“Mr. Josiah Brumford has requested an hour of your time here tomorrow morning, Your Grace,” Goddard explained. “Since he is the Earl of Riverdale’s solicitor and his lordship is your ward, I assumed you would be happy to grant his request. I have given instructions that the rose salon be prepared for ten o’clock.”
“Happy,” His Grace repeated faintly. “My dear Edwin, what a very peculiar choice of word. You have indeed mentioned here that this, ah, audience is to be granted in the rose salon at the time you stated. I can read. But you omitted a reason for the choice of room. The rose salon seems rather a large chamber for just one solicitor and my humble self to rattle about in. He is not bringing along with him any large sort of retinue, is he? The other Brumford, perhaps, or some of the ‘& Sons’? Or the whole lot of them? That would be too, too much, I am moved to inform you.”
“Mr. Brumford mentioned in his letter, Your Grace,” Goddard said, “that he has taken the liberty of requesting the attendance too of more persons, including the earl and the countess, his mother, and other members of his family.”
“Has he indeed?” Avery’s fingers curled about the handle of his quizzing glass as he strolled toward his secretary’s desk, dropped the memo upon it, and held out his hand. Goddard eyed it for a moment and then rummaged through a neat pile of papers on one corner of his desk in order to produce Brumford’s letter. It was as pompous as the man who had penned it, but it did indeed request the honor of addressing His Grace of Netherby at Archer House at ten o’clock tomorrow morning upon a matter of grave importance. It also begged His Grace’s pardon for having taken the liberty of inviting his ward and his lordship’s mother and sisters as well as other close family members, including Mr. Alexander Westcott, Mrs. Westcott, his mother, and Lady Overfield, his sister.
Avery returned the letter to his secretary without comment. Three weeks had passed since Brumford had stridden from Westcott House like a crusader bent upon the mission of sending forth his most trusted investigator to run one bastard orphan to earth in order to press riches upon her in return for her written promise never to appeal to Harry for more. Had not the arrangement been that Brumford report privately to Avery when the woman was found in order to discuss the exact sum to be settled upon her?
Was this meeting about something else altogether?
It had better be, by thunder, if Brumford did not wish to find himself strung up from the nearest tree by his thumbs. It had been the countess’s express wish that Harry and Camille and Abigail never know of the existence of their father’s by-blow. And why the devil had Alex Westcott been invited? And his mother and his sister? They were cousins of Harry’s—second cousins, to be exact, with maybe a remove or two. Westcott was also the heir to the earldom until such time as Harry settled down to marriage and the dutiful production of an heir of his own body and a couple of spares to be on the safe side. And who were the other close family members? What was this meeting? Had some secret will been unearthed after all?
Avery left the room and went in search of the duchess, his stepmother. She would be interested to know that they were to expect her sister-in-law and nephew and nieces tomorrow, as well as her cousins and other unidentified relatives. She had a mother and two sisters in town. Though perhaps she had received her own personal invitation and already knew. She would certainly wish to attend the meeting, as no doubt would Jess—Lady Jessica Archer, his half sister, who at the age of seventeen and three-quarters already had all ten toes lined up firmly at the threshold of the schoolroom doorway, ready to bolt free the very moment she turned eighteen. This time next year, perish the thought, he would probably be squiring her about to all the parties and balls and breakfasts and picnics and whatnots at which the great marriage mart conducted its business during the Season.
She might as well attend the meeting, he thought, since it was to be here in her own home. He looked into the drawing room and found her there with her mother, admiring a pile of brightly colored embroidery silks they must have just purchased. It would be hard to keep Jess away tomorrow anyway when she was informed that Abigail was coming. It would be well nigh impossible when she knew Harry was to be here too. She did not, Avery hoped, see him as future husband material since he was her first cousin, but she did worship and adore at the altar of his youthful good looks. However, her presence or absence would be for her mother to decide. Thank heaven for mothers.
A matter of grave importance, Brumford had written. The man ought to be on the stage. He really ought.
Both ladies looked up and smiled at him.
“Oh, Avery,” Jessica said, hurrying toward him, her face brightly eager, her hands clasped to her bosom, “guess who is coming here tomorrow morning.” But she did not wait for him to participate in the game she had set up. “Abby. And Harry. And Camille.”
In order of importance, it seemed.
* * *
“Brumford has a decided flair for the dramatic,” Alexander Westcott remarked to his mother and his sister as they dined together at home that same evening. “This gathering cannot be for the reading of Riverdale’s will. There apparently was no will. Besides, the solicitor would not have chosen Archer House for such a reading even if Netherby is Harry’s guardian. Why our presence is necessary for whatever the business happens to be, heaven knows. I suppose we had better put in an appearance, however.”
“I have not seen either Louise or Viola since the funeral,” his mother said, naming the Duchess of Netherby and the Countess of Riverdale. “I shall enjoy a chat with them. And if we are invited, perhaps Cousin Eugenia and Matilda and Mildred will be there too.” Cousin Eugenia was the Dowager Countess of Riverdale, the late earl’s mother, the other two ladies her eldest and youngest daughters.