“Show them in, Willis,” Ashton bade, all humor gone from his face. “What they have to report can be said in front of the whole family.”
“Yassuh, Massa Ashton,” the black man replied solemnly and, with drooping shoulders, left the room.
Aunt Jennifer plied the needle to her tapestry, paying no heed to where she stitched, while Amanda carefully observed her grandson as he went to stand beside Lierin’s chair. The girl seemed frozen as she stared with fixed attention at the door. When Ashton’s hand came to rest upon her shoulder, the stiffness went out of her spine. She rubbed her cheek against his knuckles and gazed up at him with soft, liquid eyes. In the waiting stillness, the approaching footsteps sounded more like the roll of drums that heralded an execution. Immediately the starch returned to Lierin’s spine, and she raised her chin to meet the visitors with a serene air.
Malcolm Sinclair entered the parlor first, carrying a small bundle of papers in his left hand and in his right a rather large, cloth-covered painting. A step or two behind him came a white-haired, dapperly dressed gentleman. The elder man gazed curiously about the room until he saw Lierin, then he hurried forward to take her hand in both of his. Searching her eyes, he struggled for composure as his mouth trembled and his features threatened to crumple; then with a single sniff he regained control and gave her a brave smile.
“I’ve been beside myself with worry, wondering what had become of you and not knowing whether you were alive or dead. All Malcolm knew was that you had been kidnapped, but we had no hope of ever finding you again.”
Lierin removed her fingers from the well-manicured hands and stared into the troubled gray eyes. She wondered if he had been weeping, for they were red and watery, and his nose bore the same hue. The thick mass of waving hair and the mustache that curled upward at the corners of his mouth were starkly white against the aging bronzed skin. He was nearly half a head shorter than the man who now stood behind him, and his slender frame was well turned out in a brown cutaway tailcoat, buff vest and trousers.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize you.”
The white-haired man turned to stare in amazement at Malcolm, who stepped to his side and laid an arm comfortingly about his shoulders. “Lenore,” the younger man said softly, as if afraid of upsetting her, “this is your father, Robert Somerton.”
Lierin glanced around, seeking some denial from Ashton. “Is he?”
Ashton felt the stares of the other men and could only shake his head. “I’m sorry, my love. I cannot answer that. I never met your father.”
“Perhaps this will help convince you of my claims,” Malcolm said, thrusting the bundle of papers toward Ashton. “These are the marriage documents confirming the fact that Lenore Somerton and I spoke the vows together more than two years ago.”
Ashton took the papers and, briefly scanning them, found that they did indeed attest to such an event. He handed them back with a brusque comment: “I have a similar certificate verifying my marriage to Lierin Somerton. However, neither of these records proves who she is.”
Malcolm’s eyes blazed with ill-suppressed ire as he indicated the white-haired man. “But this is her father!”
“Perhaps,” Ashton replied with a noncommittal shrug, “but I can’t guarantee your statement as fact because I never met the man.”
“Good heavens! What will it take to convince you?” Malcolm’s ire rose in the face of the other man’s unyielding resistance. “Why in the bloody devil would I come here claiming she is my wife when she’s not? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I can’t think of a reason,” Ashton answered, “but I can’t ignore what I feel, and I sincerely believe this is Lierin.”
“Show him the portrait, Malcolm,” the elder man bade. “Perhaps he will see his error.”
The younger man placed the framed painting on a nearby table and held it upright with one hand, leaving it covered for a moment as he spoke to Ashton. “Were you not sent a portrait of your wife?”
Ashton responded with a slow nod. “Yes.”
“And did you have any question that it was a painting of Lierin?”
“No.” Ashton’s spine prickled as the other smiled smugly.
“Then I ask you to view this painting very carefully and give me your comments.” He lifted the cloth covering, bringing gasps of surprise from the members of the Wingate family. The portrait was similar to the one that had been shown to Lierin, but there were subtle differences in the facial features of the woman, for they were more delicate and refined. Though the other painting had closely resembled the one who sat in the parlor now, there was no question that she had been the subject of this portrait.
“The other painting, which you have, is of Lierin…your wife, but this one is of Lenore, my wife.” Malcolm almost smirked as he watched the play of confusion on the other’s face. “Now tell me that you have not made a mistake, sir.”
Amanda and Aunt Jennifer were equally distressed and wondered at Ashton’s frowning silence.
“Perhaps now you will allow me to take my wife home where she belongs….”
“Please!” Lierin gasped, turning to Ashton for solace. “Please, I don’t remember them….”
Ashton gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Don’t fret, my love. I’m not about to let them take you.”
“What are you saying?” Malcolm barked angrily. “You have no right to keep my wife here!”
“This matter will have to be settled in a court of law,” Ashton stated. “I will not give up my claim to her without a thorough investigation into this matter. When Lierin fell from my steamer three years ago, no further trace was found of her….”
Malcolm snorted derisively. “It’s not the first time the Mississippi has failed to yield its dead.”
“I know that, but I must be thoroughly satisfied that every effort is made to clear up the question of Lierin’s identity.”
“Lenore!” Robert Somerton corrected.
“I will send agents to the family home in England and then to Biloxi and New Orleans to see what can be found.”
“But that kind of investigation can take months!” Malcolm protested.
“I don’t care how long it takes!” Ashton returned sharply. “My only concern is for Lierin and the outcome of the investigation. If I am proved wrong, I can do naught but comply with what is truth. I will bend to nothing less.”
“And do you think you’re going to hold my wife here all that time?” Malcolm raged.
Ashton smiled blandly. “She obviously wants to stay.”
“I will not allow it!” The brown eyes snapped with fire as Malcolm glared at Ashton.
“Then it will have to be settled by a judge’s ruling.”
“I’ve heard about you in Natchez,” Malcolm sneered. “They say you’re a bullheaded and obstinate man, but let me tell you that before this is finished, you will have heard of me, and you will know that I am more than a match for you. Indeed, a duel may settle this….”
Startled gasps came from the women, and they sought a denial from Ashton. He gave none.
“I await your pleasure, sir,” he responded calmly. “Shall it be today?”
Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll let you know when the time is convenient for me.”
“Please do,” Ashton urged. “Perhaps such a contest will abolish the necessity of an investigation and save me a great deal of trouble.”
Malcolm sneered derisively. “For one who has already been shown that he’s wrong, you seem much too sure of yourself.”
“Maybe I have reason to be.”
Malcolm’s eyes were as cold as the frigid north. “Conceit never won a duel.”
Ashton shrugged casually. “I’m willing to be tested.”
“Think of Lenore,” Robert Somerton cautioned, laying a hand on Malcolm’s arm. “I’m sure this discussion about duels is upsetting to her.”