Mr. Cranley offered me a chair, and took one of his own before the solicitor's great desk.

“You are here on the Countess's behalf?” Mr. Mayhew enquired, with a glance that encompassed us both.

“Not directly,” I replied, “though I am charged with placing this in your safekeeping, Mr. Mayhew.” I handed him the sealed parchment that contained Isobel's final directions, and felt the lighter for having passed the burden to another. “I would ask that you address the matters it contains when we have presumed upon your time no longer.”

“Having other, more pressing matters, to discuss?” the solicitor surmised, his bushy eyebrows lifting.

“We come to you on the Earl's behalf today,” Mr. Cranley said.”

“Though, indeed, the two can hardly be separated,” I broke in. “What may serve to prove the innocence of one, cannot help but assist the other.”

“Indeed. Indeed. Pray enlighten me as to your purpose. “Mr. Mayhew drew forth a pen and a sheet of paper and set a pair of ancient spectacles upon his nose.

We explained the business of Fitzroy Payne's correspondence, and were gratified to discover that old Mayhew's wits were swift. He seized the importance of our questions directly; a correspondence file was ordered, and the final copies of several letters, whose rougher selves we had previously perused in Danson's desk, were produced for our examination.

And to our great joy, we found that one of them was utterly strange to us. No draft of it had we seen.

I glanced up at Mr. Cranley as I finished the letter; let us meet in our accustomed place was there, certainly, and crying out for comparison to the fragment found in the maid's bodice. But it was the content of the letter itself that struck me forcibly — Lord Harold had imposed upon Isobel so entirely, that he had outwitted even himself.

“Are you of the Earl's opinion, Mr. Mayhew?” I asked the solicitor. “Is it so impossible for the Countess to make over her West Indies property?”

The rheumy brown eyes blinked at me shrewdly, and Hezekiah Mayhew cleared his throat. “I have examined the problem narrowly, Miss Austen, and I may say it is indeed a pretty one. A very pretty problem for the Countess and the Earl.” He paused, and looked from Mr. Cranley to myself.

“My good sir,” Mr. Cranley said urgently, “all these matters may bear upon his lordship's survival; we cannot know until all the information is ours. Pray continue.”

“Separate property is, of necessity, comprised of assets,” Mr. Mayhew replied. “And as we know, assets may suddenly lose their value, against all expectation. Securities may plummet, banks and their holdings fail; and property — particularly property valued for the crops it produces — lose much of its value. Under the terms of the trust established at the death of the Countess's mother, Amelie Delahoussaye Collins, once Crosswinds is so reduced in value as to bring bankruptcy upon the trust, the trustees may consider the sale of the property itself to satisfy creditors.”

The solicitor shifted his considerable girth and reached for a clay pipe. Then eyeing me — it would not do to smoke before a lady — he returned it to its place upon the polished surface of his desk, with a soft sigh and an irritable frown. “And that is very nearly what has happened,” he said, for Mr. Cranley's benefit.

“Can the Countess's land be so lacking in value?” the barrister enquired.

“The land is not, but the crops it produces assuredly are,” Mr. Mayhew answered bluntly. “In ^he time of the Countess's father, John Collins, a decision was made to turn from sugar cultivation to coffee.” The large white eyebrows came down alarmingly, and Hezekiah Mayhew turned to enlighten me. “Coffee bushes, Miss Austen, take several years to mature; and if they are blighted in their youth — as these unfortunately were — they must be destroyed and replanted. Twice this happened to John Collins; and twice he sought additional capital to supplement his losses. When he finally produced a saleable crop, the world price had dropped due to a rise in production in Brazil; and Collins's beans were hardly worth the blood money he had paid to grow them. The revolts among the slave populations have caused great losses as well — in human capital, and in the destruction of crops and outbuildings by fire; the cost of rebuilding and replanting again required Mr. Collins to seek capital from investors, and at his death, his assets were found to be insufficient to satisfy his creditors. Although the property in trust remained so legally in the Countess's marriage settlement, it is an open question whether her trustees might not be prevailed upon to sell the property itself.” He sat back in his chair, which creaked in protest, his hands upon his watch chain.

“But the Countess herself may not do it?” Mr. Cranley pressed.

“She must have the agreement, in writing, of the trustees.”

“And who are these men?” I enquired, in an eager accent.

The parched old face creased into a smile. “I fear I misspoke, Miss Austen, from long habit,” the solicitor said. “There is only one trustee, and she is hardly male — an unusual circumstance, certainly, but reflective of the wishes of the Countess's family. They were originally French bankers, you know, who set up the first bank in Martinique, and they remained a clannish sort of set, never trusting their business to outsiders. As trustees — all family members — died, they could not be replaced; and so only one now remains, a woman and the Countess's aunt, Madame Hortense Delahoussaye.”

“And it is solely her permission, Mr. Mayhew, which Lord Harold must secure?”

“It is,” the solicitor gravely replied.

I leaned forward in my anxiety. “But he has not yet obtained it?”

Something of interest flickered in Hezekiah Mayhew's shrewd eyes. “Not to my knowledge,” he said. “With the Countess's fate hanging yet in the balance, it is probable Madame Delahoussaye will defer any business some little while.”