together,’ he said with a shrug. ‘My brothers, my cousins, Bella and her brothers and sisters. The estates all cluster together.’ He waved a hand vaguely in what I assumed was a southerly direction.
‘I can see you are concerned for her,’ I said. ‘That is neighbourly.’
Jerald shrugged again. ‘She was an annoying chit when we were growing up, but, yes, one has to look out for neighbours.’
I thought he was rather more concerned than his almost adolescent attitude revealed, like a sulky teenager complaining about his sister and then defending her furiously if she was in trouble.
‘Why not go and say something to her now?’ I suggested.
‘No. No, best not,’ he added, almost under his breath.
‘Which are your brothers?’ I asked, puzzled over his attitude. Perhaps he was simply gauche and uncertain how to behave in this situation.
‘Percy – my oldest brother – is over there.’ He nodded to where a taller, much more assured version of himself was managing, despite maintaining a suitably solemn expression, to flirt with a pretty redhead on the far side of the room.
‘He appears to have found a distraction from the solemnity.’
‘Of course. That’s Jane Peterstoke. The family live near Aylesbury. Not so well bred as the Jordans, but much, much, more money.’ His smile became spiteful and he turned abruptly and walked away.
Interesting. Of course, the junior branch of the family – Jerald and his two brothers – had no hope, short of a catastrophe, of inheriting the title and lands, so cash was far more attractive to them than the opportunity to enlarge the ancestral estates, which the marriage with Arabella Jordan would have done for the late Viscount. It was a useful reminder that none of them appeared to have a motive. Still, it would be interesting to see what, if anything, they gained in the way of legacies when the will was read.
There was a definite drift of the family members towards a far door, I noticed. Various people who I had identified as neighbours were making their farewells and leaving. Time for the will to be read.
Chapter Ten
Alexander Prescott walked over, spoke to Luc, and together they moved towards that inner door. Lady Radcliffe strolled across to me, took my arm and said in her carrying whisper, ‘Come and help me, dear. I have torn the lace on my petticoat.’ I followed her through a different door that took us into the hall. The footmen were all busily seeing out the neighbours and we were up the stairs before anyone noticed us.
‘They have gone into the ballroom,’ she told me. ‘I attended a dance here once and there is a balcony overlooking it. This way, I think… Ah yes, here we are. Ssh!’ She put a finger to her lips and we tiptoed in and found an upholstered bench in the shadows, a little way back from the parapet. Even if anyone looked up, they wouldn’t see us, but we had a good view of the room and were close above the table where a balding man was shuffling a pile of papers being handed to him one by one by a younger man. The family solicitors, I assumed.
They sat, the room beneath filled up and, with a great deal of whispering and the sound of chair legs being scraped over parquet, people settled down.
It was a large family with a considerable number of servants who had clearly been told to attend so they could hear of the bequests made to them. I counted the heads of over twenty people with, seated at the front, a frail, grey-haired figure, wrapped in rugs and with a manservant hovering attentively by his side – the new Viscount, presumably.
Gradually silence fell. The older solicitor cleared his throat, then, somewhere out of sight below us, the door opened again. He paused, stared in the direction of the disturbance and then stood up.
‘I believe you are unaware that this is a private gathering for the family, sir.’
Heads turned and a man came into sight: tall, dark, slim. ‘Indeed. And I am one of them, sir.’
There was an audible gasp and, as he moved even further forward, then sat, I saw why. He looked like a black-haired version of Adrien – if Adrien had possessed a complexion like dark honey.
‘I was right,’ I hissed to Lady Radcliffe. ‘Colonel Archibald had a son!’ Frankly, I was so stunned that my frivolous invention had come true that it was a miracle that I could articulate at all.
‘Perhaps you could identify yourself.’ The senior lawyer sounded warily disapproving.
‘Of course. I am Inish Archibald Prescott Kumar, son of Archibald Prescott.’ As the murmurs rose in volume, he added. ‘But not a legitimate son, as I am sure everyone here will be delighted to hear. However, I wish to pay my respects to my deceased cousin and to express my condolences to the family.’ There was the sound of a number of people taking a sharp breath. Then he added, ‘And, of course, I have some business to transact.’
‘They will have him thrown out,’ Lady Radcliffe whispered.
But it seemed the Prescotts were either unable to think of what to do, or were more tolerant than we had given them credit for. After a moment Alexander stood up. ‘Kindly take a seat, sir. Mr Blundell, please continue.’
The solicitor went thought the paper-shuffling, throat-clearing exercise again and began. ‘My lords, ladies, gentlemen. I shall commence with the legacies to the staff, who may then leave us.’ He ploughed through seemingly endless small bequests, some pensions and various gifts of personal items.
I tried to pay attention and note down anything that might possibly have been an excuse for murder, whilst trying not to speculate about the presence of the Colonel’s son. Illegitimate, yes, but could there be anything he had a claim to?
The staff filed out and the lawyer moved on to family legacies. I could see nothing worth noting in the first part of the bequests. Most of the land, and the houses and other buildings attached to it, were entailed and would pass automatically to the next viscount along with their contents and appurtenances – those things naturally belonging to them.
All Henry’s cousins “legitimately fathered” received a very generous three thousand pounds each, as did Miss Jordan.