Page 39 of Gentleman Jim

“In other words—”

“In other words, Fred himself. He won’t approve of any other.”

A muscle ticked in St. Clare’s jaw. “And if you don’t marry him? If you wed someone without his approval?”

“I shall lose my fortune, and Beasley Park along with it.”

Were St. Clare truly Nicholas Seaton, he would have comprehended the full meaning of her words. Nicholas had known what Beasley Park meant to her. It was as much a part of her as he had been. Love of the land was etched into her very soul.

But St. Clare didn’t seem to register the difficulty Fred’s power over her presented. “I have no need of your fortune,” he said. “I have one of my own.”

Maggie stiffened. “You’re suggesting that I allow him to take Beasley Park?”

“Why not? If the choice is between the estate and your happiness—”

“The estate is my happiness.”

His hand tightened on hers almost imperceptibly. “You would marry Burton-Smythe in order to keep it?”

“I don’t want to marry him. But Beasley must come first.”

“You fear what he’ll do to it if left to his own devices, is that it? You believe he’ll run it straight into the ground?”

“It’s not that,” she admitted.

On the contrary, according to the letter she’d lately received from Mr. Entwhistle, the decisions Fred had been making in regard to Beasley Park had, thus far, been sound ones. Generous ones, too. He’d even approved a plan to replace the old roofs of the tenant cottages—a costly scheme that Maggie had advocated for herself.

“It’s just that…he’s put me in an impossible position.”

“Nothing is impossible,” St. Clare said.

“Some things are. Believe me, sir. If any of it were easy, I’d have already sorted it out for myself. As things stand, I intend to consult a solicitor. Though I don’t hold out much hope. My father made his wishes abundantly clear.”

“What can I do to help? My grandfather has solicitors. Private inquiry agents, too. If it’s a matter of law—”

“I don’t need your help, thank you. I shall deal with it. And with Fred, too. I don’t require any—”

“Don’t be stubborn merely for the sake of it. Pray, let me be of use to you. I shall run mad otherwise.”

She gave him an ironic look. “You’re very keen for someone who claims to have known me only a fortnight.”

There was nothing of amusement in his face. Not any longer. “I know my own mind, Miss Honeywell.”

“And I know mine. I’ll sort it out myself. There’s more to consider than legalities. Fred is…Fred.” She withdrew her hand from St. Clare’s grasp. “If you were Nicholas Seaton, you’d understand that better than anyone.”

Jane chose that moment to reappear at the end of the garden path, Lord Mattingly at her heels.

Rising from the bench, Maggie pasted on a smile. “There you are. I wondered where you’d got to.”

The following afternoon, St. Clare returned from Jackson’s Boxing Saloon, his mind still in a state of turmoil. Exercise usually served to settle it, but not today. No amount of sparring had calmed him, not even during those minutes when he’d imagined that his opponent was Frederick Burton-Smythe.

Entering the marble-tiled hall at Grosvenor Square, he divested himself of his hat and gloves and handed them to Jessup.

“Lord Allendale requests your presence in the library, my lord,” the antiquated butler said.

St. Clare ran a hand over his rumpled hair. “Now?”

“Immediately upon your return. He was quite clear on that point.”