Courtney Milan Read Free Page A

of pounds. Not enough to give John’s nephew the start he deserved in life. But the accounting had told him one thing: The money was out there. He’d lost it once when he’d let Mary go. This time, he was going to find it.
    John had been looking for Mary Chartley ever since. But he’d found no sign of her—nor of those four missing pages, nor even the eight thousand pounds that should have been waiting in the bank. He’d had no leads at all until Beauregard had mentioned her in passing in one of his letters.
    Even Miss Mary Chartley, Lady Patsworth’s companion, noticed that the south field has become a swamp this spring.
    It could have been some other Mary Chartley. The name wasn’t uncommon. But the letter had come two days after the investigator he’d hired had officially declared the search hopeless. It had seemed providential. And so instead of washing his hands of Beauregard and his swampy fields, John had written back.
    If it’s not too forward, might I suggest that I come and see to their drainage myself? It will be much easier than trying to explain the principles via correspondence.
    “There it is,” Beauregard said as they rounded a bend in the road and the trees of the wood gave way to open meadow. “Doyle’s Grange.”
    It was, he was sure, a charming cottage. But John didn’t care about the ornamental hedges out front. The gate—if you could call it that—was a mess of grape leaves and such, decoration so overblown that it rendered the fence useless as a barrier. It had no doubt been commissioned by a lazy fellow who preferred tipple to work. Someone had taken care with the flowers; they sprang up in a glorious summer profusion of pinks and reds.
    But this was undoubtedly a rich man’s country hideaway. There was no kitchen garden to speak of. Still, it was not the plantings that he cared about; it was the scene on the back terrace. The terrace itself was a golden limestone, ringed by a guardrail in the same pattern as the gate. A table was set up in the shade cast by a rowan tree. It was forty yards away—he could make out a white cloth hanging listlessly over the edges of the table and a folding screen set up as a shield against the hot morning sun as best as possible.
    Sitting at table were a large man with a graying handlebar mustache and a small, dark-haired woman. No doubt Sir Walter and his wife. Down from them, and farther away, sat a younger woman. Her hair was a burnished gold. She sat, her head held in book-balancing precision. He couldn’t make out her features. He didn’t need to. God, he even remembered the curve of her spine. A little spark traveled through him.
    He’d found her.
    The only question, now, was what to do with her. It was a bittersweet triumph. On the one hand, he’d tracked down an unrepentant thief. But seeing the woman he’d planned to spend the rest of his days with struck a peculiar ache in his gut. Matters might have been so different between them. He couldn’t think of her without feeling the quiet
what-if
that lay between them still.
    Lady Patsworth turned to the younger woman; a few seconds later, Mary stood. Without turning to look at the horsemen coming up the lane, she slipped into the house.
    John tamped down his frustration. She’d not get far, not on foot, and it was unlikely that she was expecting him. Still, he felt a bit dazed at the reality. She was here—close enough for him to run her down and ask all the questions that had gnawed at him over these long months.
    Why did you lie to me? If you intended to steal the money outright, why did you send back the account book? Is your father dead, or is that another lie?
    Was it all just lies between us, or did you ever feel anything?
    No, not that last question. No point in even thinking about that.
    They arrived at the house and handed their horses off to a groom. A silent, surly maid led them around the side to the back terrace. Mary was still not present. Beauregard made the introductions;