An Early Engagement Read Online Free PDF Page B

scolded sharply while he, Uncle Morgan, was permitted to dally with Dirty Sal down at the tavern, chouse the stablehands out of their salaries with stacked decks, and make off with a few dozen bottles from the duke’s cellars on every visit. She would never tattle, of course, but Bobo would, or threaten to.
    Uncle Morgan always knew where Bobo got his information—the flabby little worm was too dunderheaded to figure such things, although he developed a fine sense of the principle of blackmailing. Morgan paid for his stepson’s silence, loathing his niece more with every farthing. Since the funeral he had been gloating over her, peacocking around, demanding even she call him by his new title. He’d been hard put to show the least sorrow for his brother’s passing, not when he was so busy eyeing each piece of furniture, and every painting and silver platter with a view to its value. He was bound for more disappointment. At least it appeared, from what Mr. Baxley was explaining, that while her father may have left Emilyann in an uncomfortable coil, he left Uncle Morgan worse.
    “But you see, my lord—”
    “That’s Your Grace, dammit,” Morgan snarled. He wasn’t going to get much out of this, or out of the smirking scarecrow, but he’d get respect, by Jupiter!
    “Yes, Your Grace,” Mr. Baxley said. “His Grace, that is, the duke, ah, your late brother, was able to petition the court for such a dispensation. He did move in influential circles, you know.” Inferring, of course, that Morgan did not. “With no male heir extant, no distant cousins or missing branches of the family, it is acceptable, although highly unusual, naturally, for the entailment to pass through the distaff side.”
    “Yes, yes, so the brat’s son would be my heir instead of the property and the title reverting to the crown. But what of the rest of his money, man?”
    “Ahem. Lady Emilyann’s bequest was by far the largest, with some small pensions for employees, et cetera. The income from the estates follows along with the entailment, which consists of land, titles, the London house, heirloom jewels, et cetera.”
    Morgan banged his fist down on the desk. “Will you stop with the et ceteras and get on with it already! How much money will I have?”
    Emilyann poured Mr. Baxley a cup of tea. He needed it. “Thank you, my dear. As I was trying to explain, Your Grace, the rest of the late duke’s fortune was his own, to do with as he chose. He chose to leave it in trust for the next heir, either your son, if there should be one, or Lady Emilyann’s firstborn. The money would be, again, held in trust until the birth of the child, then given to his parents to administer.”
    Morgan’s ears perked up. “Ah, and I suppose I am one of the interim trustees there, too.”
    “No, Your Grace. There is a considerable sum involved, you know, and the duke considered it safest left with his financial advisers.”
    “Oh, well,” Morgan said, almost reconciled. “I never thought the old stick would leave me more than he had to. So tell me, how much am I worth?”
    Emilyann showed great forbearance, merely plopping a lump of sugar into her tea with more noise than necessary.
    “That’s a difficult question, Your Grace. The holdings are extensive, certainly, but they also require a great deal of reinvestment to maintain.”
    “But if I sell the lot? How much then?”
    “Oh, you cannot do that, my lord, it’s all entailed. Otherwise His Grace could have left you out entirely.”
    Morgan could not dispose of the properties outright, but that did not stop him from trying to bleed the estate in any way he could: dismissing most of the household staff, not fixing the roof, selling off the racing stud. As he told his angry niece, he was not about to maintain the place for her comfort. He was long gone back to London and the gaming halls, taking Ingrid with him for a last-ditch effort to turn her up sweet enough to try for a child. She was not much