Page 23 of A Victim, A Viscount, And Miss Mifford
"I also spoke with Sir Charles," Mr Just lowered his voice, a tad unnecessarily, for the door to the library was shut, "He thanked you for your offer to settle some money upon Miss Hughes, but said that it was entirely unnecessary, given that no marriage actually took place."
"He did?" Ivo raised his eyebrows at the revelation, a gesture which Mr Just answered with a shrug.
"He seemed eager to be done with the whole business," Mr Just explained, "Miss Hughes will have a come-out in spring, and he hopes that she will make a good match in town. To settle any money upon her, he believes, might hint that something untoward had taken place."
"Very well," Ivo could not argue with that logic.
"As for Mr Adonis, he was most upset to learn that you would not be pursuing his—ahem—vision for the gardens," Mr Just did not even attempt to hide his contempt for the jumped-up gardener's artistic notions, "He billed you an outrageous amount for designs and labour, but as he could not produce any drawings or receipts for work carried out, I managed to negotiate him down to a much fairer settlement."
"Oh?"
"Two weeks' work and the bill for his accommodation at The King's Head Inn," Mr Just clucked with annoyance, "Two weeks' pay is too much, if you ask me. Mr Adonis' greatest talent, I believe, is looking pretty; couple that with having had one or two aristocratic clients, and the ladies quite lose their heads while their husbands lose a chunk of change from their purses."
"I shall not cast any judgement on ladies being taken in by a pretty face, when we men have been doing the same for centuries," Ivo answered, thinking that Mr Adonis would be certain to make a fortune with a certain breed of lady, if he got his foot in the door with the ton.
"True," Mr Judge rolled his eyes, "A fact I can readily attest to, having tended to the estates of the landed gentry these past thirty years. The problem with most men, is that they store their brains in their breeches. Now, there is one final thing I must run past you, my lord."
Mr Just reached into his leather satchel and withdrew a letter, which he passed across the table to Ivo. Ivo recognised the handwriting as belonging to the late Lord Crabb at once, for he had poured over the letter of invitation the viscount had sent him a hundred times since its veracity had been called into question.
"It arrived a day or two after Lord Crabb's passing," Mr Just commented, as Ivo read through the missive, "Postage to be paid by the recipient—naturally, it has been added to your bill."
"Naturally," Ivo's lips quirked slightly, though inside his mind was whirling with confusion.
The letter, written in the late Lord Crabb's distinctive copperplate scrawl, dictated that Mr Harold was to have his full pension restored and offered retirement upon the death of the letter-writer. If Ivo knew Lord Crabb well enough, then there was no way that the viscount had written the letter, and judging from Mr Just's frown, he was similarly minded.
"Do you think it fraudulent?" Ivo was direct.
"I do," the solicitor answered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "I received a similar letter, last year, from the viscount, ordering me to pay a lump sum to a groomsmanwho broke his back when he fell through some rotted beams in the stable. Naturally, I questioned Lord Crabb in person before issuing a bank draft, and he claimed to have had no recollection of writing the letter."
A familiar tale, Ivo thought, his mind on the invitation which Lord Crabb had "forgotten" he had sent.
"Personally," Mr Just continued, "While I noted the incident, I was happy to believe that Lord Crabb was losing his memory somewhat—so common, at his age."
"Of course," Ivo nodded.
"But now I am not so certain," Mr Just cleared his throat, "Perhaps there is someone within these walls who has been manipulating things to their advantage?"
"Mr Harold?"
Though Ivo tried, he could not help but allow a note of incredulity into his voice. It was impossible to think that poor, bent-backed Mr Harold had written the missive; even more-so when one considered that Ivo had restored his pension to him on his first day as viscount. He'd had no reason to forge a letter in Lord Crabb's hand, when the matter had already been resolved to his satisfaction.
"I have met Mr Harold," Mr Just cleared his throat, "And I do not believe he possesses the—ahem—nous to imagine up such a scheme."
"Nor has he high-tailed it to far off lands with a bag of coins," Ivo snorted, "He has taken up residence in one of the cottages on the estate; hardly the move of a criminal genius."
"Perhaps the letter-writer is not seeking personal gain, after all," Mr Just shrugged, "Perhaps they are merely trying to right the wrongs they perceive Lord Crabb committed?"
Ivo nodded in agreement, his mind wandering over just who amongst the staff might be motivated to engage in forgery for no personal reward—and where on earth did his fabricated invitation fit into all this?
"The groomsman?" Ivo questioned, as Mr Just stood and began to pack his papers away.
"I believe he returned to live with his elderly mother," Mr Just could not meet Ivo's gaze.
"See that he is taken care of," Ivo instructed, and the solicitor's countenance brightened considerably.
"I shall draw up the paperwork and bring it along tomorrow," he agreed, before bidding Ivo goodbye and setting off for home with his bulging satchel in hand.
As the door shut behind him, Ivo sat back into the ornate fauteuil to consider Mr Just's newest revelation. Someone amongst his staff was playing tricks-but to what end?
