Page 22 of A Convenient Fiction

“It’s a fair question, Miss Hayes. Much as I enjoy your charming presence, by rights it should be your brother I’m dealing with, not you. Your father’s will states in no uncertain terms that if, by the age of five and twenty, you remain unmarried, the whole of the family business—interests, property, and so forth—goes to Edward Hayes on his twenty-first birthday.” Mr. Weatherwax’s mouth curled into a patronizing smile. “And you are unmarried, are you not?”

Her hands tightened in her lap. “I am.”

“And have you any intention of marrying before your twenty-fifth birthday?”

Anger rose in Laura’s breast. It took an effort to keep it from infiltrating her words. “My twenty-fifth birthday is in two weeks, sir. That’s hardly enough time—”

“Am I to take that as a no?”

“No,” she ground out. “I have no immediate plans to marry.”

He smiled again. “Then we’re at an impasse. With your brother too ill to fulfill his responsibilities—”

“He’s not too ill. Really, Mr. Weatherwax, if my brother—”

“If your brother were competent in mind and body, Miss Hayes, he would have come to meet with me himself—to settle matters and to receive an accounting of where things stand. As it is, I remain convinced that he is not competent. He’s ill, and far too frail for me to hand over control to him. Given the circumstances, I cannot believe that your father would have wished me to do so.”

She opened her mouth to object, but Mr. Weatherwax held up his hand, silencing her.

“It would be a gross dereliction of my duty,” he said. “An act verging perilously close to malpractice.”

“But my father’s will—” Laura began, a note of desperation creeping into her voice. “It couldn’t be clearer.”

“His will can be challenged. Indeed, it shall be challenged if you insist on your brother taking control. There is no judge who would remove me from my role. Not when they see how truly unfit your brother is. It’s frankly a mercy for me to remain in charge of your affairs, my dear.” He looked up at the door. “Ah. And here is Patience with our tea.”

The maidservant entered the room, the teapot and teacups rattling on the tray in her arms.

“Set it down,” Mr. Weatherwax ordered. “Here on my desk. Don’t make a to-do out of it.”

No sooner had the maidservant set down the tray than Laura stood, prompting Mr. Weatherwax to rise from his chair. “I beg your pardon,” she said, “but I must wash my hands.”

Mr. Weatherwax’s mouth tightened. “Yes, of course. Rail travel is appallingly dusty. Patience! Show Miss Hayes to the washroom. Be quick about it.”

The maidservant led Laura out of the office. “The necessary is just down the hall, miss.”

Laura’s heart beat heavily in her chest. She felt, rather suddenly, as if her corset had been laced several inches too tight. At the door to the washroom, she stopped and pressed a hand to her midriff.

“Are you ill, miss?” the maidservant asked softly. “You’ve gone all pale-like.”

“I just need a moment to catch my breath,” Laura said.

The maidservant’s face creased with sympathy. “He’s upset you, has he?”

Laura was too out of sorts to mind the impertinence. “He has, rather. He must be a dreadful gentleman to work for.”

“Oh, I don’t work for him. Not like he thinks.”

Laura glanced up. “Don’t you?” She didn’t know whether the girl was speaking the truth or not. She hardly cared. “I thought I was going to be rid of him today.”

“There are other solicitors, miss. Better ones. My own master is the best of the lot.”

Laura entered the washroom to stand in front of the porcelain basin. She needed to splash her face and wrists with cold water. And then she needed to go home. Nothing was making any sense anymore.

The maidservant came in after her. “Here, miss.” She reached into the bodice of her dress and pulled out a scrap of paper. Her voice sank to a whisper. “I have his card.” She offered it to Laura.

Laura took it without looking at it. “I’m obliged to you,” she said as she placed it in her reticule. “Truly.”

And she was.