Page 15 of A Match of Misfortune (Bachelors of Blackstone’s #7)
Chapter Eight
N ash winced as he opened his eyes, aggravated by the odd banging in his head. No, it was not his head, though his head certainly throbbed. Someone was actually knocking at his door. Not the door of his room. His front door.
He sat up and glanced around the drawing room.
Why the devil had he slept on the settee?
He remembered Rothsburg seeing him home the previous night, but he couldn’t recall why, once Rothsburg had left, he’d thought it a tolerable idea to return to the settee instead of going directly to his room.
Exhaustion and head injuries were not a good combination for making sound choices.
Now his back hurt in addition to his hazy mind.
At least one of his servants had had the wherewithal to keep the fire tended in the hearth.
The knocking continued, and Nash stood in time to hear the butler answer the door.
He moved to the curtains and drew one back, surprised by the softness of the morning light.
It was likely still in the eighth hour and far too early for visitors.
Unable to repress his curiosity, Nash slowly made his way to the drawing room door and peered into the entry hall .
It was Aunt Agnes’ solicitor, and he appeared as though he’d had a rough night of sleep as well. Or at least a rough morning. His clothing was slightly disheveled, though not more so than Nash’s own, and his hair stood askew along the edges of his beaver.
“Mr. Woods.” Nash stepped forward to greet the man. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Mr. Markham, forgive me for my early morning visit and my persistence at knocking on your door.” He glanced around skittishly. “I must speak with you at once. Might I come in?”
“Of course.” Nash nodded at the butler to allow him inside, then he led him toward the study. When Mr. Woods was seated across the desk from him, Nash leaned into the chair, wincing when the tender spot at the back of his head came in contact with it. He leaned forward again. “What is it?”
The man pulled out a letter, unfolded it, and placed it on the desk. “This arrived not an hour ago. Thankfully, my clerk was at the office early today. He rushed it straight to my house.”
Nash took the proffered letter, his head protesting the swift motion. His eyes roved over the official script, then dropped to the bottom to read the name signed to it. His gaze lifted to Mr. Woods. “Is this solicitor representing my uncle?”
“Who else would have found a second will after all this time? And with a different executor and beneficiary listed?”
Could this truly be happening? “Have you seen the new will?”
“No. As the letter states, it was submitted to the Court of Chancery directly, along with a notice of the development to the church court in Dover.”
Nash shook his head, trying to make sense of it. “Why would my uncle not simply bring the new will to you? He knew you were my great-aunt’s solicitor.”
“I would suppose because the Court of Chancery will issue an immediate injunction to halt the execution of the estate until the matter can be reviewed.” Mr. Woods shook his head. “My fear is that he also means to draw attention to the fact that we are not in accordance with probate laws.”
Nash’s gaze narrowed, not quite following. “How so?”
“You have already taken up residence. It is not yours until the will is verified and you are confirmed as the executor of your great-aunt’s estate by the court. And until the required fees have been discharged, of course.”
“That means … what exactly?”
“You must take up residence elsewhere. Immediately.”
Nash stared at him. “What if the will is a forgery?” He was certain it was.
It would not have taken his uncle this long to find it otherwise.
“You were Aunt Agnes’ legal counsel, after all.
Why would she keep you on and yet draft a second will through another solicitor without informing you of it? It is downright suspicious.”
Mr. Woods shrugged. “At this point, it does not matter. The injunction will be issued, and until the court can examine this second will and determine it to be falsified, I fear there is nothing to be done.”
Nash raked a hand through his hair, his fingers snagging on a tangled strand. “How long will this all take?”
“If you’re lucky, a few weeks. But realistically, it could take months. Years even. The Court of Chancery is excessively backlogged with cases. I have a few there myself, more complicated ones than this, mind you, that were filed years ago and have not yet gone before a judge.”
Nash did not have years. He hardly had months. So he supposed it was a good thing everyone always seemed to think luck favored him.
Besides, though the situation certainly was far from ideal, he was confident something good would come from it.
Perhaps that something had to do with spending a little extra time with his family and tormenting a certain young lady that was staying there.
He smiled. “Well, it is what it is. I do not doubt it will soon resolve itself.”
Now it was Mr. Woods’ turn to stare. “Mr. Markham, you realize that if the will is deemed legitimate, regardless of whether or not it actually is, you could very well lose the inheritance?”
“I realize. Though that will not be the case.” Nash stood, not the least bit concerned. “Thank you for coming. If you’ll excuse me, I have some things I must see to so I might be out of the townhouse by the end of the day.”