Gardener opened the door and cleared his throat. ‘Ladies, Mr Bedevere.’
Ashe stepped into the room, noticing the difference immediately. The curtains were faded, but the best of what was left in the house had been brought here.
There were vases filled with flowers on the side tables, pillows on the sofas, little knick-knacks set about the room for decoration. Ashe saw the room for what it was: an oasis, or perhaps bastion was a better word—a last bastion of gentility against the bare realities that lay outside the drawing-room doors.
His eyes roved the room, taking in the surprising amount of occupants. His aunts were not alone; Leticia, Lavinia, Melisande and Marguerite were settled near the fireplace with a man he didn’t recognise, but it was the woman seated just beyond them, by the window overlooking the garden, who held his attention.
She was of uncommon loveliness—dark-haired with wide grey eyes framed by equally dark lashes against the creamy backdrop of her skin. Even in a crowded London ballroom she would stand out. Ashe suspected she’d chosen her seat away from the others in an attempt to be discreet, a task her beauty no doubt made impossible under the best of circumstances. Today, in a room peopled by elderly ladies and a middle-aged man, there was no opportunity for obscurity.
Ashe approached and gave his aunts his best bow. ‘Ladies, I am at your service’, but his gaze kept returning to the corner. Her comeliness was not all due to her good looks. It was in the way she held her slender neck, the straightness of her shoulders, both of which said, ‘Notice me, I dare you.’ For all her delicate beauty, she was no shy maiden. He could see it in the jut of her chin and the frank stare of her gaze in spite of her efforts at anonymity.
Leticia swept forwards, white-haired, regal and perhaps more fragile than Ashe remembered. They were all more fragile than he remembered, except for the siren at the window. She’d been watching him since the moment he’d entered the room, no doubt wondering and assessing, just as he was now. She was no one he recognised, but apparently she was important enough to be invited to his homecoming. More importantly, she’d been invited into the household in the aftermath of a significant death.
Ashe was cynical enough in his dealings with the world to be suspect of such an invitation. The aftermath of funerals were private matters for families, a chance for the bereaved to mop up the particulars of the deceased’s life, re-organise and carry on. The weeks after a funeral were intimate times. Strangers were not welcome, although strangers invariably came in the hopes of grabbing a scrap from the table. Lovely, dark-haired females aside, Ashe had a word for those importunistic people: carrion.
Leticia took his hand. ‘Ashe, it’s so good of you to come. I am sorry we could not wait to bury him,’ she said softly.
Ashe nodded. He knew that, counting the time it had taken for a message to reach him in London, at least six days had passed since his father’s death. Even with all haste, he’d known he’d miss the funeral. One more regret to heap on an already laden platter.
‘Come meet everyone. This is Mrs Ralston, our dear Genni.’ She gestured fondly to the lovely creature at the window. ‘She’s been our rock in our time of need.’
Genni was far too girlish a name for the woman. She rose and extended her hand, not to be kissed, but to be shaken. ‘It is good to meet you at last.’
Ashe did not miss the note of censure in her tone, so subtly hidden no one would notice it except the intended recipient—or was that his own guilt-plagued imagination imposing its own frameworks?
‘Mrs Ralston, a pleasure, I’m sure,’ Ashe returned drily. Whoever she was, she’d already inveigled her way into the aunts’ good graces. He doubted she was a companion, at least not a successful one. Her demeanour was far too confident to play that submissive role and her clothes too fine. Even the simple lines of her afternoon gown of forest-green merino were cut with the perfection of a high-class dressmaker; the lace trim at her collar and cuffs was demure, but expensive.
From the looks of Bedevere, affording that calibre of companion made the point moot. But it raised others. If she was not a companion, what was she?
‘Genni has bought Seaton Hall for restoration.’
‘Is that so?’ Ashe said politely, but his speculations ratcheted up a notch. That probably wasn’t all she meant to take advantage of. A woman choosing to take on the responsibilities of an estate alone was quite unusual. Perhaps there was a husband at home? Leticia didn’t make it sound as if there were and there was no more information forthcoming. A young widow, then. Interesting. Young widows often had the most peculiar histories, some of which didn’t necessarily include husbands.
Leticia moved on to complete introductions. ‘This gentleman is your father’s solicitor, Mr Marsbury. He’s generously stayed on until your arrival so the estate can be settled.’
Ashe extended a hand, taking Mr Marsbury’s measure. He was an older gentleman, bluff and florid, reminding Ashe of a country squire. ‘Thank you for your timely note. I hope you haven’t been unduly inconvenienced.’
Marsbury’s demeanour was as firm as his handshake. ‘It’s been no trouble. It made more sense to wait for you to arrive since everyone else involved is already here.’
Ashe gave ‘Genni’ a cool glance. Did the unfamiliar beauty have a stake in his father’s estate? A kaleidoscope of unpleasant scenarios ran through his mind—if she was a widow, was she a late-life lover his father had taken? Did she hope to be provided for?
With that pile of satiny black hair and the delicate sweep of her jaw, Ashe had no trouble believing she could entice even the most resolute of men into a proposal, a difference of thirty years in age notwithstanding. Ashe raised his eyebrows in query. ‘Everyone else?’
Marsbury met his gaze evenly. ‘Your cousin, Henry Bennington.’
Cold suspicion took up residence in Ashe’s stomach. ‘What does my cousin Henry have to do with anything?’
‘Henry has been a great support these past months.’ The beauty spoke up from her station by the window. Ashe imagined he saw the quicksilver lightning of emotion flash in the depths of those grey eyes. Did the beauty carry a tendre for Henry? Henry of the blue eyes, golden hair and manipulative manners?
Ashe met her gaze evenly over the heads of the others. ‘Forgive me if I find that hard to believe. Cousin Henry’s only notable distinction, other than his penchant for collecting literature, is being the nearest male heir should my father die without surviving issue; a prospect, I assure you, he has long dined out on.’ Most especially, Ashe knew from London gossip, in recent years when Ashe’s brother, Alex, had no longer been a contender and Ashe’s own lifestyle seemed destined to place him on the explosive end of a jealous husband’s pistol.
Marsbury folded his arms across his broad chest and coughed to indicate his disapproval of Ashe’s comment. ‘Mr Bennington will join Mrs Ralston and ourselves in the study where we can discuss everything privately.’
Ashe noted Mrs Ralston looked up with surprise that was rapidly masked. An act, perhaps?
Ashe turned his hard stare on Marsbury, his voice firm with command. ‘Yes, we certainly shall.’
So, the reading of the will was to involve the three of them. Certainly not the ménage à trois he was used to, but the dynamics were the same: two on one.
Ashe wondered if the delectable Mrs Ralston and Henry had cooked something up together. She’d been quick to defend him and that had raised Ashe’s suspicions.
Whatever webs his cousin had been weaving in his absence, Ashe wanted it understood that Henry Bennington had no authority here, nor did pretty, dark-haired Americans. Ashe Bedevere had returned.
Chapter Two
The elusive Mr Bedevere had returned. The room fairly vibrated with the evidence of it even after he’d departed with Marsbury. Genevra was not sorry to see him go. In a span of minutes he had unnerved her as few people could. She needed time to gather her thoughts and settle her surprise over the summons.
Genevra turned her atte
ntions out the window, giving the aunts some time to digest their own excitement over Bedevere’s arrival. He was the kind of man who stirred excitement wherever he went. Power sat on his broad shoulders as comfortably as his travelling cloak. But she’d met powerful men before. What had disturbed her most was the sensual potency of him. He wasn’t just confident, he was seductive. His devil-dark hair had been windblown and rakish, his green eyes as hard as jade when he’d looked at her, his very gaze seeming to penetrate her innermost thoughts with an intensity that had sent a frisson down her spine.
If she could get through the reading of the will, she would make sure to avoid Mr Bedevere when at all possible. Perhaps there’d even be enough chambers done at Seaton Hall for her to move back home. That would certainly help her keep Mr Bedevere at a distance.
‘We shall have a party!’ Lavinia exclaimed to the others. ‘Cook can fix pheasant and we’ll put flowers on the dining-room table.’
A party at which Mr Bedevere would be the guest of honour. Genevra turned from the window, her hopes of quick and immediate avoidance sinking a bit further.
Melisande gasped. ‘Do you think we should? We’re in mourning.’
‘It will be private, no one will know and it’s not as if there will be dancing afterwards,’ Lavinia said staunchly.
She held out a blue-veined hand to Genevra. ‘Isn’t our nephew a handsome one? I told you he was.’
Genevra smiled and took Lavinia’s hand. If the ladies wanted a party, she’d give them one. The past months with the ailing earl had taken a toll on them and not one of them was a day under seventy. She’d ridden over daily to help and had eventually moved in to stay over the winter to be of assistance while Seaton was undergoing renovations. Henry had already taken up residence by then and she’d meant it when she’d said Henry had been a support, which was more than she could say for the errant Ashe Bedevere.
Perhaps the allure of an inheritance had finally been the carrot to bring him home. Whatever had brought him, he was here now. Having taken his measure, she’d do best to keep him at arm’s length. Forewarned was forearmed. She’d finally got her life back together. She’d learned her lesson. She wasn’t about to let a handsome man turn her life upside down again.
*
The study was getting crowded, Ashe thought uncharitably. He’d barely seated Mrs Ralston when Henry made his entrance, striding towards him, hand outstretched, a wide smile on his face. ‘Cousin Ashe, it’s so good of you to come.’
Ashe didn’t trust that smile for a moment. Most of the trouble Ashe and his brother had ever found themselves in could be laid at Henry’s feet. Henry had a habit of making others pay for his misdeeds.
‘So Aunt Leticia has already told me.’ Ashe replied drily. Had there really been that much doubt? Ashe made no move to shake the offered hand. He was gratified to see that his lack of a polite response gave Henry a slight pause.
Henry regrouped and took an empty chair, smoothing his hands on his trousers in a nervous gesture. ‘I would have been down sooner to greet you, but I was taking care of some estate business.’
‘It’s my home, cousin, I don’t need to wait on an invitation.’ He would not tolerate being treated as a guest in his own house. Nor did it sit well that Henry had sailed in here and commandeered the estate. Well, no more.
Ashe moved to take the upper hand. ‘Marsbury, let’s get on with your business.’
Marsbury settled a pair of spectacles on the bridge of his nose and folded his hands on the desk. ‘Gentlemen, Mrs Ralston, as you are aware, circumstances are somewhat unusual in this case. The earl has died, but his oldest son has suffered a nervous breakdown that has left him incapable of overseeing the estate. The title will, of course, transfer to the legitimate heir. Mentally incapable or not, he is still a recognised peer. Alexander Bedevere is officially the fifth Earl of Audley until his death. Should he die without a legal son, the title will pass to you, Mr Bedevere.
This is all very regular. However, in the meantime, there is the estate to consider.’
Marsbury eyed them over the rim of his spectacles. ‘In his present condition, the current earl cannot be expected to manage the estate or its finances.’
Ashe was listening intently now. He’d known the title wouldn’t be his, he hadn’t wanted it. He was perfectly happy being Mr Bedevere, London’s finest lover. But now, he sensed that Bedevere itself was in danger. The cold pit in his stomach spread a little deeper.
On either side of him, Mrs Ralston and Henry had their own reactions; Henry’s eyes contained a barely concealed expectation while Mrs Ralston’s hands were white from their iron grip on the arms of her chair. Henry was excited, but Mrs Ralston was cautious, perhaps even alarmed and trying to hide it.
Marsbury went on, ‘The former earl petitioned the crown for a regency to be granted, not unlike the regency granted during King George III’s illness. The petition was granted a few months before Audley’s death. Under a regency, your father was free to appoint any guardians or trustees he saw fit.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’ Ashe growled.
‘It means, cousin, that Bedevere, in the common vernacular, is up for grabs.’
Henry was all nonchalant insouciance.
Marsbury cleared his throat in censure of the indelicate translation. ‘Not exactly, Mr Bennington. I think it will become clearer if I read the settlement straight from the will.’
Marsbury withdrew a sheaf of papers from his valise and began to read. ‘I, Richard Thomas Bedevere, fourth Earl of Audley, being of sound mind and body on the twenty-fourth day of January, eighteen hundred thirty-four...’
The date pierced him. This codicil Marsbury read from was not some long-standing document. The alteration had been made the day before his father’s death. Ashe shot Henry a speculative look. Had Henry talked his father into something absurd? Had Mrs Ralston? Sick, desperate men were fallible creatures.
Perhaps more than one person had got their talons into his father.
The first part of the reading covered what Marsbury had already relayed concerning the transfer of the title. It was the second part that garnered Ashe’s attention.
‘During Alexander Bedevere’s lifetime, the Bedevere estate shall be managed under a regency overseen by the following trustees who have been allotted the following shares of influence: to my son, Ashton Bedevere, with whom I regretfully quarrelled and have not seen since, I leave forty-five per cent of the estate in the hopes this will inspire him to embrace responsibility. I leave to my nephew, Henry Bennington, four per cent of the estate in the hopes he will understand he has got his due reward. Finally, to Genevra Ralston, who has been like a daughter to me in my final days and who has inspired me with her vision of a profitable estate, I leave fifty-one per cent of the estate.’
Ashe went rigid at the implication. The estate he’d been reluctant to assume had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders, but Ashe did not feel relief. He felt anger. He felt resentment. Had his father thought such an arrangement was what he’d want? Or had his father thought something else altogether less altruistic? He could divine those reasons later. Right now his brain was calculating at lightning speed and discarding scenarios about this particular three-way regency. Had he been meant to align with Henry?
Henry’s four per cent did nothing for him. Aligning with Henry would only give him forty-nine per cent. Clearly his father did not mean to achieve a reconciliation between him and his cousin from beyond the grave. It served as further proof that Henry was no good and his father suspected it. From the insult-red beet colour of Henry’s face, Henry knew it too.
‘Four per cent! That’s it? After all I’ve done this past year?’ Henry burst out. ‘I gave up a year of my life to come here and look after him.’
‘No one asked you to make that choice,’ Marsbury said calmly. ‘Surely you chose to look after your uncle out of a sense of familial duty and not out of misplaced avarice?’
Well done. Marsbury rose a
notch in Ashe’s estimation. Henry glowered and stood up, making a hasty departure on the premise that he had a meeting elsewhere. That left only Mrs Ralston. She was beautifully demure, her gaze downcast, effectively hiding what must be a barrage of thoughts. She’d just inherited, at least temporarily, a controlling share in the governance of an English estate. Was she shocked? Was she secretly pleased that all had come out as she’d perhaps so carefully planned?
‘Mrs Ralston, I would like a word with Mr Marsbury,’ Ashe said, assuming she would be well-bred enough to hear the implicit request for privacy. She did not fail him.
‘Yes, certainly. Good afternoon, Mr Marsbury. I hope we will have the pleasure of your company on happier occasions.’ Mrs Ralston seemed all too relieved to quit the room. Perhaps she was eager to go up to her rooms and do a victory dance over her good fortune. Or perhaps she was eager to sneak off and celebrate with Henry at his supposed meeting. Together they could rule Bedevere at least during Alex’s life, which should by rights be a long one. It had not escaped Ashe’s mathematical attention that fifty-one plus four gave Henry a lot more control of the estate through Mrs Ralston. Of course, forty-five plus fifty-one maximised his own control of the estate quite nicely.
It was all becoming clear. Whoever wanted to control Bedevere had to go through Mrs Ralston. His father must have thought highly of Mrs Ralston indeed.
Marsbury set down his papers and folded his hands calmly as if he told sons of earls every day how they’d been essentially cut out of their father’s will.
‘Mr Bedevere, I think you come out of this better than you believe at present.
You will inherit in due course should your brother’s life end prematurely, whereas Mrs Ralston’s tenure will terminate at some point.’
How to Ruin a Reputation (Rakes Beyond Redemption) Page 2
