Lie With Me

  Lie

  With Me

  By

  Patricia Spencer

  Other Books by Patricia Spencer

  Day Three

  How to Survive Suicide

  Memo to Self

  _____________

  Copyright © 2021 Patricia Spencer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ISBN: 978-0-9959650-4-1 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-0-9959650-5-8 (E-book)

  Lie

  With Me

  1. Deception

  Lord Julien D’Avenant was livid.

  “What do you mean Roland Grenville is here?” he said, striding down the corridor of Abercrombie and Abercrombie ahead of the law clerk who was seeing him in. D’Avenant was late, delayed by a heavy downpour on his way to what was supposed to have been a handoff of paperwork—not a meeting. “I thought his office was only sending a proposal.”

  “Mr. Grenville appeared unexpectedly, My Lord, with—”

  D’Avenant, reaching the library, didn’t wait to hear the rest. He flung open the double doors and strode in, his ill-humour barely under control.

  The conversation in the room died.

  He’d been in the room many times before. It was rectangular, with some little-used seating and a table towards the left and on the right, a table and seats near three windows that looked out on the street below. This dark day, the windows scarcely illuminated the men gathered near them.

  D’Avenant’s solicitor, the elder James Abercrombie, and his son and apprentice, James Abercrombie IV, stood immediately as D’Avenant entered.

  Roland Grenville, dressed in the ridiculous ‘macaroni’ style that had swept across the channel to England from Italy, sat beside the fireplace. Heaped with laces and curls, he looked more like a clipped poodle than a solicitor. Grenville remained seated fractionally longer than was polite, giving the momentary impression that he had no intention of rising at all.

  The elder Abercrombie bowed deferentially. “Lord D’Avenant.” His wig was askew, as always, and his coat, though well-tailored never sat well upon his stooped shoulders. D’Avenant paid no mind. The old man’s legal skills and attention to detail were top-notch. He paid the man for his work, not his appearance.

  “Good afternoon, My Lord,” James IV said.

  D’Avenant nodded to the Abercrombies, and turned on Grenville. “I hardly see why you’ve come. I was told you—” A flutter at the far end of the room caught his attention. He turned toward the dark end of the library and peered into the gloom.

  A woman. Sitting there. Lost in the shadows.

  “Who in blazes is that?” He tipped his head for a better look. High cheekbones. Smooth skin. Good teeth. Intelligence behind the green eyes. A noblewoman. Sitting erectly in an armchair, an untouched glass of sherry set on a small table beside her. Not young, perhaps thirty—near the end childbearing at any rate. Her features were balanced, but at the moment, her eyes were wide, her mouth a little open with surprise.

  Ah, right. D’Avenant glanced down at his gleaming black boots, giving her a moment to take in his appearance. He was tall, had short, natural, dark hair and a nose so prominent it could only be called a beak. But it was the scar slashed across his face, and his manner of dressing that caught the English off-guard when they first met him. He had learned to look away, to give them a moment to get over their shock and recompose their faces. He was dressed in black, in an immaculately-tailored version of the long sans-coulotte trousers worn in France by the working class revolutionaries who had stormed the Bastille. On top, he wore a tailless black coat and a brilliant multi-coloured embroidered waistcoat.

  The elder Abercrombie rushed to D’Avenant’s side. “Oh, My Lord, My Lady. I do beg your pardon. I haven’t had the opportunity to—” He took a settling breath. “The Marquiss of D’Avenant, may I present to you The Countess of Wyndham.”

  Lady Wyndham held out a gloved hand.

  D’Avenant stepped forward and took it. It was small, warm, firm. He bowed over it with deliberation. So this is Maryam, widow of the Earl of Wyndham. He never entered any major financial negotiation without first learning as much as he could about his counterpart, and he had made no exception for this venture. He simply hadn’t expected to meet her because normally a noblewoman wouldn’t be mucking about in details best left to solicitors. But he had an idea why she was here. Grenville. He wasn’t a man to be trusted and she wanted oversight.

  “Comtesse,” he said.

  “Je suis enchanté de faire votre connaissance,” she said. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.

  Spoken beautifully. Not mangled, as usual for most Anglais. Sometimes his costume elicited this reaction, this acknowledgement of a French connection. In his case, his father was English, his mother French, aristocrats in both nations. In these post-revolutionary days, with continuing conflict between the two countries, his birth made him politically suspect on both sides of the channel. And, he knew, his manner of dressing did nothing to allay that mistrust.

  “You have ties to France?”

  “Second cousins in Arles.”

  D’Avenant caught himself. He was staring. Her hair was sienna, her eyes green with specks of brown. Her bosom full, and figure lovely.

  Abercrombie cleared his throat. “And of course My Lord, you know Mr. Grenville, My Lady’s solicitor.”

  D’Avenant looked over at Grenville then back at Lady Wyndham. The men were gathered by the window with the papers they needed to review, and the Countess was back here, tied by good manners to a glass of sherry and a small table. The papers would not be handed to her for inspection, and if she wished to comment, she would be forced to raise her voice in an unladylike fashion to be heard across the distance.

  This sly maneuver to isolate her had Grenville’s name writ large upon it.

  In his research, D’Avenant had discovered that Lady Wyndham, like so many widows, was held hostage to the stipulations of her late husband’s will, and could not so much as buy a length of ribbon without her solicitor’s approval. A woman of her birth danced on a tightrope, leveraging her title and social position against the control that a stranger held over her affairs.

  Still, Grenville, knowing she was well-connected, also had to tread carefully. He would not risk the censure of the powerful men in Lady Wyndham’s circle, namely her cousin, the Duke of Kent. No doubt that very connection had enabled her to press to join this meeting. But once here, Grenville—with every appearance of propriety—had removed her from her own affairs as surely as if he had bound and gagged her.

  “Any time you are ready, My Lord,” young Abercrombie said, motioning D’Avenant to an empty chair by the front windows.

  D’Avenant studied the Countess. Lèse majesté, he thought. An attack against her dignity. And the burn of humiliation in her cheeks told him she knew she was about to be left out of the proceedings.

  “No,” D’Avenant replied. “I shall be more comfortable over here near the Countess. Young James, do open those drapes further. The light barely reaches this far back into the room.” He pulled a straight-backed chair from the table set against the rear wall, placed it across from Lady Wyndham and sat down. He stretched his long legs out, claiming unobstructed space between them.

  While the men rearranged their seats, D’Avenant studied her.

  No one had thought to mention during his enquiries, how lovely she was. She was the mother of three children, after all. The time for compliments about her beauty had passed. But she was
beautiful—and something else, too, that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He bunched his brows. It was a deeper quality, something she held in reserve, as indefinable and powerful an undercurrent as sensuality, but in the moral realm. Then it came to him. Courage.

  “I should establish at the outset,” Grenville said, “that these discussions are only exploratory, as My Lady has only lately contemplated the possibility of divesting herself of these lands from her late husband's estate. Clearly, as her executor, I must invite every interested party to bid. Any sale—should it occur—must yield the greatest possible return.” He nodded in the Countess’ direction. “We mustn’t make an arrangement she might later regret.”

  While Grenville talked, D’Avenant crossed his arms over his chest, and stared at the narrow shoes peeking out beneath the hem of Lady Wyndham’s dress.

  “Naturally, when Lady Wyndham suggested we seek a buyer, I pointed out her offer might first be extended to Lord D’Avenant, as his estate encircles the property in question.” Grenville turned to D’Avenant. “It occurred to me that you might have some… interest… in annexing those lands.”

  D’Avenant’s cheek twitched. Grenville knew damned well what the land meant to him. The Wyndham estate, Skylark, had been part of Edgemere until the 17th century, when fiscal mismanagement—gambling, to be precise—forced an ancestor to surrender it. Untended in recent decades, Skylark had fallen into disrepair. But it featured rich farm land, old stands of timber, and a small river of extraordinary beauty and reliability as a water source. Its features complemented the resources at Edgemere, and would allow him to expand his agricultural enterprises.

  “Come now, Grenville,” D’Avenant said, without bothering to look at him. "There's no need to be coy. You are well aware of my interest in Skylark. I told you so before.”

  Lady Wyndham cast a surprised look at Grenville.

  D’Avenant saw it. “Has he not told you that he once represented my family?”

  “I do not see how our previous relationship is of consequence,” Grenville retorted.

  “Do you not?” D’Avenant kept his voice carefully neutral but he felt his pulse throbbing in his neck. “I would think you are dancing with a conflict of interests.”

  Grenville’s confection of lace and wig quivered. “A conflict of—”

  “Gentlemen—” Abercrombie interceded.

  “The Countess might think differently of your advice if she knew you once vowed to undo me by whatever means possible,” D’Avenant said evenly.

  “It seems that everyone is familiar with this history except for myself,” Lady Wyndham said. “Is this true, Mr. Grenville?”

  “No! Not at all, My Lady. His Lordship and I merely held… differing views.”

  D’Avenant felt the heat rising in him. “You gutted my inheritance!”

  “Shall I call you out, My Lord?” Grenville retaliated.

  D’Avenant snorted. Yes. With swords. And I shall run you through. But he got up instead and strode to the cabinet where a decanter of cognac and a glass had been set out as customary for his visit. He pulled the glass stopper, picked up a snifter and filled it. He took a deep quaff, then another. “All perfectly legally, of course.”

  Lady Wyndham’s astonished gaze fell on the glass in his hand.

  His eyes followed hers. He’d drained it. “So tell me, My Lady, how much did Grenville suggest you sell me the property for?”

  “Now, now!” Grenville interrupted. “You get ahead of yourself.”

  “Do I? It is not a secret that I wish to purchase the lands, and I have no quarrel with the legal description of the property as it is outlined in the Land Registry Deed. All that remains is price.” He had a figure in mind, based on his own evaluation of the property, as well as on independent appraisals conducted by the two separate assessors Abercrombie had recommended. The assessors had valued Skylark at between 1,800 and 2,000 pounds. He hadn’t told the Abercrombies, but he had decided he would go as high as 3,000 pounds to get the land back. It wasn't good business, but mid-life was making him sentimental.

  “I don't believe we should discuss such specifics at this time, D’Avenant. These are merely prelim—”

  D’Avenant turned to the Countess. “Are you reluctant to pursue this, My Lady?”

  Lady Wyndham scanned the faces of the men surrounding her. Legal skirmishes might mean little to them, but the last thing she could afford was a delay. Her living accommodations were about to change and she soon needed a home for herself and her three young children. Until she sold Skylark she had no way to finance one. “I wish to continue,” she said firmly.

  “Then pray tell me how much you are asking for Skylark.”

  “Six thousand pounds,” she replied.

  The Abercrombies, father and son, both gasped.

  D’Avenant’s brows rose.

  Grenville jutted out his chin.

  Lady Wyndham looked at D’Avenant, her mind reeling. As much as six thousand Grenville had told her, she was sure of it. But the Abercrombies had been shocked by the figure, genuinely astonished.

  D’Avenant turned abruptly toward the window.

  “How could you get the Lady Wyndham’s hopes up so?” The elder Abercrombie scolded Grenville. “It verges on a matter for the law society.”

  “For what?” Grenville retorted. “For ensuring that my client receive the full amount that her property may bring when sold to the party that desires it most? I can hardly be chastised for urging such an outcome and so long as I am her executor so it shall be.” He raised his voice, hurling his words at D’Avenant's back. “Lady Wyndham is under no legal obligation to sell her property at market value when there are those who might pay more. It is entirely up to Lord D’Avenant to decide whether he will pay the asking price. If not, other buyers may be approached. Is my intention quite clear, My Lord?”

  D’Avenant stared down at the street. The clock ticked for fully a minute before he turned back. “I wish to speak to Lady Wyndham privately.”

  Grenville protested.

  D’Avenant shrugged. “Whether here or in the drawing room of her own home makes no difference. I fully intend to address the matter directly with her—that is, if she has no objection.” His eyes met hers as he spoke, making his statement into a question.

  The solicitors turned to Lady Wyndham as if they expected her to shrink at the prospect.

  “I’ve no objection,” she said.

  The Abercrombies led the way out to the hallway.

  Grenville, following them, stopped in the doorway. “You waste your time, D’Avenant. Lady Wyndham makes no move without my approval.”

  “And you waste yours, Grenville, if you think I shall pay an exorbitant price for Skylark.”

  Alone with D’Avenant, Lady Wyndham didn’t feel the least bit calm. She had heard that D’Avenant was unconventional. But he was more than unconventional—he was formidable. Tall, lean, aristocratic, larger than life. His black hair was sprinkled liberally with grey and he wore it short, brushed back from his face, without a wig or even powder. His nose perched on his face like a monument, a country to itself, with a lump at mid-point suggesting the added insult of a prior break. A thin white scar cut a jagged angle from his left cheek over the bridge of his nose across his forehead and into his hairline. Whatever had happened, it had just missed his eye. He had an air of wildness about him, a feral streak. D’Avenant was an anarchist with eyes the colour of lapis lazuli.

  He pointed at her untouched sherry with his snifter. “Would you prefer cognac?”

  “I prefer not to drink at all, thank you.”

  He opened his mouth then closed it again, unsure how to begin.

  “You have been extremely candid up to this point, My Lord. Pray don’t let good manners inhibit you now.”

  D’Avenant laughed. “Hah! Touché.”

  His smile transformed his face. He seemed to shimmer before her, like a living mirage that transmuted
itself when looked at from different angles. Even his voice seemed to shift. It had a husky quality to it, that seemed neither fully male—nor female.

  “I… er… regret that you had to witness this distasteful mess, but it seems Grenville is using your estate to settle old disputes with me.”

  “Or perhaps you wish to undermine my confidence in him to gain a more advantageous purchase price.”

  He nodded. “A plausible explanation.”

  “This is not an insubstantial property.”

  “No, My Lady, it is not. It having originally been in my family, I am well aware of its merits. Yet little maintenance has been carried out on the mansion for decades and its value has fallen substantially.”

  “Surely you exaggerate, Lord D’Avenant. I study Grenville’s ledgers myself. Funds are channeled regularly from the trust for Skylark’s upkeep.” So much so that she was facing ruin.

  “My Lady. I cannot prove it, nor say so in public, but I believe that Grenville hires labourers at a certain rate, and then retains a percentage of their wages as a hiring fee. Furthermore, no effort is made to ensure the work is actually being carried out. Thus, much goes out—mostly into his own pockets—and naught gets done.” He hesitated. “Have you seen the property yourself?”

  She shook her head. Given its distance from London and the high cost of traveling, she had not. She only knew of it through her late husband’s references to it.

  “My Lady, after my French grandparents died, my mother was left as sole heir to their estate in Cognac. It was a productive vineyard, of greater value than our asset here, so we moved to the continent to continue its operation. My father left Edgemere in Grenville’s care. When I returned ten years ago, I discovered it in a shambles, very run down as a result of Grenville’s… er… style of management. I broke from Grenville’s grasp and wrested the tattered remnants of my estate from him. He harbours a deep resentment of me for having deprived him of a handsome income.” D’Avenant paused. “I believe that Grenville has urged you to ask six thousand pounds for the property in his belief that I want it so badly I will pay that amount. I will not. And neither will anyone else, as the property—operated separately from Edgemere—cannot generate enough income to justify such a purchase price. Not once the cost of restoration is factored in.”