Page 93 of Marry in Secret
Cousin Cornelius pursed his lips. “It sounds to me as if the previous earl had arranged it through one of his little pet projects—he was a soft touch, the old m—earl. Ambrose has had the devil of a time sorting them out. Like a squirrel with nuts he was, accounts and legacies all over the place and no central record.”
“Ambrose?” Ashendon leaned forward. “Who’s Ambrose?”
“My cousin,” Thomas said. “A good fellow.”
“Cousin?”Cousin Cornelius sniffed. “I suppose, if you don’t count the fact that he’s ‘wrong side of the blanket.’ Personally, I don’t recognize the relationship.” He turned to Ashendon. “The old m— the old earl got him on some maidservant. Made a ridiculous fuss of him, treated him almost as one of the family.”
Thomas nodded. “We grew up almost as brothers, Ambrose, Gerald and me. We did everything together, our lessons as well as running wild on the estate.” Thomas smiled, remembering. “They were good days. We three were inseparable until Gerald and I were sent away to school, and after that we all went our separate ways.”
“Ambrose didn’t go far,” Cousin Cornelius said cattily, adding to Ashendon, “He’s the estate manager now. Runs everything like clockwork, but”—he made a dismissive gesture—“no conversation. A complete country bumpkin.”
Ashendon raised a brow at Thomas in silent query.
“Ambrose?” He considered it briefly, then shook his head. “I can’t see it. Ambrose has always been like a brother to me.” But Gerald had been like a brother to him, too, and for the last four years he’d had no trouble believing Gerald had betrayed him.
Ashendon said suddenly, “What do you know about marzipan, Beresford?”
Thomas blinked, then recalled he was no longer Beresford. He was Brierdon now, which sounded strange: Brierdon was Uncle Walter. Cousin Cornelius was Beresford.
“Marzipan? What do you mean, what do I know aboutmarzipan?” Cousin Cornelius said irritably. “What does anyone know about marzipan? You eat it. And why the devil have you dragged me here at the crack of dawn if all you’re going to do is throw stupid questions at me?”
Ashendon sat back and, meeting Thomas’s gaze, shook his head. Thomas agreed. Cousin Cornelius seemed to know nothing. Either he was innocent, or he was a very good actor. Thomas didn’t know him well enough to be sure which.
Thomas stood up. “You can go now,” he told Cousin Cornelius.
“Well, I like that! There’s gratitude for you. I’m dragged out of the ball—and I was really looking forward to it—locked up like a criminal, then hauled out of bed at some ungodly hour to answer a bunch of dashed ridiculous questions, and then it’s ‘you can go now.’ Not so much as a ‘thank you’ or a glass of sherry.”
“Thank you,” Thomas said grimly. “Now go, or else I’ll—”
“Push you in a muddy puddle,” Rose said brightly. “Good day, Mr. Beresford, or should I call you Cousin Cornelius? I’ll show you to the door. What a lovely velvet coat that is. So unusual...” She hurried him away.
“What do you think?” Ashendon asked.
Thomas shook his head slowly. “I can’t be sure. He could be a damned clever actor—”
Ashendon gave a scornful snort.
“Yes, that’s what I think too,” Thomas said. “He doesn’t seem all that bright to me.”
“You don’t have to be clever to be ambitious.”
“That’s true.” Thomas had witnessed the cunning of the downtrodden, and the most successful manipulators weren’t always the cleverest.
“This Ambrose he mentioned...”
Thomas made a face. “I can’t see it. Ambrose... we were always so close, the three of us growing up. And Ambrose was always a gentle soul. He hardly even leaves the estate. Besides, what would be the point? Ambrose is illegitimate; how would he benefit from my death or absence?He can’t possibly inherit. There would always be an earl, whether it was me or Cousin Cornelius, or whoever is next in line after him. It can never be Ambrose and he’s known that practically since birth. So what reason would there be for him to plot against me?”
Ashendon shook his head. “Well, whoever’s behind your betrayal, this inheritance is certainly going to disrupt your plans. You won’t be able to leave tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
Ashendon’s expression was sardonic. “Because there will be a hundred papers to sign, all kinds of arrangements to be made—you don’t just up and call yourself Lord Brierdon and buy yourself a new hat, you know. There’s the devil of a lot of tedious paperwork involved. Believe me, I know.”
Thomas shrugged. “I’ll attend to it when I come back.”
Ashendon frowned. “Why wait?”
Thomas met Ashendon’s gaze deliberately. “Because all that paperwork might not turn out to be necessary.”
