Page 41 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)

The young man rose, a grin splitting his face. “Lord Southwyn? Thank you for not drawing my cork. In your place, I wouldn’t have handled this conversation so civilly.”

Oliver cleared his throat. How could he explain the allure of the mere possibility of having Constance Martin? “Thank you for calling. Let’s work together to make a way out of this for both of us.”

At the door, Mr. Wellsley looked back. “I’ll hear from you soon?”

“You will. I’ll call on my solicitor today.”

Wellsley’s smile was almost childlike with his happiness. God, he was young. Yet probably a few years older than Althea.

Oliver blinked. The highs and lows of the last few hours were aging him like Methuselah.

Two days later, Sir William frowned down at the papers on his desk. “Why would I agree to this?” He plucked one page off the polished wood to wave it in the air. “A trust? I don’t think you understand how marriage settlements work, son.”

Oliver crossed his legs, resting an ankle on one knee.

“When my father died, he left financial chaos in his wake. Not a huge surprise to anyone who knew him.” He leveled a scowl at the man who’d been the late earl’s closest companion.

“The only reason the Southwyn name isn’t synonymous with debtor’s prison is the trust set aside in my mother’s marriage contract.

With her death, it passed to me. Father couldn’t touch it. ”

“That whole separate trust nonsense was the bane of his existence. Hated the bloody thing,” Sir William grumbled, reading through the text again.

Oliver smiled wryly. “Because it worked as intended, and didn’t name my father as the trustee. In the end, that document saved me and the Southwyn holdings. I wouldn’t be in a position to support my cat, much less a wife, if not for Mother’s family funds.”

“You realize, if I sign this, you’ll never have your ancestral lands back. Your father sold me those acres with the agreement they’d return to the Southwyn estate eventually. You may be the trustee, but you’ll only be managing the property, not owning it.”

Oliver shrugged. “As my wife, Althea would own that acreage, then pass it on to our children. It will become part of the Southwyn estate.”

Sir William sputtered. “Why not dower her with it? It’s the same in the end.”

Because the laws of coverture meant everything Althea brought to the marriage, except items set aside as separate estate trusts, would become her husband’s.

If Sir William deeded the property to Althea now, the property would only remain hers until marriage.

However, he was a horse’s arse and wouldn’t do anything so generous without knowing he’d get something in return.

So, the solicitor had drawn up the document to name Oliver as the trustee immediately.

Upon her marriage, that property would remain hers, giving her as much control as the law allowed.

Instead of explaining that, Oliver said, “This continues the legacy my mother left, of the Countess of Southwyn being an heiress in her own right.” Since discovering how Althea’s parents treated her, and the subsequent conversation with Sir William, anger had simmered within Oliver.

Now, he let it flare hot, although his voice remained icy.

Years of dealing with the late earl had trained him to handle bullies like Sir William.

The concepts were simple. Successfully manipulating a manipulator depended on preparation. Bullying a bully meant being willing to at least appear bigger, stronger, and meaner than them.

Now, Oliver wrapped his words in steel and allowed his displeasure to show clearly on his face.

“Sir William, if you don’t sign these documents, I will walk out that door and tell everyone what an utter disaster you’ve made of your finances.

Then, I’ll spread the tale of how you and your wife have essentially been imprisoning your daughter.

No vendors will extend you credit. Doors will slam in your wife’s face all around London.

Every creditor will stampede to your door. ”

The threat hung between them as Sir William’s skin turned a rather alarming shade of purple. “How dare you—”

The time had come to be bigger and meaner.

Oliver shot to his feet, slamming his hands on the desk.

“No, how dare you? How dare you treat your own flesh and blood in this manner? Even when I initially confronted you about your mistreatment, all you cared about was making Althea the Countess of Southwyn. But you underestimated one thing. No one treats my countess with anything less than respect. So, here.” He shoved the inkwell toward Sir William, who scrambled to catch it before it tumbled into his lap.

“Sign the fucking papers and ensure your daughter’s future.

After this meeting, if I hear one word of you restricting Althea’s movements or correspondence, I’ll make sure you are persona non grata in every house in London.

By the time I’m done sullying your name with the truth of your actions, you won’t even be welcome in the rookeries. ”

Silence fell in the room. Finally, Sir William flipped open the inkwell and picked up his pen. “You’ve a bit of your father’s temper, don’t you, son?”

Oliver didn’t answer. It was wiser to hold his tongue and allow his heart to calm back into its usual rhythm. Besides, Sir William had it wrong. It wasn’t the late earl’s temper on display.

Unlike his father, his mother used her position and power to protect others.

The last Countess of Southwyn had once thrown rocks at a man who’d been beating his horse in the street.

Oliver remembered being scared until he’d seen her determined, warrior-like visage.

Later, she explained that if the man had turned violent toward her, their armed footmen would have stepped in.

In the end, she’d paid the man for the horse, then brought it back to their stables.

His mother would have applauded today’s actions. The late earl would have equally appreciated the cunning way Oliver gathered everything into a leather folio without adding his own signature to the marriage contracts.

Outside, Oliver ducked between the carts and carriages clogging the street.

Next, he needed to write several of his managers and find the right position for Wellsley.

It wasn’t just a vocation the couple needed, but a house and the right environment for them to thrive.

Once he secured those necessities, he’d lay out the whole plan to Wellsley.

Today’s task had been the largest, trickiest piece of the puzzle.

Althea’s father had not balked at the deliberately vague language defining the trustee.

Sure, Oliver was the trustee for now. Upon her marriage, the document stated that her husband became the trustee.

Which meant Althea was now the proud owner of a property she could use to create a lucrative transportation canal if she wished.

Not only that, but she’d legally retain control over that property and have a source of income for life—no matter who she married.