An Inadvisable Wager (The Curse of the Weatherby Ball Book 2) Eliza Lloyd (reading books for 7 year olds .TXT) 📖

no surprise when the folded sheaf floated to his desk. There was another note in his father’s handwriting that said, To dispose, with a month and year. The same year the ledger might be used—when Father had planned to use the ledger. He couldn’t have known when he would die; he would have known when he planned to make a transaction ahead of time.

Another contradiction occurred to him. If Father had planned to dispose of the property, why would he destroy its value by looking for a rumored treasure? Had he made one decision while sane? Another while in the throes of his madness? It wasn’t like a noble to sell property at all, such was the value of a good English estate. Or had he forgotten about his intent to sell when he was overcome with his search for riches? Gabriel hated adding more layers to the odd story of Henbury.

He unfolded the crinkly papers and looked at the signatures. He wasn’t an expert, though he had seen his fair share of legal papers. George Blasington’s signature appeared authentic, in that it was signed in ink and witnessed.

Gabriel folded the papers, headed out of the library and took the stairs two at a time. Nora answered the door and he blurted out the news. “I found it! I found the proof we acquired Henbury Hall legally.”

“You did?” she asked.

He grabbed her hand and led her to the small table in her boudoir. “Sit, sit. Look at this.” He opened the pages and spread the proof before her. “Look at this date. Right before your father…your father died.” He flipped to another page. “And your father’s signature with two witnesses. It’s real, Nora.”

She leaned in to examine the signature, then lifted her fingers, tracing his name with its loops and flourishes. “It looks like his signature,” she said weakly. When she lifted her gaze, there were tears in her eyes. “He wouldn’t have done this willingly.”

All Gabriel’s enthusiasm disappeared. “I thought you wanted to know.”

“I want my father and mother. I want things to be as they were.”

He squatted next to her. “It’s been over fifteen years. Wouldn’t it be best for you and your brother to accept your father’s decisions, as thoughtless, as unfathomable, as sorrowful as they are? He had his reasons, which we will never know.”

She pushed the title deed away. “It’s one piece of paper and it may not be real.” A sob shook her body. She laid her head against the table bracketed by her arms.

He went to his knees and braced his hands against his thighs. He closed his eyes because he couldn’t bear to see her suffer. The weight of her grief filled the room. He might think he knew the truth, but there was little he could do to convince her of it.

Gabriel drew close to her, going to his knees again, and put his arm across her shoulders. “Oh, my dear, I thought I was helping.” She turned into him, her face buried against his neck, racking tears convulsed her body and he hugged her tightly. With one hand, he soothed up and down her back.

Minutes—hours, it seemed—later she calmed and drew away. He plucked a linen from his jacket and handed it to her. She wiped at her eyes and below her nose. “I’ve waited so long, Gabriel. I want to vindicate my father and his legacy. I want people to shake my brother’s hand with the respect due an earl. I want what I can’t have.”

She turned away and held the handkerchief over her mouth. Gabriel got to his feet and called for a servant. Instead of tea, he requested negus, a mulled wine with cinnamon and nutmeg and heated for a pleasant, soothing draught. Hopefully, it would comfort Nora since he could not.

“Come. Let me take you to the chaise.”

“I’m not helpless, Carlow,” she said, but allowing him to help.

“It might be easier if you were.”

“Easier for whom?” She took a seat. Gabriel reached for a blanket and shook it, settling from her waist down.

“For me, certainly. What man doesn’t want a docile wife?” he asked.

“An intelligent one, I would think?”

Gabriel laughed. “What in God’s name did Lady Fortenay teach you out in the wilds of Dorset?

The servant tapped at the door and pushed in carrying the tray. Never just what was asked for but an abundance that would feed a small party. The servant had brought along a clean poker and set that in the fire embers before she returned to set a small table in front of Nora.

“You weren’t jesting about the pickles, were you?” he asked when the small bowls were set to the table.

“No, I wasn’t. They are delicious. Your cooks must have a special recipe. Would you tell them, please?” Nora said, directing her request to the servant. “I especially like the small, sweet ones.”

“I will, my lady.” The servant plucked up the hot iron and stirred it in the wine, warming the contents of the cup before handing it to Nora, and then one for Gabriel. “Will there be anything else, my lady?”

“No thank you, Darla.”

“There is no surer way of obtaining sweets late at night than regularly complimenting the cooks,” Gabriel said.

“Well, if it’s true, I will shower them with praise.”

Gabriel sipped at his own negus, longing for a whisky instead. The servant hurried from the room, leaving them alone again.

“Why don’t you go on to the Radcliffe Ball? You don’t need me there and you might enjoy an evening with your friends,” Nora suggested.

“I’ll spend the evening with you. I have been enjoying our time together as improbable as that is. I think we have a lifetime of information to exchange before we’ll understand a small bit about each other.”

“We have the pickle thing.”

“It’s a start.”

“Carlow,