Page 72 of Miss Dignified
Wesley finished his drink—how else was he to tempt the buxom barmaid back to the table?—and sent a suitably worried glance heavenward.
“I am concerned for Tremont, Marcus, but I am more concerned for your mother. Aunt Caroline knew how your papa loved that estate. She’d be heartbroken to see it wither and fade. She doesn’t need any more heartbreak.”
Marcus was the quintessential good boy. He loved his mama and sister and could be manipulated into committing any folly if he thought his actions were for the sake of his womenfolk. Once Wesley had figured that out, his path to the earldom had been a matter of time and patience.
Marcus, bless him, was looking bewildered. “And my supposed death would not cause Mama and Lydia heartache? Mama is sweet and dear and deserving of every good thing. Life has handed her sorrow, and she has not weathered the blow well.”
“She already fears you gone, a casualty of war or London’s violence. To confirm your demise will give her peace, and more significantly, it will allow me to combat the worst of Papa’s excesses.”
Wesley let a silence build, during which Marcus doubtless envisioned his fragile mama once again consigned to wearing weeds, once again drifting about Tremont as silent as a wraith, suffering again…
Marcus aimed a puzzled expression at Wesley. “How can you combat Reggie’s excesses if he becomes not merely my attorney in fact, but legally the earl?”
Well, well, well. Wartime experience apparently gave even the dimmest fellow a few glimmers of common sense, glimmers Wesley had come prepared to snuff out.
“The heir must consent to break any entails, my boy.Iwill be the heir once you are declared dead, and I will not consent. My word on that. Papa and the solicitors will have to reckon with me. Papa is not, alas, a young man, nor has he lived a temperate life.”
Wesley had not lived a temperate life, though he wasn’t the complete sot Papa was becoming. When Marcus had dwelled at Tremont, Wesley had set himself up as the sophisticated, casually wicked older cousin, only too ready to explain to Marcus how to get on at university and what to expect on jaunts down to Town.
That investment had paid off many times over when an opportunity had arisen to send Marcus packing.
Marcus looked unconvinced, which Wesley should have expected. What God had denied his lordship in brains, He had made up for in a generous allotment of stubbornness. Lydia was just as bad, and for a woman to be that pigheaded was most unattractive.
“Whether or not I’m declared dead,” Marcus said, “I need funds to vacate England, Wesley. I have been recognized here, and Lydia has all but ferreted out my location. If she finds me and asks me what I’m about, I will have to tell her something of the truth.” The poor fellow looked like a martyr gazing upon the scaffold. “I don’t fancy lying to the courts either, but if I’m not on hand, I won’t have a part in the lying, will I?”
“You will have no part in any legalities whatsoever,” Wesley said, saluting with his empty tankard. “You are a weary soldier, too sick at heart to resume civilian life, so you wander the world in search of peace. Perhaps you suffered a blow to the head somewhere along the way—war being a violent business—and have no recollection of who you are. Leave the rest to me.”
“‘Accept the things to which fate binds you…’” Marcus muttered, which had to be some of his old Roman drivel. “The philosopher also said, ‘There is but one thing of real value—to cultivate truth and justice and to live without anger in the midst of lying and unjust men.’”
“That’s awfully deep, Marcus. Personally, I find philosophers a confusing lot. I’m far more comfortable with the company of friends and family.” And whores. Wesley positively treasured the company of an enthusiastic whore, though Sybil was strongly hinting that he ought to be looking about for his own quarters.
“You have always been a good friend, Wesley, and a very dear cousin. I will miss you and Uncle Reggie sorely, but the time has come to change my billet. When might you bring me some funds?”
Like a dog on a bone, now that his lordship had finally turned up. “Soon,” Wesley replied as the curvy little maid approached the table. “Another for me,” he said, holding out his glass. “You serve fine libation, for such a humble establishment.”
The maid took his tankard and poured an expert portion, spilling not a drop, despite the foaming head.
“And we expect honest coin in return.” She sauntered off, and that was a sweet view too.
“She’s comely,” Wesley said. “Perhaps life in the stews has a few consolations.”
“Life in the stews is hard and dangerous,” Marcus said. “Much like life at war. I am ready to start over someplace where I don’t have to fret that my throat will be slit every time I pass some noisome alley. When can I have the money, Wesley?”
This next bit was delicate, and the whole reason Wesley had decided to heed Marcus’s summons. “I’ll need a little time, but I’ll also need something else.”
Marcus gave Wesley a peevish look. “Stop being coy. Specific orders are less likely to be misunderstood, Wesley.”
“Write one of those last will and testament letters soldiers write the night before a battle. It has to be in your hand, and it has to be full of impending doom. ‘The deadly foe awaits me yet again on the morrow’ and so forth. Toss in a premonition of death or a fatal dream.”
Marcus stared off across the common, doubtless trying to make the ponderous wheels of his reasoning powers turn.
“I have a will,” he said. “I made mine before Papa had been gone a year, and every British officer is required to have a will too. When I reached my majority, I validated the arrangements set forth in that will and re-executed it. All very legal. I don’t see the need for any letter.”
Thank heavens the military had taught Marcus a bit of caution. He’d need it, wherever he landed.
“The first purpose of such a letter is to make your final farewells to your mama and sister, which seems to matter to you.”
“Of course it does.”
