“I’m perfectly all right now, Mr. Westover. I’m here merely to review with you the terms of my inheritance.”
Mr. Westover stared at her in obvious consternation. “This is unusual, a young lady, here, alone, I’m not certain—”
She interrupted him smoothly. “The baron suggested it was time I met my solicitor, the gentleman who was taking such good care of my inheritance. As the baron told me, it is my money and I should know all the, ah, stipulations. Don’t you agree, sir?”
“The baron said . . . Well, that is pleasant news indeed, I suppose. It’s irregular, very unusual, I say, but I suppose I have little choice now.”
Victoria gave him a brilliant smile. “Thank you.” She walked past him into a high-ceilinged office that smelled comfortingly of leather and ink and decades of closed windows. She waited as he dusted the leather ch
air in front of his desk with his handkerchief, then sat down.
“I will tell you, Miss Abermarle, that I don’t approve of this, any of it. However, since you’re here”—he realized he would have to physically heft her out of the blasted chair—“and the baron approves of your being here, I will give you the general terms of your inheritance.”
He did, spicing his discourse with many pauses and disapproving looks. He wasn’t stupid and was beginning to realize that the baron would have more likely suggested his ward visit a cockfight than her solicitor.
“Twenty-five,” she repeated, feeling her heart sink. Her money wasn’t hers until she was twenty-five. She wouldn’t be nineteen until December. She wasn’t a fool. Although Mr. Westover had been quite careful in his choice of words, it was clear to her that Damien was making free with her money.
“Yes, twenty-five, Miss Abermarle, or upon your marriage, as I said,” said Mr. Westover.
Marriage.
“With my guardian’s permission?” Was that why Damien had told those lies to David Esterbridge? He wanted no husband to take over her money?
“Naturally. I, er, do believe, however, after seeing Lord Drago yesterday, that you need have no concern about the disposition of your funds in the future.”
Certainly she wouldn’t. It had been Rafael to reassure the poor gulled man. Where was Damien?
She rose and extended her hand. Mr. Westover, after regarding that small gloved hand with surprise, finally shook it. He saw her out, ignoring his clerk’s gape-mouthed interest.
It had stopped raining, and there was even a sliver of sun coming from behind the heavy gray clouds. Victoria stood on the top shallow step looking about for Frances’s carriage. She was growing nervous, aware that several rather disreputable men were eyeing her as if she were the Christmas goose. Where was Frances? She saw a curricle approach and heaved a huge sigh of relief. Then she blinked in surprise. She felt her pulse quicken. It was Rafael.
“Rafael.” She waved wildly at him. Let him be angry with her, she thought. She’d found out what she needed to. There was nothing he could do to her, after all. Perhaps rage a bit, but nothing more dire than that.
The curricle came to a smooth halt beside her, and she lifted her eyes to his face.
“Well, Victoria, what an unexpected surprise this is. I see you’ve discovered Mr. Westover.”
He sounded odd, somehow, not really angry, more relieved.
“Now, Rafael, I told you I would. It was too bad of you not to tell me anything. Did Frances send you after me?”
“Frances? No, I was actually coming to see Mr. Westover myself. Again. However, now that I’ve found you, my dear, I believe I will see to you myself.”
“All right. You’re not angry, are you?”
“I? Angry? Actually, Victoria, I’m very pleased.”
She watched him jump gracefully down from the curricle. His clothing was natty, his Hessians glossy. “Come, my child.” He held out his hand to her. “May I say that you look none the worse for your adventure? Indeed, that’s a new gown, is it not? Very charming.”
She cocked her head at him, a half-smile on her lips. “We’re going back to Lucia’s?”
“Lucia’s? No, actually, I don’t believe so. I would like to spend some time alone with you.”
It was in that instant that Victoria realized it wasn’t Rafael. He wasn’t tanned, for one thing. That, and something else, something she couldn’t define, even to herself. Her eyes widened and she took a quick step backward, unable to help herself.
“Come along, Victoria.”
He grabbed her arm. “Damien,” she whispered, so frightened she could scarcely think straight.