How to Ruin a Reputation

‘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 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?