The Maiden's Hand

“Me?” Her eyes went wide. Adorably wide.

“Aye. We shall have to work very, very closely, Lark. Can you do that?”

She seemed entranced by his look. “Aye. That is, if I must.”

He caught her hands in his and drew her close. “You must.”

“What an amazing coincidence,” Kit said the next day. “A whole tract on the Common Recovery right here in the Blackrose library.”

“Convenient, is it not?” asked Oliver.

Lark studied him in the pure morning light. Such strong early sunshine would surely expose his flaws. Yet she realized, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, that in looks, at least, Oliver de Lacey had no flaws.

The sunlight only enhanced the spun gold of his hair, brightened the sky-blue of his eyes, and brought out the bold structure of his face and physique.

Just the sight of him tugged at something deep and elemental inside Lark. And, heaven help her, Oliver knew. Even as she chastised herself, he caught her staring and gave her a smoldering look followed by a wink that she felt all the way to the bottoms of her feet.

Shaking sense into herself, she pointed at the legal tract Kit was studying. “Is that rare?”

“Aye. Why would Lord Spencer possess it? Has he a particular interest in the law?”

Only his own rigid rules, she thought, then flayed herself for disloyalty.

“Not that I know of. But His Lordship 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.

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