Mr. Moore pursed his lips together. “All I do know is that she has helped raise her sister since their parents died a few years back and is fiercely protective of her. Their guardian, which is their uncle, is a drunk and he has washed his hands of them.”
“There must be some way to convince Lady Eugenie to accept the facts.”
“What facts?” Mr. Moore asked. “Did you mention some when I wasn’t listening?”
Greydon inched forward to sit on the edge of his seat. “Now that I have a working theory, I will get some,” he said. “I just need time.”
“Time is not a luxury that we have. The judge is pushing to move this case up because people are demanding justice. They want Lady Eugenie to pay for what she did.”
“It sounds as if they are seeking vengeance more than anything.”
“Vengeance? Justice? It is all in the eye of the beholder,” Mr. Moore said with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
A knock came at the door before Davy stepped into the room. “Mr. Libbey has come to call, my lord,” he informed him.
“Who the blazes is Mr. Libbey?” Greydon demanded.
Davy held up a calling card. “He was your brother’s solicitor.”
Greydon flicked his wrist as he said, “Send him in.”
Mr. Moore rose and tugged down on his green waistcoat. “I will set up a meeting with Lady Charlotte.”
“She may refuse to see us.”
“I won’t give her that option to do so,” Mr. Moore said.
As the barrister walked out of the room, he was passed by Mr. Libbey, who was a short, round man with blond hair greased to the side. He had red splotches on his face and a hint of stubble on his chin. A satchel hung over his left shoulder, and he was carrying papers in his hand.
Mr. Libbey came to an abrupt stop in the doorway. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, my lord.”
“What is it that you want, Mr. Libbey?” he asked, hoping he sounded somewhat cordial.
Mr. Libbey held up the papers in his hand. “I have a copy of your brother’s will. I thought you might want to see it.”
“Bring it to me, then,” Greydon ordered.
The solicitor approached the desk and extended the papers towards him. “He hadn’t updated his will in some time but it does reflect how much he wishes to be left to his wife.”
“Where, pray tell, is that?”
Mr. Libbey leaned forward and ran his finger down the writing. “The late Lord Rushcliffe requested ten thousand pounds to be left to his wife and a jointure of a thousand pounds a year.”
Greydon’s eyes roamed the document, confirming what the solicitor had said. “I shall inform my father.”
“I already gave him the will for his review but he thinks it is far too generous. He says the estate cannot support that loss.”
Placing the papers down, Greydon said, “I shall speak to my father about this at once.”
“Very good,” Mr. Libbey responded. “I am pleased that the couple did work out their differences in the end.”
“I beg your pardon?” he asked. “What differences?”
Mr. Libbey gave him a blank look. “Did your brother not tell you about the divorce proceedings he was starting to instigate?”
“I know nothing of a divorce.”
“Your brother came to me and asked me to draw up papers for a divorce settlement,” Mr. Libbey shared.
