Kitabı oku: «How To Ruin A Reputation», sayfa 2
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 attentions 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.’
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 sighed and shook his head. ‘You can appeal the process, of course, but this was a special dispensation from the crown and there is legal precedent for it no matter how unusual the situation. I do think it will be a waste of your time and energies.’
‘Energies better spent pursuing Mrs Ralston?’ Ashe supplied with a dose of sarcasm.
‘Yes, if you want to keep Bedevere.’
Ashe clenched and unclenched his fist at his side in an attempt to hold on to his temper. Again, there was the subtle implication that he did not have to assume Bedevere unless he chose to. He could leave it to Mrs Ralston and Henry. It would stay in the family and perhaps Mrs Ralston’s American ingenuity would protect it against Henry’s inherent stupidity.
Ashe sighed. It was time to talk about the American. ‘What did Mrs Ralston do to earn my father’s regard? Did she think to marry him at the last moment, but having failed to do that decided to influence the will with her apparent fortune?’ His tone left no mistake as to what kind of ‘influence’ she might have wielded; the kind women had wielded against men since Eve.
Marsbury, who’d managed to stay cool throughout the difficult interview, did look nonplussed at that comment. He was from the old school. One could talk about money baldly with other men, but one did not bandy about slanderous consideration regarding the fairer sex.
‘Mr Bedevere, Mrs Ralston could buy Bedevere ten times over if she had a mind to.’ Marsbury’s voice was cold as he gathered his papers into a folder. ‘Her “apparent” fortune is quite tangible, I assure you.’
‘You have to understand this all comes as a shock to me.’ Ashe held the man’s gaze.
Marsbury took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair. ‘Shock or not, it boils to one common denominator. You, Mr Bedevere, are in great need of an heiress and there’s one practically living next door with a shipping line and a hundred thousand pounds to her name. I’d call that a pretty piece of serendipity if I were you.’
‘That’s where we differ, Marsbury.’ Ashe fixed the solicitor with a hard stare. ‘I’d call it suspicious.’ This was starting to look a lot like a conspiracy: an estate that had been allowed to fail, coffers that had suddenly become prey to a string of bad investments, a recently altered will and a rich American living in Henry’s pockets.
The next question was—at whose door step did he lay the blame? Mrs Ralston’s? Henry’s? Were they both in it together? Maybe he was too cynical. Maybe the conspiracy was his father’s—one last attempt to order his wayward son’s life to specification. His father had thrown down the gauntlet even on his deathbed. Marriage to a woman of his father’s choosing was to be the price for Bedevere, for his wildness, for ever having left. Ultimately, whose conspiracy this was didn’t matter. The only thing that did matter was what he was going to do about it. Would he sell himself in a marriage of convenience to save Bedevere?
Chapter Three
The aunts were all in it together. Genevra had seen their conspiracy for what it was: matchmaking. She would do almost anything for the old dears, but she couldn’t do that. The last thing she was looking for was male attention even if it came with a set of broad shoulders and mossy-green eyes.
Genevra smoothed the skirts of her evening gown one last time before she entered the drawing room. The gunmetal-silk gown was one of her favourites and she’d need all the confidence it afforded if she was going to withstand the probing gaze of Mr Bedevere and the romantic hearts of the old aunts.
Dinner would be a polite battle on two fronts, even if there wasn’t the issue of the estate between them. The announcement this afternoon had been most unexpected. Not once had the old earl offered any indication of his thoughts. He’d been intrigued by the American management practices she’d shared with him and she’d known he held her in high esteem. But to leave her the majority share in the estate had not occurred to her.
She appreciated the honour the old man had done her and she would do her best for him. He had been a father to her when she had no one. But taking on the estate also meant taking on other complications, not the least of which waited for her on the other side of the drawing-room door. Mr Bedevere would not be happy or complacent about the current arrangements.
Genevra stepped into the room and her eyes fixed on the man standing at the fireplace mantel. Surely the old earl had not been blind to the implications created by giving her fifty-one per cent. He’d all but set her up to be a target for his errant son should the son decide he wanted the estate. She liked to think she was sighting her enemy straight away, but she would have noticed him regardless. How could she not? He stood there surveying the room, surveying her, like a king from his throne. Washing away the road dust had done nothing to diminish his aura of power. It was the hands she noticed first. Long, elegant fingers negligently wrapped about a preprandial drink in a way that conjured up the most decadent of thoughts. She couldn’t help but wonder what else he could do with those hands.
Quite a lot if his eyes told the wicked truth. She’d stared too long and he’d caught her. Genevra blushed. A slow smile on his lips said he was making her accountable for it. She looked away from his face with its straight Grecian nose to avoid the forthright heat of his gaze only to find her eyes travelling down the length of his well-apportioned body. Good lord, she couldn’t look him in the eye, and no self-respecting lady should look at him there where her efforts had landed. She’d try his face again—that was where normal people looked at each other, after all.
Then he spoke without a hint of animosity, his tone more reminiscent of bedrooms than drawing rooms. ‘Mrs Ralston, allow me to properly welcome you to Bedevere. There wasn’t time earlier.’ He might as well have said, ‘Mrs Ralston, allow me to properly welcome you to sin.’ How many women had he led astray already with that voice? She’d never encountered such a blatant sexuality before. Yet she knew precisely what it was; it was dangerous and it drew her as thoroughly as a magnet draws iron filings.
Years of hostessing for her father and then for Philip saved her from an utter loss of words. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance at last, Mr Bedevere. Your aunts have spoken of you often.’
Genevra managed a curtsy, determined to do her best for the aunts. Tonight was to be a party. The ladies were dressed in their best silk dinner gowns that had seen more fashionable days, but their spirits were high. The aunts, herself, Henry—all of them deserved a slightly festive occasion. Henry! Genevra’s mind tripped back over its thoughts.
She’d been so distracted by the handsome newcomer she hadn’t realised Henry was missing. ‘Will Mr Bennington be joining us tonight?’ Genevra’s eyes swept the room guiltily in case she’d simply overlooked him. Not that anyone would overlook Henry with his good looks and guinea-gold hair.
‘No, dear, Henry had an appointment to dine with the Brownes at the vicarage,’ Leticia offered.
Genevra furrowed her brow, trying to recall the appointment. ‘Mr Bennington didn’t say anything yesterday about it when we went out walking.’ Nor had Vicar Browne when they’d stopped by to deliver some items for the sewing circle.
Leticia waved a hand in airy dismissal. ‘He said it came up rather suddenly this afternoon. But our Ashe is here now.’ There was no chance to say more. Gardener announced dinner and there was a potent moment when Genevra thought the dark god at the fireplace was going to offer her his arm to go into supper. Instead, he turned to Leticia. ‘Shall we, Aunt?’
The regal Leticia giggled for a moment like a young girl. ‘It’s been an age since anyone’s taken me into supper, young scamp.’ She took his arm and said with a wink, ‘You have two arms, don’t you, my boy?’
‘Mrs Ralston, would you do me the pleasure?’ He was all polished English manners in his dark evening clothes, but the eyes that held hers weren’t mannerly in the least. Those eyes seemed to be studying her from the inside out, a decidedly uncomfortable predicament that left her feeling as if she was standing there naked.
The Bedevere dining room was turned out in its best; the long dining table was set with the Bedevere china and crystal and a vase of hothouse flowers graced the centre, courtesy of Lavinia’s greenhouse efforts.
In the friendly light of candles, one could forget the worn surroundings. There was a whisper of Bedevere’s past glory here, of what it must have looked like in more prosperous, happy times, Genevra thought. Mr Bedevere seated them all, giving her the spot on his left and Leticia the seat on his right. At least the devil had manners aplenty, she’d give him that. But manners and good looks made her wary. Philip had had just such a way about him and, in the end, he’d not been so very fine.
‘Are you enjoying Seaton Hall, Mrs Ralston?’ Mr Bedevere enquired politely after a creamy bisque had been set down in front of them.
Genevra smiled. Seaton Hall was one of her favourite topics. ‘Very much. There’s been quite a bit of work to do on the gardens, but I hope to have them finished in time for summer.’ The gardens were the first stage in a much larger plan she had to turn Seaton Hall into a tourist business. If Mr Bedevere was willing, she could do the same here and help the estate generate funds. He really shouldn’t object. The estate was in need and his ten-year absence made it plain that he didn’t live here. The experiment would hardly inconvenience him.
Bedevere cocked a dark eyebrow her direction. ‘Won’t you be going up to London for the Season in a month or so? I would have thought the entertainments of the city would be vastly more appealing, especially after a long winter in the country.’
There was no question of being in London. There was too much work to be done here. It was an excuse she’d long relied on and in time it had become the truth. Besides, the only reason to be in London was to catch a husband. In London, she would attract too much attention and someone was bound to dig up the old scandal. Genevra shrugged and said with a great show of nonchalance, ‘London holds little allure for me, Mr Bedevere.’ London could keep its prowling bachelors. Her brief marriage had not recommended the institution worth repeating.
He held her gaze over the rim of his wine glass for a second longer than was decent, long enough to cause a note of silence. When he spoke, his words were deliberate and commanded everyone’s attention. ‘Why is that, Mrs Ralston? London is generally held to be one of the finest cities in the world. For myself, I’ve lived there for several years and have yet to grow bored with it.’
Genevra had the vague feeling she was being quizzed, tested. There would be more questions she’d rather not answer if she didn’t take the offensive now. She shot him a quick smile, ‘Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? We can’t all live in London. Someone has to hold things together in the country.’
There was the slightest movement of his dark brows in acknowledgement of her sweetly delivered barb. ‘Touché, Mrs Ralston,’ he murmured for her ears alone, leaving Genevra to wonder if her subtle attack had done her more harm than good.
Genevra turned her attentions to the aunts. It was far easier talking to them than it was their nephew, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t aware of Mr Bedevere’s eyes on her, seeking answers as if he intuitively knew the answers she’d supplied were blithe smokescreens for the truth. It was impossible. He’d only just met her. He couldn’t possibly guess she was here because this was her refuge, because the rural backwaters of Staffordshire was one place where scandal couldn’t find her.
The rural backwaters of Staffordshire were full of surprises these days, not the least of them the elegant young woman on his left with her piles of dark hair and exquisite figure shown deliciously in a gown of gunmetal silk.
Ashe decided by the fish course that Mrs Ralston would have been a pleasant delight under other circumstances. Watching her converse with his aunts about their watercolours and embroidery had pleased him.
By the time pheasant was served, however, all that pleasantness had begun to work against her. Her answers about her presence here had been vague earlier and far too non-committal for his tastes combined with the fact that she was almost too good to be true.
Ashe watched her with stealthy objectivity as she cut into her pheasant; here she was, beautiful, rich, apparently disposed to a genteel temperament that pleased his aunts, and living practically next door precisely when he needed an heiress to save Bedevere.
His father’s intentions couldn’t be more blatant. The only thing more transparent was his aunts’ matchmaking efforts. If the efforts hadn’t been aimed at him, he would have found them humorous. The old dears weren’t even trying to be discreet as they flaunted Mrs Ralston’s charms shamelessly course after course. But always Ashe’s thoughts came back to the one idea: when things were too good to be true, they probably were.
All through dinner, he’d looked for a defect: a nasty table manner, a poor conversation ability, an annoying habit. He was disappointed to note that, in spite of her American upbringing, she used the correct fork, carried on flawless conversation without the slightest stutter and hadn’t a single bad habit visible to his critical eye.
It all begged the question: what was an attractive heiress doing here of all places? In his experience, such a paragon of marriageable womanhood should be in London, American or not. There was no reason for her to be in the country. That in itself was a point of intrigue. Why would she be here when she didn’t have to be?
There were really only two answers that came to mind: she was hiding, which carried all sorts of unsavoury implications, or the likelihood that she was fortune hunting—title-hunting, to be exact. That was the only fortune Bedevere had to offer these days and she had to be well aware of it.
Beside him, the mysterious Mrs Ralston laughed, a wonderful throaty sound with a hint of smoke, a laugh made for evenings and candlelight. She shook her head at something Melisande had said and the candles caught the discreet diamonds in her ears. Expensive diamonds. It had been a long time since he’d been able to afford to give a woman such a gift. They sparkled enticingly, lending her an air of sophistication.
It was all too easy to see how his father might have been fooled by her. It was also all too easy to see what she might have been after with her diamonds and elegance; perhaps she’d thought to marry his father before he passed away, no matter what Marsbury thought. That strategy having failed, she’d now opted to stay on and wait to snare the title eventually through the sane second son. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had traded themselves for a title. One didn’t have to be a sick man to find Mrs Ralston’s charms appealing. His own growing fascination with their dinner guest was proof enough of that.
