Her Stepmother Married Her Off as Punishment to a Ruined Man — But His Ruin Was a Disguise, and Her Dying Father’s Secret Deed Made Him the Only Husband Who Could Restore Her Inheritance and Avenge Them Both

PART 7

What followed was a war conducted not with swords but with documents. And Rosamund learned over the weeks that followed that a document war was in some ways worse.

The first obstacle came within a week. Acting on Mr. Havverstock’s counsel, Rosamund sent notice to the estate office at Ashgate Hall that the trust’s condition had been satisfied and that the properties must be released to her. The reply came back from a solicitor’s office she did not recognize — a formal, polite refusal, stating that no such trust was known to exist, and enclosing a copy of the forged will, the one Cecilia had registered, which claimed the same properties outright.

The signature was Peetton’s.

“They cannot make the trust vanish by ignoring it,” Sir Aldis said, reading the letter. “But they can force us to prove it exists, prove Havverstock’s authority as trustee, and prove I am who the deed requires — all before a court, all while they delay by every means they have.”

“Then we simply produce the deed and Mr. Havverstock’s testimony.”

“If we could get them before a court untouched by the syndicate, yes. But they have lawyers, Rosamund. They have clerks. They have judges they have bought. They have spent five years building this machinery. And we are two people and a solicitor who has already been made to disappear once.”

“Then we find a judge they have not bought. We find evidence they cannot bury.”

Sir Aldis’s eyes were cold. “Your father was not the only man the syndicate has ruined. There are families all over the county who have lost everything to these men. If we can get one of them to testify, we can expose the whole network. But first, we must find someone willing to speak.”

The second obstacle was the discovery that the mill had already been transferred. Rosamund rode out to the eastern grain stores with a copy of the trust deed in her saddlebag, expecting to find the mill and its lands secure under it. She found instead that the mill had been sold three months earlier — according to a deed of sale — to a company she had never heard of, registered in London with no traceable owner. The deed bore her father’s signature.

Rosamund looked at it for a long time. Then she set it down, and her voice was very cold.

“That is not my father’s hand. I know his hand. I watched him sign a hundred documents. And that is not the date he would have used. The mill was under a crop contract until Michaelmas. My father would never have signed a transfer that could not take effect until the contract expired. It is a forgery — and a careless one.”

Sir Aldis picked up the deed and examined it. “You are certain.”

“I am certain.” She met his eyes. “My father taught me to read ledgers and letters and men. He taught me that the devil is in the dates, the seals, the little details everyone else overlooks. This deed is wrong in at least three of them.”

Sir Aldis looked at her for a long moment — a new respect in his gray eyes. “Then we have proof of the forgery. But the mill is in a London company’s name now. Even proving the deed false will take months to unwind through the courts, unless we can show, all at once, that this forgery is one of a pattern.”

The third obstacle was the false witness. A fortnight into their efforts, Rosamund received word that a man named Cobb, a former clerk of her father’s, had come forward with an affidavit claiming that Edmund Fairfax had, in his final weeks, voluntarily signed the mill over to the company — that he had been of sound mind and had made the transfer willingly.

“He is lying,” Rosamund said. “Cobb was my father’s clerk for a year. My father dismissed him for embezzlement. He would never have trusted him with a transfer of anything.”

“Then we have to prove Cobb was dismissed, and that he was paid to lie.” Sir Aldis’s jaw was tight. “And the only way to do that is to find the records of his dismissal — which are in your father’s study at Ashgate Hall, in the hands of Cecilia, who will not let us near them.”

The fourth obstacle was the betrayal of Mr. Galt. They had begun to trust the steward of Blackwood Hall — a quiet, competent man who had kept the estate running through years of neglect. It was Mr. Galt who suggested they approach a neighboring family, the Harleys, who had been ruined by the syndicate and might testify. It was Mr. Galt who arranged the meeting. And it was Mr. Galt who, on the night of the meeting, was seen leaving Blackwood Hall in a closed carriage bearing no markings.

Sir Aldis discovered it by accident. He had gone to the stable to saddle his horse and had found the carriage gone, and Galt’s boots wet with mud. He had asked, in his flat, careful way, where Galt had been. And Galt, cornered, had tried to lie — and failed.

“Who did you go to see?” Sir Aldis asked. His voice was soft, which Rosamund had learned was more dangerous than shouting.

“No one, sir. I —”

“You went to see Crew’s people. You have been reporting our movements to them since the day my wife arrived.” Sir Aldis stepped closer. “How much did they pay you to watch us?”

Galt’s face crumpled. “They offered to restore the estate. They said if I kept them informed, they would —”

“They will restore nothing.” Sir Aldis’s voice was flat as iron. “They are using you. And when you are no longer useful, they will discard you the way they discarded every man who ever trusted them. Get out of this house tonight, and do not come back.”

Galt fled. But the damage was done. The Harleys, hearing their would-be allies had been watched, withdrew, too afraid to testify.

That night, Rosamund found Sir Aldis alone in his study, staring at a fire that had burned down to embers, the map of the county still spread across his desk, every obstacle marked in his careful hand. He looked, for the first time since she had known him, tired in a way that had nothing to do with strategy.

“We have lost the Harleys,” he said, without turning. “Five years of work, and I still cannot keep the people who trust me safe.”

She crossed the room and sat beside him, not speaking at first. “You kept Mr. Havverstock alive long enough to reach him. You kept me out of Cecilia’s hands, even before you knew what I was worth to you. That is not nothing, Elias.”

It was the first time she had used his true name. He looked at her then, something unguarded moving behind the gray eyes, and for a moment neither of them said anything at all.