Page 13 of Her Unsuitable Match

Adam found his voice again. “Not at all. This is an ideal time. But perhaps we had better go into the study.” He gave Philippa a worrisome look, then held his arm out to Elaine. “My wife will join us, of course, as she is at the heart of this work. Pippa, you will excuse us.”

“Of course.” Philippa rose unsteadily to her feet. Why had her mind immediately jumped to her own plight as it had? And why, when Mr. Cobbett had offered his help when she thought it applied to her, had she experienced such a hopeful moment of ease? “It is good to see you again, Mr. Cobbett.” She curtsied as he took his leave, following behind Adam and Elaine, though she noted a brief glint of curiosity in his eye before he turned away.

Crossing the room, Philippa reached beneath the cushion to the hidden newspaper. She drew it out and sat down, her eyes sweeping across the pages until she found what had brought Mr. Cobbett to their door. Then she settled in to read about Adam and Elaine’s hospital for soldiers, trying to push her own difficulty from her mind.

Mr. Cobbett’s character interested her. First, he had spoken passionately about what England owed her sons returned from war. Second, he saved her, a stranger, from the advances of another man. Without thought or word of a possible reward for his kindness. Third, he came in person to offer his services to her brother and sister-in-law for their cause. Not once revealing the situation in which he had found Philippa.

By the time Philippa closed the paper, she had several seedlings of ideas in her mind. One of which included the noble former soldier.

“But first,” she murmured to herself, “I need to find a solicitor.”

Five

Mr. Tuttle-Kirk, a man of slight stature and a distinct lack of hair atop his head, intimidated no one upon their first introduction to him. But Philippa had two prior meetings with the solicitor and given the way his mustache twitched upward with a smile, he had a favorable enough impression of her. She was glad she had worn a walking suit of dark blue, hopefully giving her the air of someone much older and mature. Not everyone took young ladies seriously.

“Lady Philippa.” He bowed as she and her maid entered his office, then gestured to one of the more comfortable chairs across the desk from him. “And Miss…?” He met the maid’s eyes with a kindly expression.

“This is Bessie Lambert, my maid.” And the only servant she trusted not to tattle to her mother, brothers, or sister-in-law. Two days had passed since the newspaper published its ugly piece of gossip about her. She’d undergone two days of her mother’s worries and her brother’s frustration before daring to sneak out of Adam’s house on her own.

“Miss Lambert, won’t you please sit here, next to your mistress? Ah, wonderful. I trust my secretary will know to bring tea.” He looked up through the still open doorway and nodded at the young man who had shown the women in. “Carver?”

“Of course, Mr. Tuttle-Kirk.” Carver closed the door behind them, leaving Philippa and Bessie seated across the desk from the wiry solicitor.

His mustache twitched as he sat down, and he lifted a pair of spectacles from his desk and fit them on his nose. “Lady Philippa. It is lovely to see you again. Last time was at your brother’s wedding, was it not? A beautiful day.” He chuckled, looking every bit as pleased as if he’d arranged their match himself. He’d certainly had a part in it.

“Yes, it was a lovely day. Adam has told me that he has worked with you on a few contracts since then, and he has nothing but positive things to say about you.”

Tuttle-Kirk’s eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “Not always the case, was it? Yes. Your brother is a fine gentleman, just as his great-uncle hoped. I have heard marvelous things about what he and his wife get up to these days. Opening orphanages and hospitals. They are veritable saints.” He sighed happily and joined his hands together on the table. “But none of this explains your presence in my office today, my lady. Which makes me most curious, indeed.”

A knock on the door forestalled Philippa’s answer, and the young man came in pushing a cart with a plain, dark blue tea service into the room. The cups were all gold-rimmed, but otherwise the set was most unremarkable. The assistant withdrew again, and Mr. Tuttle-Kirk offered to pour out for all of them once the door had shut.

“Here you are, my lady. You did say cream, did you not? Ah, and this is for you, Miss Lambert. Don’t be shy. Help yourself to the biscuits, or else Mr. Carver will eat them all and have a terrible stomachache.”

Bessie hid her smile behind her tea cup but did take a biscuit. The maid likely hadn’t ever been treated so well by anyone other than Philippa and Elaine. Philippa made certain to give an approving nod to her maid before she turned back to business.

“Mr. Tuttle-Kirk, allow me to satisfy your curiosity.” She rested her teacup in its saucer. “You see, I have found myself in something of a muddle with my elder brother, Lord Montecliff. You do remember Richard, do you not?”

“I have many a memory of your brother to draw from.” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk’s eyes darkened. “I battled wits with his solicitor for some time, over the matter of the inheritances.”

“And you came out victorious,” Philippa noted with a quickness she hoped didn’t sound overeager. “For which I am most grateful. And that is why I am here. I need someone to draw swords, figurately of course, and champion my cause in the Court of Chancery. If it goes that far.” Philippa met Bessie’s eyes and nodded. Her maid put down her tea and drew out the leather portfolio she’d carried in her basket.

Mr. Tuttle-Kirk accepted the portfolio, the wrinkles of his forehead deepening. “Are you having financial misunderstandings with your eldest brother, Lady Philippa?”

“Of a sort.” Philippa pointed to the top paper when the solicitor opened the fold of leather. “That is a copy of my father’s will, which I obtained from my brother Adam’s records. I have been unable to get my own copy from my eldest brother and his solicitor. But I’ve always known what that will entitled me to, as you will see in the fifth paragraph.”

The gentlemen wrinkled his nose as he read, his spectacles reflecting the words as he spoke them aloud. “‘…And to each of my daughters, I leave the sum of twenty-one thousand pounds. Should they marry before reaching majority, the sum will be their portion in marriage as part of the dowry agreement. Should either daughter reach the year of their majority unmarried, the executor of my estate will transfer twenty-thousand pounds into that daughter’s stewardship, that she may live in a manner befitting a lady of the household. The one thousand pounds remaining will return to the executor for his trouble.’ A handsome sum for the mere act of signing a few banknotes,” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk mused. “This seems very straightforward.”

“Yes, it does.” Philippa started to relax and managed to take up her tea without her hands so much as trembling with excitement. “Except my brother, Lord Montecliff, is refusing to adhere to the terms of the will. I turned three and twenty just above two months ago.”

Eyebrows shooting up, the solicitor bent to examine the paper again. “Ah. Your brother has not released your funds to you, I take it?”

“No. Despite the fact that I have asked, several times. In person as well as in writing. I included copies of my letters to him, and his replies, beneath the will.”

With a purse of his lips, Mr. Tuttle-Kirk turned through the pages and read over each. “Yes, I see. Here he simply puts you off and reminds you to enjoy the Season. And here he tells you that you have no business with the funds that a husband should control. Yes. Ah. And here it is—as I thought. He claims he has a year from the day you turned three and twenty in which to render you that which is already yours.” He looked up at her.

Philippa nodded. “Precisely. Because of how it’s worded. “‘Should either daughter reach the year of their majority,’ is what it says. Can he be correct in his interpretations?”

“That depends. One could argue this means when you turned two and twenty, as that completed your twenty-second year and began your twenty-third.” His mustache rustled above his deep frown. “Or we could read it as your brother wishes. Though I think any sane person—which not all who sit in judgement are, I should warn you—would interpret it as both you and I have interpreted it. That the money is yours as of the day you reached three and twenty.”