there were double accounts and plenty of avuncular debt, all run up to the viscountcy, backed by the title’s property and good name.
The genuine heir, beside her, was presently transferring a great deal of foreign currencies, converting other assets to cash, selling land, keeping them carefully separate from the mess of the estate.
All of which, theoretically, Emma wrote down in small, tidy unreadable symbols that she fancied looked a great deal like shorthand. If only these symbols had meant something, for she herself might have liked to think this story through again sometime.
It took half an hour for them to get down to the specifics, wherein Mr. Hemple, the bank’s governor, cleared his throat and untied a big leather-bound folder. There was a stack of papers within it: loan notes to be signed. Mount Villiars was taking out personal loans, wary of enmeshing himself in the viscountcy’s monies till his uncle’s damage was sorted out and covered. The governor read out the content of a promissory note for fifteen thousand pounds sterling, no less, un-guaranteed, extended simply in view of the returning Englishman’s new title. Thus began a trail of papers, passed to the viscount’s solicitors, who each read a sheaf as it cameby them, then passed it round the table toward her, then the viscount himself.
As she handed him the first sheet, Mount Villiars turned toward her, tilting his hat up slightly to where she could see his dark eyes again (they had circles under them as if he didn’t sleep well), and stared at her a long moment.
“Did you”—his pause—“get that?”
“What?”
“What Mr. Hemple said. About the loan being due.”
“Yes.” No. She looked down at her several pages now of gibberish. Happily, she was fairly sure no one around her knew shorthand either. She certainly hoped the viscount had a good memory—
Then she prayed he didn’t.
He asked, “Could you please read me the las-s-st ”—the esses stretched out, unhurried—“paragraph? I’ve lost my train of thought.”
She wet her lips, stared at him, then down at the tablet. Her eyes grew hot. She could see nothing, not even her own scribbles. Think, think, she told herself. What had they been saying? She said what first came to mind: “That the undersigned, Stuart Winston Aysgarth, the sixth Viscount Mount—”
“That’s not it. The date and details.”
“Oh.” She turned a page of scribbles and tried to remember. “On the seventh of April will hereby—”
“It was the tenth.”
Emma let her dismay show, exaggerating it in fact. “Did I get it wrong?” she asked meekly. She scratched out a line, then jotted furiously. “I have it then. Go on. I have it now.”
The viscount looked at her a long minute as he unbuttoned his frock coat—it was warm in the room—and leaned back against the rich greatcoat behind him draped over his chair. He said, “My secretaries have always used Pitman.”
“I don’t,” she said quickly. The vest beneath his dark frock coat was surprising: bright blue silk. She stared at it.
He said, “I presently have two, who both had to leave unexpectedly.” The information held no judgment, no accusation, yet Emma felt a little tingle of heat.
She forced a smile. “Good thing, then, I could be here.”
He continued to stare, unnerving her with his silent gaze. Then he nodded once, looked back at the stack of papers accumulating before him, and let out a sigh strong enough to flutter the next page passed to him as it settled on top of the others.
The stack grew. The Viscount Mount Villiars, soon to be one of the richest men in England, was bridging the gap between the present and when the bulk of his personal investments, mostly in French francs and in properties being sold abroad, could be converted to English currency and his use. And ultimately, of course, till the viscountcy would be his alone, unhindered by questionable debt. He needed two accounts to do it, a personal one
The genuine heir, beside her, was presently transferring a great deal of foreign currencies, converting other assets to cash, selling land, keeping them carefully separate from the mess of the estate.
All of which, theoretically, Emma wrote down in small, tidy unreadable symbols that she fancied looked a great deal like shorthand. If only these symbols had meant something, for she herself might have liked to think this story through again sometime.
It took half an hour for them to get down to the specifics, wherein Mr. Hemple, the bank’s governor, cleared his throat and untied a big leather-bound folder. There was a stack of papers within it: loan notes to be signed. Mount Villiars was taking out personal loans, wary of enmeshing himself in the viscountcy’s monies till his uncle’s damage was sorted out and covered. The governor read out the content of a promissory note for fifteen thousand pounds sterling, no less, un-guaranteed, extended simply in view of the returning Englishman’s new title. Thus began a trail of papers, passed to the viscount’s solicitors, who each read a sheaf as it cameby them, then passed it round the table toward her, then the viscount himself.
As she handed him the first sheet, Mount Villiars turned toward her, tilting his hat up slightly to where she could see his dark eyes again (they had circles under them as if he didn’t sleep well), and stared at her a long moment.
“Did you”—his pause—“get that?”
“What?”
“What Mr. Hemple said. About the loan being due.”
“Yes.” No. She looked down at her several pages now of gibberish. Happily, she was fairly sure no one around her knew shorthand either. She certainly hoped the viscount had a good memory—
Then she prayed he didn’t.
He asked, “Could you please read me the las-s-st ”—the esses stretched out, unhurried—“paragraph? I’ve lost my train of thought.”
She wet her lips, stared at him, then down at the tablet. Her eyes grew hot. She could see nothing, not even her own scribbles. Think, think, she told herself. What had they been saying? She said what first came to mind: “That the undersigned, Stuart Winston Aysgarth, the sixth Viscount Mount—”
“That’s not it. The date and details.”
“Oh.” She turned a page of scribbles and tried to remember. “On the seventh of April will hereby—”
“It was the tenth.”
Emma let her dismay show, exaggerating it in fact. “Did I get it wrong?” she asked meekly. She scratched out a line, then jotted furiously. “I have it then. Go on. I have it now.”
The viscount looked at her a long minute as he unbuttoned his frock coat—it was warm in the room—and leaned back against the rich greatcoat behind him draped over his chair. He said, “My secretaries have always used Pitman.”
“I don’t,” she said quickly. The vest beneath his dark frock coat was surprising: bright blue silk. She stared at it.
He said, “I presently have two, who both had to leave unexpectedly.” The information held no judgment, no accusation, yet Emma felt a little tingle of heat.
She forced a smile. “Good thing, then, I could be here.”
He continued to stare, unnerving her with his silent gaze. Then he nodded once, looked back at the stack of papers accumulating before him, and let out a sigh strong enough to flutter the next page passed to him as it settled on top of the others.
The stack grew. The Viscount Mount Villiars, soon to be one of the richest men in England, was bridging the gap between the present and when the bulk of his personal investments, mostly in French francs and in properties being sold abroad, could be converted to English currency and his use. And ultimately, of course, till the viscountcy would be his alone, unhindered by questionable debt. He needed two accounts to do it, a personal one
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