The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

“And what of Rose? How did she factor into your plan?”

Wild wrung his hands. “Once Miss Murray was named owner of the manor, she was going to embrace her role as your father’s mistress and send Lady Rose home.”

Just thinking about it all made Oliver’s head hurt. But one thing was clear. The need for vengeance coursed through his veins. He hated being made to look a fool. More so, he hated that the beggars had tried to steal from Nicole.

“Of course I have no interest in a bloody asylum,” he cried. “I would not have even known the place existed had Mr Andrews’ not confessed to seeing my father visit Mr Jameson.”

And that was just what his father had wanted.

It might have been months until Rose learnt of their father’s death. Perhaps his father had left Miss Flint the house in the hope Rose would turn her back on her wayward brother and continue to live there.

“I can forgive any insults directed at me.” The need to protect Nicole burned brightly in his chest. “But I cannot forgive the way you have treated Miss Flint. After what she has suffered, she deserved to have a home to call her own. Not to have it snatched away so three rogues could profit.”

Mr Jameson handed him the files. “I must bear some of the blame too, my lord. Had I been given the opportunity to discuss the matter with your father, I would have insisted he make his intentions clear. There is a vast difference between a mistress and a paid companion.”

Nicole frowned. “But you had the opportunity, Mr Jameson. When we were in your office yesterday, you said the earl had made his intentions clear.”

She had a point. Something about Mr Jameson’s comment bothered him, too. “Yes. Did you not say that my father discussed the provisions made for Miss Flint?”

Were both men equally untrustworthy?

“He … he did. But not to me directly. I was detained with Lord Trench, and so your father conveyed his wishes to Mr Wild. I dealt with the purchase of the manor, nothing more.”

They all turned to the pale-faced solicitor.

“So, you knew about the Benting file all along?” The blood rushed to Oliver’s face. He despised falsehoods. “Lies infect the soul, Mr Wild. They leave a bitter taste in one’s mouth that sweet words cannot eradicate.”

Nicole stiffened at his side and sucked in a breath.

No doubt she was tired of the games, impatient for answers. Greed had almost robbed her of her inheritance.

“My father came to you in good faith,” Oliver continued, though he cared not that they’d deceived his father. “He confirmed what Burrows had told you about Miss Flint and so you sought to steal the house from under her nose.”

Wild closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “We did not set out to steal from Miss Flint. She would never have known about the property.”

The fragile thread holding Oliver’s temper in check finally snapped. “Good God, man. Can you not accept responsibility for this mess? Can you not at least offer Miss Flint an apology for your disgraceful conduct?”

Nicole placed her hand on his sleeve. As always, her touch soothed him instantly.

“And what brought you here this evening?” Nicole gestured to Mr Jameson. “You were obviously looking for the file that names me as the benefactor. But why? It is too late to cover your tracks.”

Mr Wild’s eyes appeared to sink deeper into his skull. He looked at Oliver as though one word from his aristocratic lips would reduce him to a pile of ash.

“I can’t … I …”

With lightning speed, Nicole darted forward and snatched the document from Mr Wild’s hand. She ignored his gasps and groans and scanned it numerous times.

“What is it?” Curiosity burned in Oliver’s chest.

She turned to Mr Jameson, held her body straight though it took a few gulps of breath before she spoke. “It appears the Benting file is worthless. Mr Wild was returning the original document signed by the Earl of Stanton, and no doubt sought to destroy the counterfeit.”

Oliver’s mind was a muddle of lies and untruths. “What are you saying?”

With a weary sigh, she handed him the sheet of paper.

His gaze fell to the bottom, to the seal pressed into the wax. Only then did he note the name scrawled in ink.

“Is this true, Wild?” Bile bubbled in his stomach. His throat burned. He had promised Miss Flint the world and could give her nothing. “Answer me, man. Is it bloody well true?”