Читать книгу How to Ruin a Reputation - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 11

The elusive Mr Bedevere had returned. The room fairly vibrated with the evidence of it even after he’d departed with Marsbury. Genevra was not sorry to see him go. In a span of minutes he had unnerved her as few people could. She needed time to gather her thoughts and settle her surprise over the summons.

Genevra turned her attentions out the window, giving the aunts some time to digest their own excitement over Bedevere’s arrival. He was the kind of man who stirred excitement wherever he went. Power sat on his broad shoulders as comfortably as his travelling cloak. But she’d met powerful men before. What had disturbed her most was the sensual potency of him. He wasn’t just confident, he was seductive. His devil-dark hair had been windblown and rakish, his green eyes as hard as jade when he’d looked at her, his very gaze seeming to penetrate her innermost thoughts with an intensity that had sent a frisson down her spine.

If she could get through the reading of the will, she would make sure to avoid Mr Bedevere when at all possible. Perhaps there’d even be enough chambers done at Seaton Hall for her to move back home. That would certainly help her keep Mr Bedevere at a distance.

‘We shall have a party!’ Lavinia exclaimed to the others. ‘Cook can fix pheasant and we’ll put flowers on the dining-room table.’

A party at which Mr Bedevere would be the guest of honour. Genevra turned from the window, her hopes of quick and immediate avoidance sinking a bit further.

Melisande gasped. ‘Do you think we should? We’re in mourning.’

‘It will be private, no one will know and it’s not as if there will be dancing afterwards,’ Lavinia said staunchly.

She held out a blue-veined hand to Genevra. ‘Isn’t our nephew a handsome one? I told you he was.’

Genevra smiled and took Lavinia’s hand. If the ladies wanted a party, she’d give them one. The past months with the ailing earl had taken a toll on them and not one of them was a day under seventy. She’d ridden over daily to help and had eventually moved in to stay over the winter to be of assistance while Seaton was undergoing renovations. Henry had already taken up residence by then and she’d meant it when she’d said Henry had been a support, which was more than she could say for the errant Ashe Bedevere.

Perhaps the allure of an inheritance had finally been the carrot to bring him home. Whatever had brought him, he was here now. Having taken his measure, she’d do best to keep him at arm’s length. Forewarned was forearmed. She’d finally got her life back together. She’d learned her lesson. She wasn’t about to let a handsome man turn her life upside down again.

The study was getting crowded, Ashe thought uncharitably. He’d barely seated Mrs Ralston when Henry made his entrance, striding towards him, hand outstretched, a wide smile on his face. ‘Cousin Ashe, it’s so good of you to come.’

Ashe didn’t trust that smile for a moment. Most of the trouble Ashe and his brother had ever found themselves in could be laid at Henry’s feet. Henry had a habit of making others pay for his misdeeds.

‘So Aunt Leticia has already told me.’ Ashe replied drily. Had there really been that much doubt? Ashe made no move to shake the offered hand. He was gratified to see that his lack of a polite response gave Henry a slight pause.

Henry regrouped and took an empty chair, smoothing his hands on his trousers in a nervous gesture. ‘I would have been down sooner to greet you, but I was taking care of some estate business.’

‘It’s my home, cousin, I don’t need to wait on an invitation.’ He would not tolerate being treated as a guest in his own house. Nor did it sit well that Henry had sailed in here and commandeered the estate. Well, no more.

Ashe moved to take the upper hand. ‘Marsbury, let’s get on with your business.’

Marsbury settled a pair of spectacles on the bridge of his nose and folded his hands on the desk. ‘Gentlemen, Mrs Ralston, as you are aware, circumstances are somewhat unusual in this case. The earl has died, but his oldest son has suffered a nervous breakdown that has left him incapable of overseeing the estate. The title will, of course, transfer to the legitimate heir. Mentally incapable or not, he is still a recognised peer. Alexander Bedevere is officially the fifth Earl of Audley until his death. Should he die without a legal son, the title will pass to you, Mr Bedevere. This is all very regular. However, in the meantime, there is the estate to consider.’ Marsbury eyed them over the rim of his spectacles. ‘In his present condition, the current earl cannot be expected to manage the estate or its finances.’

Ashe was listening intently now. He’d known the title wouldn’t be his, he hadn’t wanted it. He was perfectly happy being Mr Bedevere, London’s finest lover. But now, he sensed that Bedevere itself was in danger. The cold pit in his stomach spread a little deeper.

On either side of him, Mrs Ralston and Henry had their own reactions; Henry’s eyes contained a barely concealed expectation while Mrs Ralston’s hands were white from their iron grip on the arms of her chair. Henry was excited, but Mrs Ralston was cautious, perhaps even alarmed and trying to hide it.

Marsbury went on, ‘The former earl petitioned the crown for a regency to be granted, not unlike the regency granted during King George III’s illness. The petition was granted a few months before Audley’s death. Under a regency, your father was free to appoint any guardians or trustees he saw fit.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ Ashe growled.

‘It means, cousin, that Bedevere, in the common vernacular, is up for grabs.’ Henry was all nonchalant insouciance.

Marsbury cleared his throat in censure of the indelicate translation. ‘Not exactly, Mr Bennington. I think it will become clearer if I read the settlement straight from the will.’

Marsbury withdrew a sheaf of papers from his valise and began to read. ‘I, Richard Thomas Bedevere, fourth Earl of Audley, being of sound mind and body on the twenty-fourth day of January, eighteen hundred thirty-four…’

The date pierced him. This codicil Marsbury read from was not some long-standing document.

The alteration had been made the day before his father’s death. Ashe shot Henry a speculative look. Had Henry talked his father into something absurd? Had Mrs Ralston? Sick, desperate men were fallible creatures. Perhaps more than one person had got their talons into his father.

The first part of the reading covered what Marsbury had already relayed concerning the transfer of the title. It was the second part that garnered Ashe’s attention.

‘During Alexander Bedevere’s lifetime, the Bedevere estate shall be managed under a regency overseen by the following trustees who have been allotted the following shares of influence: to my son, Ashton Bedevere, with whom I regretfully quarrelled and have not seen since, I leave forty-five per cent of the estate in the hopes this will inspire him to embrace responsibility. I leave to my nephew, Henry Bennington, four per cent of the estate in the hopes he will understand he has got his due reward. Finally, to Genevra Ralston, who has been like a daughter to me in my final days and who has inspired me with her vision of a profitable estate, I leave fifty-one per cent of the estate.’

Ashe went rigid at the implication. The estate he’d been reluctant to assume had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders, but Ashe did not feel relief. He felt anger. He felt resentment. Had his father thought such an arrangement was what he’d want? Or had his father thought something else altogether less altruistic? He could divine those reasons later. Right now his brain was calculating at lightning speed and discarding scenarios about this particular three-way regency. Had he been meant to align with Henry?

Henry’s four per cent did nothing for him. Aligning with Henry would only give him forty-nine per cent. Clearly his father did not mean to achieve a reconciliation between him and his cousin from beyond the grave. It served as further proof that Henry was no good and his father suspected it. From the insult-red beet colour of Henry’s face, Henry knew it too.

‘Four per cent! That’s it? After all I’ve done this past year?’ Henry burst out. ‘I gave up a year of my life to come here and look after him.’

‘No one asked you to make that choice,’ Marsbury said calmly. ‘Surely you chose to look after your uncle out of a sense of familial duty and not out of misplaced avarice?’

Well done. Marsbury rose a notch in Ashe’s estimation. Henry glowered and stood up, making a hasty departure on the premise that he had a meeting elsewhere. That left only Mrs Ralston. She was beautifully demure, her gaze downcast, effectively hiding what must be a barrage of thoughts. She’d just inherited, at least temporarily, a controlling share in the governance of an English estate. Was she shocked? Was she secretly pleased that all had come out as she’d perhaps so carefully planned?

‘Mrs Ralston, I would like a word with Mr Marsbury,’ Ashe said, assuming she would be well-bred enough to hear the implicit request for privacy. She did not fail him.

‘Yes, certainly. Good afternoon, Mr Marsbury. I hope we will have the pleasure of your company on happier occasions.’ Mrs Ralston seemed all too relieved to quit the room. Perhaps she was eager to go up to her rooms and do a victory dance over her good fortune. Or perhaps she was eager to sneak off and celebrate with Henry at his supposed meeting. Together they could rule Bedevere at least during Alex’s life, which should by rights be a long one. It had not escaped Ashe’s mathematical attention that fifty-one plus four gave Henry a lot more control of the estate through Mrs Ralston. Of course, forty-five plus fifty-one maximised his own control of the estate quite nicely.

It was all becoming clear. Whoever wanted to control Bedevere had to go through Mrs Ralston. His father must have thought highly of Mrs Ralston indeed.

Marsbury set down his papers and folded his hands calmly as if he told sons of earls every day how they’d been essentially cut out of their father’s will.

‘Mr Bedevere, I think you come out of this better than you believe at present. You will inherit in due course should your brother’s life end prematurely, whereas Mrs Ralston’s tenure will terminate at some point.’

Marsbury had said absolutely the wrong thing. Ashe fought the urge to reach across the desk and seize Marsbury by the lapels in spite of his earlier favourable outlook towards the man. ‘Is that supposed to console me? Because I assure you, it does not. There’s nothing I’d like better than to have my father alive and my brother restored to his right mind.’

‘Mr Bedevere, I can see you’re disappointed.’

‘I’d say disappointed is an understatement, Mr Marsbury. Let’s be clear about this. I am mad as hell and, for the record, nobody takes what’s mine, not an upstart American who has somehow weaseled her way into the family, nor my cousin.’ Growing up, Henry had always been a snake in the grass as far as Ashe was concerned. He was not getting his hands on Bedevere. Henry would run through the estate within a year.

Apparently most of Marsbury’s clients took bad news sitting down. Having no idea how to respond to the blunt remark, Marsbury cleared his throat again and glanced meaningfully at the documents. The man was positively tubercular. If he cleared his throat one more time, Ashe thought he just might leap across the desk anyway.

‘Don’t think I cannot see what my father has done.’ Ashe fixed Marsbury with a hard stare. ‘He is mandating marriage without saying the words. The man who weds Mrs Ralston will gain control of her shares upon marriage.’

‘That is your construction,’ Marsbury said firmly.

‘And Henry’s too, no doubt, once he arrives at it,’ Ashe said coldly. Henry had never been quick. ‘It will be a race now to see who can woo the lovely American to the altar.’ He paused in contemplation. Every scrap and speck of human nature went back to motives, his father’s nature notwithstanding. ‘Can you tell me, Mr Marsbury, why my father would have wanted that?’

Marsbury cleared his damned throat. ‘Bedevere needs an heiress, sir.’

Marsbury’s announcement was the final coup de grâce. Ashe felt the quiet words like a blow to the stomach. Bedevere was debt ridden? How was that possible? His father had always been a strict and diligent steward of the funds. Sometimes too strict for a young man about town, but Bedevere’s coffers had always been full.

‘How bad is it?’ He’d not anticipated this. But neither had he anticipated contesting Henry for his own inheritance.

Marsbury met his gaze, his tone matter of fact. ‘The money is all gone. Your brother went and lost it a few years ago in some fool land investment that turned out to be a swindle.’

‘The Forsyth scandal?’ Ashe said with no small amount of disbelief. Three years ago, London had been rocked by the land swindle. It had dominated the newspapers. Shares of a Caribbean island had been sold to merchants and nobles looking to invest in New World property. The problem had been that the island did exist, but it had turned out to be swampy and infested with tropical disease. The shares were valid, but worth nothing. Ashe knew several people who’d lost money, but he’d never imagined his brother would be caught up in it. Alex had always been too intelligent, too reserved for rash behaviours.

Marsbury nodded in confirmation. ‘That was the major one.’

Lucifer’s stones, there’d been others? The sensation of guilt returned. If he’d come home when first asked, he might have caught his brother in time. Three years past would have put the incident right before Alex’s breakdown. Perhaps his brother’s faculties had been failing even then to have taken such an unprecedented risk.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing left?’ Ashe put the question to Marsbury.

‘I’ve looked over the books. Mr Bennington has looked over the books. No stone has been left unturned, or in this case, bled.’

Henry had looked over the books? Henry had known Bedevere’s assets and worth right down to the last farthing and done nothing? Arguing Henry had known and done nothing made Ashe look like a hypocrite, even to himself. In the years of Bedevere’s demise, he had done nothing either. Yet it seemed as though Henry’s crime was the worse. He had been unaware, but Henry had allowed it to happen.

‘Can I challenge this will?’

Marsbury sighed and shook his head. ‘You can appeal the process, of course, but this was a special dispensation from the crown and there is legal precedent for it no matter how unusual the situation. I do think it will be a waste of your time and energies.’

‘Energies better spent pursuing Mrs Ralston?’ Ashe supplied with a dose of sarcasm.

‘Yes, if you want to keep Bedevere.’

Ashe clenched and unclenched his fist at his side in an attempt to hold on to his temper. Again, there was the subtle implication that he did not have to assume Bedevere unless he chose to. He could leave it to Mrs Ralston and Henry. It would stay in the family and perhaps Mrs Ralston’s American ingenuity would protect it against Henry’s inherent stupidity.

Ashe sighed. It was time to talk about the American. ‘What did Mrs Ralston do to earn my father’s regard? Did she think to marry him at the last moment, but having failed to do that decided to influence the will with her apparent fortune?’ His tone left no mistake as to what kind of ‘influence’ she might have wielded; the kind women had wielded against men since Eve.

Marsbury, who’d managed to stay cool throughout the difficult interview, did look nonplussed at that comment. He was from the old school. One could talk about money baldly with other men, but one did not bandy about slanderous consideration regarding the fairer sex.

‘Mr Bedevere, Mrs Ralston could buy Bedevere ten times over if she had a mind to.’ Marsbury’s voice was cold as he gathered his papers into a folder. ‘Her “apparent” fortune is quite tangible, I assure you.’

‘You have to understand this all comes as a shock to me.’ Ashe held the man’s gaze.

Marsbury took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair. ‘Shock or not, it boils to one common denominator. You, Mr Bedevere, are in great need of an heiress and there’s one practically living next door with a shipping line and a hundred thousand pounds to her name. I’d call that a pretty piece of serendipity if I were you.’

‘That’s where we differ, Marsbury.’ Ashe fixed the solicitor with a hard stare. ‘I’d call it suspicious.’ This was starting to look a lot like a conspiracy: an estate that had been allowed to fail, coffers that had suddenly become prey to a string of bad investments, a recently altered will and a rich American living in Henry’s pockets.

The next question was—at whose door step did he lay the blame? Mrs Ralston’s? Henry’s? Were they both in it together? Maybe he was too cynical. Maybe the conspiracy was his father’s—one last attempt to order his wayward son’s life to specification. His father had thrown down the gauntlet even on his deathbed. Marriage to a woman of his father’s choosing was to be the price for Bedevere, for his wildness, for ever having left. Ultimately, whose conspiracy this was didn’t matter. The only thing that did matter was what he was going to do about it. Would he sell himself in a marriage of convenience to save Bedevere?