“I am following Charles’s last instructions,” Isabel said, voice clipped.
She opened the door and stood aside for me to enter.
The room had been redecorated since I last visited: the walls papered in the new fad for the botanical, and the old heavy mahogany furniture replaced by a deep blue, velvet chaise lounge and a secretaire in the scrolled and gilded Roman style. In pride of place near the window—and somewhat at odds with the Empire theme—stood a command chair from one of the plague ships, its smooth metal lines and attenuated shape built for the strange, elegant length of its Celestial captain.
The door to the adjoining room opened and an older man, dressed in the sober black garb of law, entered and carefully closed the door behind him. He held a number of wax-sealed packets.
“Countess Grayle, may I present Mr. Dorner,” Isabel said behind me. “Charles’s private solicitor.”
Mr. Dorner straightened his waistcoat with a quick tug upon its hem, and bowed.
“My condolences, Countess. Forgive me for rushing through the niceties, but time is of the essence and we must conclude this business before Lord Grayle’s demise is made public. His Lordship gave me instructions to be enacted upon the event of his death. As you know, his estate, including the earldom and Grayle Celestial Transport, is entailed and will pass to his cousin upon his death.”
I winced at the word entailed. The loss of the estate and title to cousin Gregory, a profligate of the first order, was my fault; I had not produced the all-important heir.
Mr. Dorner held up the packet, showing me the unbroken seal with the Grayle bear pressed into the wax. “If I may, I shall open it and read the contents to you both. It is what Lord Grayle wished.”
I nodded. So, Isabel was to be witness. To what?
Mr. Dorner broke the seal with a flick of his thumb and spread the paper. He looked up. “The document is dated yesterday, my ladies.” He began to read. “I, Charles David Paul Hallam, Earl of Grayle, do state that I am the father of the male child George Charles Paul, borne by Miss Katherine Amelia Holland, of London. I also state that, Mathilda Elizabeth Grayle signed the attached divorce settlement and that after that signature I married Miss Katherine Amelia Holland by special license and do hereby acknowledge her issue as my rightful heir.”
“There is a child?” Isabel demanded.
“Yes, my lady.” Mr. Dorner shot an anxious look in my direction. “There is a son. Born one month ago. A currently illegitimate son.” He cleared his throat and addressed me. “It was Lord Grayle’s dying wish that you sign this divorce document…” he held up another packet “…so that his marriage to Miss Holland is—or should I say will be or, more to the point, will have been…” he gave a small shrug at the awkward grammar of fraud “…legal, thus making the child heir to his estate.”
A son. I knew there had been another woman, but a son? I could not seem to make any sound.
“He has already married her?” Isabel asked, not yet following Charles’s twisted path. “But he is still married to you, Mathilda.”
Mr. Dorner’s pasty skin deepened into a flush. “The ceremony occurred yesterday, but the date has not yet been placed upon the document. It will be written in after the date of the divorce has been affixed.”
“A divorce needs to be ratified by an Act of Parliament,” Isabel said sharply. Ah, she had arrived.
“Lord Grayle has a great deal of influence,” Mr. Dorner said. “If Countess Grayle signs, it will be… will have been… ratified last week.”
Fury finally seared through my numb shock. “No!” Havarr phased out of my arm into the air beside me, twirling into a blur, her battle scream rising in my mind.
Mr. Dorner and Isabel flinched, both of them hastily backing away.
“Mathilda!”
The terror in Isabel’s voice broke through my rage. I drew deep breaths, forcing back the violence of my emotions. Havarr’s scream softened into a hum of disquiet, her battle twirl slowing into a gentle rocking in the air.
“Please, Mathilda. You must sign. For the family,” Isabel said.
“Fuck the family.”
Isabel gaped at the monstrous profanity, but rallied admirably. “Fuck you, too. You owe Charles an heir. You owe the family.”
If I signed, even the small protection provided by my widowhood would be stripped from me. So, yes, fuck the family that had thrown me to the wolves once, and was ready to do so again.
“No. We are done here.”
Mr. Dorner held up his hands. “Please, my lady. There is more.” He hastily crossed to the adjoining doorway.
Good God, he had not brought the child here, had he? I was a walking target—anyone near me could be destroyed too. Before I could voice my consternation, Mr. Dorner opened the adjoining door.
“Mr. Wainright, please join us,” he said.
A wiry man with dark skin appeared at the doorway. Thank God, no child.
The man looked to be in his fourth decade, although it was possible his unkempt state belied his age. His hair was long and tied back in an old-fashioned queue and his dress was a deplorable collection of scuffed boots, oil-stained breeches and worn olive jacket. He studied our tableau for a moment then turned his attention fully upon Havarr: a reasonable reaction to a knife rocking in the air. Even so, his face held no fear. Only keen curiosity.
Mr. Dorner ushered him further into the room, “My ladies, allow me to introduce Mr. Elster Wainright, natural philosopher.”
Mr. Wainright bowed, that keen curiosity now directed at me. “I prefer scientist. Allow me to extend my condolences, Countess.”
The name Wainright was familiar. Yes, I had come across it in my reading. “Good God, you are the freed man who discovered how plague ships maintain fresh air.”
“I am, my lady.”
A marvelous discovery, made even more remarkable since he was self-taught and had been denied membership to the Royal Society. A fellow outcast. Still… “I do not understand Mr. Wainright’s presence at a family meeting, Mr. Dorner.”
The solicitor wet his lips. “Lord Grayle understood that there is no obligation for you to sign the divorce document or indeed any perceivable incentive.” He glanced at Havarr, but did not state the obvious: nor, any way of being forced. “So, he proposed the following. On signature, ownership of the scout ship, and all within it, will pass to you, effective immediately.”
“A wreck?” I stared at him, fighting the desire to slap his plump face. Did he truly think that would prompt me to sign? All the fear I had worked so hard to quash welled up inside me. “I do not think you quite understand the level of danger that is approaching, Mr. Dorner. As soon as my husband’s death is known—and it will be soon, if it is not already discovered—I will be hunted by the Wary Brotherhood until I am dead.” I stopped. Havarr had begun to twirl beside my head again. I drew air through clenched teeth and steadied my mind until Havarr slowed. “I do not need a wreck. I need a bloody army.”
“No, no,” Mr. Wainright said. “She is far from a wreck, my lady. Three years ago, Lord Grayle set me the task to investigate the scout and the possibility of her leaving the Earth. I believe I have found a way.”
“Leave Earth?” The idea was at once full of terror and breathless hope. Could I yet survive this day? “Do you believe you have found a way or do you know, Mr. Wainright?” I demanded.
Mr. Wainright tilted his head thoughtfully. “Well, it is a working hypothesis.” He glanced at my face and added quickly, “A solid one.”