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"Forgive me," he said quickly, "but there you speak nothing but the truth. My aunt was nothing if not determined: she would understand every part of a thing before ever she set her mark upon it. Considered, and clever, and wise in all she did." He paused. "You may be quite certain, Lady Colbourne, that whatever she intended in binding us together in this way, she intended it for a purpose."

A hint of a smile touched the corners of her mouth, though she said nothing more. Benedict, for his part, had never given much thought to what the purpose might be. His aunt had feared, plainly, that something was amiss with the money she had left, and had trusted him to see it made right. That had been enough for him.

It occurred to him now, watching the tight clasp of the lady's hands, that a woman of his aunt's foresight does not set a guard at a door unless she knows a wolf is on the road — and he did not much like the direction of the thought, and put it from him.

"Are you quite certain you wish to be present?" he asked, as the carriage slowed. "I know there is some concern over who might be watching you, and I would not have you —"

"I am quite determined." She interrupted him, though softly, and with an apologetic tilt of her head. "The matter concerns my bequest from your aunt, Your Grace. I believe I ought to be as much a part of it as anyone, to hear all things with my own ears, and to do my best to understand every part of the situation."

Benedict smiled as the door was handed open. "You are very like my aunt, I think," he said, marking the touch of color that rose in her cheeks. "I rather suspected you would say so." He gestured for her to step out, and followed after her, but could not help a glance to his right, and then to his left, remembering what she had told him of the man who watched her leave the solicitors. This time he saw no one loitering, no dark coat set against a shopfront, and with relief he led her inside.

Mr. Wells was a small man with sharp features and dark eyes that glittered behind thin, rimmed spectacles. He received them with a great deal of bowing and scraping, ushering them to the two most comfortable chairs before scurrying round to seat himself behind his desk. He looked, however, solely at Benedict, and never once turned his gaze toward Lady Colbourne — and it was precisely that inconsideration that needled Benedict most.

He cleared his throat, and when the lady looked to him, he gestured to her and gave her his silent encouragement with no more than a small nod. The relief in her eyes was immediate. She leaned forward, and spoke directly to Mr. Wells.

"Mr. Wells, I believe you wrote to Mr. Braithwaite not long ago," she began, as the solicitor reluctantly turned his attention to her, sending the occasional glance back toward Benedict as though for rescue. "Mr. Braithwaite is charged with all matters relating to the late Lady Warrington and her will."

Mr. Wells cleared his throat and clasped his hands upon the desk before him. "Yes, that is so," he said, his voice steady enough. "Is there something amiss, Lady Colbourne?"

"Yes." She paused, and let the word carry a little extra weight. "The matter concerns my endowment from Lady Warrington, an endowment tied to my late husband. I should say there is a distinct concern here, and I must ask for your aid in it."

Mr. Wells said nothing for some moments, letting the silence fall again, though this time it settled brittle. Benedict shifted in his chair, wanting to speak and biting his tongue, holding himself back to see how the man would answer her. It was plain enough that Mr. Wells was well accustomed to speaking with gentlemen, and much less so with ladies of quality — but Benedict would not step in front of Lady Colbourne, however much he wished the man to take her seriously.

"I can see why there might be some worry on your part, Lady Colbourne," the man replied at last, speaking with great slowness. "I can assure you, however, that I only passed the concern along to Mr. Braithwaite. What he does with it thereafter is entirely his own affair."

Lady Colbourne's lips pursed, her eyes sharpening, as Mr. Wells turned his attention back toward Benedict.

"I am sure you understand, Your Grace," he said, his voice softening now, as though he might wheedle a little of Benedict's goodwill for himself. "I did only what was required of me, as a respectable and dutiful solicitor. I —"

"But it is a delay that touches me most profoundly," Lady Colbourne cut in, and earned herself a dark look from Mr. Wells, which he wiped from his face quickly, though not quite quickly enough. "My husband left me what he could, and joined to it was to be a larger sum from Lady Warrington. With all this confusion, that money is not to reach me for some time yet. Surely you can see why it might cause some upset? And surely there is something you might do to assist me, Mr. Wells. If you would only —"

Mr. Wells cleared his throat again, harshly this time, and leaned forward across the desk, pinning his full attention upon the lady. "And yet there is nothing I can do," he said, in the manner and tone of a man explaining a simple matter to a child. "Nothing at all. Is that quite clear to you, Lady Colbourne?"

Anger shot through Benedict's frame like fire, spreading right across his chest, and before he had well decided to do it, he had leaned forward and brought one curled fist down upon Mr. Wells's desk with a crack that rattled the inkwell.

"If you would but listen to all that Lady Colbourne has to say, instead of interrupting her at every turn, you might discover what it is she wishes to hear from you!"

Mr. Wells started violently, the color draining from his face, his eyes going wide. He stammered something incomprehensible, then looked back to Lady Colbourne and gestured, weakly, for her to go on. The lady's own color had heightened, but she sent a small, quiet smile in Benedict's direction — grateful, he thought, and not sorry.

"You can be of assistance to us in this, Mr. Wells," she said, her voice level. "You can tell us who it was that first spoke of this concern to you. It must have come from someone, and I should very much like to know from whom."

Mr. Wells now looked distinctly uncomfortable. He shifted in his chair, drawing his hands back toward himself, turning his head to one side and then the other, his tongue darting out to wet his lips while one hand pushed at his hair. "I — I am afraid it is a somewhat peculiar arrangement."

"What is?" Benedict asked, his patience with the fellow wearing thin. "Speak, man. This is of the utmost importance."

With a reluctant nod, Mr. Wells dropped his hands to his lap and looked down. "The information I received did not come to me in a manner one might expect."

This was clear as pitch, and Benedict hardened his gaze until he saw the man shudder faintly under it.

"That is to say — I have a particular person who writes to me. On occasion."

"A particular person?" Lady Colbourne repeated, as Mr. Wells nodded. "Whatever do you mean by that?"

Closing his eyes a moment, the solicitor let out an audible breath. "I must ask that this is not spoken of, Lady Colbourne, Your Grace." When he had a nod of assurance from them both, he went on, his face paling as he spoke. "I receive, from time to time, anonymous letters, pertaining to particular financial arrangements, and the like."

"Wait a moment, if you please." Benedict held up a hand, his chest burning with both tension and frustration. "You mean to tell me that you wrote to Mr. Braithwaite about Lady Colbourne — that you halted a widow's inheritance — upon a single anonymous letter?"

Mr. Wells shook his head, then stopped, and frowned. "I suppose that — yes, I did as you say. But it was not upon this one letter alone." When Benedict's brow lowered further, the man held up both hands, palms out. "It is upon many letters. They do not all pertain to Lady Colbourne, you understand, but to other affairs. Other wills. Other households."