The Wicked Ways of a Duke(7)
“My name is Elliot Whitfield,” he told her, offering his card with a bow.
She accepted the card and read it as she moved to the overstuffed chintz chair closest to the fireplace. “Why would an attorney come all the way from America to pay a call upon me?” she asked as she sat down, feeling a hint of alarm at the impressive sound of a firm called Whitfield, Joslyn, and Morehouse, Attorneys-at-Law, with offices in New York, London, and Paris. Lawyers, she suspected, were rather like the police. Getting entangled with them could not possibly be agreeable.
The gentleman once again took his seat and set aside his walking stick. “I have come on behalf of your father, Mr. Henry Abernathy.”
She blinked at this unexpected announcement and set the card aside. “Sir, I believe there’s been some sort of muddle. I do not know of anyone named Abernathy. My father was Henry Bosworth, of Little Furze, Yorkshire.”
To her surprise, the dapper man across from her nodded. “Yes, exactly so. When Henry Bosworth went to America, he changed his name to Abernathy.”
Prudence sniffed. “To prevent my mother from finding him, I’ve no doubt.”
Mr. Whitfield gave a discreet little cough. “Be that as it may…” He paused, then went on, “I have come to offer you news both good and bad, Miss Bosworth. First, I must inform you that your father recently died.”
That, she concluded from the somber expression of the man before her, was the bad news. But since her father had been a deceiving scoundrel who refused to do the honorable thing and instead abandoned her mother before her birth, she did not feel inclined to weep over his death. “And the good news, sir?”
“He has left you a legacy. That is the reason I am here.”
This information didn’t stir her emotions much more than the news of his death. From what little she’d been told of her father, he’d seemed a worthless fellow. A legacy from him was most unlikely. “He had something to leave?”
“I wouldn’t have come all the way from New York otherwise, Miss Bosworth.” Mr. Whitfield reached for his dispatch case. “I have here a duplicate copy of his will. You are the only beneficiary.”
Astonished, she watched as the little man opposite her took up his case of black leather, placed it on his lap, and opened it. He lifted from its interior a thick sheaf of papers, and at the sight of such a substantial-looking document, she felt a throb of hope. Perhaps there really was a legacy, enough that she could resign her post at Madame Marceau’s and find a better situation, one that did not involve working such long hours or bowing and scraping to people like Lady Alberta Denville. Oh, if only…
“Per the terms of his will,” the attorney went on, “all income generating from his estate comes to you. In addition, you are to inherit his personal assets, which are considerable.”
Words like “assets” and “income” made things sound so promising, and Prudence’s hopes broadened. Perhaps she wouldn’t be forced to seek a new post at all. Perhaps, there would be enough to give her a cozy nest egg that would protect her from the ravages of old age and give her a home of her own. She began to envision a quaint little terrace house in Hackney with bobbin lace curtains.
“The income from the estate,” the attorney went on, “is to be placed in a trust fund for you.”
She felt compelled to quash the longing sweeping over her before it took hold. This had to be a dream. Legacies out of nowhere didn’t happen in real life. Any moment now she would wake up and find herself still in that hansom cab on the way home from the showroom. Still…a trust fund did sound wonderful. She would love to have a trust fund. She swallowed hard, wanting to believe. “Is it very much money?”
“Much money?” The attorney began to laugh. “Miss Bosworth, as I said before, your father was Henry Abernathy.” At her blank stare, he went on, “Surely, even here in England, you’ve heard of Abernathy’s Department Stores?”
Of course she’d heard of them. Abernathy’s were the most famous department stores in all of America. Their emporium on Fifth Avenue was said to be grander even than Harrods here in London, though Prudence’s staunchly British heart was doubtful on that point. “My father owns the Abernathy stores? He is—was—one of those American millionaires?”
“Yes, indeed.” Mr. Whitfield smiled at her snort of disbelief. “As I said, there are conditions attached to the inheritance, but if you meet those conditions you will be a very rich woman, one of the richest women in the world.”
She simply could not credit it. This had to be some sort of trick or confidence swindle. Prudence jumped to her feet, ready to send this fellow off with a flea in his ear, but she was hit at once with a wave of dizziness. Pressing a hand to her forehead, she choked, “I do not…believe…you.”
“Nonetheless, it’s the absolute truth, I assure you.”
“It can’t—” Whatever she’d been about to say vanished from her mind. The room was starting to spin in the strangest way, and she closed her eyes, trying to think. She was inheriting money, the man said. An entire fortune. She’d be one of the richest women in the world. “How…how much—”
Though she could not manage to finish her question, Mr. Whitfield comprehended at once. “The income fluctuates with economic conditions, of course,” he said, his voice barely discernible past the roaring in her ears, “but at the current rate of exchange, it amounts to approximately one million pounds per annum.”
With those words, the past few days of grueling work with little food and almost no sleep finally took their toll. For the first time in her life, Prudence Bosworth fainted.
Chapter 3
American millionaire Henry Abernathy leaves entire fortune to illegitimate daughter!
—The Social Gazette, 1894
The horrid odor of ammonia penetrated her consciousness, and Prudence shook her head in protest, pushing away the hand that held a vial of foul-smelling stuff beneath her nose.
As if from a great distance away, she heard Mrs. Morris speaking. “She’s coming around now.”
“That is good news, indeed,” a man answered, and it was the sound of his voice that recalled Prudence to the incredible situation at hand. She jerked upright.
“Don’t move too quickly,” Mrs. Morris cautioned, putting a hand on her shoulder. “No sense having you faint again.”
“I fainted?” Prudence blinked and tried to get her bearings. She was sitting in her chair, Mrs. Morris was hovering at her elbow with a bottle of smelling salts, and standing on her other side was the attorney who had just told her she was to inherit a fortune. “Is it true?” she whispered.
“Quite true, Miss Bosworth.” Turning, he crossed the room and resumed his seat. “A bit overwhelming, I suppose.”
“To say the least! One million pounds a year?” Saying the amount did not make inheriting it more believable. “Heavens.”
“One million pounds a year?” Mrs. Morris glanced at the attorney, then at her. “What’s this?”
“Your Miss Bosworth has come into a legacy from her father. She is set to become a very rich woman. One of the richest women in the world, as a matter of fact.”
“You don’t say so!” Her mouth open in amazement, Mrs. Morris groped for the arm of the chintz chair beside Prudence’s own and sat down. “But…” She swallowed hard and tried again. “But Prudence, dearest, I thought…that is, I believed your father had died years ago when you were a little girl. At least, that’s what you told me when you came to live here.”
Prudence gave the older woman an apologetic look. “I deceived you about that, I’m afraid. You see, my father deserted my mother before I was born. He—” She broke off, her cheeks heating with shame. “He never married her, and he went off to America.”
“Eleven years you’ve lived in my lodging house and you could never tell me the truth?”
“I didn’t want you to know that I was…” Her voice wobbled. “…that I was illegitimate. This is such a respectable lodging house. When I applied to you for rooms here, I was afraid you would turn me away if you knew the truth.”
“It’s your father who should be ashamed!” Mrs. Morris answered, and her obvious outrage filled Prudence with relief. “To abandon your mother so callously. Dishonorable cur!”
Mr. Whitfield cleared his throat. “Yes, well, he’s redeemed himself now, I hope? He has left Miss Bosworth his entire fortune.”
“Well, I don’t know what to say to that,” Mrs. Morris answered. “One million pounds a year. My goodness.” She gave a breathy laugh. “No wonder you fainted, dear.”
Prudence laughed with her, her mood swinging back to dazed exhilaration. “I can’t seem to take it in,” she said, and put a hand to her forehead, still a bit light-headed. “I can’t think.”
“Perfectly understandable, given the circumstances,” Mr. Whitfield assured her. “I’d be rather topsy-turvy myself. But we must discuss the specific terms of your father’s will. There are conditions to the inheritance of which I must make you aware—”