Page 71 of Miss Dignified
The beginnings of impatience nagged at Marcus. Wesley was the older, wiser cousin, cool under fire, utterly trustworthy—not some lust-obsessed fribble. To maunder on like this about Marcus’s own sister was in poor taste.
“Lydia has had to think for herself precisely because Mama became so meek.” Marcus had puzzled that out somewhere in the middle of the Pyrenees. The insight had occupied his mind for days, dazzling him with his own perceptiveness and hinting that he, too, had been affected by Mama’s retiring personality.
Mama, to whom he would never offer even a proper farewell, much less an apology. “You will promise to look after Mama?”
“Of course. I treasure Auntie Caro, you know I do. The problem we face, dear boy, is Papa.”
Uncle Reggie had always been a bit overbearing, a bit too impressed with himself, but he was Papa’s brother, and he’d conscientiously stewarded Tremont’s resources in Marcus’s absence, if his letters were any indication.
“What’s amiss with Uncle now?” Marcus asked.
“Liddie bothers him exceedingly, and your absence bothers him. I grasp why you want to turn tail and run, Markie, but you need to know that Papa is trying to have you declared dead.”
The words made sense—Marcus had known such a legal petition was in the drafting stages—but to hear Wesley so blithely bruit the plan about… “I am not dead.” Marcus had never, in his darkest moments, wished himself dead. That would be cowardly.
And he had never, since leaving for Spain, turned tail and run.
“And thank heavens you have not been gathered to the arms of our forefathers,” Wesley said, patting Marcus’s wrist again. “Perish the thought and so forth. But Papa can only do so much to preserve the Tremont fortune and so much to look after the ladies, unless he well and truly becomes the earl in your stead.”
Marcus had not read law, but he knew a few things. “It hasn’t been seven years yet.” Even after seven years, the courts could dither and delay, particularly where a wealthy peer was concerned. In Marcus’s wildest dreams, the courts delayed for twenty-one years, and after that length of time, no prosecutions for murder could attach.
“It has not been seven years,” Wesley said, “but we all know how slowly the wheels of justice grind forward, and sooner begun is sooner done. I had thought you’d be relieved.”
“Relieved to bedead?”
“Notdeaddead, but dead enough that you no longer have to look over your shoulder every time a constable walks past. Dead enough that in a few years you could come back from your little tour of the Continent under a different name, and nobody would suspect your true identity. For you to be declared dead would advance your cause considerably, Marcus. I have given the matter much thought and have encouraged Papa’s efforts on your behalf.”
Marcus stared hard at the table, a scarred antique too heavy to be easily stolen. “I cannot like the notion of being dead. Mama and Lydia would grieve all over again. They have grieved enough. At least now they have hope.”
Marcus had hope, too, that somehow the whole business might come right. A superstitious man would have worried that to play dead tempted fate to make the lie a reality. Marcus was not superstitious, but he was loath to cause his mother and sister any more sorrow. Mama, especially, still grieved Papa’s passing.
Wesley swilled half his ale and set the tankard down. “I did not want to tell you this, but we’ve always been honest with each other. I fear Papa’s efforts to safeguard Tremont’s interests have been less than successful.”
Marcus had notalwaysbeen honest with Wesley. Marcus felt bad about that, but Wesley had taken on enough burdens for the sake of a foolish younger cousin.
“The peace has brought many adjustments,” Marcus said. “Harvests haven’t been reliable. I do not expect Uncle to perform miracles.”
Wesley leaned forward, as if imparting betting advice. “He hasn’t the head for it, Marcus. The younger sons never do. They gamble and whore and wager until somebody finds them a bride, and the result is fellows like my own darling self. Insurance for a title I’ll never inherit. Papa might even be, shall we say, a bit greedy about how he’s handling Tremont.”
For Wesley to insult his own father had to be difficult. “A bit greedy is understandable, Wes. Uncle is still living on an allowance, for pity’s sake.”
Wesley shook his head. “That allowance went out the window before you landed in Spain. The solicitors did not expect you to survive the war. You were very young when you bought your colors, and they considered your decision to join up, with only Papa to secure the succession, proof of a reckless character.”
Marcus would never have been clever enough to think of buying an officer’s commission as a pretext for leaving Shropshire. That suggestion had been Wesley’s, though Marcus could not argue with Wesley’s further insult to his character. He had been reckless.
Murderously so, andthenhe had turned tail and run.
Reading Marcus’s expressions was like watching a Drury Lane actor convey emotions so clearly they were visible to patrons in the royal box seats. The poor fellow had no guile and fewer brains. A touchingly vulnerable combination in a peer of the realm.
“Uncle is my heir for now,” Marcus said, “and Wesley, you are also on hand to secure the succession. I take great comfort from that. Uncle Reggie is doubtless indulging himself financially to some extent, but that is to be expected of a younger son given responsibility for the finances.”
No saint had ever had a purer heart or an emptier head than dear Marcus. “Papa is behaving as if he’s already the earl, I am sorry to say. Lord of all he surveys. He’s talking of breaking the entail on some of the tenancies and selling off the acreage.”
Wesley had had to work up to that plan slowly. The estate proper was not that large, but over the centuries, the Earls of Tremont had expanded the family holdings by purchase, until Tremont’s tenancies included some of the best farmland in the shire.
Papa had been hesitant to sell any parcels, but Wesley was bringing him ’round one glass of Marcus’s excellent port at a time.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Marcus said slowly. “Without rents, without crops to sell, without control of water rights, Tremont will have less income and most of the same expenses. My papa’s own steward drilled that lesson into my head before I went off to public school. You must stop Uncle, Wesley. In five years, he can ruin an estate that took generations to build.”
