Chapter Twelve
A hush fell over the solicitor’s room when Mr. Phipps finished reading the rest of Prue’s father’s will. He put the document down and peered myopically at them over the top of his spectacles. Shocked, Prue glanced over at Roland, who sat granite-jawed, as still as a stone.
As tension built in the room, he uttered a muffled curse and leaped to his feet. “This is outrageous! That is a forgery. It is not my uncle’s current will.”
“It is quite genuine,” Mr. Phipps said calmly, rising from his desk. “The earl recently submitted it to me in person.”
Roland pushed back his chair so hard, it crashed to the floor. “You haven’t heard the last from me. I will contest it.”
“That is your prerogative, sir,” Mr. Phipps said to Roland’s retreating back. The door banged against the wall, and he strode out.
The rest of the staff, whispering to each other, followed Roland from the office.
After thanking Mr. Phipps and learning the names of her two trustees, Prue joined Gramma, and they left together.
Prue held on to the stair rail, a little giddy.
Roland was not one of her trustees. “I simply cannot believe it,” she said to Gramma as they descended to the street.
“Roland only inherits the title, the estate, and the London mansion. Nothing else. The other unentailed properties, the investments, stocks and shares, are held in trust until I marry, or turn twenty-one.”
“Infinitely fair,” Gramma said, doing up the jet buttons on her pelisse. “Now, where is the carriage? Ah, here it comes. After that surprising interlude, I could do with a cup of tea.” She turned to Prue with a smile. “Or what about a glass of champagne at the Pultney Hotel to celebrate?”
Prue smiled and nodded. But she didn’t feel like celebrating.
Papa had made her a wealthy woman, but until the trustees, two of her uncles whom she hadn’t seen for years, and one who was known to be God-fearing and parsimonious, told her what her allowance would be, her position hadn’t improved much at all.
Her twenty-fifth birthday was five years away, and now the rumor of her inherited wealth was sure to spread, she’d be besieged with suitors and fortune hunters, exposed and vulnerable.
And she had not wanted to be a burden on Gramma.
“Why do you think Papa changed his will?” she asked as they settled in the carriage.
“And so recently? I can understand that he wanted to leave me well provided for, but it seems a very pointed rebuttal of Roland’s rights as the new heir.
Denying him the investments beyond those attached to the estate will make life difficult for him.
” Prue exhaled. She wasn’t sorry for Roland, but she would hate to see the estate neglected.
Papa had spent many hours overseeing all aspects of it and had been very proud of the result.
“I’m sure Roland anticipated that as well as the entailed estate, all the other properties and investments would go to him, and he’d hold sway over my future.
” She grinned as exhilaration flooded through her like a tide of warmth.
“Your father was no fool. I’m sure he had his reasons,” Gramma said.
“I wish I knew what they were.” Prue thought about the letter she’d found on his desk after his murder.
It had been from a Mr. Everton, a man of business of some kind, who apparently had important information to divulge.
Somehow, she was sure he would be able to impart some knowledge of her father’s situation.
It was important to find him as soon as possible, while the investigation continued, and the magistrate would consider any new findings.
Might Lord Hereford have been able to discover who the man was?
If only he would call again soon. Only he offered her hope of discovering the truth.
And he was the only person she thought capable of it.
It appeared the magistrate’s investigation had stalled once it had been established Will Darby was not from the county.
She settled back against the squabs beside Gramma. “I wonder if Lord Hereford has anything new to tell us?”
“If he has, I’m sure he will waste no time in informing you of it,” Gramma said as the coach left the city’s busy roads and headed toward Richmond.
“I do hope so.” Prue smoothed her gloves over her cold hands.
Roland said he would seek legal advice, but the solicitor had seemed sure the will was watertight.
And when he was forced to face it, what would Roland do?
Prue was greatly relieved that he had no power over her, but she didn’t trust him to leave things as they were.
Gramma glanced at her. “It is wonderful news about the will, is it not?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, then, chin up, child. The world is your oyster.”
*
“Why did you go to Richmond?” Jack asked, glaring down at Darby, who clutched the sides of his chair with white knuckles.
With an attempt at bravado, Darby shrugged. “Who says I did?”
Jack noted he was clearly unsettled. “You’ve been very busy, Darby. We have enough on you to throw you into Newgate. Once that cell door closes, it’s doubtful you will ever see the light of day again. It would be wise to tell us whom you work for. It might help your case.”
Darby’s eyes glazed over with fright. “Who says I work for anyone?”
“You were hired to kill the Earl of Sedgwick.”
“Yer dicked in the nob.” Darby shifted on the flimsy chair, which creaked in protest.
“We have several reliable witnesses.”
“If I talk, I’m dead. So don’t waste yer breath.”
Jack gripped him by his red bandana and pulled him to his feet. “We’ll leave you to cool your heels in a Bow Street jail until either you see the sense of confessing, or we gather enough proof to see you swing.”
He dragged Darby to the door and pulled it open. His men came running. Jack thrust him into the arms of one of them. “Take him to Bow Street. Tell the magistrate to hold him in a cell. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Right you are, sir.”
Darby, protesting violently, was hauled off down the stairs and pushed into a waiting wagon be taken to the lockup.
Jack was confident that with a little persuasion, the frightened man would talk.
For now, Jack had other fish to fry. Lady Prudence had asked him to find Bartholomew Everton, the man who’d written to the Earl of Sedgwick just before he’d been killed.
He’d left no address. Did Everton live in London?
If so, Jack would find him. In his library in Mayfair, he’d searched through the Boyle’s New Fashionable Court and Country Guide without success.
He’d then flicked through his copy of the Post Office Annual Directory.
And there Everton was, residing at an address in Clerkenwell.
In the hall, Stoker assisted him into his greatcoat.
Jack put on his tall beaver hat, drew on his gloves, and picked up his cane.
“I’ll dine at my club,” he said as he stepped out onto the porch.
At the corner, he hailed a passing hackney, hoping he’d discover something important to dwell on, and a good male friend at White’s as a sounding board, while sharing a bottle of Cognac.
Jack hoped to learn something from this man, Everton, when he met him, to make Lady Prudence’s sad eyes brighten with hope.
He was only too aware that doing this for her meant more to him than it should have.
The sooner the case was wrapped up, the sooner he could return to his comfortable existence, although that meant he wouldn’t see her again and the realization failed to please him quite as much as it once had.
The next morning, Jack knocked on the door of a small house in Clerkenwell.
A maid opened it. “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Everton has traveled to the country on business.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“He said within a few days, sir.”
“What kind of business is Mr. Everton in?”
“He’s a Bow Street Runner, sir.”
Jack’s pulse quickened. “Thank you.” He produced his card and handed it to her. “Please tell Mr. Everton to contact me when he returns. As a matter of urgency.”
The young woman’s pale eyes widened. “Yes, sir.” She bobbed and shut the door.
Jack came away puzzled as to why a Bow Street Runner would contact the Earl of Sedgwick and frustrated at the slow pace of the investigation.
His visit to Bow Street Magistrate’s Court hadn’t been encouraging.
Their prisoner refused to answer any questions, even with strong inducement.
Why? Jack wondered if he feared for his life, as he’d said.
Either way, he had to realize his future didn’t look promising.
Jack considered visiting Will Darby again tonight but changed his mind.
He needed to speak to the man he had seen with Will at the tavern, The Camden’s Head.
There was a good chance Darby had confided in him.