Chapter Four A Most Improper Proposal
By the third morning of examining Adrian’s papers, Sebastian had reached the conclusion that death improved neither a man’s organization nor the patience of those left to interpret it.
Peter Fane had taken possession of the Ashcombe library before breakfast and converted half the room into a legal battlefield.
Bundles of correspondence occupied the long table beneath the windows, account books had been arranged in careful stacks near the fire, and two separate copies of Adrian’s will lay open beneath brass paperweights as though proximity might eventually compel one of them to confess.
Sebastian stood at the desk with the fragment of settlement taken from Clara’s blue book in one hand and an older estate ledger in the other.
The numbers did not align. More troublingly, they almost did.
A payment of twenty-five thousand pounds had entered one of the late duke’s investment accounts eleven years earlier, identified only by Sir Edmund Whitcombe’s initials and a notation referring to a family settlement.
Several smaller payments had subsequently been made back to Whitcombe, but they stopped after four years.
Bellamere appeared repeatedly in associated memoranda, once as security, once as “contingent recompense” and once in a note written by Sebastian’s father so carelessly that he might have been discussing the transfer of a horse rather than another family’s fortune.
None of it was conclusive. All of it was unpleasant.
“What exactly was my father doing?” Sebastian asked.
Fane, who had been reading a letter written in a clerk’s cramped hand, did not look up.
“That is a question I have asked myself with increasing frequency since Tuesday.”
“You worked for him.”
“I advised him.”
“You signed half these documents.”
“I signed documents containing facts disclosed to me. Solicitors are regrettably incapable of including facts their clients deliberately conceal.”
Sebastian dropped the ledger onto the desk.
“He used Bellamere as security for Whitcombe’s investment.”
“So it appears.”
“Then the property should never have been treated as Adrian’s to dispose of freely.”
“Possibly.”
Sebastian looked at him. Fane continued reading.
“Peter.”
The solicitor sighed and set the letter aside.
“You would prefer certainty.”
“I would prefer an answer without an adverb.”
“Then become a mathematician.”
Sebastian’s stare hardened. Fane relented.
“The original agreement appears to have been structured in an unnecessarily complicated fashion. Sir Edmund advanced funds. Your father tied part of that investment to Bellamere and to a separate investment portfolio. If the venture succeeded, Whitcombe received returns. If it failed under ordinary commercial circumstances, the loss remained his. However, if the funds were diverted or the agreement broken, Bellamere and certain associated assets became relevant.”
“Relevant how?”
“That is the difficulty.”
Fane pushed another document across the desk.
“This is not the complete settlement either. It is a memorandum referring to a trust provision.”
Sebastian read the first lines and frowned. The language was old-fashioned even by legal standards, dense with clauses about succession, settlement, contingent interests and the preservation of assets within the wider Harcourt family.
“What fool drafted this?”
“My predecessor.”
“I hope he is dead.”
“He is.”
“Good.”
Fane ignored him.
“The settlement was intended partly to protect Bellamere from being sold outside the family while your grandfather’s restructuring was completed. It created a temporary restriction on transfer.”
“Temporary?”
“Long temporary.”
“How long?”
“Until the final review of the Ashcombe family trust.”
“When is that?”
“Seven weeks from now.”
Sebastian looked up.
“That is absurdly convenient.”
“For whom?”
“I have no idea.”
“Neither do I.”
Sebastian read further. Certain disputed funds could be restored to a claimant outside the Harcourt bloodline if the claimant established direct entitlement before the review date.
Otherwise those funds reverted through the family trust unless assigned to a Harcourt beneficiary or the lawful spouse of one.
He stopped. Read it again. Then slowly lowered the page. Fane watched him.
“No.”
“I have not said anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was not.”
“You have the expression.”
“What expression?”
“The one men acquire immediately before suggesting something idiotic and calling it practical.”
Fane’s mouth twitched. Sebastian hated him for it.
“The clause is clear,” Fane said. “If Miss Whitcombe can prove direct entitlement before the review, she may claim the property independently.”
“And if she cannot?”
“Then there are other routes.”
“How long?”
“Potentially years.”
Sebastian’s expression hardened at the edges.
“She has six weeks before her father’s creditors act.”
“So you said.”
“There must be an injunction.”
“Against the mortgage holder? On what basis?”
“Pending recovery of assets improperly withheld.”
“Perhaps. But first we would need evidence sufficient to persuade a court that the assets were improperly withheld.”
“We have the settlement fragment.”
“A fragment.”
“The ledger.”
“Incomplete.”
“Adrian’s draft will.”
“Unexecuted.”
Sebastian turned away. He hated law most when it became accurate.
The fire burned low despite the chill morning.
Outside, Grosvenor Square was waking beneath a pale sky, carriages beginning to pass, servants crossing the pavement with parcels, London proceeding with the irritating confidence of a city unaware that one woman’s entire security might depend upon documents misplaced eleven years ago.
“What about the final will?” Sebastian asked.
“Lionel has acted already.”
Sebastian turned. Fane’s face had become more serious.
“What has he done?”
“Lodged formal notice asserting his claim to Bellamere under the document presented as Adrian’s executed will.”
“That quickly?”
“He was informed of the bequest yesterday.”
“By whom?”
“Likely Adrian’s other solicitor.”
“Other solicitor?”
“Adrian occasionally used a man named Sedgewick for gaming debts and private loans.”
Sebastian swore softly. Fane looked almost approving.
“Exactly.”
“When did Lionel lodge the claim?”
“This morning.”
Sebastian looked at the clock. It was barely ten.
“Efficient.”
“Lionel has always been efficient when property is involved.”
“You know him?”
“Enough.”
Sebastian knew Lionel more by reputation than intimacy.
He belonged to a distant branch of the Harcourt family, close enough to retain the name and appear at large gatherings but sufficiently removed that Sebastian rarely saw him outside weddings, funerals and occasional estate business.
Lionel was thirty-eight, polished, intelligent and socially pleasant.
He possessed enough income to be comfortable but not enough to satisfy his ambitions, which Sebastian had never regarded as a crime.
Ambition became objectionable only when a man began calculating other people’s deaths.
“Has he seen the earlier draft?”
“No.”
“Keep it that way.”
“For now.”
A knock came at the library door. The butler entered.
“Mr. Lionel Harcourt, Your Grace.”
Sebastian looked at Fane. Fane raised his eyebrows.
“Efficient,” he repeated.
“Show him in.”
Lionel entered two minutes later looking precisely as Sebastian remembered him: elegant without extravagance, neatly dressed, handsome in a restrained fashion and carrying the expression of a man determined to behave reasonably even when reason benefited him enormously. He bowed.
“Ashcombe.”
“Lionel.”
“I hope I am not intruding.”
“You are.”
Lionel smiled faintly.
“I had forgotten how refreshing Vienna has made you.”
“Sit.”
Lionel glanced at Fane.
“Mr. Fane.”
“Mr. Harcourt.”
Nobody offered tea. Lionel took the chair opposite Sebastian.
“I wished to speak before matters became unnecessarily formal.”
“You lodged a claim at nine this morning.”
“Which is why I came at ten.”
“How conciliatory.”
Lionel ignored the remark.
“I am aware Bellamere may raise questions.”
“Why?”
“Because Adrian’s affairs were not orderly.”
“That is generous.”
“And because I understand there was an earlier draft.”
Sebastian went still. Fane did too. Lionel noticed.
“I am not entirely without sources.”
“What do you know?”
“That Adrian originally intended another disposition.”
“To whom?”
Lionel paused.
“Miss Whitcombe.”
Sebastian disliked the way Clara’s name sounded in his mouth. Not because Lionel spoke disrespectfully. Quite the opposite. He spoke as though she were a useful complication.
“And you are unconcerned?” Sebastian asked.
“I am not entitled to be unconcerned. I am merely pointing out that Adrian changed his mind.”
“Did he?”
Lionel’s gaze sharpened.
“There is a will lodged for probate with Adrian’s execution and witness attestation apparently intact.”
“One witness cannot be found.”
“Clerks disappear all the time.”
“Do they?”
“When offered better employment.”
“Or money.”
Lionel leaned back.
“If you are accusing me of buying a witness, do so plainly.”
“I am not.”
“Good.”
“Yet.”
For the first time Lionel’s composure tightened. Fane intervened.
“There is no accusation at present.”
Lionel looked toward him.
“Then perhaps we may discuss the facts. Adrian had every legal right to alter his will. Whatever sentimental intention he possessed six weeks earlier is irrelevant if he reconsidered before death.”
“Sentimental?” Sebastian asked.
Lionel shrugged.
“What else would one call leaving forty thousand pounds and an estate to a woman he had not spoken to in eleven years?”
Sebastian’s expression hardened.
“Reparation.”
The word escaped before he intended it. Lionel regarded him thoughtfully.
“For the broken engagement?”
“For several things, perhaps.”
“You know something?”
“No.”
That was not entirely true. Lionel seemed to recognize it. He did not press. Instead he folded his gloves carefully in his lap.
“I have no wish to be unpleasant about Miss Whitcombe.”
Sebastian said nothing.