Chapter One
London, 1794
Mrs. Pickett screamed.
Fortunately,
she was sitting in a stout, overstuffed chair, so Mr. Bartlestaff was not
overly concerned she might faint.
Mr. Bartlestaff, of Redigen, Bartlestaff and
Porter, was accustomed to female clients swooning, crying, and throwing
tantrums. Thus he insisted there always be a fresh supply of laundered
handkerchiefs and smelling salts on hand. The gentleman was married, with five
grown daughters. This stood him well; emotional women no longer rattled him.
Composing a
sympathetic, fatherly expression on his face, he waited for the ranting.
The weak
ones screamed, then fainted. The reasonable ones sighed, then composed
themselves. The annoying ones, such as Mrs. Pickett, screamed and then
ranted—as if the law firm were to blame for their misfortune. As if she could
bully them into changing the dried ink upon the old will.
“That is
impossible! My Harold would never have agreed to such a clause in his will.
Never!” The feather in her outrageous hat bounced in agreement, as did her
multiple chins.
“The
encumbrance was tied to the deaths of both Mr. Harold Pickett and his previous
wife, Lady Jeannette Pickett. Since he never mentioned it to you, Harold
Pickett was either unaware of it or unconcerned about the possibility of his
own death.”
The bright
light from the side window glinted from Mr. Bartlestaff’s spectacles.
“How did we
not hear of this before?” she asked with a sneer. “This law firm must be either
mistaken or grossly negligent. Perhaps both.”
Mr. Bartlestaff
removed his glasses. Eyes closed, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.
“I assure you the clause has always been there, Mrs. Pickett.” He opened his
eyes and focused his direct gaze upon the glaring woman. “When your husband
first married, due to his wife’s sizeable fortune her family insisted upon the
clause.”
He could still recall the first wife’s unhappy
father, a long-standing client. His lordship had been concerned with his
daughter’s choice of husband, but it was a father’s intuition. Not finding a
suitable reason to forbid the marriage, he indulged his daughter’s wishes to
marry the handsome Harold Pickett, but tied a legal knot to protect her. The
stipulation? Only a portion of the estate was touchable each year. This had
been sizably generous, however, so the bridegroom readily agreed.
What the
greedy young fellow had not realized was that the larger portion would remain
in trust for any offspring of Lady Jeannette’s. Her husband Harold would never
touch the bulk of her inheritance.
“As I’ve
already explained, madam, the greater part of the fortune that came from Mr.
Pickett’s marriage to his first wife will not be in your control.” He wiped his
glasses with his handkerchief. “The will is very specific: your two
stepdaughters inherit equally.”
“Two stepdaughters? You are again
mistaken!” She almost crowed with smugness. Shifting in the chair, she tugged
impatiently at the purple skirt bunching tightly at her hips. Her impatience
just as quickly transferred to him. “There is no second daughter, Mr.
Bartlestaff. Only my dear, sweet Eleanor. Surely your recordkeeping is not so
incompetent that you did not know Harold’s second daughter died?”
“I realize
it was presumed the baby died with its mother when the first Mrs. Pickett met
her tragic death. However, we now have evidence the young girl survived to
adulthood.” It had, in fact, been the most startling of surprises, he
reflected—the confidential letter received upon Miss Madeline’s eighteenth
birthday. “It was this firm’s unfortunate duty to contact her and inform her of
her father’s death. The father she apparently never had a chance to know.”
Mrs.
Pickett made a rude noise. “Let me tell you something, sir—I’ve raised my
Eleanor since she was two years old. I am the only mother she remembers, and
she is the most biddable of daughters. I am confident she will look after her
dear mama with the money she inherits from her father. That is what she calls
me,” she sniffed, “‘Mama.’ For we are
very close, and her own mother deserted her.”
She pointed
her pudgy finger at the lawyer, punching the air as she spoke: “But … she will
not share one farthing with this imposter. Eleanor’s sister is dead. And even
if she were not, she deserves nothing. As you admitted, she’s never even known
her father. So why should this stranger profit from Harold’s death? You know
she’s only interested because of the inheritance.”
Mr.
Bartlestaff stopped wiping his glasses. “Miss Madeline has not been informed of
the specifics of her father’s will, so she knows nothing about the size of the
legacy.” He replaced his spectacles upon his nose. “Furthermore, whether you
feel Miss Madeline is ‘deserving’ does not signify, Mrs. Pickett. The terms of
the will shall be carried out in accordance with the law by this firm.”
“It’s not
fair!” Mrs. Pickett was red in the face. “I demand to speak to the owner of
this establishment,” she ordered, as if she were at the local haberdashery.
Mr.
Bartlestaff did not take offense.
The fact
that Mrs. Pickett was not a member of the peerage, however, made it a bit more
enjoyable to take his time, sit back in the leather chair, let it squeak a
couple of times in the silence, and then to steeple his fingers before
replying, “I am one of the two senior partners of this firm, madam.”
Her brows
lowered in a frown. He knew exactly when she realized there was no other way to
push, for her face turned ugly and she rose to leave.
“This is
intolerable! That is all I have to say. Good day, sir.”
He let her
get almost to the door. “Mrs. Pickett?” he called clearly.
She
stopped, and he saw the tension in her shoulders; knew she did not want to turn
around or acknowledge him.
“Your
stepdaughter, Miss Madeline, will arrive within a fortnight for the reading of
the will. I assume you will be bringing Miss Eleanor?”
She did
turn now, and he saw she was white. Whether from rage, shock, or a combination
of the two, he could not discern, though he was normally quite a discerning
gentleman.
She turned
her back on him and marched out.
<END> of Chapter One