Edmund Southgate led, immaculate and polished, his smile rehearsed. Behind him trailed a small, bespectacled magistrate, exuding reluctance.
“Miss Montague,” Edmund called, his voice smooth. “I see you have not packed yet.”
“Mr. Southgate. Magistrate.” Lydia’s tone remained flat. “Welcome to Rosecroft House.”
The magistrate bowed and glanced at Edmund. “Mr. Southgate requested my assistance in resolving a fraudulent inheritance.”
“Only for clarity,” Edmund said smoothly. “I would hate for Miss Montague to suffer the embarrassment of an improper claim.”
Maximilian tensed. Lydia’s hand on his arm signaled him to let her speak.
“We will proceed in the hall,” she stated firmly. “The staff will witness.” Striding ahead, she took the central chair at the great table. Maximilianpositioned himself just behind her, while the staff lined the walls like a silent jury.
Edmund wasted no time. “My aunt’s last will names me heir. The supposed codicil is a recent fabrication.”
The magistrate nodded. “If you have the documents, Miss Montague.”
Lydia signaled to Mrs. Hunt, who brought a leather folder. With steady hands, Lydia unclasped it and laid out the letters, will, codicil, and diary.
She read the relevant clause of the will, then presented the codicil. Signed, witnessed, sealed. Edmund snorted. “A clever forgery. No expert?—”
“You have not yet seen the diary,” Lydia interjected, flipping to a marked page. “My aunt’s handwriting, weeks before her death: the codicil, the reasons, and,” she tapped the margin, “a warning to you, Mr. Southgate, to stay off these premises.”
A murmur rippled through the room. Lydia pressed on. “If you wish to contest authenticity, do so before a judge, not my staff.”
The magistrate compared signatures, his brows knitting together. “The handwriting appears identical. The witnesses,” he read the names, "are respectable. Absent substantial contrary evidence, I am inclined to accept these as valid.”
Edmund flushed, indignation flickering across his features. “You cannot simply?—”
“Enough,” Maximilian said, his voice low but firm. “The only fabrication here is your entitlement. Leave willingly, or be carried out.”
Edmund scanned the faces in the room, finding no ally, then met Lydia’s gaze. Whatever he saw there made even the magistrate flinch. “This is not the last you will hear of me,” he spat, then stormed out.
The magistrate lingered, red-faced. “I will file a formal report with Chancery. But in my opinion,” he added with a brief bow, “your case is sound.”
Lydia thanked him and dismissed the staff. Maximilian watched the last of them go, the echoes of Edmund’s outburst fading from the marble.
“You handled that beautifully,” Maximilian said, admiration in his tone.
She laughed, short and genuine. “I have always done my best work with an audience.”
A carriage rattled up the drive, gravel spitting. Through the window, a flash of blue and white and a plume of feathers appeared.
“The Dowager Countess Marchweather,” Maximilian murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. "Accompanied by two other ladies."
Lydia strode to the door and swung it open, her heart alight.
Beatrice, Countess Lorne, strode in, her peacock silk billowing, eyes bright with the promise of scandal. Beside her walked Lady Frances Seton, Duchess of Hargate, exuding an air of authority.
“Lydia!” Bea sang. “Did your cousin really try to toss you out?”
“He tried,” Lydia replied, a grin breaking through. “And failed spectacularly.”
Frances surveyed the scene, then offered a sly, approving smile. “Good. Lady Eugenia would have been furious to see you bested.”
"Indeed, she would," Lady Marchweather agreed.
Lydia curtseyed, the gesture playful. “Ladies, I have missed you.”
