Minutes later he was back, oozing spurious concern. A Mr Whitworth—the elder, as they later learned—followed close on his heels. A portly man of late middle age, he glanced down at the card he held in his hand, given to the clerk by Lord Alton.
Mr Whitworth looked at the two elegant and eminently respectable gentlemen filling his antechamber and became slightly flustered. “My lord…?”
Dominic took pity on him. “I am Lord Alton,” he explained smoothly, “and this is Miss Georgiana Hartley, one of your clients. She is presently in the care of my sister, Lady Winsmere. Lord Winsmere,” he added, indicating Arthur for the solicitor’s edification, “and I have escorted her here in the hope you can clarify a number of points concerning Miss Hartley’s inheritance.”
It was doubtful if Mr Whitworth heard the latter half of this speech. His eyes had become transfixed on Georgiana, sitting patiently on a chair between her two protectors. Despite the fact she was now used to being stared at, and knew she looked her best in a soft dove-coloured merino gown with a delicate lace tippet, Georgiana found his gaze unnerving. As Lord Alton finished speaking, and the man continued to stare, she raised her brows haughtily.
Mr Whitworth started. “Miss Georgiana Hartley—Mr James Hartley’s daughter?” he asked breathlessly.
Georgiana looked puzzled. “Yes,” she confirmed, wondering who else had her name.
“My dear young lady!” exclaimed the solicitor, grasping her hand and bowing elaborately over it. “My dear Miss Georgiana! Well, it’s a relief to see you at last! We’ve been searching for you for months!” Once he had started, it seemed the man hardly paused for breath. “Almost, we had begun to fear foul play. When we couldn’t contact you and all our letters were returned unopened and no one seemed to know where you had disappeared to…” Suddenly he paused and seemed to recollect himself. He waved plump hands in sudden agitation. “But what am I thinking of? Please come into my office, Miss Hartley, my lords, and we will sort this matter out at once.”
He ushered them into a large office which bore little resemblance to the spartan outer chamber. Here all was air and light, with a rich red Turkey carpet covering mellow polished boards. Through the windows, the branches of the trees in the small lawn in the middle of the yard could be seen, the last yellow leaves tenaciously defying the brisk autumn breeze.
As they entered, a thin, soberly clad gentleman rose from behind one of two large desks. Mr Whitworth, holding the door, proclaimed, “Alfred, Miss Hartley is here!”
The second Whitworth—for, from the similarity of facial features, there was little doubt of who he was—looked startled. He pulled his gold-rimmed pince-nez off his nose, polished the glass, then returned it to its perch the better to view Georgiana. After a moment of rapt contemplation, he sighed. “Thank God!”
Both Whitworths bustled about, arranging chairs for their guests. They set these in front of the large desks which, side by side, faced the room. Once their visitors were seated, they subsided, each behind his own desk.
“Now!” said Whitworth the elder, chins flapping as he settled, hands folded before him. “As you can see, we’re delighted to see you, Miss Hartley. We have been trying to contact you since we learned of your father’s death, with respect to the matter of your inheritance.” He beamed at Georgiana.
“If we might speak frankly…?” enquired Whitworth the younger, his flat tone a contrast to his brother’s jovial accents.
Turning to face him, it took a moment before Georgiana understood his query. “Oh, please,” she said quickly when light finally dawned, “Lord Alton and Lord Winsmere are my friends. I will be relying on their advice.”
“Good, good,” said Whitworth the elder, causing Georgiana to swivel again. “Not wise for a young lady so well dowered as you are to be alone in the world.”
“Quite,” his younger brother concurred drily.
“Now, where to begin?”
“Perhaps at your father’s bequests?”
“There weren’t many—nothing that interfered with the bulk of the estate.”
“A few minor legacies to old servants—the usual sort of thing.”
“But the major estate remains intact.” Whitworth the elder paused to beam again at Georgiana.
Stifling the impulse to put a hand to her whirling head, Georgiana took the opportunity to quell her impending dizziness. It was like watching a tennis game, the conversational ball passing from brother to brother and back again, before their audience of three. Then his last words registered. “Major estate?”
“Why, yes.”
“As the major beneficiary of your father’s will, you inherit the majority of his estate.”
“Which is to say,” Whitworth the elder took up the tale smoothly, “the estate known as the Place in the county of Buckinghamshire…”
“His invested capital,” intoned Whitworth the younger. “The house in town…”
“And all his paintings not previously sold.”
A pause ensued. Georgiana stared at the elder Mr Whitworth, he who had last spoken. Lord Winsmere, having given up the unequal task of allowing his eyes to follow the conversation, stared out of the window, his lips pursed. Lord Alton, even less enthralled by the vision of the Whitworths, had shifted his gaze long since to the young woman beside him. He showed no surprise at the solicitor’s news.
“The Place? But… There must be some mistake!” Georgiana could not believe her ears. “My cousin Charles owns the Place.”
“Oh, dear me, no!” said the younger Whitworth. “Mr Charles Hartley is not a client of ours.”