Mr. Ponsby nodded while extracting a pair of pince-nez from his coat pocket.
“Yes, Russell and Ponsby, we’ve offices in Edinburgh, Glasgow, Manchester, and London, though due to ill-health, Mr. Russell no longer is active with the firm.” He met everyone’s gazes in turn, lingering longest on Harrison. “Let me be perfectly clear. The elder Miss Atterberry is alive, and therefore, there is no question she is Steafan Atterberry’s heir. Only the title and entailment remain to be bestowed.”
“Shit.” Like a sullen toddler, Harrison flopped angrily against his chair, his leg jarring the tea table and rattling the tray’s contents.
Shouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t stuff his thumb in his mouth or heave himself onto the floor and caterwaul like a wee bairn.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Peterson. Refrain from such uncouth expletives in my home, if you please.” The way Aunt Bridget fisted her spoon suggested she’d like to rap him atop his head.
“I don’t understand.” Minerva wilted further, her expression resembling a bewildered child’s. “How can Alexa inherit after his estate has already been bequeathed to Shona? You cannot take everything back. Not after this many years.”
Ah, Minerva thought her position and Shona’s secure. Well, who wouldn’t have after so much time?
The solicitor’s features and voice softened a trifle. “Because, my lady, the estate wasn’t bestowed upon Shona. Lord Atterberry left everything, but Shona’s trust and annual allowance, to Alexandra. As for the monies in Alexandra’s trust, they would have eventually been transferred to Shona if her sister hadn’t returned.”
He directed his attention to Alexa. “Except for your annual allowance, you cannot access your monies until you are five and twenty. I suspect your father worried about fortune hunters. He had another stipulation as well.”
Steafan Atterberry might have left this world earlier than he’d anticipated, but he’d guaranteed his wishes were honored, nevertheless. Her father had possessed keen intelligence and foresight.
“And the stipulation is?”
Please God, not that I have to live at Wedderford Abbey with Minerva.
Residing underneath the same roof as her stepmother would test her fortitude, but to endure Harrison’s continual, obnoxious presence . . .?
No. That notion didn’t bear contemplating.
The solicitor flipped past a couple of pages. “In order to receive the full inheritance, you must marry a Scot.”
Struck dumb, Alexa blinked.
Well, that put a chink in her well-laid scheme. Not the marrying-a-Scotsman bit since at present, she hadn’t any plans to marry, but five and twenty? Wait four years to put her plan into action? Impossible. How much was her annual portion? “Will I have access to the accumulated allowances to this point?”
“Indeed. I can arrange to have the monies transferred from the trust account to your bank. It just requires a note with my signature. Do you have an account at Mr. Needham’s institution?”
Harrison’s complexion developed a grayish tone, and moisture beaded his upper lip.
“I can open one for her tomorrow.” Uncle Hugo scratched his eyebrow while turning a bland stare to Harrison.
Minerva fidgeted with her serviette, twisting the square.
“Yes, but I thought . . . When Alexandra disappeared . . . It’s been many years, and we had countless expenses . . .” She drew in a tremulous breath. “Does Shona have to marry a Scot as well? How could I have missed such a critical detail?”
Dashes her hopes of a match with the Rat, if that’s the case.
Tears trickled parallel paths over Minerva’s cheeks, her misery either authentic, or she missed her calling as an actress.
“No, she does not, unless she holds the title prior to marrying.” Mr. Ponsby cleared his throat and rattled the creased documents he held. “This is an amended portion of the will, and was not to be revealed until such time Alexandra Atterberry was present to hear the reading. It clearly states who Steafan Atterberry also preferred inherit his title.”
A vulgar noise sounded from Harrison’s direction.
Alexa rubbed her forehead and gave an imprecise shake of her head. “Until I was present? My father couldn’t have known of my disappear—”
“But, what of Shona’s birthright?” Minerva blurted, then swallowed and slid Harrison a beseeching glance. “You promised.” Her voice sounding as if she’d gargled hot coals, she railed against him. “You said requesting the abeyant peerage’s termination protected Shona’s holdings—her position and inheritance.”
So, the petition hullabaloo was the snake’s doing. Minerva put far too much trust in her stepbrother. Equally disturbing, was her singular focus on Shona’s patrimony.
Harrison’s mouth worked for a moment before he clamped his lips and, for once, remained silent. However, his fingers drumming on his thigh and the muscle twitching along his flaccid jawline revealed his agitation.
Aunt Bridget tossed her serviette atop the table, rattling the empty cups. “Leave off will you, Minerva? Enough of your flim-flam. You cannot mean to pass Shona off as Steafan’s child. That fabrication might have served you at Wedderford Abbey, but it won’t here. You know full well, only a legitimate child may inherit.”
Minerva jerked, and her lips quivered. She wadded the cloth tighter. The laundress would never iron the wrinkles out.
“Shona is Steafan’s. He . . .” She peeked at them through tear-spiked lashes. “We had an affair. I’m not proud of the liaison, but I’d met him in Edinburgh years before and had fallen in love. Harrison stayed with me occasionally, he knew—”
Aunt Bridget released a snort worthy of an enraged stallion as she removed the tongs from the sugar bowl and replaced the lid.
Unwise move, that, using Harrison to corroborate the tale. Minerva would have been better served claiming the devil as her witness. Had Harrison, the parasite, always relied upon his stepsister for his keep?
“Poppycock. He did no such thing. Pure rubbish, I tell you. He adored my sister and wouldn’t have strayed. Never.” Aunt Bridget shook her hand back and forth vehemently, almost poking Uncle Hugo in the eye with the tongs.
Alexa hadn’t seen her aunt so incensed before. Her side of the family must be where Alexa came by her fiery temperament.
Uncle Hugo ducked, seizing his wife’s flailing hand. He set the tongs aside but kept her fingers wrapped in his. “Steafan didn’t venture anywhere near Edinburgh during the time of Shona’s conception. My sister-in-law had just died, and the man was a complete wreck.”
Minerva shook her head and daintily patted the corner of one eye. “It happened afterward, not while Lyette lived. Steafan was an honorable man. He’d never have been unfaithful. But, in time, he became lonely, as did I. He visited me several times before we married.”
A fresh flurry of tears flooded her eyes and spilled onto her gaunt cheeks.
“Hugo and I paid an extended visit to Wedderford after my sister died, and we can attest to Steafan’s whereabouts. Until he brought you home, he hadn’t had a lengthy absence.” Visibly shaken, Aunt Bridget leaned into Uncle Hugo’s comforting embrace.
Reliving this must be awful for them. Strangely, Alexa remained detached, rather like a spectator, watching a parody, a fabricated story, not someone’s reality. Certainly, not her reality.
Minerva sniffled before quietly blowing her nose. “Steafan didn’t have to go to Edinburgh. I lived in a cottage outside the village.”
After her whispered words, silence hung dense and heavy as wintertime fog clinging to the River Thames.
She’s telling the truth, at least about the cottage.
Alexa pointed to Mr. Ponsby. “I assume there’s proof, one way or the other, as well as instructions in the event I didn’t return amongst those papers?”
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How could she sound composed? The future she hoped to build might well tumble bosom over bum in the next few moments, and she hadn’t a past to return to. In an instant, she could find herself a rudderless ship sailing a sea to nowhere with limited means. No position. No place to live . . .
“I was declared dead. How could my father have antici—”
“I demand to know why these documents are being produced now. It’s been eighteen years, for God’s sake. How long was this farce to carry on? This cannot be legal. I shall challenge it in court.” Harrison, his face gone crimson, leapt to his feet, crashing into the table and shaking his fist.
Enough.
Tamping down her fury, Alexa cocked her head and stroked Sir Pugsley. “It’s none of your affair, you intrusive trow. That’s Scots for troll, in the event you weren’t aware. Sit down, and be quiet. This does not concern you, and if you interrupt Mr. Ponsby again, I shall ask Uncle to have you removed from the house.”
Chew that, you ruddy cawker.
Harrison turned rosier, his eyes bulging as he emitted strange, inarticulate sounds. A tantrum didn’t seem a farfetched notion at all.
Aunt Bridget snickered, actually snickered, and Uncle Hugo’s eyebrows and lips jerked spasmodically as if he, too, longed to laugh.
“Come now, Peterson. Give over.” Uncle gestured toward Alexa. “With Alexandra’s return, and her identify verified, her death in absentia has been rebutted. I’m sure you’re aware it’s not uncommon for wills to specify terms which are honored years postmortem.”
“Still doesn’t explain why he,” Harrison speared a finger at the solicitor, “has new documents. How do we know they aren’t forged?”
He tried to grab the papers from the table, but Mr. Ponsby seized them and eyed Harrison icily.
“I assure you, they are authentic, Mr. Peterson, and their presentation at this time is warranted because Lord Atterberry had feared for his life and his firstborn’s. He took measures to make sure she,” he rolled his head toward Alexa, “would be safe, in the event anything happened.”
The color left Harrison’s face as quickly as it appeared, and Alexa didn’t doubt she, too, blanched white as virgin snow.
God above. Her father feared for their lives. Why? What could have happened to make him think such a thing? Did the solicitor know? Should she be concerned for her safety still?
“Fear? For his life?” Her hand pressed to her throat, Aunt Bridget went as gray as Sir Pugsley’s aged muzzle. She gave Uncle Hugo a frantic look, but he didn’t notice.
Head inclined the merest amount, he scrutinized Harrison as one would a convicted felon dangling from the gibbet.
“That’s ridiculous and bloody impossible to substantiate.” Harrison slammed his fist on the settee’s back. “And you damned well know it.”
“That’s outside of enough, Peterson. My wife already asked you to hold your vulgar tongue.” Uncle Hugo patted Aunt Bridget’s shoulder, while pinning Harrison with a deadly glare.
“We assumed—in fact, were told by the both of you,” Uncle Hugo extended his forefinger and wiggled it back and forth between Harrison and Minerva, “Steafan’s death was accidental. Unfortunately, no one requested an inquest. Who, besides Alexandra, benefited the most from his demise?”
Minerva’s confounded gaze fluttered from person to person once more. “I cannot think you mean to imply I had anything to do with my late husband’s death.”
Perhaps not you, but the viper beside you would have.
What had started as a wonderful day had turned into a wretched nightmare Alexa couldn’t rouse from. She curled her toes in her slippers and clenched the chair’s arms. “Those other papers. What do they say? What would have happened if I didn’t return?”
Lifting his focus from the documents he’d been thumbing through, Mr. Ponsby considered her above the lenses perched atop his nose. “These are sworn and witnessed letters from your father, which specify if, after twenty years, you hadn’t been found, Miss Shona would inherit. They also clearly state Shona is his offspring. The dowager carried Shona when Lord Atterberry married her.”
“No. It cannot be true.” Aunt Bridget gasped and slapped her hand to her mouth, her eyes swimming in tears.
Minerva moaned and, hands covering her face, collapsed onto the settee’s arm, weeping. “I told you. I wasn’t lying.”
A groggy haze blanketed Alexa. Did this change everything? How could it not? She blinked and shook her head, relieved for Shona. Some good had come of today’s upheaval.
Ponsby produced two letters. “These have not been opened yet. My directions are to read this one,” he lifted the first at the corner, “and to give you the other, Miss Atterberry. Do you read, or shall I read it for you?”
Stark humiliation rent Alexa. Another reason to refuse the duke’s offer. Society would always assume her an ignorant illiterate, beneath his touch. And theirs.
She lifted her chin. “I can read.”
“Very well.” He laid her letter on the tea table beside the silver tea service before adjusting his pince-nez. “A word of advice. Until a ruling has occurred as to which daughter is awarded the title, no one should be addressed as Lady Atterberry.”
Harrison straightened and addressed the solicitor. “Doesn’t the committee tend to grant in the petitioning party’s favor?”
Alexa longed to slap the crafty expression from Harrison’s face.
Ponsby peered down his nose, which twitched as if detecting ripe offal. “Often, but not always. They consider the particulars, and if an objection is raised or a second party challenges the petition, they can be convinced to make another ruling.”
“Harrison, as my niece said but moments ago, stubble it. One more word, and I shall have you forcefully removed.” Uncle Hugo’s carefully enunciated words revealed how near to losing his temper he’d become.
Ponsby rattled the folded paper. “I shall read this and see what Lord Atterberry thought so important, he insisted it be kept secret.”
Breaking the letter’s seal, momentary surprise skittered across Mr. Ponsby’s face when a second sealed missive slipped from the first’s folds. Other than her father’s instructions written on the front, the first page was blank. He must have worried someone would try to decipher the contents. Every person in the room remained captivated by the second note.
Breaking the seal with his thumb, Mr. Ponsby read the letter, his face indecipherable. The solicitor directed his gaze at Alexa, and sympathy tempered his stern features.
She battled the urge to cover her ears with her hands like an intractable child. Whatever he meant to say, she didn’t want to hear it. Instead, she spread her fingers through the coarse fur at Sir Pugsley’s nape.
The dog groaned and wiggled in bliss.
Savoir faire, Alexa.
“Please, what does it say?” She ran her tongue across her dry lips.
Mr. Ponsby removed his lenses and drew a deep breath. “Your father arranged and paid for someone to hide you until such time you were old enough to protect yourself and it became safe for your return and claim your inheritance and title.”
A mélange of gasps and rude noises met his announcement.
Did she cry out? Someone had.
From the grave, Steafan Atterberry had thoroughly flummoxed the lot of them.
“We can but speculate who he sent you to—why you weren’t returned earlier,” Mr. Ponsby droned on, “and the reason he didn’t send you to the Needhams. Those details he didn’t reveal.”
Steafan sent her to live with the travellers? A wave of dizziness swept Alexa, and sheer determination prevented her from bursting into tears.
Betrayed.
Holding herself stiffly to maintain a rigid grip on her self-control, she looked to her uncle. “Did you know? That
I’d been hidden amongst the gypsies?”
Chapter 20
Scanning White’s for familiar faces, Lucan’s scrutiny skipped across the table where he’d sat with Yancy before they toddled off to Scotland a few short weeks ago. At that same spot Lucan had questioned whether he’d ever marry.
He gave a minute, self-castigating shake of his head.
Now look at me.
Doggedly pursuing a tantalizing, mystifying temptress, as surely besotted as he’d once poked fun at his friends for being.
Perusing the betting book, he firmed his lips and traced Renishaw’s scrawl. Bold as brass, the arse. He’d made no effort to hide Jeremy’s identity or Lucan’s for that matter. Peterson was no better.
Ld R bets Mr. Peterson 20g to 5 a certain idiot brother of HG the Duke of Harcourt will be jailed for trespass by Yuletide.
Not hardly. With the safeguards Lucan had put in place, a gnat couldn’t sneak onto or off Chattsworth property. Lucan tapped the book. “He’ll lose the bet, the dolt.”
“He’s an idiot. Is the man incapable of declining a bet?” Bretheridge pointed to four other entries on the page with Renishaw’s name inscribed. “He’s lost at least ten more wagers here, and most are against Bellary. Not wise on Renishaw’s part. Bellary’s hot-tempered and doesn’t take kindly to swindlers.”
Thumbing through a few previous pages, Bretheridge scratched his forehead. “In the last six months he’s fought two duels against men owing less than Renishaw. Killed one, maimed the other. Renishaw had best pay up, or he’ll be looking down the nozzle of a pistol himself.”
Lucan rubbed his jaw and pointed to the ledger. “Wonder if I can buy Peterson’s bet? Ever been done?”
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