The Maiden's Hand by Susan Wiggs Page B

is a learned man who has many interests.” She deliberately kept her gaze from wandering to Oliver. “Lord Oliver wasn’t able to explain exactly how the Common Recovery works.”
    “I could’ve explained,” Oliver said with a sulk that was every bit as appealing as his smile. “I just didn’t see the point of going into it at so late an hour. The heart of the night was not meant for legal debates.”
    She continued to ignore him. “I want to know, Kit.”
    The mild surprise in Kit’s regard was gratifying. Most men would be shocked and dismayed by a woman’s interest in the law.
    “Tis a lawsuit,” he said. “By using Oliver as a party in the suit, I can prove Lord Spencer came by his estate through irregular means.”
    “But he didn’t.”
    Kit grinned. “You must think like a lawyer. Of course he did. And Oliver is entitled to both compensation and the right to dispose of the estate as he chooses.”
    “Oliver? He doesn’t own the estate.”
    “For our purposes, and only on paper, he does.”
    “Oh.” She disliked the sticky dishonesty of it, yet she saw the merit in the plan. “And naturally Lord Oliver would not choose to confer the estate on Wynter Merrifield.”
    “Naturally,” Oliver said. “I would give it to you, my fair Lark.”
    “What must we do?” Lark asked, tossing away his glib compliment with a wave of her hand.
    “We must take a long walk and discuss this,” Oliver suggested. “Intimately, at great length.”
    “Why should we walk outside?”
    Oliver cast suspicious glances to and fro. Lark suppressed a smile at his overblown gestures. “No one must hear our plans.”
    Kit nodded. “Wynter knows we’re up to something. I’d not like to encounter his friends again.”
     
    Oliver led the way out of the library. Blackrose Priory and its vast grounds seemed to be awaiting the spring, the trees with buds still tucked within themselves, the sere, colorless lawns barren. At the far reaches of the estate, the gardens ran wild, tumbling into the majestic disarray of the forested hills. Lark took her companions to a high walk along the ridge of a rise above the river. The air smelled of cold water and dry reeds.
    “When Spencer was well we used to come here often,” she said, speaking over the soughing wind and the rustling of tall grasses. She remembered the feel of his hand firm around hers, the certainty of his voice as he taught her her place and her role. Bridle the body and press down feeling, he used to say in all earnestness. Quench the heat of youth. He was very convincing. A single, errant thought sent her to the chapel to kneel for hours in prayer.
    Yet even Spencer’s best efforts had been for naught.
    Before the shame could engulf her, she lifted her skirts and picked her way over to the edge of the walk. There was a sheer drop to the river, and along the face of the cliff, rock doves nested. “Sometimes,” she said, “boys from the village used to climb down and rob eggs from the nests. It looked like such an adventure.”
    “You never tried it?” Oliver asked.
    “I know better than that.” She glanced around. “Where is Kit? I thought he was coming with us.”
    “He dropped back a few moments ago,” said Oliver. “He has work to do. We’re devising a lawsuit, remember?”
    She turned her face out to the view of the valley. It had always seemed so deep and distant, illuminated by long rays that touched places she could never go. “You will pretend Blackrose is really yours, given to you in a priorgrant the year you were born.” She squinted at the sun-struck river far below. “Won’t that make Spencer look rather stupid?”
    “Not at all. He wouldn’t defend his right. He’ll swear that a third person—”
    “Who?” Lark demanded. She was unhappy enough being party to deception without bringing in more cheaters.
    “He need not exist. Let’s name him Mortimer.”
    “I hate that name.”
    “He’s not real, Lark. Now, Mortimer has always