He ended on a decided note of panic, and, thrusting a hand into his pocket, produced two rather crumpled letters, written by someone who signed himself, with a flourish, Swithin Liversedge .....
The Duke, perusing these, found Mr. Liversedge’s epistolary style slightly turgid, and not always quite grammatical. Some of his periods were much involved, but there could be no mistaking his object: he wanted five thousand pounds for his ward, to compensate her for the slight she had endured, for the loss of an eligible husband, and for a wounded heart. Mr. Liversedge ended his first letter by expressing in high-flown terms his belief that neither Mr. Ware nor his noble relatives would hesitate to recognize, and meet, the claims of one whose blighted hopes seemed likely to drive into a decline.
His second letter was not so polite.
The Duke laid them both down. “Matt, who is this Liversedge?” he demanded.
“I don’t know. He says he is Belinda’s guardian.”
“But what sort of a fellow is he?”
“I tell you I don’t know! I’ve never clapped eyes on him. I didn’t know Belinda had a guardian until I received that letter.”
“Was he not with her at Oxford?”
“No, and neither Belinda nor Mrs. Dovercourt ever mentioned him that I can remember. It came as the greatest surprise to me!”
“Matt, it all sounds to me excessively like a fudge! I don’t believe he is her guardian!”