Page 3 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
Memories of the bright, cheerful, beautiful girl she’d once been flooded him. He held them back along with the anger that rose in his throat.
“I should like to see this new will,” he said.
“As would Mr. Fleming, my lord. He has only seen what is claimed to be a fair copy of it. He did not draft it. He had no knowledge of a boundary dispute, else he would have directed a review of the devolution of title among the documents stored at Risley Manor and Bluebelle Lodge. Mr. Fleming has been the Chilcombe solicitor for the last twelve years and is very careful about due diligence.”
“I see,” Graeme said. And he did. He’d known his cousin Archie was a villain; perhaps he was also an idiot.
Or the property claimant had blackmailed him.
“Mr. Fleming will certainly show you both the copy of the putative will and the original will, executed at the time of the earl’s marriage, as well as the marriage settlement, but they are held at Mr. Fleming’s chambers.”
“How long do we expect the matter to drag on?”
“As to that, I cannot say, my lord. The Pregorative Court of Canterbury was reluctant to proceed with this thorny matter until after your arrival.”
Thorny matter indeed. A will executed shortly before the earl’s death, a will that violated the terms of the marriage agreement—what had Blythe done to deserve that?
“The countess is challenging this new will?” he asked.
“Actually, it is the old will that is being challenged, as no one has seen more than a copy of the new one the earl is alleged to have executed.”
“Ah, yes, you did mention that.”
“Risley Manor has been searched for a copy, to no avail.”
Which begged the question, was there a new will? Perhaps he’d pursue that question with an inquiry agent.
The whole matter reeked of fraud. He couldn’t imagine why the court had not dismissed the challenge. Unless…
“Speak plainly, man. Challenged by whom?” he asked.
“The Marquess of Diddenton.”
Diddenton. Graeme dredged up a memory of a boozy dinner on board a naval ship in the San Francisco harbor where Diddenton’s name had come up. He was a powerful peer with connections to the British East India Company and the Canton opium houses, as well as highly placed friends in the Foreign Office. He was thus, perhaps, also a man with the power to help—or harm—a man’s diplomatic career.
Emory cleared his throat. “My lord, may I move on to a discussion of the entailed property?”
After Emory left, Graeme found his way to the busy taproom, the clerk’s news settling like a dark cloud around him.
If the few rumors he’d heard through the years were true, Archie had lived a sordid life. The solicitor’s clerk had confirmed that he’d died a pathetic death as well as leaving a bloody mess with that business of a new will.
The last time Graeme saw his cousin, Archie had been deep in his cups, celebrating his accomplishment of siring a baby boy with the countess. Graeme’s father, older brother, and an older male cousin, each in line to the title before Graeme, had been alive then too.
The title might be useful but he’d never wanted it. He’d never envied Archie anything except—for a brief foolish moment—Blythe.
He paused at the bar and ordered a pint and then made his way to a table, thinking. What he was sorely lacking was gossip. The sort that filled in the cracks, the empty pauses, and the unmentioned scandal.
As to scandal… He’d ruthlessly forced Blythe from his thoughts years ago. And yet… the news of his cousin’s death, hand-carried to him in the Columbia District of Canada, had stirred memories and piqued his curiosity. Blythe was free now. What sort of woman had she become? And how soon could he see her?
A pert barmaid brought him a brimming mug and he quaffed a hearty gulp.
“Ho, there’s a man I recognize.”
The voice came from a tangle of gentlemen who’d just entered. One of them disengaged and approached his table.
“Blatchfield, is that truly you? Are you going to cut me now that you’re an earl?”
“Morley?” Graeme stood and extended a hand. Manus Morley had been a schoolmate, one Graeme had rescued from trouble more than once. They’d run into each other in Paris several years earlier and Graeme, there serving on Wellington’s staff, had introduced his old schoolmate to Paris’s fashionable haunts.
