side of one of those chairs. His jacket was off and his clothes, including the undone top button of his breeches, were in disarray. He was a short man, in contrast to his brother, Paul, who had been close to six foot. Other than the height difference, the brothers had a remarkable resemblance with dark hair and gray eyes. In any quarter they would have been considered handsome, although experience had taught Gemma that “Handsome is as handsome does” was a very true adage.
For once, Gemma didn’t defer to him. “How dare you open my mail and then keep it from me.” She held up the crumpled letter.
At that moment Barstow reached her. His thick hands came down on her shoulders. Her response was to send an elbow back and into his side with enough force that he released his hold and doubled over.
Gemma took a neat step away from him. She had quite a crowd watching now. Beyond Lord and Lady Latimer, the card-playing guests, their eyes wide with astonishment, had followed them down the hall. They probably could not believe their luck in witnessing such a scene. Gemma had no doubt that this story would be swirling around London before nightfall.
She didn’t care. She was done with being proper and nice. She’d been raised in Manchester where they prided themselves on plain speaking and she had the blood of Scottish rebels on her mother’s side flowing in her veins.
It was time to act like it.
“I want my widow’s portion of my husband’s estate. You owe it to me and I want it.”
She’d asked before, of course. She’d asked politely. Humbly. Meekly. In response, there had been excuses, promises . . . silence.
And she’d accepted it all, knowing how precarious her position was. Finding the letter had been the ultimate betrayal.
“You can’t just take it from me,” she continued. “That money came from my father.”
“Who married you off to my brother, changing his will to name Paul his heir. It is not my fault your father did not see to your best interests.” He’d straightened his clothing, reached to put on his jacket, and was bringing out his “lordliness.” “Or that your husband left your welfare to me.”
“Paul was a philandering, gambling villain who was not a good husband, or even a good man—”
That statement elicited shocked gasps from the magpies—
Gemma rounded on the lot of them. “As if you didn’t know. I was the last person in the world to know exactly whom he was.” To her brother-in-law, she said, “However, even you, Lord Latimer, should be able to understand that out of fairness alone, I deserve to receive something.”
His lordship looked past her shoulder to his wife. “My lady, don’t you believe our guests would be more comfortable in the sitting room? Please, gentle ladies, I am sorry for the interruption of your afternoon. This is a highly personal matter, as you may have assumed. I beg your discretion.”
“Yes, let’s return to our cards, shall we?” Lady Latimer said, her smile too bright, too false. Gemma didn’t know if it was because of the scene she was creating or the sight of a maid running from the once-locked library.
The magpies didn’t budge. They cast knowing looks at each other as if silently agreeing now was not the time to leave.
Gemma understood this was her one chance to strike. She’d shame Lord Latimer into giving her a widow’s portion. “You took my husband’s estate and gave me nothing. You left me destitute.”
The pleasant smile on Lord Latimer’s face hardened. “We have taken care of you, Gemma.”
“By keeping my personal mail from me?” Certain the magpies could appreciate how important private correspondence was, she held up the letter. “My uncle Andrew was my last living relative. I deserved to know of his death. Instead, someone opened this letter, months ago, and didn’t say a word to me.”
Lord Latimer came forward, confident. “Absolutely. I am the head of this household. Everything goes through me—and I was bloody tired of seeing you walk around in black for my brother—which you would have insisted on continuing if you had known. I detest seeing women in black. So maudlin. Here now, ladies, back to your cards and cakes.” He waved his hands as if he was scooting chickens out of his path. “We take good care of our Gemma. Have no fear. We believe she has had enough of death.”
“Yes, we take good care of her,” his silly wife echoed, and Gemma had