Page 44 of When the Scoundrel Sins

“Ah, good! Very good.” The solicitor smiled appreciatively at the quality of the scotch. “Good land, then?”

“Rich bottomland along the Ashley River.”

Quinn took a small swallow of whisky, seeking comfort in the golden liquid. Bartleby’s innocent curiosity served only to remind him that he needed to leave soon, or Asa Jeffers would have to sell the land to someone else. And he would break his promise to his father. He should have left two weeks ago, in fact.

Bartleby shook his head. “’Fraid I can’t help you with anything in the colonies regarding your property.”

“I’m here for local matters, actually.”

“That’s a different matter entirely, then.” The man smiled, pleased to be of help. “What services can I provide to you, Lord Quinton?”

Quinn refilled the man’s glass. “I’m curious about Annabelle Greene’s inheritance from my great uncle, the late Lord Ainsley.”

“Ah, protecting her, are you?” Bartleby leaned back in his chair with a knowing smile. “We’re all quite fond of her—a good and kind lass, even if her choice in dress is a bit…unconventional at times.”

Good Lord.Was there no one who hadn’t seen Belle dressed in men’s clothing? He answered casually with a patient smile, “She is unconventional, I’ll admit.”

“Yet we all think highly of her. I, myself, think of her with as much fondness as I do my sisters.” He gestured his glass at Quinn. “You must carry the same affection for her yourself.”

Quinn grimaced inwardly. The affection he carried for Annabelle was far from sisterly. “So you understand my concern. Are you familiar with the terms of the will?”

“Of course! I was the one who helped the late Lord Ainsley fifteen years ago when he wrote it.”

There!There it was. The reason he’d come here this afternoon with Aunt Agatha’s best scotch in hand. If anyone could find a way to help Belle, it was Bartleby.

“The stipulation was my idea. Even then I knew marriage was the right path for her.” The solicitor smiled proudly, and Quinn resisted the urge to plow his fist into the man’s face in retribution for what he’d inadvertently done to Belle. “Glenarvon isn’t a demanding property to manage, but estate oversight isn’t fit for a woman’s gentler sensibilities.”

Quinn remembered how Annabelle had gotten into the mud with the men at the irrigation ditch and fought back a smile. No gentler sensibilities there.

He toasted Bartleby’s legal abilities, knowing the man wouldn’t notice the angry contempt behind it. “A fine inheritance clause, from what I understand.”

“Indeed!” His chest puffed with pride. “Quite a legal maneuver, I must say.”

“But my family has an attorney who swears that all legal clauses have loopholes.” He casually offered the dare to be proven wrong. “Surely, even your clause has one.”

“Ah yes.” He nodded, and Quinn’s heart skipped with hope. “A very large one, indeed.”

Quinn leaned forward. “Which is?”

“Was.The loophole died with the late viscount,” Bartleby corrected with a wave of his finger, the unsteadiness of his hand showing the immediate effects of the scotch. He smiled, taking Quinn deeper into his confidence. “The late viscountwasthe loophole!”

“Because only he could change it,” Quinn supplied glumly.

The solicitor hesitated, his eyes gleaming, as if he had some great secret poised on his lips. Then he said, “Exactly.”

A suspicion nagged Quinn that Bartleby had been about to say something else. “So there’s no method for voiding the inheritance requirement?”

“None. Rest assured, she will be married.” Then he laughed as a new thought struck him. “Which I’m certain Sir Harold Bletchley thanks God for with every day that passes closer to her birthday!”

Quinn didn’t find that amusing. “So you’ve heard that Sir Harold Bletchley is courting her?”

“It’s averysmall village.” He chuckled in amusement, the movement straining at the buttons of his waistcoat.

Quinn refilled both glasses although he’d barely touched his, then eased back in his chair as if they were two old friends who imbibed together regularly.

“I’ve heard rumors,” he ventured casually with the blatant lie. He hadn’t heard one whisper, but he knew men like Bletchley and what motivated them. “Grumblings from workers who aren’t being paid, merchants whose bills are refused…Kinnybroch is in debt.”

“Not just in debt,” Bartleby informed him with a conspiratorial air, brought on by too much whisky. Then he countered in his attempt to better Quinn, but only letting slip more information than he realized, “Mortgaged to the rafters!”