At Love's Bidding (29 page)

“No doubt.” But she seemed to relish the coming confrontation. William stepped to her side, prepared to go into battle for his lady. Wyatt just hoped he was worth all the fuss. She took one last appraising glance at him and nodded. “Let's go, shall we?”

Wyatt's first impression of the library was of an endless cavern of books. Towers of leather spines reached for the ceiling. He almost didn't notice the man dwarfed by the shelving around them.

Frederic LeBlanc stood in much the same pose as the monsieur in the painting, but with none of the arrogance. His chin trembled. The arm of the chair creased beneath his fingers. “My goodness, it's Stephan back from the dead.” He looked like he was fixing to cry.

Only then did a stout man rise from beside the fireplace. Frederic shrank from him, curling in as the man wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “But Frederic,” the man said, “your sister has worked so hard to disinherit you, of course she kept at it until she found a believable impostor.”

Wyatt watched with a strange feeling of distance. They were
speaking about him, but he'd had no control over who'd birthed him. He hadn't worked for whatever goods they claimed belonged to him. If they decided to send him on his way, he was prepared to be content. And yet his first need, the only need he had at the time, was to better understand where he belonged and whose he was.

“He isn't an impostor.” Corinne's voice was as smooth as a puppy's fur. “He's here to help Frederic manage the estate.”

“A backwoodsman from the mountains? He's going to be the salvation of your fortune? Corinne, you've been misinformed. Frederic doesn't need help. This is just your plot to take everything away from him.”

Frederic couldn't take his eyes off Wyatt. No matter how this played out legally, Wyatt had the satisfaction of knowing that as far as his aunt and uncle were concerned, he was their blood. The son of their brother. Maybe that was all he'd get, but it was the most important.

“I never wanted to be in control,” Frederic said. His chin quivered. His age-speckled cheeks bloomed. “Armand was the oldest, and Stephan should have taken the reins after him, but they both died. Ever since then my life has been a nightmare. A nightmare of knowing that I should be doing something, but not being strong enough or smart enough.” His thin lashes flickered up. “I'm sorry, Corinne. I let you down. You deserved better than what I've provided, so I think it'd be best to acknowledge this man as my brother's heir.”

Wyatt wanted to hug the fellow but could tell any sudden movement would scare the living daylights out of him. Besides, Monty King beat him to it.

“Let's not be hasty, Frederic.” Once again he had him under his arm. “There are safer, legal ways to settle this question.
Let's allow Mr. Ballentine to have his say. Take this case before a judge and see what should be done legally.”

“What will a judge do?” Corinne asked. “He's going to look at the same evidence we have before us and make the same call. Why put Wyatt through the ordeal?”

“A hearing is called for.” Monty twisted a ring on his chubby pinkie. “If he's legitimate, he has nothing to fear, but it's in the best interest of the family to test his claims.”

Wyatt made his way to the sideboard as they deliberated. The pitcher sparkled like a bubbling spring as he poured himself a glass and munched on a fancy cookie of sorts from a nearby silver tray.

Monty stood on one side of Frederic and Corinne on the other—an angel and demon battling for his soul. Wyatt drained his glass and pushed it on the table. Surprising, really, that behind all the fancy manners and expensive clothes, these were just people. Somehow in his imagination he'd built his family up to be something grander, people who were by nature heroic, wise, and intuitive. Instead, he was faced with a derelict uncle, no better than Isaac really, and with a bully lawyer who'd taken advantage of them for so long he felt it was his right. Wyatt had faced bullies before, but maybe there were laws in Boston against cracking a skull and sending him on his way. He'd have to do his best without using his fists.

“If that's your decision,” Monty said, “I have to agree it's the wisest course.”

“And he should stay here with us,” Frederic was saying. “Have the court case, but there's no reason he can't live here until it's official.”

“I'll get it on a docket immediately.” King gathered some papers off of Frederic's desk. “And I know just the judge who can help us.”

Wyatt had seen less vile grins on rabid dogs, but he didn't look away. If this was his new home, he'd have to deal with that man sooner or later. Wyatt wasn't Frederic.

As Monty passed out the door. Wyatt took another cookie. Judging from Aunt Corinne's wrinkled brow, she wasn't too pleased about a hearing. Uncle Frederic and Aunt Corinne? It was beyond believing.

“You haven't eaten, have you?” Corinne went to the wall and pulled a thick ribbon that hung from above. Wyatt leaned backward, visually following the silken rope up to the soaring ceiling and half expected something to fall down from above.

“I am hungry, no fooling.”

“Well, Monty will get this straightened out soon enough.” Frederic rubbed a gouty knee. “I can't tell you how truly sorry I am that we didn't know about you sooner. You must believe it wasn't me who answered those inquiries from the Ballentines.”

“The Ballentines did a fine job with my raising. I was where God wanted me to be.”

A solid maid waltzed in carrying a silver tray covered in thin strips of rolled up meat, fruits, and tiny squares of cheese. Wyatt dearly hoped this wasn't what they called supper. He moved a decent-sized pile into his hand before he realized that Corinne was holding a plate out to him. With a wrinkle of his nose he dumped his hoard onto the plate. Corinne smiled.

Frederic took the plate Corinne offered him. “What would I do without my little sister?”

“Now you have a nephew to take care of you, too. Although, Wyatt, I don't want you to feel rushed. Take your time getting settled, and after that we'll see what information we need to prepare for the hearing. And in case you're concerned, as far as I can tell, our accounts aren't completely empty, and we still have
all our assets. We might even have enough to buy back some of the heirlooms that were auctioned.” She winked.

“Now that you mention it . . .” he stacked the cheese squares onto each other, because his hands wanted to be busy. “I would like to smooth things over with the Wimplegates. I feel bad for all the trouble this brought on them.”

Corinne scratched at the back of her hand. “I regret involving them like I did. Nothing would please me more than a chance to offer my heartfelt apologies to Mr. Wimplegate and his granddaughter. I understand she traveled with him to Missouri in search of the portrait?”

“Yes, she did.” So much more he could say, but he didn't.

“Poor child. From what I've heard she's very timid. Such a trip must have been a trial on her.”

From her shocked outrage when he pummeled Isaac at the train station to her deep sorrow when he accused her of stealing the portrait from him, he'd been nothing but a hardship, but he wanted to make it up to her.

In fact, he wanted much more than that.

Although Miranda hadn't been allowed to visit the doctor with Grandfather, she had insisted on meeting Father immediately after the appointment. She wouldn't rest until she learned what the doctor prescribed.

Now that the LeBlancs had cleared their name, the Wimplegates were inundated with discreet inquiries that more often than not led to Miranda and Father waiting in the bountiful kitchens of the upperclass. So far their activity had not brought them in contact with Wyatt. Miranda both longed for and dreaded it. Evidently all of Boston believed what Miranda found incredible—that Wyatt was the heir to the LeBlanc fortune. If it was true—and how long could she deny it when the family accepted him?—then she owed him an apology. But not yet. Only when the longing for his company became too great, because after that she had nothing. One last interaction and she'd have no excuse to contact him again. Their acquaintance would come to an end. So no matter how guilty she felt, she wasn't ready to correct the situation. Not yet.

From behind her, Miranda heard the enormous oven creaking open at the hands of one of the Stuyvesant's cooks. Her
concern over Grandfather had prevented her from eating lunch, but now the hearty aroma of roast and onions made her stomach grumble.

Father lifted an eyebrow. “None of that in front of Lady Stuyvesant.”

A kitchen maid hurried by, but not without pausing to toss Miranda a cold muffin. Barely making the catch, Miranda smiled her thanks and consumed the muffin before she could be caught refreshing herself without her hostess's permission.

The butler entered, head aloft, arms held bent at his side as if he carried an invisible tray. “Mrs. Stuyvesant will be with you shortly.”

Father acknowledged the news, and soon the lady of the house entered.

The pearls on Mrs. Stuyvesant's morning gown warmed to a pink glow beneath the outstretched candelabra. She had the arms of a longshoreman or she wouldn't have been able to heft the silver monstrosity as she led the way to the butler's pantry. Father kept the conversation at a perfect balance, respectful enough to show he was aware of the gulf between their stations, and yet casual enough to show himself worthy of her trust for this most delicate transaction.

“Our shelves are so crowded, you see.” Mrs. Stuyvesant set the candlestick on the worktable and motioned grandly around the pantry designed for the storage of valuables. “I'll probably want a new silver service soon, so we might as well make room.”

She directed them to a punch bowl that was as big as a hip bath and adorned with dryads and nymphs. For the silver alone it'd bring a fortune, but the craftsmanship was divine.

“It's a lovely set,” Father said. He lifted one of the cups, delicate despite its weight.

“I wouldn't want anyone to know where it came from.” Mrs. Stuyvesant brushed her fingers to her temple. “You can act with discretion, can't you? Maintain the seller's anonymity but still ensure that we get the funds? Delphia must have her season, and with what the dressmakers are charging”—her hands fluttered skyward—“well, you know.”

“Yes, ma'am.” But Miranda only knew what her clever seamstress charged to imitate the fashions.

“Do you want us to crate this up and take it now?” Father asked.

The woman's eyes lingered on the kneeling nymph trailing a flower into the basin. “Just as well. There are crates in the corner, and the groom brought some fresh straw to pack with. Take the punch bowl set, the clock, and the silver beakers. If I think of anything else, I'll return.”

Father lifted the mantle clock and set it on the worktable. With a flick of his finger, he set the pendulum to swaying and filled the room with the mellow tick-tock as Mrs. Stuyvesant made her departure. Finally Miranda could sate her curiosity.

“What did the doctor say about Grandfather?”

Father turned from the clock, but his finger continued to mete out the rhythm against the tabletop. “He examined your grandfather, and I gave him an account of his recent behavior—the forgetfulness, the poor judgment, the belligerence. The doctor has concluded that his decline is permanent.” His hand closed around a beaker. “There's nothing that can be done to slow the progression.”

Miranda shook her head. Why hadn't they let her go to the appointment? She knew more about his condition. “It wasn't until we arrived in Pine Gap that he really declined. He invented elaborate schemes that could never be profitable. He trusted
people who were taking advantage of him while calling into question the loyalty of the only man there who had his best interest at heart.”

Her throat tightened. Hadn't she done the same thing? Through every setback, every trial, Wyatt had stayed by her side.

“But it was the trip that exhausted him,” Miranda continued. “Once he gets rested he'll respond better. Give him time—”

“Miranda,” her father turned to her. “Time is not his friend. After you left for Missouri, I had a chance to look over our books. They were a mess. I had no idea Father had been loaning people money. This has been going on for longer than either of us cares to admit.”

The ticking of the clock took on a more sinister tone. Miranda spun away and paced the room, feeling how dark and stuffy it was.

“It just isn't right. The Bible talks about wisdom as something you gain, something that can't be taken away from you. Self-control, perseverance, the fruits of the spirit—they are supposed to accumulate.” She gripped the walnut cabinetry, the shining cylinders and bowls blurring before her eyes. “It was awful to see Grandfather humiliated. He was in jail—a mean, shabby jail. And why? Because he was cruel to a little girl. How does that happen? How does God allow a wise man to become so foolish?”

The beaker clinked against the worktable. “I don't guess it's any different from any other disease.”

Miranda spun to face him. “But you don't get thrown in jail for having the whooping cough. It doesn't turn one into a laughingstock. It just doesn't seem fair that Grandfather could live his whole life serving God and then humiliate himself in the end and do things he'd never do if he could think straight.” She
clutched her stomach. “I don't mean to be cruel, but it seems that if God is leaving him here just to make a fool of himself and be ridiculed, then he'd . . . he'd be better off . . .”

“Don't, Miranda.” Her father leaned against the shelving and took her hand. “We still have your grandfather. He still loves us, he still enjoys life, and he's still part of this world. And even if he loses that, even if he no longer recognizes any of us or is unaware, he still has a purpose. We've learned many lessons from your grandfather over the years, lessons that he enjoyed passing down. Caring for him will be the last lesson he has to teach us. It's up to us to learn it well.”

Hadn't Wyatt said the same? Grandfather had changed, and she was sorry for that, but she couldn't be sorry for the changes she'd made—changes that would embolden her to get the care Grandfather needed.

I have a choice,
she reminded herself. She couldn't choose her circumstances, but she could choose her response.

Hard heels thudded dully on the brick floor of the kitchen. Mrs. Stuyvesant appeared. Miranda hurried to the crate of hay and bent over it, giving herself time to compose herself.

“I have a few pieces of jewelry that haven't been used for several seasons,” Mrs. Stuyvesant said. “Does your establishment handle jewels?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Father said. “We have a strong market for jewels. At an auction, we cannot guarantee what they will bring, but I'd be honored to appraise them for you.”

Grandfather should be there with them. When would his absence feel normal? Still shaky, Miranda straightened as the butler entered.

“Mrs. Stuyvesant, you have guests. Mr. Wyatt LeBlanc and Miss LeBlanc have asked if you are accepting callers.”

Wyatt? She was just thinking of him. Then again, Miranda was always thinking of him.

“Wyatt LeBlanc is here?” Mrs. Stuyvesant's eyes widened. “And Delphia isn't even awake yet. Go, go. See them to the parlor. I'll send Mabel to prepare her. No, I need to greet them. You see to Mabel and Delphia. Oh, I don't know.”

Miranda's throat ached. He was here. In this house. Her mind was racing. Wyatt hadn't called on her. She'd hoped he wasn't angry, hoped he was so busy with the ongoing hearings and other adjustments that he couldn't get free for a visit, but evidently he had time to call on Delphia Stuyvesant.

“Don't worry about us.” But Father's gaze was fixed on Miranda. “We'll finish up here and see ourselves out.”

“No, no. You must come back another time.” Mrs. Stuyvesant crushed Miranda's leg of mutton sleeve in desperate hands and pulled her toward the door of the pantry. “Mr. LeBlanc cannot find out that we were considering selling off . . . well, you know . . .” She pried her hands free, gave a little shiver of anticipation as she tidied her hair, and then with regal posture intoned, “Balford, see the Wimplegates to the back door. I'll find Mabel and greet our guests.”

They parted ways at the kitchen. As Balford and Father made arrangements for the transport of the silver service, Miranda dallied. She had to see him. If there was anyone who would comfort her over the doctor's news, it was Wyatt. One glimpse. She'd be content with that. One glimpse of the man she'd rejected. One glimpse before Delphia Stuyvesant or another debutante got her neatly manicured claws into him.

Stepping to the side, Miranda fell behind a maid carrying a tray of tiny circular sandwiches.
Hurry,
she begged.
Hurry before Father realizes I'
m gone
. The maid turned the same direc
tion Mrs. Stuyvesant had gone. When she came to the swinging door, she spun to push it open with her back. Seeing Miranda, she paused.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“I just got turned around. Is the servants' exit the other way?”

“Yes, ma'am. Back through the kitchen.”

Miranda nodded but didn't move. With a saucy shrug, the maid continued on her way.

The door swung wide as the maid passed through . . . and there stood Wyatt. Hands behind his back, he was leaning forward slightly as Mrs. Stuyvesant flapped on about something. Miranda feasted on the sight of him. His powerful body was finally clad in a perfectly tailored suit. His hair . . . land sake's alive! Where was his beard? Instead, she saw a well-defined jaw and slightly rough cheeks. She expected him to look different, but mercy. Her heart sped, but the door was closing, narrower, narrower . . .

He looked up, saw the servant with the food. The gap was narrowing. His eyes lifted, met hers, and then the door closed.

Miranda waited as the door rocked to a halt, then settled closed against her. Had he really seen her? From behind she could hear her father calling for her, but no one else said her name.

She spun and made her way through the bustling kitchen and through the servants' entrance, picking up speed until she fairly ran. Her knees felt weak, drained by yet another disappointment. Doors were flying open for Wyatt, the same doors that had always been shut in her face.