“It will probably be investigated. Dukes have their privileges, even in death.”
She advanced on him until she stood only five feet away. She gazed right into his eyes. “I think you believe it was no accident. You believe he was pushed.” She stepped closer yet. “Perhaps you believe that I was the one who pushed him.”
The ice with which he met her gaze melted and for an instant she saw enough in his eyes to know she was correct.
“Not at all,” he lied. “Now, to claim this inheritance, you will need to present yourself to the solicitor who is serving as executor of the estate.” He reached into his frockcoat and removed a card. “Here is his name and the location of his chambers.”
He made it sound so simple. Only it wasn’t. This legacy would complicate everything, and reopen a perilous door.
She took the card.
“I will show myself out.”
As he walked toward the door, she stared down at the solicitor’s card.
“Oh, there is one other thing,” he said, turning back. “The solicitor may ask you about your history, to ensure you are the right woman. The will referred to you as Minerva Hepplewhite, previously known as Margaret Finley of Dorset, widow of Algernon Finley.”
Then he was gone, leaving her utterly stunned.
She would have sworn that no one in London knew about her history, except Beth and Beth’s son Jeremy.No one.
Yet apparently this duke—the Duke of Hollinburgh—knew exactly who she was.
Now that she thought about it, she was sure Mr. Radnor had not entered her home to make sure he had her identity correct, as he had claimed. There were better ways to do that. He had done so because he had suspicions about her.
Perhaps because he already knew about the murder accusation she had run from back in Dorset.
* * *
The next morning, Chase left his apartment and walked across St. James’s Square. He approached a warren of buildings on the western edge of Whitehall.
Robert Peel had written, asking him to meet at nine o’clock. No one else was about yet. Chase wondered if that had been the plan, or if as an industrialist’s son the home secretary always started the day at this hour.
Had the request come from the last home secretary, Chase would have declined. He did not like Sidmouth, or approve of how he had used the power of the office. There had been too many poorly supervised agents making too much trouble throughout the land for his taste. Peel, however, had proven adept at finding other ways to hold down unrest, and had already shepherded a reform of the criminal laws through Parliament.
A good man, from the evidence so far. His father had accumulated tremendous wealth in his textile factories and other ventures, and the son had been raised and educated to have a place in government and society. The next Pitt the Younger, it was said. Home secretary already, and a protégé of Wellington’s, eventually he would probably be a prime minister, and inherit not only that wealth but also the title of baronet his father had received.
As he turned into the Treasury passage and walked beneath its stone vaults, he spied a figure at the end. Of middling height and size, the man had fashionably cropped hair and a face with regular features except for a prominent aquiline nose. Peel was meeting him halfway, and wore his greatcoat. It seemed they would not talk in the office. Chase decided the early hour had been to avoid witnesses after all.
After greeting him, Peel eyed the poultice on his head. “I trust the other fellow fared worse.”
No, the woman who did this is both unharmed and unrepentant. He had considered Minerva Hepplewhite long into the night, wrestling with the way she both annoyed him and . . . fascinated him. If he was correct about his uncle’s death, however, she remained the most likely culprit. Not only her sudden good fortune said as much, but also the very self-possession that impressed him. She was not one to be underestimated.
“It is a small wound—it looks worse than it is.”
“Walk with me,” Peel said.
They fell into step together and began slowly retracing Chase’s path.
“It is my hope that you can solve a conundrum for me,” Peel said. “It has to do with your uncle’s death.”
Peel had been among the many at the funeral. As had Peel’s father, with whom the late duke had some business dealings.
“Had things progressed as they usually do, if his heir received everything, everyone would say what a shame he fell, and that would be that,” Peel said. “That will of his has got tongues wagging, I’m afraid. So much money, and yet so little to the family.”
“That is common knowledge already, is it?”
“Your aunts and a few cousins have not been quiet about their disappointment.”
