London, England
February 1847
“Mrs. Wetherall is here.”
Brows drawn, Arthur turned his attention from the paperwork before him. His clerk swam into focus, Dunn’s features becoming regular and distinct. “Mrs. Wetherall?”
Dunn offered a nervous smile. “Your two o’clock appointment? The lady what’s come—who has come—about her husband’s will.”
Pinching his nose, Arthur shook his head in an attempt to clear it. A vague recollection came to him, of some sort of trouble with the husband’s family. “Five minutes, then show her in.” He glanced down at the paperwork before him. “And tell Miss Parkes I will require her after the lady has left.”
His clerk bobbed his head. “Right you are, sir. I mean, yes, sir.” With a final hesitant grin, he disappeared through the door.
Pushing against his desk, Arthur stifled a groan as his muscles protested the move. He’d been locked in the same position for—he glanced at the clock—five hours. Standing, he stretched, his spine popping as his vertebrae slipped back into place. His hair fell to obscure his vision and, silently deploring the lack of extra pomade, he attempted to smooth it back into place. He had little confidence such measures would rectify the coiffure.
Abandoning such a fruitless endeavor, he pulled at the cuffs of his shirt, aligning them with his coat as he lowered himself again to his seat.
The papers strewn across his usually pristine desk drew his attention. This estate plan was more complex than most. The Duke of Sowrith held vast holdings, not to mention numerous potential recipients upon which they could be bestowed. Though still a young man, the duke changed his will every other year, seemingly thinking it a fine sport to name a different beneficiary of his unentailed estate. In addition, the duke believed there to be further claimants to the estate flung across the four corners of the world and had engaged Arthur’s employer to unearth these claimants. By last count, Lord Beecham had seven investigators on four different continents to ascertain if there were, indeed, heirs.
Exhaling, Arthur gathered the papers into some form of order. He despised having such an untidy desk, but it could not be helped when in the midst of work. However, he would not have his newest client believe him a sloven.
The Duke of Sowrith’s papers squared away, he took a notepad from his desk drawer and opened it to the first page. In neat, precise script, he wrote the date and the client’s name.
15 February, 1847. Mrs. Wetherall.
He stared down at the name. There was something familiar about it, but he could not recall what it might be. He shrugged. She was soon to appear, and any familiarity would be quickly established.
At that, the door opened and a woman who could only be Mrs. Wetherall swept in, an obscenely large hat obscuring most of her face. A gown of uncommon simplicity clothed her person, but for all the garment was simple, it was obviously well made, which suggested wealth.
Ah, well, no matter if he knew her name or not. A wealthy client was always welcome.
Dunn trailed behind her, his expression as eager as ever. “Mrs. Wetherall, sir.”
Arthur inclined his head. “Thank you. That will be all.”
“Right you are, sir.” The clerk bobbed his head and left, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
Arthur turned his regard to the woman. Currently she studied his qualifications, hung on the wall along with the framed pictures his mother had given him for his birthday every year since he’d become a solicitor. “Mrs. Wetherall, good afternoon. Please, seat yourself.”
Her shoulders straightened infinitesimally but she didn’t respond, instead continuing to regard the wall.
Irritation tugged, but he suppressed it. Emotion would get him nowhere. “Mrs. Wetherall?”
With a sweep of her skirts, the lady and her hat settled into the chair before his desk.
Frowning, he sank to his own seat. That enormous hat was absurd, still disguising her face. Why did women think such things were attractive? In addition to being ludicrous, it no doubt put undue pressure upon her neck.
Lacing her hands in her lap, the lady finally spoke. “I find I require the services of a solicitor in regards to my late husband’s will.”
The hair at the back of his neck stood up. No. Oh, Christ, no.
The hat tilted, exposing her face. Every muscle in Arthur’s body seized.
Mrs. Wetherall, formerly Miss Sarah Stanhope and the bane of his childhood, glared at him from beneath her ridiculous hat.
Dislike, sudden and intense, flooded him. Why hadn’t he investigated her before accepting her appointment? It would have been the work of minutes, and he wouldn’t now have to sit here in her presence.
She hadn’t changed, appearing exactly as she had the last time he’d seen her, and that must have been at least ten years prior. Her lips were the same shade of pink, the freckle on her left cheek in the exact same spot, though she had darkened it with some kind of cosmetic. Her hair was tucked under the absurd hat, but he knew it to be honey brown, and her blue eyes held the same disdain they had when they’d danced a quadrille at Wildfell House, her mother and his beaming as they’d passed them by.
Bloody hell, how long had he sat staring at her? He had to say something. “Do you?”
Her glare darkened into a magnificent scowl. “Don’t speak to me in that tone, Arthur Davenport. I remember when you fell in the Masterton’s lake and emerged, covered head to toe in scum and muck and God only knows what else, so don’t be thinking you can act all high and mighty with me.” She smoothed her skirt. “Now. Some reports claim you are quite good at estates and wills and such.”
Yes. Yes, he was. Swallowing his ire, he forced himself to thoughts limited to his work and her situation. “What is your issue?”
Raising her chin, she looked down her nose at him. As she had done at their every meet for as long as he could remember. “My late husband passed without a will, and thus his family seek to contest the bestowal of his estate upon me. I believe the latest reason is undue influence. It is my understanding you have some experience in this area.”
He suffered no delusion of his abilities and his reputation amongst his colleagues—both of which were excellent—however he doubted she had interviewed anyone of his acquaintance to ascertain his suitability for her issue. Therefore, there was only one way she could have sourced his name. “And how do you know that?”
She held his gaze for a moment. Another. Then, she averted her eyes. “Your mother told my mother.”
“Ah.” An almost beatific feeling suffused him that he’d made her admit something she clearly didn’t wish to. “Have you recently had news from Clemmens-Upon-Avon?”
Eyes still averted, she mumbled, “My mother sent a letter last week.”
“Ah.”
Her gaze flew to his and she scowled. “I really dislike when you say that.”
He really didn’t care what she liked or disliked, but he held his tongue, just as he had all their lives. He enjoyed the emotion his words and her reaction engendered, however. “So, I am to infer from this you wish to engage my services?”
“Yes.”
“And you are willing to pay my remuneration?”
“Of course.”
“I am expensive.”
“I have no doubt you are.”
With the way she reacted, this was almost amusing. Never would he have thought Sarah Stanho—damnation, Wetherall—could be amusing. “And you are aware my time started the moment you stepped into my chamber?”
Her lips thinned. “I understand.”
“Good.” Laying his hands before him, he leveled his gaze upon her. “There is nothing your husband’s family can do.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You were his legal wife, yes?” She nodded. “Then succession law states you get everything. They cannot dispute such a claim. That is all.” He picked up his pen. “My clerk will send the bill to your address.”
She did not move. “That can’t be all.”
“And yet, it is.” Attention on the imprecise scribble he’d scratched on the pad, he said, Good day.”
Her brow knitted. “Then why are they challenging my inheritance?”
Damnation, why wouldn’t she just leave? “You wish me to extrapolate a reason? That is extra.”
Balling her hands in her lap, she lifted her chin. “There is something you are missing. I insist you investigate further.”
“There is nothing to investigate. Their claim is false.”
“You will investigate this, Mr. Davenport.”
Bloody hell, this was just like when they were young. She ran roughshod over the wishes of anyone other than herself and refused to listen to those with greater knowledge or reason. True, his mother always spoke of Sarah Stanhope in glowing terms, of her suitability and presentation and whatever else she believed admirable about the girl. If he were pressed, he would concede she was…attractive. Her countenance had a pleasing turn, and he had always liked the way her hair curled about her face.
But it was also true she was the most annoying woman ever to trouble the Empire. Only look at her insistence he waste his time with her problem that wasn’t one at all.
However, if she wouldn’t listen to him, who was he to argue? She would compensate him accordingly for any time he spent on the pointless dispute to her claim. “As you wish, but you must know any investigation will be expensive.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Straightening, she lifted her chin. “How will this proceed?”
It shouldn’t proceed at all. He’d already told her the other side couldn’t win. Be that as it may, if she insisted…. “I will have a letter advising a cessation of claim drafted and sent. We will also look into their claims against the passing the proceeds of your husband’s estate to your care. After such has been enacted, we will meet again to discuss your options.”
A frown creased her brow. “And when do you anticipate this to occur?”
He barely stopped himself from performing a shrug. “Perhaps two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” She shook her head. “No. We shall meet next week.”
Holding on to a biting retort, he said instead, “We cannot meet next week.”
“Oh?”
He remained silent. Damned if he would explain himself.
She raised a brow. “I am paying you an awful lot of money, Mr. Davenport. Pray, do tell me why we cannot meet next week.”
She was right, he supposed, but it grated him to admit it. “The wedding of a friend.”
“Friend?”
He refused to comment further. He could hear the derision in her voice, the implied disbelief that he had a friend. She could believe what she liked, but the fact remained his friend, Thomas Cartwright, had invited him to his wedding.
Like him, Thomas had a girl in his past, and that as well as the fact they shared rooms at Cambridge more often than not had cemented their friendship. However, unlike Arthur, Thomas had actually liked the girl—so much so he was now marrying her. Of course, it helped when the girl was a friend, a lady, and the granddaughter of a duke, rather than the spoiled daughter of his mother’s closest friend.
Arthur smiled grimly. Thomas would laugh himself sick over this twist of fate, that was certain.
Sarah Stan—Wetherall exhaled. “Well, if you must attend the wedding of this friend, we shall meet the week after. I expect an update via message next week, though. It is my preference for this to conclude as swiftly as possible.” She rose.
He stood also. If she’d believed him when he’d said there was nothing to contest, the matter would already be concluded. “That is my wish.”
“Good.” She hesitated and then sank into an awkward curtsy.
Surprise held him immobile. She had never, ever, curtsied to him, not even when they’d been forced to dance at assemblies. He knew he should respond, perhaps even in kind, but…. Well, surprise held him immobile.
As she rose, a blush burned her cheeks. “I expect word on your progress in the next few days, as well as a confirmation of when we shall next meet face-to-face. Good afternoon.” And with that, she practically fled the room.
He stared after her. That had been…odd. The bane of his childhood coming to him for help. He would wager she had never asked for help in her life, always arrogantly certain she could fix everything herself. However, it didn’t matter why Sarah Stanho—damnation, Sarah Wetherall—did what she did. She was now a client and, as such, it was his obligation to service her to the best of his ability. Of course, this didn’t preclude him from ensuing her matter concluded as swiftly as possible.
“Dunn!” Barely a moment passed before his clerk rushed through the door. “I need a letter taken.”
“Yes, sir. Miss Parkes is already on her way.”
Arthur glanced at his clerk sharply. “Miss Parkes?”
The clerk blanched. “You said you needed her, sir.”
Damnation. Of course he had. Bloody Sarah Stanho—Wetherall—making him forget what had occurred not more than a half hour prior.
Arthur took a breath and gentled his tone. “And so I do, you are quite right. Please, send her right in once she arrives.”
“Will do, sir.” Flashing his nervous grin, he half-saluted.
Arthur shook his head as the clerk disappeared through the door. Now he had to write a pointless letter for Sarah Stanhope, along with finishing the duke’s will. She seemed determined to once again blight his life, when he’d been rid of her these ten years or more.
He scowled. Damn it all to Hades, Wetherall.