nod. “I understand now why you appear annoyed, sir. The situation with that property is vexing, I agree.”
This was news to Yates. What situation with which property? What had he missed?
Prebles helped him out by lifting one of the deeds, then pointing to a map. “Did you visit it? Is it the dearth of evidence of rents that upsets you?”
Yates recognized the deed as one for a swath of property amid the swamps of the southern coast. “I went north, not south. Are there a dearth of rents because the land is not worked?”
“In part. It is not the best land, what with the sea so close and parts of it too wet for farming.”
“But there is more?”
“It seems that there is the chance, even the likelihood, that there may be another claim on it. See, look here at this earlier map. The land is clearly marked as Highburton’s. But on this newer one there is the notation that it may be contested.”
Yates noted the maps, then inspected the deed. The date on the vellum, written in a flourish even more dramatic than Prebles’s own hand, marked its transfer to the Earl of Highburton in the year 1693.
“If there is another deed, it would be peculiar if it predated this,” he said.
“That is what I thought. I have never found evidence it was sold, so the note on the newer map is unexplained. Yet there it is.”
Yates folded the deed and set it aside. “When next I speak with my father, I will mention it. Any rents collected would be minor, of course, and probably not worth spending the cost of time and money to go to court.”
“No doubt, sir. No doubt.”
“D o you want all of them? Every one?” Merriweather asked. Her chin held a stack of boxes steady as she carried them from the dressing room.
“All of them.” Cassandra eased the stack out of her arms and placed them on her bed.
After Merriweather made another trip, Cassandra sent her away, then sat down on the bed to examine the part of the legacy that Aunt Sophie had given her in advance of actually dying.
First she opened the two largest wooden boxes. Inside lay little velvet sacks and a variety of trinket boxes. These were the boxes that had held the jewels that she sold at Fairbourne’s last spring. The sacks and boxes were empty now.
That was not true with the other two containers. A rainbow of stones and a small fortune in settings greeted her inspections there. Not only jewelry rested in the trinket boxes, however. Little pieces of paper did as well.
She plucked one of the tiny notes and unfolded it. “Not to be worn when the Count of Emilia is in England,” it said, in Aunt Sophie’s hand. She placed it back with the garnetring it accompanied, then lifted an organza sack and tipped it into her palm.
A fine golden filigree necklace, more valuable in its workmanship than its metal, poured down. So did another little note. “Best to wear this only when Sir Charles and Lady Lightbown are abroad.” Several others also named specific individuals. A number simply instructed, “Not to be sold unless the jewels are reset.”
The notes implied the jewels had been gifts from lovers whose wives and family might object. They had tempered her excitement about receiving Sophie’s gifts. She had not cared for the notion of checking who was and was not in London, or likely to attend a party, before donning a piece of jewelry.
What if she made a mistake? Would some man be horrified to see her walk in wearing his love gift? Would the man’s wife guess the jewels had been bestowed on a lover by her husband?
It was good of Aunt Sophie to take such care with others’ happiness, but Cassandra’s reaction had been to never wear any of these baubles herself.
She reached for the first box again. One by one, she
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