“I will not be lectured to by a female over a pile of ancient books,” Dobbs said irritably, taking the papers and examining them closer. “Miss Wystan is only an executor. An emotional female cannot possibly understand business—”
Lydia lost her patience. “The Malcolm library was established by women, has been collected by women, written by women, and run by women for centuries. It is only recently that a man has set foot inside it, and only because his mother was the Malcolm Librarian, and he had the affinity for it.”
Dobbs, the older man, glared back. “According to the trust documents, the librarian must prove that she is worthy of that position. To be perfectly clear, you are merely a caretaker until then.”
Lydia swallowed her terror, wrapped her fury around her like a shield, and held up her hand when Henry opened his mouth. “The Malcolm Librarian knows when she is librarian, as do the rest of the family, not outsiders like you. You are merely appointed to manage money.”
Then she pointed at Keya. “Miss Trivedi is heir to both the Trivedi and Yedhu fortunes, making her one of the wealthiest women in the kingdom. And it is her wise investments—a woman’s investments, mind you—that have grown those fortunes. Do not tell us women cannot understand business.”
Looming over them, Lydia glared. “If you cannot accept a woman as executor, then you are no longer suitable as the trust’s solicitors. Am I clear?” She turned and blithely smiled at Keya. “If you will persuade these gentlemen to reimburse me for the funds I have personally expended upon the estate, you may continue this argument or leave with me to file your papers. I have some shopping to do.”
Feeling as if she waved a flag for women and librarians everywhere, Lydia marched out.
She wished she also felt victorious, or at least like a real librarian, but she didn’t. Despite her bullying behavior, she was simply a foot soldier in this battle, not the general.
The very real possibility that she’d be revealed as the fraud she was would fuel Crowley’s fight to steal her home.
Thirteen
“Just stand back, out of sight,” the barrister ordered, pointing at the shadows of the courthouse chamber. “I’ll signal you when I need you. Half of courtroom procedure is drama.”
Max despised drama. He simply wanted to walk up, smash his fist into his cousin George’s nose, spit on his uncle’s polished shoes, and demand his money back.
He swallowed a sigh. Punching probably involved drama. Estes meant a quieter sort of theatrics.
Max simply wasn’t a man who waved papers like swords. He needed action. Hiding in shadows did not suit him at all.
Leaning his shoulders against the corner wall and crossing his arms, he watched his step-cousin and step-uncle stroll in with their bewigged barrister, fully confident of their success. His Uncle David’s once-golden head of hair was nearly bald these days. Paunchy in the gut, he still carried his wealth well with understated tailoring and glints of gold from his pocket watch and his tie clasp.
Cousin George was a bit of a dandy, flashing a heavily embroidered silver-threaded waistcoat and a fashionable single-breasted gray tweed cut loosely to conceal the fact that his youthful muscles were turning to flab. He couldn’t put up a good fight if Max punched him.
Even though this was an informal meeting, the judge strolled in in full regalia of robe and old-fashioned long wig. He took a seat at the head of a table. His clerk took a chair at his side. He did not indicate that anyone else be seated.
His uncle’s barrister presented documents to the judge in a bored tone, as if Max’s death was a foregone conclusion, and Max was buried under a tombstone in some distant grave. The man had to know there had been an objection raised.
Standing in the shadows beside the doorway, Max almost smiled as he caught his thieving executors casting surreptitious glances to Estes, who stood on the other side of the table. They probably expected Max’s mother to be in attendance.
Morgan had blessedly arranged a closed meeting. Max was safe from the females in his life for a little while longer.
The judge turned to Estes. “You object to this deposition, sir? It seems clear enough to me. The gentleman in question hasn’t been heard from in over fifteen years. I’m amazed I haven’t seen a petition sooner.”
Wearing a short, neatly curled wig, Estes shoved a few documents toward the judge. “The trustees of the Ives estate received regular instructions from Maxwell Ives until this past year. As is documented here, Mr. Ives travels extensively, building projects such as gold mines in South Africa and canals in Egypt. He cannot be expected to maintain close correspondence with men he assumed had the ability to handle mere financial matters without his aid.”
The judge studied the documents through wire-rimmed spectacles. “This shows that a Maxwell Ives was involved in these projects but does not prove it is the same Maxwell Ives or that he is, indeed, alive. I should think the gentleman has lived an exceedingly perilous life, and it would be quite remarkable if he has survived these endeavors.”
Max held back a snort. That was the comment of a man who never ventured further than his club.
“He has, indeed, survived, Your Honor.” Estes nodded in Max’s direction. “Mr. Ives, if you will kindly present yourself to the court.”
Max decided the shock on his relations’ faces as he ambled over to the table was almost as good as a punch in the snout. They recognized him all right. They looked flabbergasted. George’s jaw dropped open briefly before he snapped it shut and forced a neutral expression. Uncle David couldn’t hide his fury fast enough.
Max grinned and waved. “Hey, Unc, Cuz, most excellent seeing you again.”
“That is an impostor,” his uncle intoned, barely containing his anger.
The judge turned back to Estes. “Do you have witnesses proving this gentleman is not an impostor?”
“I would like to first ask that the trustees prove he is not an impostor, Your Honor. It is their word against his, is it not? I would like you to keep in mind that the executors of the trust are on the brink of committing fraud, perjury, and theft and are unlikely to admit to Mr. Ives’ identification. Since Mr. Ives has just returned to these shores after fifteen years, it will take time to collect witnesses from his youth. I would like to ask the court to impound all funds until such time as Mr. Ives is able to bring forth testimony to his identity.”
Max crossed his hands behind his back, rocked back on his heels, and donned an insouciance he didn’t feel. At this very minute, he loathed and despised his father’s relations. He clasped his hands to prevent bunching them into fists. He had to let the judge see that he was fully confident of his success, while the worms squirmed.
Who knew he could be good at drama?
He just prayed he wasn’t asked to read anything.
The judge harrumphed. “This is highly unusual. I allowed this informal meeting assuming it was cut-and-dried. I did not expect to have to inquire into lists of investments, trust documents—”
Mr. Estes set another stack of papers on the table. “We anticipated your needs, Your Honor. Indeed, Mr. Ives has provided a great deal of information in advance of his arrival, which ought to indicate that he is who he says he is.”
That was Morgan’s doing, not Max’s. He owed the man a fortune and gratitude beyond excess.
The judge picked up the top paper, then shuffled through the rest. The other barrister shifted uncomfortably, obviously itching to see the paperwork.
The judge pushed the stack toward Max’s uncle. “This seems fair enough. The monies are in trust already. I’ll sign these orders to see that they remain so until Mr. Ives can bring witnesses. Will a week be sufficient, gentlemen?” He looked in anticipation at Max and Estes.
“A month, if possible, Your Honor. We may have to bring the Marquess of Ashford, the Earl of Ives and Wystan, and the Duke of Sommersville to the court. They reside in the south of England and are busy men. It will take time to make travel arrangements.”
Max was quite certain the judge had to clamp his jaw shut at those grandiose titles. That was a ploy and no more. The lowly schoolboy he’d been had scarcely been remarked upon by the marquess and never met the duke to his knowledge, unless one of his cousins had come into a title. And the duke was a Malcolm, not an Ives, although he certainly had no reason not to be objective.
“A month then, granted.” The judge began signing the orders to impound the estate’s funds.
“Your Honor,” the opposing barrister objected. “If you impound the funds, my clients will be unable to feed their families!”
The judge stopped signing and looked to Estes. “Are these all the funds available? As trustees, have they been adequately compensated?”
“More than adequately, Your Honor, to the extent that they have nearly emptied the trust’s accounts. I have taken the liberty of adding all the investments that once belonged to the trust in those orders. My client wants a full accounting.”
The judge nodded and returned to signing. “If they haven’t saved sufficient funds or made their own investments, then they will have to ask Mr. Ives for an allowance. He seems well able to look after himself.”
Max grinned and refrained from whistling. His worthy trustees didn’t even look his way.
“A month, Mr. Ives,” the judge warned. “I expect you back here in a month with a courtroom full of witnesses to your existence. We’re adjourned.” Handing the orders to Estes, he stood and walked out, his clerk on his heels.
“Now I guess you’ll have to murder me to make me really dead,” Max suggested cheerfully to his relations as they headed for the exit without a farewell.
“Don’t give them ideas,” Estes said in an undertone. “As I understand it from Mr. Morgan, you have just impounded a fortune which they have helped to build. I trust you will have plenty of witnesses lined up or you’ll be dead one way or another.”
Max’s good cheer deflated instantly. Now came his punishment. In order to find witnesses to his existence, he’d have to face his mother and aunt. He wouldn’t blame them if they pretended he was dead.
* * *
Stepping out of the hackney with Lady Phoebe, Lydia proudly smoothed a wrinkle from her new lavender-striped skirt. It had been so long since she’d worn colors that she had to keep testing the fabric to be certain it was hers.
Pretending to be a duchess, if not a real librarian, she had left Keya dealing with the trustees. Lady Phoebe’s home wasn’t far from the solicitor’s office, so she’d walked over. Once the solicitors had delivered Lydia’s private funds, Phoebe had led her around to her favorite shops. Lydia now sported an elegant puff bonnet, with lace flutings and lavender and green flowers, from a shop where Phoebe knew the hat designer. Lydia touched it to be certain the confection stayed in place.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t be wearing black?” she asked, probably for the thousandth time. Lydia was a wee bit dubious about Lady Phoebe’s fashion advice since the eccentric lady tended to wear split skirts, battered straw hats, and ride penny-farthings, but she was the only aristocrat Lydia knew to ask.
“Mr. Cadwallader was not your immediate family. Lavender is perfectly suitable half-mourning. You need to look like our librarian and not a vicar’s daughter.” Phoebe led the way up stairs set in between two storefronts.
Lydia rather wanted to protest that she was a vicar’s daughter, but that was not conducive to carrying out Mr. C’s wishes. He had wanted her to take care of his castle for a reason. She was hoping Phoebe’s aunts might enlighten her as to why he had chosen her, which was the whole point of this shopping spree to look like a proper Malcolm Librarian.
She was also hoping Max would be here, crowing of his courtroom success. If he wasn’t. . . she simply couldn’t lie to a despairing mother. She anxiously clasped her gloved hands and prayed.
The door at the top of the stairs was opened by a blond, blue-eyed adolescent nearly bouncing in excitement. “Lady Agnes told us you were coming. Welcome, our librarian!” She bobbed a curtsy.
Wondering if anyone had curtsied for Mr. C, Lydia had no idea how to respond. Did she curtsy back? If the girls were lying in wait for her, then that must mean Max hadn’t arrived yet, or they’d all be surrounding him.
Phoebe tugged Lydia’s arm, forcing her inside the foyer. “Celia, I’d advise you to gather up all the giggling girls hiding behind you and return to your studies. Miss Wystan may wish to visit with you later, but we need to speak with my aunts first. Off with you, now.”
Giggles and flurries of skirts and petticoats followed as a gaggle of students ran out of hiding places and up the stairs. Lydia thought of Max walking through those front doors and almost turned around to stand guard on the doorstep.
Phoebe tugged harder, pulling her toward the parlor on the right. “You can’t flee now. I can’t take the Malcolm Librarian into my home without introducing you to the ladies. They would scalp me.”
“I’ve already met them,” Lydia whispered in weak protest.
“Not as our librarian. They need to be confident that you can handle the library or it will make them quite anxious.”
And undermine her position, Lydia understood. She had to play her part.
Of course, if Max walked through that door, the ladies would forget her existence. Lydia took some comfort in that, although she was disappointed that he wasn’t here.
Her new bustle wiggled as she walked. She wasn’t entirely certain why she wanted her bottom to look any bigger than it already was, but the dressmaker had insisted it had to do with the gown’s draping. And the lace-trimmed silk draping was very fine, finer than anything she’d ever owned. The skirt itself rather restricted her ability to stride quickly. She wouldn’t be crossing any fields in a gown like this—but then, ladies did not stride fields.
The parlor she entered was even shabbier than it had been six years ago when she’d arrived at the school’s doorstep. Crocheted doilies and woven shawls obscured fading upholstery and battered, ancient tables. Amid the clutter of books and ornaments sat two gray-haired ladies in all their old-fashioned crinolines and bows.
“Miss Wystan, how lovely to see you again,” the shorter, plumper one cried. “Sit down, sit down. Phoebe, ring for tea, please.”
“I just sent the girls scattering, Aunt Agnes.” Phoebe bent to kiss powdery cheeks. “I’ll fetch the tea myself.”
Lydia bobbed a small curtsy. “It is a pleasure to be here, my ladies. I hope my visit isn’t disturbing your day.”
“Nonsense, girl. Sit down.” Dyed black hair fading to iron gray, the taller, stouter lady patted the sofa cushion beside her. “Have a seat. Phoebe was quite right to bring you here. We are so sad to hear of Mr. Cadwallader’s passing. He was with us for a good long time. A very helpful man.”
Lydia cautiously took the seat offered, hoping the aging furniture wouldn’t collapse under their combined weights. Lady Gertrude was not a small woman. “Mr. Cadwallader was a brilliant librarian. He taught me a great deal. Do you recall why he was chosen? Isn’t it unusual to have a male librarian?”
“Indeed, it is.” Lady Agnes beamed as if she had chosen the perfect topic. “For centuries, Malcolms only had girls, so only women were librarians. The stacks were much smaller then, of course.”
“And then Ninian Malcolm married the Earl of Ives over a century ago, and our world changed.” Lady Gertrude polished her pince nez. “We finally have sons, even if they are ungrateful adventurers like dear Max. Mr. Cadwallader proved his ability, so we accepted that the son of a Malcolm Librarian might take her place.”
Even Mr. C had to prove his ability? How? She didn’t dare ask.
Lydia smiled weakly and was relieved when Phoebe hurried in with the tea tray.
They had worked their way through the teacakes and the ladies were questioning uncomfortably close to Lydia’s weaknesses when the girls upstairs emitted a shriek and raced down.
“It’s summer,” Lady Agnes said apologetically. “Their classes are done
early and they are excessively bored.”
Knowing Max had meant to call on his mother once he was done at court, Lydia gnawed worriedly at her bottom lip. Unable to explain, she rose briskly and entered the foyer just as the girls flung open the door and squealed some more.
On the other side of the entry stood Max looking shell-shocked at the wave of femininity pouring toward him. He raised his eyes, saw Lydia, and shock turned to panic.
Wordlessly, he slapped his hat back on and fled down the stairs. Before the girls could follow, Lydia slammed the door and blocked it with her body to cover the sound of her heart breaking.
He thought she was running after him like the others.
Fourteen
Max ran after the hackney and caught the driver before he turned down Cowgate. He had the urge to order the carriage straight to the port.
But he was no longer an eighteen-year-old coward.
He felt like eighteen, filled with rage and despair and not knowing where to turn. He’d trusted Lydia. He’d thought she was sensible, level-headed, and not inclined to escalate the conflict between Max’s gentlemanly upbringing and his animal nature.
If Lydia chose to push herself at him, he would not be able to resist. He knew it right down to the marrow of his bones. And other places. That she was at his mother’s house, waiting to pounce like every other female. . . His disappointment was immense.
Why was she at his mother’s house? And where would he go now if he couldn’t even keep Lydia at a distance?
Bakari was back at the castle. He’d have to collect his son and depart for parts unknown until he knew what to do with the boy. And himself.
He still needed to speak with his mother. How would he do that without being set upon by a pack of savages?
Leaning his head back against the carriage seat, Max ordered the driver to the nearest stable. This was insane. He had a tower with a key to lock it. The tower belonged to Lydia, so he’d have to leave eventually—after he figured out how to talk to his mother.
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