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

glance at her worried expression warned that heaving would not be the best path to her bed.

It certainly hadn’t taken long for news of his whereabouts to spread.

“Now I know how men were tamed,” he muttered, pushing back his chair. “Offered war or women, we’ll take the easy route every time.”

Phoebe looked at him strangely, but Lydia chuckled.

“Gentlemen, if you’d like to stand witness that I did not murder my uncle—”

Apparently having been informed of the legal battle over Max’s non-death, they pushed back their chairs before he could complete the sentence. His mother looked as if she’d like to join them, but Lady Dare placed a gold-bangled hand over her arm and whispered something pacifying. The women all stayed put.

“Pistols or swords?” Max murmured as they traipsed down a corridor lit only by oil lamps. Apparently the gas lighting was just for show in the grand hall.

“One assumes your uncle is not young?” Blair asked.

“He was younger than my father by some years, late fifties now, I’d wager, but hale and hearty. I doubt I’ll give him an apoplexy if I wave a pistol under his nose.”

“I’m surprised he came alone,” the inventor said.

Knowing the Ives family a little better, the good doctor refrained from commenting.

“It’s a tactic,” Max acknowledged. “He’s come here to show his true colors and browbeat me. He’ll not expect me to have support.”

At age eighteen, larger than most full-grown men, Max had scorned the need for anyone’s aid. He’d learned a little strategy since then.

He strolled into the paneled medieval hall as if he’d lived here all his life. He didn’t particularly feel like a king or even a lord. But he had to admit the wealthy surroundings gave him an advantage over the rain-soaked gentleman warming himself at the dying fire. The chandelier’s lighting had been turned off, and the wall sconces lowered to burn dimly.

His uncle noted Max’s companions with surprise. He recovered quickly. “Can’t face me alone, can you? Any impostor who would cheat an old lady is a coward.”

Oh well, so much for any hope of a peace treaty. Max crossed the Turkish rug to confront his step-uncle. Once, he’d thought Franklin a formidable man of admirable intelligence. Today, he saw a graying, rain-soaked bully clinging to his power.

“I believe it is yourself you think I’m cheating, since my mother has little left to lose.” Max countered the twisted accusation with truth as he never would have known to do in his youth. He proceeded as if they hadn’t just clashed swords. “Good evening, Uncle David. We’re in the midst of my engagement dinner. Had we known you were interested, we might have sent an invitation. You will excuse my friends for believing a visit at this hour might be an emergency. Surely you haven’t reached bankruptcy in less than a week?”

The fire gleamed on his uncle’s fading blond hair but concealed his eyes. His anger was only reflected in his choice of words. “It’s true then? You think you can marry into Lady Agnes’s insane family and steal a dead man’s estate? It won’t work, you know. I have witnesses to prove you’re not my nephew. Perhaps I should introduce them to your fiancée so you don’t cheat her as well.”

Max’s companions poured themselves whisky and leaned against the mantel, silently providing encouragement with their presence but leaving the floor to Max. He appreciated their confidence in his ability to defend himself.

“If you came here to insult me, then I must apologize for my youthful mistake in believing you as brilliant as my father.” Just to give his fists occupation, Max poured a tumbler of whisky and didn’t offer his uncle any. “In which case, I made a grave error, leaving you terribly overwhelmed by the difficulty of managing so large an estate. Does that mean Cousin George isn’t any help either?”

His uncle scowled. “Everyone knows Maxwell Ives has been dead for years. The poor sod couldn’t even read much less perpetrate a fraud of this immensity. You will never prove your case.”

At the mantel, the viscount-physician raised a wry eyebrow. “Is there no memory from your childhood you can drop on him so he gives up this folly, and we can all go back to our dinner? I’ve been told there is champagne chilling in anticipation of your announcement.”

Max shrugged. “My only memories of my uncle are of a stuffy office and books of numbers and discussions of cents and per-cents well above my head.” Max hesitated, recalling those days. “Well above my head, since I was most likely a very young schoolboy. Once my father realized what a disappointment I was, he left me in school or with my cousins. Since I left these shores at fifteen, there aren’t many memories to recall.”

“See?” His uncle turned to the viscount. “He has nothing. The messages purportedly from my nephew were written by men of letters, not the lazy dolt who could barely write his name. The recommendations in those posts are from that Glaswegian spider who’s been weaving webs around every decent investment in the city. Once he has his hands on the estate, Hugh Morgan will own us all.”

“Ah, forgive me again, sir,” Max said, biting back a grin as his uncle revealed his hand. “I failed to introduce you to my guests, Lord Dare and Mr. Andrew Blair. I believe you’ll know Blair as partner to the spider who will indeed be managing my investments once the court returns them.”

It was difficult to tell in the dim light, but Max thought his uncle turned an unhealthy purple.

“You will not usurp all my decades of hard work. You may resemble an Ives, but so do dozens of others I can present. Without proof, you are nothing. I will offer Lady Agnes a decent residence on the side of town not riddled with pestilence, and I will see that she has an adequate allowance so she may have the parties I remember she enjoys. She’ll see the error