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

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