43. THE FIRST LETTER
THE FIRST LETTER
London, England
(Three months before the wedding)
Drasko was in London when the wheels of the game started turning—he received the first letter from the dead man.
Cream paper. Uriah’s personal seal on it. A diamond in the center.
Standing by the window in his office, Drasko stared at the letter for some time and couldn’t bring himself to open it.
The city behind the glass lay under a thick blanket of smog. The clock loudly struck noon.
He finally took a deep breath and tore the brown seal open.
Charles Hatchet, the Earl of Weltingdon, is to receive the document attached to this letter. He is to sign it as an acknowledgment and agreement to fulfill the stipulations on a day in the near future yet to be determined.
Completely perplexed, Drasko turned the paper back and forth, searching for something else, another clue, or more information.
That was it?
He had expected a more sinister task. Instead, it looked like he was sorting out late Uriah’s affairs.
So be it.
He requested his assistant to gather all he could on Charles Hatchet.
Turned out, that the earl’s late father owed a debt to Mawr Diamond Industries. The documents that came with the letter held the deeds to multiple properties as well as bank shares, collateral for the late earl’s debt that Charles Hatchet was to receive back when the stipulation was fulfilled.
So, Uriah is dismissing the debt and giving the property back to Charles Hatchet?
It was unlike Uriah Mawr to forgive the debts. So, Drasko dug deeper.
Charles Hatchet wasn’t poor but by no means wealthy, spending more than he could afford, raking up more debts as he drank and partied his way through London high society.
He had a paramour, an opera singer. He had a secret child he’d fathered with her.
But nothing else indicated his importance to Uriah Mawr.
Drasko was reluctant to visit the man the next day. But such was the agreement—he was to fulfill the tasks himself.
Charles Hatchet was an amiable short man in his mid-twenties. His expression was slightly hostile when he received Drasko, undoubtedly, on account of his late father’s debt with the company.
“You are not…” He frowned, then his eyes widened at Drasko. “Wait, but you are! You are most definitely the Drasko Mawr!”
His flat smelled of wine and cheap cigars. The drawing room chair housed someone’s dress and stockings, a bottle of wine, and two empty glasses on the table. So much for a titled man.
Charles’s expression fell. “This must be something truly important if a man such as yourself shows up instead of sending an attorney.” Realization rendered his face with an ugly scowl.
“If you came to collect, I have nothing to offer you,” he said too sharply.
“If you came to blackmail or threaten, I assure you?—”
“I do not handle those sorts of things. Quite the opposite,” said Drasko indifferently and produced the documents sent in the letter.
Oh, the glee on the earl’s face when he read the agreement, the way his money-hungry eyes searched Drasko’s when he asked, “Do you have an idea of when I am to receive back the rights to my father’s estate?”
“No,” Drasko answered, not bothering to add the courteous “my lord.” “I suppose, I will see you soon.”
Drasko left, and for once, he, too, was utterly confused.