Page 22 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
If the new will was found, Blythe would sue the new Earl of Chilcombe to honor the contract made by his predecessor.
He settled back into his chair and waited for Sir William’s return, contemplating his next steps. After this meeting ended, he would call on the Chilcombe solicitor. It was time to have a look at those records. And then he’d run Morley down at White’s.
It was a fact that Diddenton traded in opium, and Archie had been addicted to the vile substance. Would Diddenton have gone as far as murder to push the matter along?
Chapter Six
“What’s this all about, Blythe? It’s not as if Chilcombe plans to evict you.”
Seated beside Will the next day in the Chilcombe town carriage, Blythe patted her brother’s hand.
He’d been strangely silent on the drive home from the previous evening’s rout, as had Graeme, both men allowing Hermione to chatter on about the evening.
Will had obliged Blythe by accompanying her today when she’d met with the estate agent and visited two properties.
The first one, a smallish townhouse on a fashionable Mayfair square, had been out of her reach. The other, in Soho, was affordable but on the edge of a deteriorating neighborhood. She ought to settle for that second one, but she found herself dithering and wondering how long Graeme would tolerate her presence.
“Dear Will, you were away when I married and probably so young you wouldn’t have concerned yourself with contracts and such. Do you remember that after Mama and your father’s deaths, when you went into the army, I went to live with my old governess and her husband, my guardian, Mr. Davies, at Bluebelle Lodge?”
“I do.”
The childless couple had been very dear to her. Both had died within the last two years.
She told him about the marriage settlement, about waiving her right to dower. After compromising her reputation, Archie had balked at marrying her because of her pittance of a dowry. Mr. Davies had negotiated an agreement that bequeathed Bluebelle Lodge to Chilcombe after his and his wife’s deaths, and Archie’s will, executed at the time of their marriage, gave her the estate free and clear upon his death.
“The Marquess of Diddenton has come forth claiming there’s a new will that changes matters.”
Will frowned. “Is there?”
“He says so. He’s proffered a copy of what he says is Archie’s new will, granting Bluebell Lodge to Diddenton and leaving me one pound.” Her chest trembled and she fought the panicky anger that always loomed just thinking about it. “He hasn’t yet uncovered a signed copy, but he’s managed to hold up the settlement of the estate.”
Will’s mouth firmed and his face flamed. “If Archie wasn’t already dead, I’d run him through myself. And if this new Chilcombe thinks to put you out with nothing?—”
“He hasn’t threatened that. Not so far. But if Diddenton somehow conjures a signed copy of the will he’s claiming is valid—well, I suppose I will have to take Graeme Blatchfield to court. The Earl of Chilcombe will have to honor the marriage contract his predecessor signed.”
“He could buy back Bluebell Lodge. Why on earth would he give it to Diddenton anyway?”
She told him about the property dispute. “Diddenton wants it for a lime pit.”
“Sounds like a very convenient property claim.” His frown deepened. “What the devil happened, Blythe? When I mentioned your name last night, some of the fellows went silent. Others were swallowing grins. It was all I could do to not grab one fellow by his neckcloth.”
She glanced out of the window and squeezed his hand. “You’re a man now, Will, but you’re still my little brother, and some things I won’t discuss with you. I’ll tell you this much though. The last few years of his life, Archie was addicted to opium and other… other certain activities. He… entertained often. Friends with similar tastes. I spent a great deal of my time at Bluebell Lodge. Eventually, all of my time.”
“Did he—did they, these friends—molest you?”
She let out a breath. “No.”
There it was. Not quite a lie. They’d not had much luck with laying hands on her, but the damage to her reputation had denied her the society of most of her neighbors.
The worst had been losing both her son and the unborn babe she’d miscarried.
“Opium. Bloody hell… beg pardon, Blythe. Had Archie been injured? I knew fellows who couldn’t shake the stuff after they recovered from wounds.”
She shook her head. “After our son died…” She drew in a breath. That pain still festered, along with the resentment she’d carried for far too long.
They’d had a fierce row, and she had removed herself from the north wing where the earl and countess had shared a dilapidated floor. The wing had been built—grandly but poorly—early in the last century by an aspirational Lord Chilcombe. She’d moved herself to the older but more solidly built south wing.
“After our son died, Archie took himself off to London, took on a titled mistress, and dabbled a bit in the delights of the opium dens.”
