Their destination lay on the first floor. A desiccated clerk of indeterminate years, dressed in sombre grey and sporting a tie wig of decades gone by, bade them seat themselves in the small outer office, “While I enquire if Mr Whitworth will see you.” He left Georgiana with the definite impression that to be permitted to see the Mr Whitworths was tantamount to being granted an audience with the Regent.
Minutes later he was back, oozing spurious concern. A Mr Whitworth—the elder, as they later learned—followed close on his heels. A portly man of late middle age, he glanced down at the card he held in his hand, given to the clerk by Lord Alton.
Mr Whitworth looked at the two elegant and eminently respectable gentlemen filling his antechamber and became slightly flustered. “My lord…?”
Dominic took pity on him. “I am Lord Alton,” he explained smoothly, “and this is Miss Georgiana Hartley, one of your clients. She is presently in the care of my sister, Lady Winsmere. Lord Winsmere,” he added, indicating Arthur for the solicitor’s edification, “and I have escorted her here in the hope you can clarify a number of points concerning Miss Hartley’s inheritance.”
It was doubtful if Mr Whitworth heard the latter half of this speech. His eyes had become transfixed on Georgiana, sitting patiently on a chair between her two protectors. Despite the fact she was now used to being stared at, and knew she looked her best in a soft dove-coloured merino gown with a delicate lace tippet, Georgiana found his gaze unnerving. As Lord Alton finished speaking, and the man continued to stare, she raised her brows haughtily.
Mr Whitworth started. “Miss Georgiana Hartley—Mr James Hartley’s daughter?” he asked breathlessly.
Georgiana looked puzzled. “Yes,” she confirmed, wondering who else had her name.
“My dear young lady!” exclaimed the solicitor, grasping her hand and bowing elaborately over it. “My dear Miss Georgiana! Well, it’s a relief to see you at last! We’ve been searching for you for months!” Once he had started, it seemed the man hardly paused for breath. “Almost, we had begun to fear foul play. When we couldn’t contact you and all our letters were returned unopened and no one seemed to know where you had disappeared to…” Suddenly he paused and seemed to recollect himself. He waved plump hands in sudden agitation. “But what am I thinking of? Please come into my office, Miss Hartley, my lords, and we will sort this matter out at once.”
He ushered them into a large office which bore little resemblance to the spartan outer chamber. Here all was air and light, with a rich red Turkey carpet covering mellow polished boards. Through the windows, the branches of the trees in the small lawn in the middle of the yard could be seen, the last yellow leaves tenaciously defying the brisk autumn breeze.
As they entered, a thin, soberly clad gentleman rose from behind one of two large desks. Mr Whitworth, holding the door, proclaimed, “Alfred, Miss Hartley is here!”
The second Whitworth—for, from the similarity of facial features, there was little doubt of who he was—looked startled. He pulled his gold-rimmed pince-nez off his nose, polished the glass, then returned it to its perch the better to view Georgiana. After a moment of rapt contemplation, he sighed. “Thank God!”
Both Whitworths bustled about, arranging chairs for their guests. They set these in front of the large desks which, side by side, faced the room. Once their visitors were seated, they subsided, each behind his own desk.
“Now!” said Whitworth the elder, chins flapping as he settled, hands folded before him. “As you can see, we’re delighted to see you, Miss Hartley. We have been trying to contact you since we learned of your father’s death, with respect to the matter of your inheritance.” He beamed at Georgiana.
“If we might speak frankly…?” enquired Whitworth the younger, his flat tone a contrast to his brother’s jovial accents.
Turning to face him, it took a moment before Georgiana understood his query. “Oh, please,” she said quickly when light finally dawned, “Lord Alton and Lord Winsmere are my friends. I will be relying on their advice.”
“Good, good,” said Whitworth the elder, causing Georgiana to swivel again. “Not wise for a young lady so well dowered as you are to be alone in the world.”
“Quite,” his younger brother concurred drily.
“Now, where to begin?”
“Perhaps at your father’s bequests?”
“There weren’t many—nothing that interfered with the bulk of the estate.”
“A few minor legacies to old servants—the usual sort of thing.”
“But the major estate remains intact.” Whitworth the elder paused to beam again at Georgiana.
Stifling the impulse to put a hand to her whirling head, Georgiana took the opportunity to quell her impending dizziness. It was like watching a tennis game, the conversational ball passing from brother to brother and back again, before their audience of three. Then his last words registered. “Major estate?”
“Why, yes.”
“As the major beneficiary of your father’s will, you inherit the majority of his estate.”
“Which is to say,” Whitworth the elder took up the tale smoothly, “the estate known as the Place in the county of Buckinghamshire…”
“His invested capital,” intoned Whitworth the younger. “The house in town…”
“And all his paintings not previously sold.”
A pause ensued. Georgiana stared at the elder Mr Whitworth, he who had last spoken. Lord Winsmere, having given up the unequal task of allowing his eyes to follow the conversation, stared out of the window, his lips pursed. Lord Alton, even less enthralled by the vision of the Whitworths, had shifted his gaze long since to the young woman beside him. He showed no surprise at the solicitor’s news.
“The Place? But… There must be some mistake!” Georgiana could not believe her ears. “My cousin Charles owns the Place.”
“Oh, dear me, no!” said the younger Whitworth. “Mr Charles Hartley is not a client of ours.”
“And has no claim whatever on the Place. The estate was not entailed.”
“It generally passed through the eldest male…”
“But your grandfather divided his estate equally between his two sons…”
“Your father and his brother, your uncle Ernest.”
“Both were given an estate—in your father’s case, the Place.”
“Unfortunately, Ernest Hartley was a gambler.”
“Quite ran through his patrimony, as the saying goes.”
“He eventually lost everything and turned to your father for aid.”
“Your father was enjoying a great success in London at that time. He had married your mother and was much in demand. Dear me, his fees! Well, quite astronomical, they seemed.” Mr Whitworth the elder paused for breath.
This time Georgiana could not restrain her need to put a hand to her brow. The world was whirling.
“If we could condense this history, gentlemen?” Viscount Alton’s precise tones jerked both Whitworths out of their rut.
“Er—yes. Well,” said Mr Whitworth, with a careful eye on his lordship, “the long and the short of it is, your father and mother wished to spend some time in Italy. So your father installed your uncle as steward of the Place, put his ready capital in the funds, leased the house in London, and left the country. I believe you were a child at the time.”
Georgiana nodded absent-mindedly. The Place was hers. It had never been Charles’s property, and he had known it.
“When we heard of your father’s death,” broke in the younger Whitworth, warily eyeing the Viscount, “we wrote immediately to you at the villa in Ravello. The letter was returned by your Italian man of business, stating you had returned to England before learning of your uncle’s demise and had planned to stay at the Place.”
Whitworth the elder opened his mouth to respond to his cue, but caught the Viscount’s eye and fell silent, leaving it to his sibling to continue, “We wrote to you there, but the letters were returned without explanation. I
n the end we sent one of our most trusted clerks to see you. He reported that the house was shut up and deserted.”
The elder Whitworth could restrain himself no longer. “No one seemed to know where you’d gone or even if you’d arrived from the Continent.”
Following the tale with difficulty, Georgiana saw what must have occurred. Questions hammered at her brain, but most were not for the solicitors’ ears. She fastened on the one aspect that held greatest importance to her. “You mentioned pictures?”
“Oh, yes. Your father left quite a tidy stack of canvases—some unclaimed portraits, and others—in England. He always claimed they were a sound investment.” The dead tones of the younger solicitor left no doubt of his opinion on the matter.
“But where are they stored?” asked Georgiana.
“Stored?” The elder Whitworth stared at her wordlessly, then turned to his brother for help. But the younger Whitworth had clearly decided this was one cue he would do well to miss. “Er…” said Mr Whitworth, chasing inspiration, “I rather suspect he must have left them at the Place.”
“Are you certain they haven’t been sold?” Lord Winsmere bought into the conversation. “From what you say, Ernest Hartley sounds the type to hock his grandmother’s spectacles. Excuse me, m’dear,” he added in an aside to Georgiana.
But the elder Whitworth waved his hands in a negative gesture. “A reformed character, I assure you. After his—er—brush with the Navy, he was so thankful to be pulled free that he was quite devoted to his brother and his interests.”
“Devoted?” echoed Lord Alton incredulously. “Have you seen the Place?”
“Unfortunately, Mr Hartley was unsuited to the task of managing the estate, although he tried his best.” The younger Whitworth drew his lordship’s fire. “We would seriously doubt he would have sold any of his brother’s paintings. He lived quite retired at the Place until his death, you know.”
“So,” said Georgiana, struggling to take it all in, “the most likely place for my father’s pictures—the ones he left in England—is the Place. But they aren’t there. I looked.”
Both Whitworths shifted uncomfortably but could throw no further light on the matter.
Eventually Mr Whitworth the elder broke the silence. “Are there any instructions you wish to give us, my dear, concerning your property?”
Georgiana blinked, then slowly shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ll need a little time to think things through. It’s all been rather a surprise.”
“Yes, of course. No rush at all,” said the elder Mr Whitworth, resuming his genial state. “Mr Charles Hartley will of course be given due notice to quit.”
Then, as there seemed nothing further to say, Georgiana rose, bringing the men to their feet.
“One moment, my dear,” came Lord Winsmere’s voice. “It’s as well to know all the facts.” He smiled at Georgiana and then turned to ask, “You mentioned capital placed in the funds. What is the current balance?”
The elder Mr Whitworth beamed. The figure he named sent Lord Alton’s black brows flying.
An enigmatic smile played on Lord Winsmere’s lips as he turned to a stunned Georgiana. “Well, my dear, I’m afraid you’ll have more than your earnest suitors to repel once that piece of news gets around.”
ARTHUR’S REACTION was echoed by Bella when, over the luncheon table, she was regaled with the entirety of Georgiana’s fortune. Arthur told the story; Dominic had declined an invitation to join them, pleading the press of other engagements.
“There’s no point in thinking you can hide it, Georgie,” Bella said once she had recovered enough to speak. “You’re an heiress. Even if the Place is all to pieces.”
Georgiana was still trying to recover her equilibrium. “But surely, if we don’t tell anyone, no one will know.”
Bella felt like screaming. What other young lady of quality, with her way to make in the world, when informed she was a considerable heiress, would act so? Inwardly, Bella railed again at the unknown who had stolen her friend’s heart. Dominic had not yet found him; that much was clear. After his successful rescue of Georgiana the evening before, he had stayed to partake of a cold supper. She could well imagine what he had done to Charles, even without the tell-tale handkerchief she had seen him quickly remove from his hand and stuff into his pocket before he thought anyone had noticed. She was more than ready to believe his assertion that Charles would not trouble Georgiana again, and would in all probability not remain over long in England. But, after arranging for Arthur to accompany Georgiana and himself to her solicitors’ this morning, her brother had merely bestowed a fond pat on her cheek and left…left her to struggle with the herculean task of convincing Georgiana to forget her hopeless love and choose between her lovesick beaux.
Sudden inspiration blossomed in Bella’s mind. “Georgie, my love, we will really have to think very carefully about how you should go on.” Bella paused, carefully choosing her words. “Once it becomes known you’re an heiress, you’ll be swamped. Perhaps it would be better to make your choice now.”
Georgiana’s gaze rose from her plate to settle on her friend’s face. Bella’s attempted manipulation was unwelcome, but, seeing the wistful expression in the blue eyes watching her, and knowing that she only meant to help, Georgiana could not suppress a small smile. But, “Really, Bella!” was all she said.
Abashed, Bella retreated, but rapidly came about. “Yes, but seriously, Georgie, what do you plan to do?”
“I’m afraid, my dear,” put in Arthur, “that for once Bella is quite right.” Bella grimaced at his phrasing. “Once it becomes common knowledge that you have such a fortune, you’ll be besieged.”
With a sigh, Georgiana pushed her plate away. They had sent the servants from the room to give free rein to their discussion. She rose to fetch the teapot from the side-table. Slipping once more into her chair, she busied herself with pouring cups for both Arthur and Bella before helping herself. Only then did she answer Bella. “I don’t know. But please promise me you’ll say nothing to anyone about my inheritance?”
Arthur bowed his acquiescence. “Whatever you wish, my dear.” His stern eye rested on his wife.
Bella pouted, but, under her husband’s prompting, she gave in. “Oh, very well. But it won’t help, you know. Such news always gets around.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE ACCURACY of Bella’s prediction was brought home to Georgiana before the week was out. Shrewd assessing glances, condescending and calculating stares—the oppressive, smothering interest of the ton made itself felt in a dozen different ways. She could only conclude that the clerks in Mr Whitworth’s office, or, perhaps, the Mr Whitworths themselves, were less discreet than she, in her naïveté, had supposed.
Bella, of course, behaved as if all the attention was only her due. Her friend continued to hope she would succumb to the blandishments of one or other of her insistent suitors. In fact, thought Georgiana crossly, the entire charade was enough to put anyone off marriage for life. How could she ever hope to convince herself any gentleman was in earnest, that he truly loved her for herself, rather than for the financial comfort she would bring him, when everyone behaved as if her new-found fortune was of the first importance?
With a disgusted little snort, she turned over on the coverlet of her bed, kicking her legs to free her skirts from under her. She had retreated to her room to rest before dressing for dinner and the Massinghams’ rout. For the first time since Georgiana had come to Green Street, Bella had also retired for a late-afternoon nap. While she studied the details of the pink-silk-draped canopy, Georgiana considered her friend. Bella certainly seemed more tired these days, though the bloom on her skin showed none of the subtle signs of fatigue. Still, Georgiana couldn’t understand how she kept up. Or why. For her own part, the glamour of the balls and parties was rapidly fading, their thrills too meaninglessly repetitive to hold her interest. Now she had no difficulty in understanding Bella’s plea of boredom with the fashionable round.
Her eyes drifted to the wardrobe, wherein resided all her beautiful gowns. Bella was always so thrilled when she wore her latest acquisitions. They were worth every last penny just for that. Georgiana grinned. She could hardly deny Bella such a small pleasure when all her friend’s energies were directed towards securing her, Georgiana’s, future. Nothing seemly likely to turn Bella from her purpose. Her beloved Georgie must marry into the ton.
As an errant ray of sunshine drifted over the gilded cords drawing back the curtains of her bed, Georgiana wondered again at the oddity of having a virtual foster-sister. She was fast learning that receiving care and concern laid a reciprocal responsibility on the recipient. But, despite Bella’s yearnings, this was one aspect of her life on which she was determined to hold firm. She would marry for love, or not at all.
Just the thought of love, the very concept, brought a darkly handsome face swimming into her consciousness. Vibrant blue eyes laughed at her through a mask, then turned smoky and dark. Resolutely she banished the unnerving image. Dreams were for children.
In truth, if it had not been for Lord Alton’s support, she might well have turned tail and fled back to Italy the first day after their discovery at Lincoln’s Inn. The puzzle of Charles and his machinations was now clear. Fiend that he was, devoid of all proper feeling, he had decided to marry her before she found out she owned the Place. That way, Dominic had explained, she would likely never have known the extent of her fortune; as her husband, Charles would have assumed full rights over her property.
Dominic. She must stop thinking of him like that, in such a personal way. If she was to preserve her secret, she must learn to treat him with becoming distance. Unfortunately, this grew daily more difficult.