“Well, in point of fact, she’s quite right,” the lawyer put in. “The option is there, of course, if you wish to—”
“But what about Cornelius?” Mrs. Buchanan interrupted, her voice growing shrill. “Huxley was teaching Cornelius the ins and outs of—”
“Oh, yes, indeed, Mr. Rokesby was not forgotten,” the lawyer said, soothing but firm. “Mr. Cornelius Rokesby and Mrs. Willard Wilson both receive a ten percent stake in Buchanan, Morris, and Whitcomb, with the proportionate level of control and profit. Mrs. Wilson’s share is, naturally, to pass to her own son when he comes of age.”
“Ten percent?” Even through the door, Vivian could hear Mrs. Buchanan’s outrage. “That’s hardly anything—”
“Hardly anything we would have expected, you’re very right, Aunt Evangeline,” Hattie Wilson broke in smoothly. “How generous of Uncle Huxley to think of us, who are not even his blood relatives. Don’t you agree, Corny?”
Vivian couldn’t hear what he mumbled in response, but she didn’t much care what was happening with Buchanan’s business. There wasonly one voice she really cared about in that room, and it was the one that was staying silent.
“—thousand each to Evangeline Rokesby Buchanan and Cornelius Francis Rokesby. The remainder of his estate is willed in its entirety to his daughter, Honor Margaret Huxley.”
For a moment, Vivian thought something had exploded in the room. The sudden burst of voices was so loud, so outraged, that it seemed impossible for it to have come from so few people.
“—cannot be serious!”
“You expect us to believe—”
“—favor hisbastardover his family?”
The word hung in the air. For a moment, no one spoke.
“No need to look so shocked on my account, everyone.” Honor’s voice was amused, though there was bitterness underneath it, too. “Miss Rokesby, you look like you expect me to slug you in the face. Which I’ve no doubt some folks would, for calling them a bastard. But I came to terms with what I am long ago.”
“Then you admit that it’s inappropriate,” Miss Rokesby’s voice quivered, though Vivian couldn’t tell if that was from worry or outrage.
“I didn’t say that.”
“So you intend to claim this bequest?” That was Mrs. Buchanan, sounding as indignant as her sister. “We can challenge it, you know. We don’t have to let this stand!”
“Out of curiosity, Mr. Hatch, did my father warn you that this was likely to happen when you and he drew up his will?” Honor’s voice was even drier than usual, and Vivian had to strain to hear it. She wondered what Honor was thinking.
She wondered what Honor had known.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “He did. He predicted that Mrs. Buchanan or her son—perhaps at the urging of his aunt—would attempt to issue a legal challenge to the terms of his will. He had me draft a separate clause…” The room was deadly quiet, quiet enough that Viviancould hear the sound of shuffling papers. “Ah, here it is. A separate clause, which he signed six months ago, stating that, should such a legal challenge be registered with the courts, the party issuing it would forfeit their own inheritance.” The lawyer cleared his throat again. “I hope I need not explain to anyone here that the presence of such a document would make winning a court case highly unlikely for anyone intending to challenge Ms. Huxley’s inheritance.”
Vivian had leaned forward without realizing it, and one of her feet slipped off the stair where it was resting and landed with athumpon the uncarpeted floor.
“Did someone knock at the door?” Mrs. Buchanan asked, sounding nervous.
Vivian froze. They wouldn’t think of looking in the staircase, would they? Slowly, she stood, ready to bolt back up toward the storage room.
“Only my chair shifting, Aunt Evangeline.” That calm voice was Hattie. “My apologies for interrupting. Mr. Hatch, do continue.”
“Oh yes, certainly. Um…” There was the sound of shuffling papers once more, and Vivian sat down, her heart pounding, while the lawyer continued. “Now, as I was saying… where was I?”
“You were saying that… that…creatureis just going to walk away with most of Huxley’s money.” That was a masculine voice, deep and cultured. Vivian could practically hear the cigars and whiskey in it, right alongside his obvious distaste. The second partner, likely. Had he been the business associate Buchanan had met with that day? Was it the other man in there? Or someone else entirely?
“And both houses,” the lawyer put in, sounding apologetic.
“Bothhouses?” Miss Rokesby’s screech made Vivian wince, even from the other side of the door. Mrs. Buchanan started crying.
There was an instant flurry in the room, concerned masculine voices and the scraping of chairs quickly pushed back.
“Please, madam, there’s no need—” The lawyer sounded like he was wringing his hands. “Mr. Buchanan specified in his will that Ms.Huxley may not take possession of this home for twelve months following his death. You are not being evicted, I promise.”
“You did this.” That was Miss Rokesby again, while a flurry of male voices urged her to calm down. “How did you convince him to abandon his family like this? To abandon his wife?”
