Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The office of John Tuttle-Kirk, Esquire, was not one of order and calm.
Oh, it appeared rather unremarkable from the outside, blending in beautifully with the other offices and shops on its street and in the surrounding neighborhoods, but once one entered the doors, an almost anxious energy pervaded everything.
And once you set foot into the specific office of the man himself, chaos abounded.
Papers and books formed piles that were nearly indiscernible from each other, and the only thing to recommend the space was that there was not a speck of dust to be found on any surface or page.
West stared at the immaculate surfaces, practically agog.
Did this mean that the man used everything the eye could see with such frequency that dust was not able to collect? Or had he simply hired such an excellent housekeeping staff that the standards of cleanliness eradicated dust with a blinding efficiency?
And if the staff was that skilled, why were there no clearer signs of organization in this space?
Did Tuttle-Kirk not wish to put his clients at ease when they met with him?
Was he as disorganized as his working space indicated?
Was this a ruse to amuse himself at the expense of the desperate souls seeking him out?
Surely he could not be a terrible solicitor, else no one would go to him.
If the man had been hired on by Leonard specifically, that would have been one thing, and West could have written off the appointment as his half brother’s usual stupidity, ignorance, and negligence.
But Tuttle-Kirk had been his father’s London solicitor as well, and that was something he could not ignore.
West had never met this man in his life, but he was terrified about the meeting he was about to have.
London was not a place he enjoyed being in all that often, and the sooner he could get out of here and return to Fenmore, the better.
But he had to close up the London house and allow the staff to find other employment if they wished.
He’d offer to retain them, of course, but it would be some time before Fenmore would be a place desirable for anyone to stay in.
He’d sell the London house as soon as he could, since he had no need for it, and should he desire to come to London at any point in the future, he could rent lodgings.
Perhaps one day, he might purchase a house, but Fenmore would need to be fully sustained and flourishing before that took place.
What was the point of wasting money on a second residence when the primary one was suffering?
There was so much he needed to upend and set right, and the busyness was a balm to his agitated soul.
Activity and action would get him through his time in this horrid place, and each task completed was another step towards his return.
He’d already started the process with the London housekeeper, who had been instructed to go through the house and note the pieces that had been brought down from Fenmore.
Not things that Leonard had purchased himself here in London, but what had been pilfered.
Those things would be returned to their rightful place.
Anything Leonard purchased would be sold off for the best possible price as soon as possible. If it was possible to sell it.
Cursory examination of the rooms in the house and its furnishings had West curious as to whether or not anything could truly be wanted by anyone else, and if his half brother had been blind or simply had poor taste.
Or both.
And then there was the question of Elena . . .
He wanted to know more about her. Everything about her.
Where she had come from, who her parents were, why she had nowhere to go, how she had come to meet Leonard, let alone enter into an engagement with him.
London would not give him those answers, but time away from Fenmore and its effects was clearing his mind and giving him clarity of thought.
There was something about the situation that he did not like, and he could not tell what it was.
He liked Elena, as far as he knew, and he liked what she had done for his estate.
He did not like that things surrounding her did not make sense.
He did not like that she had been satisfied to live at Fenmore as it had been without any promise of matters improving.
He did not like that Leonard had abandoned her there without any concern, no matter how fortuitous that might have been for Elena and the estate.
How did anyone willingly abandon Elena anywhere?
Or fail to see to her comfort? He was only just beginning to find her more interesting than irritating, and he would not have wanted her to suffer in that manner.
Hell, when he’d first met her, he’d been startled to find a woman of station living at Fenmore and had been offended by the idea, once he’d gotten the full scope of the matter.
As a gentleman, he could not let that stand.
But considering it was Elena . . .
She deserved so much better. Not that she would agree or mind, but that was one of the reasons why she did deserve it.
She had been bathing in a freezing lake, for pity’s sake!
He would never forget the way her lips had begun to take on that terrifying tinge, even if she had been well and whole, and accustomed to it all.
He wanted to see her in a great copper tub with steam rising from it, subtle floral fragrances added to the water, and a roaring fire in the grate just to keep out any residual chill.
Wait, he didn’t want to see her in the tub like that, he wanted to see that scene brought about.
Although she would likely look like an even more tempting siren if he did see . . .
He growled at his inappropriate and unworthy thoughts.
He was a gentleman, and he would not sink into depravity just because of a pretty face living at his estate.
He wanted her to be taken care of, and that was all.
He wanted her hands to be softer and less callused, not because she was a woman, but because she deserved to not work so hard.
He didn’t mind her hands as they were, of course—only what they represented.
Struggle. Strain. Work. Hardship.
She could endure it, and had done, but he wanted better for her.
That was a secondary aspect of his visit to London and his solicitor. What could he do for Elena that would set her up properly for the future? But in order to do that, he needed to know more about her.
It was all a complicated and twisted sort of circle and spiral, doubling back on itself and repeating in ever-maddening patterns that refused to clear or stop. He could barely catch his breath between one interval and the next, let alone allow his thoughts time to settle.
His life had been remarkably simple before Leonard’s death.
The thought made West snort a laugh into his fist as he waited for Tuttle-Kirk in his office. Simple. Right.
Only because he had been a second son and the last living member of his immediate family hadn’t wanted anything to do with him. No responsibilities but what he placed on himself, no expectations by anyone for anything.
He much preferred this new life to the simple one, even if it did create new and unfamiliar burdens for him.
It felt as though he had been prepared for this, despite the order of his birth.
The foundation of his love for Fenmore, which his father had instilled, seemed a perfect fit now.
Only someone who truly loved Fenmore could restore it.
And only someone who loved it would.
The door to the office opened then, and in came a short, balding man with tufts of white hair over his ears and the most impressively bushy white mustache West had ever seen.
He did not seem to be real, honestly. He looked like an illustration of an elderly solicitor rather than an actual solicitor.
Perhaps he was an actor. That would make more sense, in West’s mind.
“Good morning, Lord Bickham,” the man greeted, coming to West and shaking his hand.
“John Tuttle-Kirk. My condolences on the loss of your predecessor. I only met him a handful of times, but I do understand the confusion and chaos that can ensue with an unexpected inheritance. Please know that I will do all that I can to assist you in any manner.”
West blinked, the steady, calming tone of the old man almost unsettling when compared with the expectation he had built up in his mind. “Thank you,” he eventually managed.
Tuttle-Kirk nodded before moving around his desk and settling in, pulling a ledger and series of papers out of one of the stacks on its surface.
He began flipping through pages before nodding and looking up, resting his hands upon the ledger.
“Tell me what you know of the estate affairs prior to your inheritance,” he began, surprising West further still.
What he knew? What was there to know?
He wet his lips. “I . . . don’t think I know anything, since nothing comes to mind. Apart from what I’ve seen with my own eyes—that Leonard diverted funds and interests away from Fenmore—the only thing I am aware of is the engagement to Elena Williams.”
Mr. Tuttle-Kirk’s lips twisted to one side briefly.
“Yes, well . . . Your half brother was in no great hurry to wed. Miss Williams had a respectable fortune and heritage, but was not considered too elevated to make a fuss over. His late lordship did not want a wife who would expect anything of him nor make demands upon his time. He inquired, I believe, if she would prefer to remain in London or the country when it became clear she had no residence of her own.”
“Wait,” West interrupted, leaning forward in his chair. “No residence? I thought you said she had a respectable fortune and heritage.”