The carriage pulled to a stop and Sophia felt her heart spring into her throat as the footman opened the door.
“Relax, Sophia,” Mrs. Arthur insisted with a pat to her knee. “It’s only the house. We’re not due to the solicitor until this afternoon. Plenty of time to change, to eat a bite, and to clear our heads.”
Sophia nodded absently. “I know, I know. But I don’t believe I will be easy until we are sitting in the solicitor’s office and the contents of the will are made known. I was perfectly comfortable with my life as it was in your home, and I should like to return to it as soon as possible.”
Mr. Arthur, in the process of removing himself from the carriage, shot her a wry look. “What in the name of all creation gives you the impression that such a thing will not occur? Are you anticipating becoming an heiress before the end of the day?” He chuckled and continued out of the carriage, then helped his wife down.
His words gave Sophia pause. Surely, she didn’t have such a fanciful notion in her head, did she? Why then this anxiety about being summoned to London?
She frowned to herself as she fumbled her way out of the carriage, brushing at her skirts. She couldn’t believe there would actually be something to be gained from this will, could she? She was a nobody from nowhere, and her own father hadn’t left her anything of worth upon his death.
She doubted even the Arthurs had made allowances for her in their will, for they were not among the wealthy and prosperous, content and settled though they were.
No one ought to have known of her in any capacity that would render this journey one way or the other. Not for anything worth mentioning in a will, not for something that would alter her present situation or course.
Why then had they come?
“Sophia!” a deep, familiar voice called from the house. “Come in here at once, or I’ll have gotten myself dressed in proper finery for nothing!”
She rolled her eyes and picked up her skirts, marching into the townhouse and smiling in preparation for a bout of friendly banter with her favorite competitor. “Proper finery won’t make a gentleman out of you, Frank Arthur, no matter how you make it shine!”
Sophia Anson might not be on the brink of becoming an heiress, but she was certain she was on the brink of something.
Even if it was only receiving that ancient harpsichord that she wouldn’t be able to play.
CHAPTER 2
“Gads, Mother, why are we doing this?”
“Don’t say Gads, Larkin. It is dreadfully uncouth.”
Larkin Roth carefully hid a significant roll of his dark eyes, as he had been doing for all of his eight and twenty years. He had grown quite skilled in the act over the years, which had undoubtedly saved him from a significant amount of punishment. But a man with a mother of a moderately ridiculous nature must develop such skills or else he is like to grow as ridiculous as the woman who gave him life.
And Larkin Roth refused to be ridiculous.
At all.
He was far too busy to be ridiculous anyway.
Avoiding the Season had been his primary occupation for some time, despite being a gentleman of some fortune, followed closely by avoiding his friends from Cambridge, which seemed to be the more difficult of the two hobbies.
Entertaining his mother had never been on the list of his preferred methods of spending time, though he seemed to be doing a great deal of that presently. Much as he loved his mother, she was not quite in her dotage years and he was not quite in possession of the kind of nature best suited to caring for her in such a state if she were. All in all, it was best if he only saw her on his terms and when it was most convenient for him.
Which was usually when he felt guilty enough to venture out to Kent and endure a week or so with her rather than holing himself up in rented rooms in London while he tried to make sense of the world.
In fact, if she hadn’t come down to London herself to bring him word of this idiotic charade they were about to embark upon, he wouldn’t be spending time with her now. He’d been out to visit only the month before when his aunt, her sister, had written of some dreadful fever that had rid his mother of her ability to move her legs. Being the dutiful son, he had come to pay his last respects.
Those respects had been refunded upon his arrival, as his mother had run down the path of the cottage to greet him. The driver had refused to turn the coach around, so he’d rusticated in the country longer than was good for a man without the ability to engage in country sport.
His aunt Violet abhorred the hunt, thought shooting in general was against God’s decree, and found riding to be a vulgar use of a fine animal, though she had no complaints about one pulling a coach. He had walked a great deal, as he usually did when forced into visiting, and he read a great deal more, which was likely the cause for the series of headaches that he endured on such a visit.
Although he could also attribute a significant amount of brandy, port, and anything else he could smuggle into his aunt’s home without her noticing to that aforementioned affliction.
Regardless of how he’d suffered then, it was nearly matched by how he suffered now. His mother could not stay with him in his rooms in London, as they were strictly for bachelors, which meant he was paying for her to be set up elsewhere, which she found moderately undignified, and the expense was something he rather resented, as his fortune, such as it was, would not last forever. With no house or estate of his own, as his father had sold the family home in Sussex in favor of moving to London, Larkin had no means of increasing his financial situation unless he took up a profession, which would bring its own set of troubles.
All of which was another occupation of his time, and one he would actually prefer to get back to.
But, alas, his second cousin twice removed had died and somehow Larkin had made his way into the will. He’d never met Sir Kentworth Howard-Dale, even if he could draw their family tree exactly, and yet he’d apparently rendered some footnote in a legally binding document for the man. He could only pray he would have been gifted a decent horse, if not a sum of money, for either would be most welcome and aid him in his less than ideal situation as a gentleman.
A charade is what it was, and charades were not Larkin’s favorite things.
Not when he was surrounded by more ridiculous things than he cared for presently.
“You must get yourself a cravat pin, Larkin,” his mother chirped as she adjusted one of her three fichus. “They are all the rage right now, and you must be at the forefront if you are to make yourself out to be a proper gentleman.”
“No one wears cravat pins, Mother,” he replied in the selfsame bland tone he employed every time she said something of a ridiculous nature.
She frowned at him, her lips pursing and making her plump cheeks draw in slightly. “Well, surely someone must wear them, or they would not exist.”
He could not argue with that logic, actually, and tilted his head in resigned acknowledgement.
“We must pay our respects to Sir Kentworth’s family,” she went on, ignoring the momentous occasion of her actually having made sense. “They must be so bereft.”
“He has no known family, Mother.” Larkin heaved a sigh and looked up at the faded ceiling of the hack they rode in. “He never married, has no siblings remaining, and hasn’t been seen in over twenty years. I know, I checked into it after the summons arrived.”
“He must have family,” his mother retorted. “Everybody has family.”
Larkin closed his eyes, a headache growing behind them. “Then he has none of means or lasting ties. That can be the only reason we are having this meeting. Do you think anyone else would exist if I am the one the solicitor wishes to meet with?”
“I don’t believe his summons stated you were the sole beneficiary, son.”
He raised his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s certainly implied. How many men without connections give their belongings away?”
“If he doesn’t have a family, do you get his house?”
> Larkin’s eyes snapped open, fixed again on the ceiling above him.
A house.
He’d researched Sir Kentworth as a reminder to himself, and he’d seen the Howard-Dale line residing at their estate for several hundred years.
The name escaped him, as had the location, but those details seemed fairly inconsequential in light of what it could all mean. A house. An estate, if he remembered correctly.
That could change everything for him. It would change everything for him.
Don’t be ridiculous.
The timely mental reminder was much needed, and Larkin closed his eyes again, taking a slow breath. He was a second cousin, and a twice removed one at that. There was almost no possibility that he would inherit a house from such a relation.
Almost.
He could not consider the possibility, not if he wanted to retain any semblance of sanity or sense. There was nothing to be gained from hoping in such extremes. It would only lead to disappointment, and Lord knew he did not need more of that in his life.
All he could do was wait, reign in the extremes of his imagination, and pray he would be given something of value. Anything of value.
“Larkin?”
His head jerked up and he looked at his mother with wide eyes, having long lost track of the conversation they had been having. Or that she thought they had been having. It would be one or the other, and at the moment, he wasn’t sure which it was.
His mother raised both brows, though the left did not reach the height of the right. It never did, and it made her look even more disconcerting when she stared at him.
Which she was doing.
“The house?” she prodded as if it was helpful. She huffed without shame. “Really, my boy, you ought to pay more attention when conversing with someone. Anyone else would think you do not care.”
“I was paying attention,” he retorted, folding his arms. “And then I considered the possibility of receiving a house from this will, and it is highly unlikely.”
His mother’s brow furrowed, and did so deeply. “But you said he has no family.”
Of all the times for her to pay attention to what he was saying, this was the time she did so?
“I only had so many resources at my disposal,” Larkin informed her in the simplest manner he could. “There likely are connections closer than us that have a better claim. It is best not to think in any grand terms in things like this, don’t you agree? After all, one would not wish to be disappointed with an inheritance of any sort simply because it is not as extensive as one’s imagination.”
“Imagine if you received a barn,” his mother commented in an almost dreamy fashion that told Larkin she had stopped listening at some point. “Filled with such glorious animals. What an inheritance that would be!”
Larkin groaned and looked out of the carriage window. “Yes, indeed, Mother. A barn. Joy of joys.”
His mother continued to rattle off what benefits a barn, and its accompanying animals, would have for him, dwelling excessively on the pleasures of chicks. Larkin faintly wished his father had been here, for then his mother might not have grown so ridiculous. She’d always had a touch of it, but his father had managed that well enough to make it less noticeable. Since his death, there had been nothing to stop her from giving in to the ridiculous entirely, and living with her sister only compounded that.
She was due to depend on Larkin for the rest of her days, and soon enough he wouldn’t have anything to provide her with. An occupation was the only logical option left to him, barring a surprise in this will they would soon be discussing.
He’d make a terrible clergyman, that was sure, and his interest in anything medical was minimal, so trying for a physician would be ill-fated. He could try the law, he supposed, though how one stayed awake during legal proceedings was beyond him. A military or navy could work in his favor, though he’d been fearfully sick the last time he’d spent much time on a body of water, and he had no means of gaining a commission.
What a mess he was in. A respectable though hardly great fortune without any sort of prospects, and nothing to tempt a woman to take him on, should he have been interested. Was he charming enough to win an heiress? Perhaps he should aim for that, should he find one he liked well enough.
After this meeting, he would look into eligible heiresses and see what he might make of them.
What they would make of him would be far less certain.
The carriage pulled in front of a faded brick building that looked exactly like the buildings on either side of it as well as the ones on the opposite side of the street. Apart from the sign hanging from it that indicated its owners, that of Tuttle-Kirk and Associates, there would be nothing to indicate to anyone at all that it was a place where lives were altered in any way. Though through one window, Larkin did see a precarious looking pile of books in need of rebinding.
That was hardly encouraging.
Still, there was no course but to proceed forth and get this all over with
Larkin stepped down from the coach and extended a hand to his mother, who somehow made getting out of a carriage seem difficult, but eventually managed to have both feet firmly planted on solid ground and her skirts properly situated. That done, he was able to escort her into the building, the clerk having the door open wide for them before they ever reached the top stair of the entrance.
“This way, Mr. Roth, Mrs. Roth,” the clerk said in a nasal tone that did nothing to hide a common London accent.
There were books, shelves, and parchment everywhere Larkin looked, which did nothing for the coiling feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He wouldn’t trust anyone in here to read him a line from a novel, let alone a will. Every office door was shut, giving the place an even more closed off feeling than it naturally had.
“We normally use the front office for these sorts of gatherings,” the clerk continued as he eagerly guided them up a flight of terrifyingly narrow and creaking stairs. “But this being a special occasion, Mr. Tuttle-Kirk thought we might need more space.”
More space? How much space did one need to tell a man and his mother, even as plump as she was, what he had inherited from a relation he couldn’t put a face to?
Larkin spared a glance for his mother, who was too busy scanning the wallpaper about them as though she had found a map thereon to notice anything or anyone.
“Right, here we are, sir,” the clerk said, gesturing to what seemed to be an upstairs apartment that had been renovated into additional office space.
Interesting concept, but certainly serviceable. And perhaps ingenious.
Larkin nodded at the lad, who could not have been more than twenty, he thought, and strode past him into the room.
He stopped cold at the sight of a fair-haired, blue eyed, utterly stunning young woman sitting beside an elderly couple. She seemed as surprised to see him as he was to see her, only surprise was far more flattering on her.
As anything would be.
“Mr. Roth, welcome, welcome,” another voice greeted, interrupting Larkin’s blatant observation of the young woman.
Against all natural inclination, Larkin turned towards the voice, and found still another conglomeration of people, this one far less pleasant to look at, as all three seemed to have come from the grave itself. He hastily shifted his attention further still until it rested on a man of average height and build, hair white as snow, and a matching snowy mustache bushy enough to completely hide his mouth.
Strangely enough, it stretched with exactly the same elasticity a smile would, and Larkin found himself staring at it in wonder.
“John Tuttle-Kirk, Mr. Roth,” the mustache said. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Unaware that mustaches spoke, Larkin took a minute to blink at the extended hand, wondering where a mustache could have found a hand for itself.
Don’t be ridiculous.
Larkin forced his own hand out and met the eyes above the mustache, twinkling in a way that had nothing to do with th
e slight sheen of perspiration on the brow. “Thank you, sir. Pleasure is mine. This is my mother.” He gestured to her, hoping she behaved with the composure he needed her to.
“Mrs. Roth,” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk greeted just as pleasantly, dipping his head in a nod.
“The wallpaper is alive,” Larkin’s mother said in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone. “Ivy spreads, do be careful.”
Larkin closed his eyes, exhaling a pained sigh.
A hint of a giggle came from behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder at the formerly-beautiful and now impudent woman covering her full lips. Her crystal eyes met his, and, despite the dancing within them, he narrowed his gaze with warning.
Her fair brows lifted, then snapped down, her hand dropping back to her lap where it belonged.
Was she gripping her reticule that tightly to prevent him stealing it or in preparation to hit someone with it?
“Please, do be seated,” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk said, gesturing to the chairs between the two other groups. “We are not expecting any others.”
As Larkin hadn’t been expecting anyone to be in the room besides himself and his mother, that seemed both a relief and completely irrelevant. He shrugged to himself and sat where indicated, his mother absently trailing behind him.
Mr. Tuttle-Kirk situated himself behind the large desk, stacked with books of varying sizes on either side of him as if to form a barricade of sorts from them. He unfolded a pair of tiny spectacles and settled them on his excessively prominent nose before peering down at the parchment before him.
He cleared his throat three times into the silence of the room, looked up at them each in turn, then back to the parchment.
They might all die before he finished the thing if he did not start soon, and then there would be several more wills to read out. More business for the Tuttle-Kirk associates that way. Complicated business plan.
The Rivals of Rosennor Hall (Entangled Inheritance Book 3) Page 2