“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” she whispered as she began to unbutton her cloak. “What does he want with me?”
“He says he’s come all the way from America to meet you, but he refused to say why.” Mrs. Morris’s face, round as a currant bun, scrunched into lines of concern. “Dearest Prudence, you didn’t perhaps answer one of those advertisements, did you?”
Attempting to engage her wits enough to figure out what Mrs. Morris was talking about proved beyond her. “Advertisements?”
“For wives, you know,” the older woman whispered back. “American men are always putting advertisements in our newspapers. They do seem to have quite a shortage of women over there.” A hint of disapproval mingled with the concern on her face. “Of course you wish to be married. Every young woman does, and husbands are so difficult to find nowadays, but America is such a long way off. And, really, dear, to answer an advertisement rather implies a sense of desper—”
“I didn’t answer any advertisement.” Prudence cut her off, knowing that sometimes interrupting her landlady was the only way to get a word in. She hung her cloak beside her hat. “I cannot imagine why he wishes to see me.”
“Should we offer him tea?”
Prudence’s empty stomach twisted, reminding her of how hungry she was, but she told herself to be strong. “I hardly think tea is necessary.”
“But Prudence, it is coming on five o’clock. And he seems a most respectable and courteous gentleman. For the sake of civility, tea, sandwiches, and cake seems the least we can do.”
Her mouth began to water. “Mrs. Morris, you know I’m banting,” she said, valiantly resisting temptation.
“You girls, always banting, so conscious of your figures that you refuse to put decent nourishment in your mouths. Why, I don’t know why I bother serving meals at all in this house. But striving for a twenty-inch waist simply isn’t healthy, dear.”
To obtain the coveted and fashionable twenty-inch waist, Prudence would have pledged to go on banting for the rest of her life. But her body seemed to care little about what was fashionable, for despite her continual efforts to whittle down the size of her waist, it seemed stubbornly fixed at a number equal to the years of her age. She ran her hands along her ribs, disheartened that her stays felt as tight as ever. Two days of nothing but a handful of crab canapés and a few cross buns at the showroom, she thought, aggrieved, and she didn’t seem the least bit slimmer. “Tea, then,” she agreed, capitulating at last, and tried to console herself with the irrefutable fact that she had to eat sometime.
“Dorcas and I shall bring it directly.” The landlady bustled away in search of the maid, and Prudence shoved down any glimmers of guilt over her lack of gastronomic fortitude as she entered the parlor.
The gentleman, silver-haired and quite handsome, rose as she came in. “Miss Bosworth?”
“I am Prudence Bosworth, yes.” She took in his finely tailored clothes with an experienced eye. A prosperous gentleman, she knew at once. A bit of a dandy as well, she judged, going by the gardenia in his buttonhole and his ornate walking stick.
“My name is Elliot Whitfield,” he told her, offering his card with a bow.
She accepted the card and read it as she moved to the overstuffed chintz chair closest to the fireplace. “Why would an attorney come all the way from America to pay a call upon me?” she asked as she sat down, feeling a hint of alarm at the impressive sound of a firm called Whitfield, Joslyn, and Morehouse, Attorneys-at-Law, with offices in New York, London, and Paris. Lawyers, she suspected, were rather like the police. Getting entangled with them could not possibly be agreeable.
The gentleman once again took his seat and set aside his walking stick. “I have come on behalf of your father, Mr. Henry Abernathy.”
She blinked at this unexpected announcement and set the card aside. “Sir, I believe there’s been some sort of muddle. I do not know of anyone named Abernathy. My father was Henry Bosworth, of Little Furze, Yorkshire.”
To her surprise, the dapper man across from her nodded. “Yes, exactly so. When Henry Bosworth went to America, he changed his name to Abernathy.”
Prudence sniffed. “To prevent my mother from finding him, I’ve no doubt.”
Mr. Whitfield gave a discreet little cough. “Be that as it may…” He paused, then went on, “I have come to offer you news both good and bad, Miss Bosworth. First, I must inform you that your father recently died.”
That, she concluded from the somber expression of the man before her, was the bad news. But since her father had been a deceiving scoundrel who refused to do the honorable thing and instead abandoned her mother before her birth, she did not feel inclined to weep over his death. “And the good news, sir?”
“He has left you a legacy. That is the reason I am here.”
This information didn’t stir her emotions much more than the news of his death. From what little she’d been told of her father, he’d seemed a worthless fellow. A legacy from him was most unlikely. “He had something to leave?”
“I wouldn’t have come all the way from New York otherwise, Miss Bosworth.” Mr. Whitfield reached for his dispatch case. “I have here a duplicate copy of his will. You are the only beneficiary.”
Astonished, she watched as the little man opposite her took up his case of black leather, placed it on his lap, and opened it. He lifted from its interior a thick sheaf of papers, and at the sight of such a substantial-looking document, she felt a throb of hope. Perhaps there really was a legacy, enough that she could resign her post at Madame Marceau’s and find a better situation, one that did not involve working such long hours or bowing and scraping to people like Lady Alberta Denville. Oh, if only…
“Per the terms of his will,” the attorney went on, “all income generating from his estate comes to you. In addition, you are to inherit his personal assets, which are considerable.”
Words like “assets” and “income” made things sound so promising, and Prudence’s hopes broadened. Perhaps she wouldn’t be forced to seek a new post at all. Perhaps, there would be enough to give her a cozy nest egg that would protect her from the ravages of old age and give her a home of her own. She began to envision a quaint little terrace house in Hackney with bobbin lace curtains.
“The income from the estate,” the attorney went on, “is to be placed in a trust fund for you.”
She felt compelled to quash the longing sweeping over her before it took hold. This had to be a dream. Legacies out of nowhere didn’t happen in real life. Any moment now she would wake up and find herself still in that hansom cab on the way home from the showroom. Still…a trust fund did sound wonderful. She would love to have a trust fund. She swallowed hard, wanting to believe. “Is it very much money?”
“Much money?” The attorney began to laugh. “Miss Bosworth, as I said before, your father was Henry Abernathy.” At her blank stare, he went on, “Surely, even here in England, you’ve heard of Abernathy’s Department Stores?”
Of course she’d heard of them. Abernathy’s were the most famous department stores in all of America. Their emporium on Fifth Avenue was said to be grander even than Harrods here in London, though Prudence’s staunchly British heart was doubtful on that point. “My father owns the Abernathy stores? He is—was—one of those American millionaires?”
“Yes, indeed.” Mr. Whitfield smiled at her snort of disbelief. “As I said, there are conditions attached to the inheritance, but if you meet those conditions you will be a very rich woman, one of the richest women in the world.”
She simply could not credit it. This had to be some sort of trick or confidence swindle. Prudence jumped to her feet, ready to send this fellow off with a flea in his ear, but she was hit at once with a wave of dizziness. Pressing a hand to her forehead, she choked, “I do not…believe…you.”
“Nonetheless, it’s the absolute truth, I assure you.”
“It can’t—” Whatever she’d been about to say vanished from her mind. The room wa
s starting to spin in the strangest way, and she closed her eyes, trying to think. She was inheriting money, the man said. An entire fortune. She’d be one of the richest women in the world. “How…how much—”
Though she could not manage to finish her question, Mr. Whitfield comprehended at once. “The income fluctuates with economic conditions, of course,” he said, his voice barely discernible past the roaring in her ears, “but at the current rate of exchange, it amounts to approximately one million pounds per annum.”
With those words, the past few days of grueling work with little food and almost no sleep finally took their toll. For the first time in her life, Prudence Bosworth fainted.
Chapter 3
American millionaire Henry Abernathy leaves entire fortune to illegitimate daughter!
—The Social Gazette, 1894
The horrid odor of ammonia penetrated her consciousness, and Prudence shook her head in protest, pushing away the hand that held a vial of foul-smelling stuff beneath her nose.
As if from a great distance away, she heard Mrs. Morris speaking. “She’s coming around now.”
“That is good news, indeed,” a man answered, and it was the sound of his voice that recalled Prudence to the incredible situation at hand. She jerked upright.
“Don’t move too quickly,” Mrs. Morris cautioned, putting a hand on her shoulder. “No sense having you faint again.”
“I fainted?” Prudence blinked and tried to get her bearings. She was sitting in her chair, Mrs. Morris was hovering at her elbow with a bottle of smelling salts, and standing on her other side was the attorney who had just told her she was to inherit a fortune. “Is it true?” she whispered.
“Quite true, Miss Bosworth.” Turning, he crossed the room and resumed his seat. “A bit overwhelming, I suppose.”
“To say the least! One million pounds a year?” Saying the amount did not make inheriting it more believable. “Heavens.”
“One million pounds a year?” Mrs. Morris glanced at the attorney, then at her. “What’s this?”
“Your Miss Bosworth has come into a legacy from her father. She is set to become a very rich woman. One of the richest women in the world, as a matter of fact.”
“You don’t say so!” Her mouth open in amazement, Mrs. Morris groped for the arm of the chintz chair beside Prudence’s own and sat down. “But…” She swallowed hard and tried again. “But Prudence, dearest, I thought…that is, I believed your father had died years ago when you were a little girl. At least, that’s what you told me when you came to live here.”
Prudence gave the older woman an apologetic look. “I deceived you about that, I’m afraid. You see, my father deserted my mother before I was born. He—” She broke off, her cheeks heating with shame. “He never married her, and he went off to America.”
“Eleven years you’ve lived in my lodging house and you could never tell me the truth?”
“I didn’t want you to know that I was…” Her voice wobbled. “…that I was illegitimate. This is such a respectable lodging house. When I applied to you for rooms here, I was afraid you would turn me away if you knew the truth.”
“It’s your father who should be ashamed!” Mrs. Morris answered, and her obvious outrage filled Prudence with relief. “To abandon your mother so callously. Dishonorable cur!”
Mr. Whitfield cleared his throat. “Yes, well, he’s redeemed himself now, I hope? He has left Miss Bosworth his entire fortune.”
“Well, I don’t know what to say to that,” Mrs. Morris answered. “One million pounds a year. My goodness.” She gave a breathy laugh. “No wonder you fainted, dear.”
Prudence laughed with her, her mood swinging back to dazed exhilaration. “I can’t seem to take it in,” she said, and put a hand to her forehead, still a bit light-headed. “I can’t think.”
“Perfectly understandable, given the circumstances,” Mr. Whitfield assured her. “I’d be rather topsy-turvy myself. But we must discuss the specific terms of your father’s will. There are conditions to the inheritance of which I must make you aware—”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Mrs. Morris interrupted, “this news is most exciting—we’re all overwhelmed by it, I am sure, but we must allow Miss Bosworth a few moments to recover herself.”
“I’m all right now,” Prudence said, sitting up straighter in her chair. “I want to hear about the will.”
“No, no, your landlady is quite right. Forgive me for being much too precipitate.” He gestured to the table between them. “Perhaps we should have tea now?”
“I hope it’s not gone cold,” Mrs. Morris said as she returned to her seat and reached for the silver teapot. “I was just bringing in the tray when I saw you faint, Prudence. Then I had to run for the smelling salts, and it took me forever to find them.”
“I’ve never fainted before. I hope I did it gracefully.”
“Yes, dear. You sank right down into your chair, one hand to your forehead in the proper manner, just as we were always taught. Sugar, Mr. Whitfield?”
“Yes, thank you,” he answered, but shook his head as she held up the milk jug. “Taught?” he echoed as he accepted a cup of tea. “Girls are taught how to faint?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Morris assured him as she poured another cup for Prudence. “We were always practicing when I was a girl.” She handed the sandwiches and tea cakes around as she began to explain the necessary precepts of a gentlewoman’s education to Mr. Whitfield. Prudence paid little attention to the conversation. She ate her food and drank her tea and tried to comprehend this amazing thing that had happened to her, but a strange sense of unreality pervaded her mind.
One million pounds.
She couldn’t conceive of such a sum. It was too much. It was enormous. And to have that much money every year? Why, even Lady Alberta Denville didn’t have a fortune that could compare. With that thought, a burst of joyous glee shot up within her like a rocket. She set aside her empty plate and teacup with a clatter and jumped out of her chair, a squeal of delight escaping her as if she were a five-year-old on Christmas morning. Before she knew what was happening, she was whirling Mrs. Morris around the drawing room, her dance steps more exuberant than graceful.
“I’m richer than Lady Alberta,” she singsonged as they galloped across the carpet. “I’m richer than Lady Munro. I’m rich, I’m rich, I’m the richest girl I know! Oh!”
Her landlady laughed with her, stifling the merriment only long enough to issue a warning about their proximity to the potted fern.
“If we tumble it over, I’ll buy you a new one,” Prudence promised, and began singing again as they took another turn across the carpet. “I’m richer than Lady Alberta…”
“Miss Bosworth?” Mr. Whitfield called to her over her faulty soprano. “We must discuss the conditions of the will.”
She glanced at him as she twirled Mrs. Morris in a circle. “Conditions?”
“There are certain things you must do in order to receive the full inheritance. For one thing, you are required to marry.”
She stopped, letting go of Mrs. Morris so abruptly that the poor lady went spinning away and nearly demolished the potted fern. “Marry?”
“Yes. In your life, is there…” He paused delicately. “…is there perhaps some suitable young man?”
“No,” she answered, trying to catch her breath and consider the ramifications of this newest development. “There’s no one at all. That is to say,” she amended at once, a bit embarrassed that she had not a single suitor to her name at present, “I have been very occupied with…with other things. Work, you see.”
“I see.” Mr. Whitfield took up the sheaf of documents from the settee. “Your father has stipulated that you be given one year to find a suitable husband. During that time, a generous allowance will be portioned to you each month from the income of the trust—for clothes, living expenses, and such—but at the end of the allotted time, you must be married, or the inheritance goes to various relatives of his wife.�
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“Wife? My father married?”
“Yes. A New York heiress named Elizabeth Tyson. She died a few years ago. She and Mr. Abernathy had no children of their own.”
“So my father left all his money to me?” She shook her head. “But he never even knew me. Never wanted to know me,” she added with a hint of bitterness.
“Blood ties are often stronger than we think. Which brings me back to the point. Your father badly wanted heirs of his own blood. Once you marry, the income of the estate is yours, and your husband’s, of course, for your lifetime, then it passes to your direct heirs. The man you choose to wed must be approved by the trustees. I am remaining in London until that situation is resolved and you are married, and then I shall return to New York. Your income after that will be managed by our London offices. I hope you will find our firm satisfactory in—”
“Wait.” Prudence held up her hand to stop him, trying to take it all in. “You must approve my marriage?”
“Yes, but I am sure that with the guidance of your aunt and uncle, you will make a suitable matrimonial choice, one we can wholeheartedly endorse.”
“My aunt and uncle?” Prudence’s ebullient joy faded a little. “They know of this?”
“Of course. My first task upon arriving in England was to locate you, and I journeyed first to the home of your uncle in Sussex, assuming you lived with him and his wife. But when I called upon them, they informed me that you were living out. Naturally, they would not tell a perfect stranger your exact whereabouts without knowing the reason for my inquiry. They are delighted by your good fortune and will be arriving in London shortly to assist you.”
“Assist me?” Prudence did not like the direction this conversation was heading. A knot began to form in her tummy, a typical reaction to thoughts of Aunt Edith, and one that threatened to overshadow the joy of the present moment. “Assist me with what?”
The Wicked Ways of a Duke Page 4