Seagrave is a married woman at the moment the will is read, the estate and tide are to pass to her eldest son—provided she divorces her husband within the year, and her son adopts the Luxford family name of Carteret.”
“Good God!” I cried, and stared at my brother. “What an inducement to unhappiness and vice! Might any woman be equal to refusing such temptation?”
“And is Louisa then empowered to act as her son's guardian and trustee?” Frank enquired.
Mr. Hill smiled thinly. “The late Viscount was hardly so forgiving. He offers his estranged daughter ample funds—some ten thousand pounds per annum—and the use of the Dower House at Luxford; but the guardianship of her son and the management of his affairs, including his vast fortune, will be undertaken by Sir Walter and Lady Templeton—trustees to the estate.”
“And thus we comprehend the benevolent activity of Lady Templeton in Lombard Street,” I said softly.
“Even did we charge Lady Templeton with acting in her own interest,” Frank countered, “the benefit to Louisa must be considerable. She might be returned to the circle in which she was born; her sons receive every advantage presently denied them; and her infant daughter be reared in the most select society. What mother could turn aside?”
But I was hardly attending. I was in the grip of an idea so dreadful I could barely pronounce it.
“You said, Mr. Hill, that the property was disposed in the above manner, if Mrs. Seagrave were married woman. “There is another provision, surely?”
Mr. Hill drained his Madeira to the dregs before replying. “It is a preoccupation of your Great Man, I find, to grasp in death what he could not obtain in life. The Viscount was a very Great Man; and his spirit of fun, shall we say, was commensurately large. Louisa Seagrave will inherit the entirety of her father's fortune, and her son become the next Viscount, without recourse to guardians, trustees, or settlements—provided that when the will is read, Mrs. Seagrave is already a widow.”
1John Nash, the foremost architect of the late Georgian and Regency period (1752-1835).—Editor's note.
Chapter 25
What the Lady Knew
1 March 1807,
cont.
~
“DEAR GOD,” I WHISPERED, WITH MY EYES UPON THE ceiling of the inn's drawing-room, as though Louisa Seagrave might overlisten our words in her poisoned dreams. “We must discover what she knew.”
Frank stared. “You think it possible …”
“That she arranged for her husband's dishonour? Paid off Eustace Chessyre to commit an act so obscene, the entire Navy must take notice, and charge Tom Seagrave with a violation of the Articles of War? Entirely within the range of her powers, I assure you!”
“But that is madness—to send her husband to the gallows! No woman could contemplate such an act! No wife could be capable of it!”
I did not reply. Restlessly, I commenced to turn about the room, my fingers smoothing the pleats of my gown. “What did Louisa know of her father's will, and when did she know it? From Lady Templeton, as lately as Thursday, when I found the two together in Lombard Street? Or far earlier—before, let us say, the Stella sailed in January under sealed orders? How much time would Louisa require, to effect her husband's ruin?”
“If she were well-acquainted with Chessyre—and he had been her husband's lieutenant for many years— very litde time at all,” answered my brother grimly.
I wheeled upon Mr. Hill. “You said, I think, that the Viscount began his decline a month ago?”
“That is as the papers would have it. But the death itself was quite sudden.”
“And the Stella Maris engaged the Manon some seven weeks since. If we would have Louisa responsible for Chessyre's plot, then we must accept the idea that she knew of the Viscount's provisions well before her father's illness. In a communication from Lady Templeton, sent during the Christmas season, perhaps? Or—if the Viscount's sense of fun, as you call it, extended to the torment of his daughter—in a communication from the gentleman himself?”
My thoughts raced as a fevered pulse; but the gentlemen followed as swiftly behind. We all of us spoke in lowered tones, in deference to the public nature of an inn.
“The moment of the Viscount's passing is immaterial,” Mr. Hill pointed out. “What is vital is the moment of his interment—and the subsequent reading of the provisions of his will. Mrs. Seagrave today is no different than she was before; but by the dinner hour on Tuesday she might be anything.”
“We may exonerate Lady Templeton of murder at least,” observed my brother ironically. “You have