Simon stood in the wood-paneled office, located on the second floor of Gray’s Inn, with his hands in the pockets of his new breeches. The tailored clothes itched at his skin, the stiff fabric scratchy compared to the worn cotton and leather he’d worn before.
His children had gawked at him this morning as if he was a stranger. With his face shaved clean, he felt like one himself.
Sir Walter thudded shut a book. “Never mind my irrelevant observations, Mr. Fancourt. Thank you for coming today. As your mother probably explained, the late Mr. Fancourt appointed me executor of the will, and I would like to go over the reading of it today.” He motioned to a chair. “You may sit.”
“I will stand. Thank you.” The sooner this was over with, the better.
Sir Walter’s gray brows rose, but instead of insisting, he pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat, checked the time, then barked someone’s name.
A lanky clerk entered. “Sir?”
“Is anyone waiting to be shown in?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Late. How emblematic of a lady.”
Lady?Simon stepped forward. “Is my mother’s presence also required?”
“No. I daresay, your mother could recite the will backward, if asked.” Sir Walter motioned the clerk away. “Send her in the moment she arrives. We cannot proceed without her.”
“Without whom?” Simon asked.
“Your mother has not told you anything, has she?”
“I presume there is nothing peculiar to tell.” He hoped. “Is there?”
“Your father was my best friend, Mr. Fancourt, but I daresay, you knew him better than I did. What do you think?”
Another itch along Simon’s neck made him tug at the too-tight cravat. The fire on the other side of the room sweltered the office in heat, along with the heavy scents of woodsmoke, dusty books, and faint coffee.
Minutes passed.
Sir Walter rattled open a desk drawer, drew out a stack of papers, and began thumbing through them, while Simon wandered to the window and stared out at the colorless gardens. What stipulations could Father possibly have made?
He tried to rid himself of the look in Mother’s eyes. The tone she’d used in speaking to him.
As if Simon had wronged them.
Mayhap he had. Was this his chance to make up for past wrongs?
“If she does not arrive soon, I fear you shall be in suspense yet another day.” Sir Walter sighed. “I am needed at Old Bailey to present in court before the hour’s end. I cannot be late unless I intend my client to hang for it—”
The door creaked open. “She has arrived, sir,” said the clerk.
“Send her in.”
Simon turned from the window as a woman strode into the room—and blinked hard. Confusion rippled through him as Georgina Whitmore met his eyes, one second before the reality of her presence clicked in place.
The promise made when Simon was an infant.
Summer carriage rides.
Balls.
Musicales.
Incessant demands that he marry the woman Father chose, despite the fact that Simon felt nothing for the girl and never would.
