Page 40 of Counting on a Countess
Kit held out his hand to help Tamsyn to her feet. “Shall we return home for a celebratory supper?”
Mr. Flowers cleared his throat. “There’s one more item to attend to, my lord.”
Turning back to the solicitor, Kit saw something that looked suspiciously like a sealed letter in Mr. Flowers’s hand. “More?”
“Please sit.” When Kit did so, the solicitor explained, “The late Lord Somerby provided instructions to my firm. After you were married and the documents securing the fortune’s transfer had been signed, I was to read you this.” He held up the missive.
“What’s in it?” Tamsyn asked.
“The contents are unknown to me,” Mr. Flowers said.
Kit frowned, but dismissed his trepidation. It had to be some words of warning from Somerby, or perhaps a stern admonition to be a good steward to the fortune. “Go ahead.”
Mr. Flowers broke the wax seal, then donned a pair of spectacles. He cleared his throat again, and read aloud.
“My dearest Ellingsworth—or should I say, Lord Blakemere,
I offer my blessings on your marriage. You made myself, your family, and country proud with your service abroad. All I ever desired for you was to find a measure of stability and happiness—thus my requirement that you marry in order to inherit a measure of my wealth. The greatest joy I ever experienced was with my beloved Elizabeth. If you might experience a fraction of the contentment I felt with Lizzie, I go to my grave at peace. I die serene, knowing that I am to be reunited with my precious wife once more.”
Tamsyn made a soft noise, and Kit glanced over to see her dash a knuckle across her eyes. Lord Somerby’s sentiment clearly moved her, the words of a man who had once loved deeply.
Kit had been blunt with Tamsyn about his own fidelity and expectations for the marriage. He doubted this was what Somerby had in mind. Would his old friend be disappointed?
The solicitor continued to read.
“There is one aspect of your life that concerns me, and that is your appalling habits with money. I fear that you will recklessly decimate my fortune in your relentless pursuit of pleasure.
To that end, the transfer of the money is not complete unless you agree—in writing—to let your new bride control the finances.”
Mr. Flowers dropped the letter, stunned. But the solicitor was no more aghast than Kit.
“That cannot be what Somerby said,” Kit choked out.
“I assure you, Lord Blakemere, I did not fabricate the contents.” Mr. Flowers held out the letter, and Kit snatched it up.
He scanned the letter. And found that Lord Somerby did, in fact, stipulate that all of the financial control would belong to Kit’s bride. Tamsyn.
Absently, Kit handed the letter back to the solicitor, but his focus was on Tamsyn. All the color had left her face, leaving her freckles to stand out starkly, like drops of blood. Her chest rose and fell quickly, as if she was running away from something.
A strained laugh broke from Kit’s lips. “Dearest Lord Somerby is trying to control me from the afterlife.” He forced out another hollow chuckle. “Never knew the old fellow could be so ruthless.”
“Is there more?” Tamsyn asked, her voice strained. “In the letter?”
Mr. Flowers picked the sheet of paper up and read aloud.
“My directives for how the capital will be controlled are as follows:
The new Lady Blakemere cannot simply settle an amount of money on you. She must approve all financial requests. Further, if you think to bully your wife or in any way forcefully take money from her, you are sorely mistaken. All applications for cash must go through the bank and be reviewed personally by my banker, Mr. George Bradley. Such requests for money must include documentation of what you intend to do with it, as well as Lady Blakemere’s explicit approval of this use.
Lest you think I am a tyrant, let me assure you that Lady Blakemere will settle a modest quarterly allowance on you. Everything else beyond this nominal figure will be in her control.
I imagine that you are baffled by me now, Kit. Rest assured that I derive no pleasure from these conditions, but I want nothing more than your happiness, and see your own impulses as the greatest impediment to that. If you curse me, do so because I loved you too well to permit your self-destruction.
Your friend,
Prescott Lamb, Lord Somerby”
Mr. Flowers lowered the letter and tapped his fingertips against the paper, as if trying to nudge away its significance. Silence reigned in the office for several moments.
