Her sorrowful gaze went from him to the solicitor.
Wycliff rang a bell, and his clerk entered the chamber. "Be a good lad and fetch Hastings' will."
A moment later, the clerk returned with a large packet and placed it on his employer's desk. Once the door was closed, Wycliff cleared his throat and emptied the contents of the packet onto his desk. He handed Miss Hastings a hand-written document.
Though it wasn't his business, Adam moved to stand over her so he could read her uncle's last will and testament. It started off with the usual language about him being of sound mind, then rather quickly got to the point. "I leave my share of the Ceylon Tea Company to my trusted clerk, James Ashburnham, a capable man who knows the business almost as well as I. It will be left in good hands. In recognition of his faithful service to me, I will to him all my earthly possessions except for legacies to be left to my housekeeper, Mrs. Thornton, and my butler, Boddington, each of whom will receive an annuity of seventy-five pounds for the remainder of their lives. In addition, I bequeath to my niece, Miss Emma Hastings, two hundred pounds annually."
Adam was stunned. Why in the devil would the blighter beg his niece to relocate to London so he could educate her about Ceylon Tea, then while the poor girl was in transit, completely reverse himself? Something was definitely wrong.
Beastly business. The unfortunate Miss Hastings must be in shock. He prayed she wouldn't turn into a watering pot.
"Tell me, Miss Hastings," Adam asked, "have you corresponded with your uncle enough that you would recognize his handwriting?"
She nodded. "I even brought his recent letters with me to London. They're in my portmanteau."
"Does this will appear to be written in his hand?" Adam asked.
"Oh, yes. See the unusual curl on his capital H? That's most distinctive of Uncle Simon's penmanship."
It was an exceedingly neat hand that had penned the document—quite a contrast to the chaos in Hastings' library.
“I’m frightfully afraid, Miss Hastings,” the solicitor said, “I have more distressing news for you.”
“What more can you take away from this poor girl?” Adam demanded.
Mr. Wycliff eyed Emma. “Are you aware that Harriett Lippincott has died?”
Emma shrieked and clutched at her chest, her eyes widening with shock. “My aunt!”
Adam couldn’t blame the poor waif is she launched into another crying fit. Now she really had no blood relation. No home. And she wasn’t even old enough to see to the paltry annuity Simon Hastings had settled upon her.
“How do you know about my aunt?” she asked, still not erupting into explosive wails.
His brows furrowed, his voice soft, Wycliff said, “Your aunt’s vicar has written to Mr. Hastings, informing him that he was now to stand as guardian to you. All of your uncle’s mail now comes to me.”
Adam turned to her. “Do you have any more blood relatives?”
She shook her head and began to softly weep.
Adam addressed the solicitor. “Will Miss Hastings need a guardian?”
“How old is she?”
“She doesn’t reach her majority for seven months.”
Wycliff winced. “The Court of Chancery will have to appoint one for her.”
“Please start the proceedings,” Adam instructed. He suddenly felt compelled to remove Miss Hastings from this scene of harrowing news. He squeezed her shoulder. "We'd best leave now, Miss Hastings. After the sadness which has greeted you your first day in London, you must do something fun, and I'm putting myself at your service."
Tears trickling from her eyes, she offered a wan smile and rose, nodding to Wycliff as she left the chamber.
When they reached his coach, he tried to ignore her state of grief. Holy, bloody hell. Either of those pieces of bad news would have been enough to crush a strapping man. Was there not something he could do to divert her thoughts from such devastation? "Pray, Miss Hastings, you must tell me what you would most like to see in the Capital. Should you like to climb atop St. Paul's? Or take a stroll through Vauxhall Gardens? Perhaps see Poets Corner at Westminster Abbey or look at the exhibits at the British Museum?"
She made no response. She merely looked straight ahead with unseeing eyes. To his consternation, those bluish green eyes of hers started to mist again. Oh, no. He instructed the coachman to drive through Hyde Park. Surely all the finery that was sure to be on display there would fascinate a girl from a small village.
But as soon as the carriage door was closed, her tears came. Great, gushing tears accompanied by heaves and woeful whimpers. She cried all the way from The City to Westminster. She bawled from Westminster to Mayfair. When they entered Hyde Park he tried to divert her attention. "I say, Miss Hastings, I do believe you'll enjoy seeing the fashionable people in Hyde Park."