Noble Duty

29. Assessing the Mess

The dry heat of the July afternoon pooled in the dim entry hall, making the clerk's heavy wool coat seem redundant. He looked from me – the sun-browned ship captain who had just threatened to throw him into the street – to the young woman standing beside me.

Light from the open doorway caught the clean, delicate angles of Gillian's face. Despite the salt-stained cloak and the weariness beneath her eyes, the dignity of her bearing remained untouched. She appeared young and travel-worn, yet entirely regal.

The clerk blinked, his defensive posture suddenly collapsing. He looked less like an officious minion and more like a man who had suddenly found himself in the presence of a miracle.

"Forgive me, My Lady," he stammered, clutching the heavy ledger to his chest like a shield. He bowed so low that the skirts of his black coat brushed the dusty floorboards. "I am Henry Povey, a barrister of Lincoln's Inn. I assure you, I am no thief. I am merely an instrument of the Court, sent to ensure the Crown's interests were preserved against any premature claims by collateral branches of your family."

He straightened, his eyes darting to me, assessing. "And who are you, sir?"

"Jarvis Overton. The Baroness, my betrothed, was aboard my ship, Atlantica, when the pirates took us."

"Overton? Ships? Of the British North America Company?"

"Yes," I said, resting a hand lightly upon Gillian's shoulder. "And my ships are not ghost stories, Mister Povey."

Povey froze, the colour draining from his face so rapidly he looked as though he might faint onto the carpetless floorboards. His jaw worked silently for a moment, his gaze flitting from my face to the signet ring upon my finger and back.

"Overton," Povey whispered, his voice cracking. He looked down at the ledger, then back at me, sudden alarm tightening his features. "Good heavens. God protect me. Our senior partner, Mr Throgmorton, acts for your company at Lincoln's Inn. Your father's settlements, the maritime charters, the Baltic bonds – all pass through our chambers."

The ledger slipped from his fingers and struck the canvas-covered table with a thump, and he made no move to recover it. Instead, he pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve with a trembling hand and began frantically mopping his brow, stepping back as though my very presence threatened his ruin.

"Merciful heavens, Sir Jarvis – you must believe me. I had no idea. When the Admiralty issued the provisional restraint upon your fleet, the notice reached our chambers indirectly through the Treasury only yesterday. But this is separate... I was simply assigned to the Cavendish inventory as a routine matter of the Court."

He dabbed furiously at his brow. "If Mr Throgmorton learns that I have set foot in this house to dismantle the estate of the woman betrothed to one of our chambers' most substantial clients..." He paused and trembled. "Richard Cavendish's agents pressed us to begin before all notices had been returned, and I allowed myself to be hurried. If Mr Throgmorton learns of it, I shall lose my place.

He trembled, then cleared his throat. "Sir Jarvis, your company's standing orders are the only reason claimants have not yet descended upon our chambers. With you alive and the Baroness standing beside you, the Berkshire petition has no foundation whatsoever."

He looked back at Gillian, his expression softening into one of earnest sympathy. "My Lady, you must understand – the Court of Chancery is a slow, blind beast. Your uncle's solicitors produced two sworn witnesses – officers from the ship, Armonda, who witnessed your capture. They testified that the pirates had taken Atlantica in tow, and that no rescue could reasonably have followed. Added to the report from Spanish Town that you and the dowager baroness had boarded Atlantica, the Court deemed you lost. The Master of the Rolls signed an interim order two days ago, preserving the estate until the succession could be determined."

Povey folded the damp handkerchief between his fingers and stepped closer. "But no final order has been entered. The matter is to be laid before the Lord Chancellor on Monday. I shall return to my chambers and report that the inventory cannot proceed until your identity has been placed before the Court. No further step can properly be taken against the estate."

Gillian watched him, her expression unchanging, though I felt the slight easing of the tension in her shoulder. "And what of my uncle?" She asked, her voice evrn and calm.

"I am told he remains in the Berkshire estate," Povey said quickly, now seeming eager to please. "His lawyers here are pursuing the proceedings. But if you appear before the Master of the Rolls first thing on Monday morning, alive and hale, the entire proceeding will be voided."

Povey hurried to the canvas-covered table, opened his writing case and drew out a clean sheet of paper. He dipped his quill and wrote several hurried lines. "Take this, My Lady. It is my written attestation that I have seen you alive here at Pall Mall. Take it to your family solicitor at once. He will likely know what petition must be laid before Chancery to stay the proceedings, but tell him to consider an amoveas manus – a petition that the Crown remove its hand from the estate."

He handed the paper to Gillian with another low bow, his eyes lingering on her with a mixture of awe and professional relief. "News of your return will be through the City before sunset. I advise you to admit no claimant, creditor or officer without first examining their authority."

I turned to Gillian and asked, "Who is your family solicitor?"

"Ephraim Vance."

"Oh, praise the Lord," Povey half-shouted. "I know him well, My Lady. His chambers are just along from ours. I shall go to him directly and send him here with all possible haste."

With another hurried bow, Povey backed towards the door and fled into the heat and dust of the Pall Mall afternoon. Higgins closed the heavy oak doors with a crisp thud and click, leaving a sudden silence in the dim hall.

I turned to Gillian and took her hand. "He will run as though the Devil himself were at his heels. Let us hope he runs straight to Mr Vance."

"He will," Gillian said, her voice soft, yet strong. "Povey knows that if Uncle Richard takes the estate, his firm risks losing the Cavendish business. If your company removes its affairs from Throgmorton's chambers, Povey will be blamed for the loss. Fear is a magnificent courier."

Camelia chuckled. "You two conduct your affairs as my grandparents do – each word considered, and every advantage quietly taken." She gestured across the broad hall. "I have asked Bess to prepare tea for us."

Gillian surveyed the shrouded hall once more. "Good. We shall have tea, restore the household and wait for Mr Vance. On Monday, I shall remind Chancery that I am not so easily inherited."