Mr. Jardine was in the hall when she descended the stairs, his blue eyes twinkling up at her. “Miss Marietta! We heard from Aphrodite that you had something of an adventure.”
“Did you?”
“How is Lord Roseby?”
“He is uncomfortable, but he’s in his own bed now, and his doctor has seen him. I think, once his head stops aching, he will be very much better.” Her mouth primmed. “And it wasn’t an adventure, Mr. Jardine. It was an act of charity.”
“Yes, of course,” he agreed, but the twinkle in his eyes was not diminished, and Marietta realized he knew her too well to be fooled by her protest.
“What did Aphrodite say?” she asked him curiously.
“That Lord Roseby had been struck down and, as you were acquainted with him, you had decided to keep an eye on him overnight. It was all very respectable, and so she assured your sister.”
“And what did Vivianna say?”
“She expressed some puzzlement as to how you had come to be acquainted with Lord Roseby, but then the baby was brought in and all else was forgotten.”
Thanks goodness for the baby! Perhaps, Marietta thought, she wouldn’t get a reprimand from Vivianna after all.
“Tell me, my dear, is Lord Roseby the son of the Duke of Barwon?”
Surprised, she met Mr. Jardine’s curious gaze. “Yes. At least…it’s rather a long story. Do y
ou know Max, Mr. Jardine?”
Mr. Jardine gave her a little smile that hinted at much. “I don’t know Max, no, but I used to know his father. I was out in the West Indies with him.”
“Oh.” Suddenly Marietta decided that she very much wanted to confide in Mr. Jardine about Max’s dilemma, and to hear what he had to say in return. She trusted him to keep her words to himself, and she knew his observations would be sensible and to the point. “Are you too busy to have a little chat, sir?” she asked him, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm.
He met her gaze and read her in an instant. “No, I’m not too busy,” he assured her. “And I would love some tea and cake. I’ll send for some of that excellent Pavini cake, shall I? You can come to the library, and help me to eat it.”
Marietta laughed. “You understand me very well, Mr. Jardine.”
“I should, Miss Marietta. I have known you for most of your life.”
When they were settled cozily before the fire, surrounded by Oliver’s large collection of books, Marietta explained to Mr. Jardine what she had heard of Max’s predicament. It took some time, and they had to pause in the middle of the story to drink their tea and eat their slices of the rich, fruity Pavini cake.
When she was done, Mr. Jardine sat, thoughtfully watching the fire. “I knew Barwon in Jamaica,” he said at last. “He was never what I would call a warm man, he was too serious and gruff in his manner. Reserved, except when he spoke of his family. His wife and son were everything to him; he would have moved heaven and earth for them, if he had to. In business he had a reputation for being careful, one might almost say parsimonious, but he had reason to be like that. The family fortunes had been frittered away by his father and it was up to him to restore them. That was why he was in Jamaica, buying up some of the old, rundown plantations and making them profitable again.”
“And did he? Restore the family fortunes?”
“Yes, yes, he did. He made a better fist of it than I did, at any rate,” he added, with a self-deprecating laugh. “I didn’t have the necessary single-mindedness, perhaps.”
“You mean that you didn’t have the stomach for it?” Marietta suggested less delicately.
Mr. Jardine hesitated, then shook his head. “It was just that sometimes he was less than sympathetic to the people living on those old plantations. I remember one case, the old Creole man had been there for years, struggling to survive. His family declared him mentally unsound, even had doctors sign the papers, and sold the place out from under him. Barwon came in to evict the old man, but he wouldn’t go. Maybe he was mad, but there was no need for Barwon to destroy him like he did. He brought in a gang of thugs to terrorize him, make his life such a misery that he just gave up and let them take him away. It seemed a cold way to accomplish the business. There were other instances—he replaced plantation workers who had been there for generations, it didn’t matter that they had no where else to go. He didn’t feel any compassion in that sort of situation—he was simply calculating how much money he could make. I…well, I wasn’t able to do that.”
“He sounds like a monster,” she said, with a shudder.
“No, just an able businessman. He seemed to think in straight lines, without the distraction of side issues like moral justice. But in fact he was kind enough when it didn’t affect his profits. There was a young Creole girl living wild on the same plantation as the old man, and he took her in. Adopted her, more or less. Yes, he could be very kind, and to those he loved he would do absolutely anything…will do absolutely anything, but only as long as they are loyal to him. Barwon will not tolerate those who wrong him. I am sure when he learned he was cuckolded and cheated by the woman he adored above all others, and deprived of a son of whom he thought the world, Barwon would strike out violently. I think that explains why he’s been on a campaign to destroy his wife’s good name and ruin Max. They hurt him, you see, and he needs to hurt them back. It’s Barwon’s way.”
Marietta could not easily forgive how Max had been treated. “I suppose we have to blame his wife,” she agreed, “but how can it be his son’s fault? Why must he suffer?”
“The laws of inheritance are clear—Harold will get everything and Max will be cut out.”
“It’s so unfair.”
“Cruel, yes, but it is fair. If Max is not Barwon’s son then he has no right to the title, property or fortune.”