The Librarian's Spell by Patricia Rice (ebook offline reader TXT) 📗

the court upon the word of the librarian, who is, as we understand it, executor of the librarian’s trust and currently represented by Malcolm Librarian Lydia Wystan.”

Fictional titles abounded today. She was no more a librarian than Miss Trivedi was a princess. But explaining that would undermine what very little authority she possessed, and the castle would end up in Crowley’s hands. That would never do.

The solicitors looked as if they’d swallowed toads. “I’ve never heard of the firm,” Dobbs muttered. “This is outrageous. Our office has handled the trust for a century. We are simply carrying out our duties by offering the best possible—”

“Your duties are to the librarian, sir,” Keya said without the fury Lydia would have spilled. “The librarian’s duties are to the library. The property you wish to sell is the library. If you fail to see the importance of a library to a librarian, then you fail to understand your duties.”

“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