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“Your father was obviously a prosperous man, and I can see you have followed in his footsteps.” Blake sat back, pinched the fine pleats of his black wool trousers and crossed one leg over the other. “But your firm did not come recommended by my associates here in Great Britain. No one had even heard of you when I placed inquiries. Have you the sense it takes a man to get out of the driving rain? I haven’t the time for incompetence.”
The barrister offered a hesitant smile, obviously unsure how to take measure of Blake Thixton, the new Earl of Wessex.
“I can assure you, my lord, that I am quite competent.” Stowe brought his hands together, settling into his chair. “And now the estate can be settled.” He picked up a pair of round-framed gold reading glasses and pushed them onto his nose before reaching for a pile of documents on his desk. “As stated in my letter, some months ago when Lord Wessex died without issue, his chattels were passed on to you, his closest heir by blood as the grandson of his uncle.”
Blake’s gaze drifted beyond Stowe to the shelves of books behind him. “I never knew Lord Wessex, sir, and while I was born in London, my parents immigrated to America before I was old enough to walk.”
“Funny how that is, sometimes. Makes no difference to the law, though. By the laws of English entailment, you are the legal heir of the late Earl of Wessex.” He skimmed the document written with great flourishes as if it was the first time he had seen it. “There is the title, of course.”
Blake frowned. “Of little use in America. My business acquaintances are more interested in the volume of their merchandise I can ship than what titles I hold in society in London.” Tenting his fingers, he settled his gaze on the barrister.
“The title stands throughout the world, my lord. Many Englishmen now living abroad—”
“What is there besides the title? I’m not impressed with the pretenses of society on any continent. Is there land, Mr. Stowe? Land is something that lasts. Are there coal mines? Gold bullion, perhaps?”
Stowe’s eyes darted upward, over the edge of the document and then quickly down again. “Land, yes.” He cleared his throat. “A lovely town house on the fashionable West Side of London. Very nice. I had the pleasure of attending several balls there and more than one card game.”
“I don’t gamble,” Blake said, unsmiling.
“And a country estate in…hmm, let me see.” Stowe set a page aside and began to skim the next. “Yes, here it is. Cedar Mount, in…Surrey.” He continued to study the paper in front of him but said nothing more.
Blake allowed a full minute of silence to pass, then another, thinking about the many business ventures he’d left behind in Boston to come to London and claim this inheritance. He’d have wasted six weeks’ time on this trip by the time all was said and done, and now Stowe was going to tell him that the picture he had painted in his letters was not quite as rosy as he had suggested. Blake shifted his gaze back to Stowe. It was beginning to seem that the only good thing about this trip was the fact that he’d gotten away from Clarice for a few weeks.
“The money, Stowe,” Blake said, making an effort to keep his temper in check.
“Two hundred fifty-two pound.”
“That’s it? That’s all the money Wessex had when he died?”
“Of debt. He was two hundred fifty-two pounds in debt.”
“Repeat that last remarkable phrase one last time.”
“Of debt…”
“Of debt?” Blake exploded, coming out of the chair and slamming both palms on the desktop.
Stowe blinked but did not startle. Blake had to admire him for that. There weren’t many men who could look him in the eyes after one of his outbursts.
“But the properties are fine ones,” Stowe offered.
Blake sat down again, this time only on the edge of the leather chair. “I don’t have time to sell real estate. I told you my trip would be brief. I have a shipping business to run in Boston.”
“I…I’m certain arrangements could be made…I could sell the properties for you or you could hire a land broker, but…but there is the issue of the family.”
“The family? What family?”
Blake presently had no family of his own and found the entire concept bothersome in general. He knew marriage was inevitable and he did hope to have a son one day to pass the business to, but so far he had done an admirable job of sidestepping any serious relationships—including one with his closest business associate’s eldest daughter, Clarice. It wasn’t that he didn’t like women; he adored them. He adored them elegantly dressed for the dinner table and then elegantly undressed in his bed, preferably not speaking. He also liked maids, cooks, seamstresses, and even preferred them because they never possessed any expectations beyond their own immediate pleasure. They had no delusions that a smile or a pleasant word or a tumble in bed would lead to a marriage proposal and a mansion on the bay.
“I have no family!” Blake fumed.
“The late earl’s family, the Countess of Wessex and her three daughters by her late first husband—Lady Camille Stillmore, Lady Portia Stillmore and Lady Alma Stillmore.”
“You apparently know the family well enough to rattle off the names without looking them up, which means the countess has been here to see you. Perhaps she was even the distraught widow on your doorstep this morning? And the late earl made no arrangements for his wife and stepdaughters, should he predecease them?” Blake asked, again barely keeping his temper balanced.
“My lord,” Stowe said delicately, “rarely do men think they are going to die. Some even fear that if they do make preparations, it will hurry them on their way.”
Blake smiled and looked away. It was truer than he or any man cared to admit. His own father, a cold, hard man but an astute entrepreneur, had died without leaving a will or any means to support his wife, Blake’s stepmother. Had it not been for Blake, she would have been penniless and on the street, because like his English father before him, Josiah Thixton had left all he possessed to his eldest. Not that Blake begrudged his stepmother one penny of his inheritance—he saw that she continued to live in the manner in which she was accustomed until she died—but he had always wondered why his father had not guaranteed that.
