A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(19)
There was only one “solicitor” who came here, and that was the administrator of his father’s estate. And although he was, at this moment, the very last person in the world that Alexandre wanted to see, he was one who should be seen. There were certain inconvenient provisions in his father’s will that meant that until Mother died (and may she do so soon, he thought), it was incumbent on him to at least put up the appearance of obeying.
“Send him in,” Alexandre said with irritation, and carefully capped the inkwell, cleaned the pen, and set the page he was working on aside, making sure the marble “rule” he was using to mark the place in the page he was working on was firmly in place. By the time the solicitor was ushered into his study, he was on his feet and presenting every evidence of affable welcome.
He knew what the man would see; a room meant for work, with the writing desk at the window for the best light, a good fire in the fireplace, plenty of lamps. Lined with books the solicitor was utterly uninterested in, for aside from law, he did not read. Good, solid furniture, a decent carpet, nothing ostentatious. If the man had had even half a notion of what those books lining the walls held between their covers—but he didn’t.
“Well, Master Fensworth, I presume this is just the usual tour of inspection before your firm deposits my quarterly allowance?” he said, with as charming a smile as he could muster, and holding out his hand to for the old man to shake.
“It is . . . although I could wish you would move to a more salubrious part of Battersea, if you are going to insist on living here,” the solicitor replied, with a touch of irritation and apprehension combined.
“But the rents are ever so much cheaper here in the north,” Alexandre said ingenuously. “Not to mention the services of my man, and my char. Good solid locks on the doors and windows ensure no one can break in. And my man and I are perfectly capable of terrifying any miscreant who thinks to accost us. I should think you would applaud my frugality.”
“I’m terrified of that blackguard,” he heard the old man mutter as he took a seat, but pretended not to have heard it. “Well, Alex, if I cannot persuade you, and since you do indeed seem perfectly capable of defending yourself and your property, I suppose I should applaud your frugality.”
“I have a three-bedroom flat for the price of a miserable little bed-sitter elsewhere,” Alexandre said, concealing the irritation he felt when addressed as “Alex.” He took his own seat, and gave every evidence of being pleased to have the man’s company. “So, what would you like to hear?”
“As you know, your father stipulated that you must be involved continuously in some form of useful occupation in order to keep receiving your stipend. When last we spoke, you were at work on a book of poetry. I should like a report on what you are engaged with.” The solicitor steepled his fingers in front of his chest, as if expecting to hear that Alexandre was involved in no such thing as a useful occupation. It had only been Alexandre’s pointing out that his father had allowed in his will that writing was a “useful occupation” as long as it resulted in a published book that had kept that quarter’s stipend in the bank last time.
“I have gotten my hands on a most extraordinary book,” Alexandre replied, smiling. “It appears to be one-of-a-kind, and handwritten. I am transcribing it—was doing so even as you arrived. I think the transcription will add something significant to religious history when I have finished with it.” He pointedly did not mention which religion it would add to. Indeed, it was not likely to add to any religion with which the solicitor was familiar. It seemed to refer to a religion all its very own.
The solicitor blinked in surprise, and a thin, but approving smile stretched his lips. “Well, that is an improvement over your book of poetry. Was that ever published?”
“Not more than a month ago. It is too soon to tell how successful it will be,” Alexandre replied, making an effort not to bristle. “I think this is a much more solid and substantial task. Indeed—” he forced a laugh, “—I do believe this transcription represents a great deal more work than anything I did at University.”
“Well, I know nothing of religious history, so I shall not trouble you to show me any of it,” the old man said, with a glance at the desk behind him and its stack of newly written pages. “But I can see you are certainly getting on with the work, and it is something of which I am certain your father would approve.”
It was all that Alexandre could do to suppress a bark of laughter at that. If Father knew what I was doing, he would be spinning in his grave like a windmill in a tempest. He managed to turn his amusement into a fatuous smile. “Then I hope, aside from my frugal obstinacy in living here, I have satisfied you for this quarter.”
“Oh, definitely.” The old man rose. “Not that I doubted you. Your expenses show no signs of . . .” he waved his hands in the air “. . . excessive spending. You do not gamble, you do not keep loose women, and you do not drink to excess. Your allowance will be deposited as scheduled.”
“Just in time for Christmas!” Alexandre said with false joviality. “And speaking of Christmas . . . does Mother wish my presence?”
“Your mother is still indisposed,” the solicitor said, truthfully. “The house has not been decorated, and no one has mentioned the season to her. Her doctors think that reminding her of the holiday would do her more harm than good.”