At first she'd been horrified to be part of such a dishonest activity, but he assured her it was to be considered her house now that Uncle Simon was gone, since she was his only blood relative.
Now she and Mr. Birmingham were in her uncle's library—which wasn't nearly as lovely as Mr. Birmingham's—looking for private papers. She'd been moping around, getting to know a bit about what kind of man Uncle Simon had been by the possessions he'd amassed, the books he'd read.
Unlike Mr. Birmingham's books, which were all classic titles with fine leather bindings, her uncle's were a jumble of assorted subjects and a hodgepodge of bindings, but all looked well read. Unlike Mr. Birmingham's.
Uncle Simon was obviously not a reader of poetry but had a great fondness for travel journals. What a pity he'd repressed his desire to see the world to tend to his business interests in London. Was that why he wanted her to come? Had he planned to have her see to the business while he spent the last years of his life seeing all the places he'd spent a lifetime reading about?
While Mr. Birmingham's home was lovingly looked after, her uncle's was not only cluttered, but it also was not clean. Or perhaps only the library was off-limits to the servants. Had he forbidden his servants to dust and tidy this chamber? It was obvious he spent a great deal of time in this room. The seat of the upholstered chair nearest the fire had been worn to a half-moon shape, and the work table beside it bore circular stains from where glasses had been set.
Her gaze flicked to the other side of the fireplace. That must be where her uncle's guests sat. Indeed, right next to the chair there—a chair that did not appear well used—sat an empty wine glass.
She wondered if the man drinking from that glass might have been the last to see her uncle alive. She shook her head. What an active imagination she had! For all she knew, Uncle Simon had dropped dead at his place of business.
She needed to know more. As his only kin, she needed to know how he'd died and where he'd died. She wanted to know what had killed him.
A pity there were no servants left to answer her questions. If only she had come a few days earlier. If only she'd had the opportunity to meet her uncle.
More than anything, she was curious to know what kind of man he was. How sad that just as their lives were about to intertwine, she was deprived of him. Something inside her ached from the loss.
"Ah, ha!" Mr. Birmingham said after he'd searched through the contents of one of Uncle's desk drawers.
She'd been hesitant to initiate such a search herself. It seemed so disrespectful of the dead. "His solicitor's name is Wycliff. Hugh Wycliff on High Holborn. Hmm. Not far from my solicitor's. Come, Miss Hastings, let us go."
Chapter 3
Once again Miss Emma Hastings was reduced to timidity when she found herself riding with Mr. Birmingham in his lavish carriage. Its luxuriousness was quite beyond anything she had ever seen. The sumptuous seats of pale green velvet were trimmed in a rich gold braid that matched the tassels upon the window curtains. She wondered if the threads were made of real gold. A second son he might be, but Mr. Birmingham was unquestionably rich.
It was rather surprising, really, how kind he was to her—a complete stranger. Would it not have been easier to just offer his coach and dispatch her to High Holborn? It was as if he—an unquestionable sot—empathized with her. How could a man of such privilege so well understand the difficulties facing a lone young woman in a strange city many thousands of times larger than anything she'd ever seen?
Perhaps his kindness was likely to preserve himself from having to endure another session of her tearful hysterics. She must have sounded like gypsy wailer. It mortified her still that she had put on such an exhibition in front of him.
But, truth to tell, she could easily launch into another sobbing fit at the very thought of returning to Upper Barrington.
She wished to express her gratitude to him, but it was as if she'd lost her tongue. She felt so inadequate, like a barnyard hen beside a magnificent peacock. Mr. Birmingham must be accustomed to being with beautiful women who were genteel, well-dressed and clever members of the haute ton.
What must he think of her? She peered down at the sprigged muslin dress she'd sewn with her own inferior hand. Aunt Harriett insisted all her day dresses be constructed only of that girlish, modest fabric. Her lack of sophistication would be even more evident by her hand-knitted red shawl. From the glimpses of haute fashion she had observed in the pages of Ackermann's, she knew the young ladies in London would wear fine merino or velvet pelisses over their morning dresses.