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.’
Marsbury had said absolutely the wrong thing. Ashe fought the urge to reach across the desk and seize Marsbury by the lapels in spite of his earlier favourable outlook towards the man. ‘Is that supposed to console me? Because I assure you, it does not. There’s nothing I’d like better than to have my father alive and my brother restored to his right mind.’
‘Mr Bedevere, I can see you’re disappointed.’
‘I’d say disappointed is an understatement, Mr Marsbury. Let’s be clear about this. I am mad as hell and, for the record, nobody takes what’s mine, not an upstart American who has somehow weaseled her way into the family, nor my cousin.’ Growing up, Henry had always been a snake in the grass as far as Ashe was concerned. He was not getting his hands on Bedevere. Henry would run through the estate within a year.
Apparently most of Marsbury’s clients took bad news sitting down. Having no idea how to respond to the blunt remark, Marsbury cleared his throat again and glanced meaningfully at the documents. The man was positively tubercular. If he cleared his throat one more time, Ashe thought he just might leap across the desk anyway.
‘Don’t think I cannot see what my father has done.’ Ashe fixed Marsbury with a hard stare. ‘He is mandating marriage without saying the words. The man who weds Mrs Ralston will gain control of her shares upon marriage.’
‘That is your construction,’ Marsbury said firmly.
‘And Henry’s too, no doubt, once he arrives at it,’ Ashe said coldly. Henry had never been quick. ‘It will be a race now to see who can woo the lovely American to the altar.’ He paused in contemplation. Every scrap and speck of human nature went back to motives, his father’s nature notwithstanding. ‘Can you tell me, Mr Marsbury, why my father would have wanted that?’
Marsbury cleared his damned throat. ‘Bedevere needs an heiress, sir.’
Marsbury’s announcement was the final coup de grâce. Ashe felt the quiet words like a blow to the stomach. Bedevere was debt ridden? How was that possible? His father had always been a strict and diligent steward of the funds. Sometimes too strict for a young man about town, but Bedevere’s coffers had always been full.
‘How bad is it?’ He’d not anticipated this. But neither had he anticipated contesting Henry for his own inheritance.
Marsbury met his gaze, his tone matter of fact. ‘The money is all gone. Your brother went and lost it a few years ago in some fool land investment that turned out to be a swindle.’
‘The Forsyth scandal?’ Ashe said with no small amount of disbelief. Three years ago, London had been rocked by the land swindle. It had dominated the newspapers. Shares of a Caribbean island had been sold to merchants and nobles looking to invest in New World property. The problem had been that the island did exist, but it had turned out to be swampy and infested with tropical disease. The shares were valid, but worth nothing. Ashe knew several people who’d lost money, but he’d never imagined his brother would be caught up in it. Alex had always been too intelligent, too reserved for rash behaviours.
Marsbury nodded in confirmation. ‘That was the major one.’
Lucifer’s stones, there’d been others? The sensation of guilt returned. If he’d come home when first asked, he might have caught his brother in time. Three years past would have put the incident right before Alex’s breakdown. Perhaps his brother’s faculties had been failing even then to have taken such an unprecedented risk.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing left?’ Ashe put the question to Marsbury.
‘I’ve looked over the books. Mr Bennington has looked over the books. No stone has been left unturned, or in this case, bled.’
Henry had looked over the books? Henry had known Bedevere’s assets and worth right down to the last farthing and done nothing? Arguing Henry had known and done nothing made Ashe look like a hypocrite, even to himself. In the years of Bedevere’s demise, he had done nothing either. Yet it seemed as though Henry’s crime was the worse. He had been unaware, but Henry had allowed it to happen.
‘Can I challenge this will?’
Marsbury