The Other Side - J. D. Robb [88]
He didn’t even glance at her. “Why are you here? This property belongs to the Paulton National Bank. You’re trespassing—you both are.”
A futile stratagem, of course, and he knew it. When Angie said, “As you know, Lucien, Mrs. Grimmett very much wants Mr. Cleland to investigate the house—” he cut her off with a stifled oath and a slash of his hand. Frustration made his cheeks turn darker than their normal puce. Just the sight of Henry seemed to set him off.
“Investigate! You, sir, are a scoundrel. If you’re thinking of profiting from my cousin’s gullibility, think again. I’m on to your deceptions. My advice to you is to leave town before you’re exposed for the conscienceless trickster you are.” Conscienceless trickster was hard to say; it made a dot of spittle form at the corner of his lips.
It was quite an insult, too. Henry weighed the pros and cons of calling him out. Was dueling legal in Massachusetts? On the whole, it didn’t seem worth it. If he’d been angrier, maybe, but it was hard to muster up enough indignation to take a shot at Lucien when half of what he said was true.
Angie was the furious one. Henry could imagine her smacking him across the cheek with her garden glove. “What have you come here for?” she demanded. “If it’s just to insult Mr. Cleland, you can leave right now!”
“I’ll leave when I’m good and ready.” He smiled a smug smile and reached into his coat pocket. “For you,” he said with a little bow, and handed her an envelope.
She eyed it suspiciously. “It’s been opened.”
“It was never sealed,” he corrected. “Mr. Wimrode works for the bank.”
“Who’s Mr. Wimrode?” asked Henry.
“He’s my lawyer. My lawyer,” she repeated to Lucien, whose smile only widened. “Why would he share my business with you?”
“Don’t be silly, my dear. We’re all just acting in your best interests.”
If she was angry before, that made her livid. She almost tore the envelope in half to open it. A two-page missive, Henry saw by craning his neck, cover letter and short document. Angie’s face paled. “Oh,” she said and sat down on the garden bench.
“I’m sorry if the news disappoints you,” Lucien lied, “but I can’t say it surprises me. I never thought Uncle William’s lawsuit ever had any merit.”
Henry stepped in front of odious Lucien, as if he could shield Angie from him. “The bicycle pedal?” he asked softly.
She looked up at him, miserable-eyed. “He forgot to pay the maintenance fee on the patent application. It expired.”
Having done his worst, Lucien took his leave. More false sympathy for Angie first, though, and then another warning for Henry. “If you really plan to go through with this absurd séance business, you’ll be sorry. None of your cheap tricks will work here.”
Thick-witted, unimaginative, acquisitive, capitalist blockhead. Henry let him have the last word and sat down next to Angie when he was gone.
“Everything’s going to be fine.”
“No, it’s not.” She put her head back and closed her eyes. She wasn’t crying, but she looked as if she’d been mugged. “Even if the séance works and nobody wants to buy Willow House, there’s no windfall now, no money coming. I have to face reality,” she said, looking him in the eye. “I’ve lost my home.”
He took her hands. “We’ll think of something. We’ll stall longer, and something will happen. You can’t give up now.”
“Does it seem like giving up to you? I’ve been fighting this fight for so long. I’m tired, Henry. I’m beaten.”
“No, you’re not.” He shook his head, not letting her look away. “You’ve been fighting on your own too long, but now you’ve got me. And I’m not going to let them beat you.”
The gold flecks in her eyes swam in a sudden river of tears. “Why?” she whispered, trying to wipe her cheek on her shoulder—he wouldn’t let go of her hands. “Why would you want to help me?”
“Don’t you know?” He wished she did, so he wouldn’t have to say it. He wasn’t any good at saying it. “This brings us back to where we were before knucklehead came.”
She laughed wetly. He put his arm around her, and she let him, even rested her cheek on his shoulder. “When I said