The Rivals of Rosennor Hall (Entangled Inheritance Book 3) Page 4

  “Pay him no mind, Mr. Arthur,” Sophia said with a calm that surprised her, putting a hand on his arm. “I did not restrain my sharp tongue, but your efforts to defend me are wasted. Mr. Roth is no gentleman, and therefore cannot treat me as one would.” She looked at Mr. Tuttle-Kirk and dipped her chin with all becoming modesty. “Do go on, Mr. Tuttle-Kirk. I apologize for us both.”

  That earned her a very warm look and a nod in response from the man. “Dear girl, no apology is needed. It is a trying day for all, and I am well aware of it.”

  “Oh, please,” Mr. Roth scoffed. “Objection!”

  “Oh, good,” Sophia said aloud, still watching Mr. Tuttle-Kirk. “A barrister. How delightful. Conditions, Mr. Tuttle-Kirk?”

  He nodded again. “Conditions, Miss Anson. If either party is unable to properly care for or tend to their inheritance, as aforementioned, the responsible party may sell the whole to the party of their choosing, be it the qualifying heir of other portions or some other individual as meets the requirements spelled out in Appendix III of this document to be overseen by the executor my will and properties.”

  “Appendix III?” Mr. Roth repeated in disbelief. “This novel has three appendices?”

  “It does, sir,” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk confirmed, his mustache stretching to an as yet unseen distance. “Sir Kentworth had many additional thoughts as regarding his estate.”

  “Clearly,” Roth responded without any emotion whatsoever.

  Sophia bit her lip slowly, her thoughts turning this whole thing over and over. None of it made sense, and she could not find any excuse for it. “Mr. Tuttle-Kirk,” she began with care, “was Sir Kentworth aware of the identities of his heirs? That is, of Mr. Roth and me?”

  Her counterpart had no response to that, which she took to be a silent admission of cooperation in this, at least.

  Would it make a difference if Sir Kentworth knew to whom he was leaving his estate? She could not have said, but it was a question she must know the answer to.

  The nod she received in reply released a tight breath within her chest. “He did, Miss Anson, though not personally. He was aware of your identities.”

  She swallowed, then folded her hands gracefully in her lap to keep her fingers from trembling. “And did he…? That is, I know at times it can be customary for conditions to be set for… unmarried women when named as beneficiaries.” Her face flamed, but she forced herself to maintain eye contact with the solicitor. “Are there any such stipulations mentioned for me?”

  Mrs. Arthur’s hold on her hand clenched tightly once more.

  Mr. Tuttle-Kirk replaced his spectacles and scanned the document before him, and took a rather long time to do so.

  An exceptionally long time.

  So long, in fact, that Sophia began to wonder if he had died and his eyes had simply kept up with the repetitive motion out of habit.

  “Not explicitly, Miss Anson,” came the eventual reply. Mr. Tuttle-Kirk lowered his spectacles and gave her a very grandfatherly smile, but said nothing else.

  Mr. Roth exhaled loudly. “Then what did it say, man? I know a fellow who was named the fool responsible for seeing to his ward’s marital prospects, now I wish to know if I am to be deemed the same sort of fool here.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Sophia said slowly, emphasizing every word for the man with limited intellect. “You are not my guardian, and I am certainly not your ward.”

  “Oh, take your offense somewhere else, would you?” Roth looked at Sophia with disdain and impatience, his eyes narrowing with it. “I don’t care. I just want to know if I have to find you a husband, all right?”

  Sophia scoffed and looked back at Mr. Tuttle-Kirk. “Please tell us both no. He’d marry me off to a flatulent, obese drunkard if it would relieve him of the responsibility.”

  “In a heartbeat,” he concurred fervently. “With shouts of praise.”

  “May you marry a shrew who bites when she is pleased,” Sophia muttered, shaking her head.

  “May your cows produce curdled milk,” he returned.

  “If there is a heaven, surely bearing with you will get me there.”

  “Clearly there is a hell, because I am in it.”

  “Do you think birds understand what we say or are we just as unintelligible to their ears as we are to theirs?”

  The bemused question silenced them both, and all in the room looked at Mrs. Roth, who was staring out of the window. Sophia glanced out of the window, expecting to see the bird that had prompted such an inane question. Yet the window did not open to much of the sky, only the brick building beside them, and no bird could be seen.

  “No, Mother, I do not think so,” Mr. Roth told her in a low voice, his cheeks colored with the very faintest flush.

  “A pity,” Mrs. Roth murmured, sighing and looking up as though there were birds circling them. “I would so like to have a conversation with one.”

  Sophia eyed Mr. Roth as he seemed to bite his tongue and look away with some emotion that lay too deep for her surface observation to deduce.

  “Getting back to the discussion,” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk said as though there had been no interruption at all. “There is no responsibility assigned to Mr. Roth for the determination of appropriateness of candidacy for any man who wishes to marry you, Miss Anson.”

  “Praise the Lord.” Mr. Roth exhaled dramatically in a show of relief.

  Unnecessary. Still, Sophia murmured a very faint amen in her mind at that. Mr. Tuttle-Kirk still looked over the document, making Sophia uneasy still.

  “But…” she prodded after a moment.

  The man glanced up at her, his mustache curving to one side. “But there is some responsibility assigned to me, Miss Anson. Not much, but whoever the fortunate man is, he will have to apply to me before any official marriage can take place.”

  “What about unofficial?” Mr. Roth offered in a speculative tone that Sophia instantly mistrusted.

  Mr. Tuttle-Kirk blinked, which was interesting to behold as his eyes did not blink at the same time nor with the same intensity. “Pardon?”

  Mr. Roth shrugged a shoulder and crossed an ankle over his knee. “You said official marriage. What if Miss Anson chooses an unofficial mode of matrimony? Gretna Green, perhaps?”

  Again came the awkward blink. “I am not sure, sir. Let me check the appendices.”

  Sophia gaped at Mr. Roth, torn between feeling aghast and amused. Why in the world would he pretend to be interested in her life in any way? And what made him think she was the sort of girl to run off with someone to Gretna Green, of all places? She was far more sensible than to elope and ruin her reputation.

  She frowned in thought. Mr. Roth would not care about any of that where she was concerned. He did not.

  Which meant that he was intentionally being difficult.

  She glanced at Mr. Tuttle-Kirk, who was scouring the many appendices for the stipulation of a beneficiary not meeting the marital requirements of Sir Kentworth’s will.

  A deep, rolling, sinking feeling hit Sophia and she groaned. “You did that on purpose, Mr. Roth.”

  “Did what, Miss Anson?” he replied with the poorest attempt at innocence known to any disobedient child.

  She glared at him. “You are intentionally prolonging this.”

  He raised his brows in mock surprise. “Do I seem to be enjoying myself, Miss Anson? And after I simply expressed concern for your welfare in all things matrimonial? Really.”

  “Lord, give me strength,” Sophia murmured to herself, shaking her head. “We may need to visit a church after we leave here, Mrs. Arthur.”

  “I shall add it to our route,” Mrs. Arthur replied without batting an eyelash.

  “Here it is, here it is,” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk announced with pride, chuckling to himself. “If the female beneficiary should marry without the approval of the executor, her shares in the inheritance and estate will be forfeit.”

  Sophia scowled. “Of course, it will. Always is.”

  “Shall we
find you a coach, Miss Anson?” Mr. Roth offered in a would-be helpful tone. “Mustn’t make you tardy for your elopement.”

  “Does the other beneficiary get the bulk of the estate then?” Sophia demanded, forgetting to be polite for the moment.

  “No, no, no,” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk insisted, shaking his surprisingly round head far too many times. “No, it would go to the next candidate on the list of potential beneficiaries. The provisions are quite clear. No one beneficiary shall inherit all of Rosennor.”

  Sophia turned towards Mr. Roth, triumphant. He, accordingly, was moodily disgruntled.

  “Perfect,” Mr. Roth grumbled. “What about selling it?”

  Mr. Tuttle-Kirk did not seem to comprehend. “Selling what?”

  “Rosennor,” Roth informed him, speaking to the man as though he were deaf. “What if one of us sells our share?”

  The unusual blinked occurred once, twice, and then he cleared his throat. “That is perfectly acceptable, sir. Should either of you desire and the buyer meets with a predetermined set of requirements set up in Sir Kentworth’s will.”

  That seemed to spark something in Mr. Roth, and he smirked at Miss Anson. “Perfectly acceptable, Miss Anson.”

  She smirked right back. “Indeed, Mr. Roth.”

  If he thought she would sell her share to him or to anyone else, he was grossly mistaken. She was not about to give up the only thing that could truly secure a future for herself.

  No, she would find a way to make sure he would be the one selling to her. He had no idea what he was getting into, and she would be only too pleased to make him aware of it.

  “I believe that settles things enough for today,” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk said, closing a massive book that didn’t seem to have anything to do with their discussion but whose sound was perfectly suited to their surroundings. “Would anyone be interested in venturing out to Rosennor Hall itself tomorrow to see the place?”

  Sophia kept her gaze on Mr. Roth, and he was just as intent on her. They both nodded, and, in an eerie chord of unison, said, “Yes.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they always said.

  He had beheld the beauty, but he didn’t like it, and his eye seemed to twitch with the beholding.

  How could such a tyrant be so artistically adorned? It was as though he had stepped into a legend of old, and a siren had left her perch on the rocky shore to call him to his death in more creative avenues. Fortunately, Larkin was acutely aware of the danger of the situation, and, while not entirely immune to her, was sensible enough to avoid falling victim.

  Even if her particular shades of beauty had always been his favorite and his weakness.

  As fate would have it, Sophia Anson’s sharp tongue had the most favorable effect of rendering her appearance entirely irrelevant. He needn’t worry about his usual inclinations as the very idea repulsed him, and only the urge to pluck up a rather sharp stick and poke her in the side with it remained.

  Would she scream? Squeal? Roar? Whimper? Or would she bat at him with a ferocious snarl like some feral cat, indignant with the provocation?

  So many options, and it was quite possible she might react differently with repeated attempts.

  A pity they were not sharing this coach to Rosennor, then. They had all departed the establishment of Tuttle-Kirk and Associates in the self-same coaches they had arrived in, with Mr. Tuttle-Kirk coming along with the Roths for the time being. When their business at Rosennor was completed, he would rent a separate coach from the local town, the name of which escaped Larkin for the present.

  It was difficult to recall any particular details when Mr. Tuttle-Kirk snored with such gusto and in such musical tones.

  Larkin stared without shame at the snowy mustache, now nearly standing on end but for the times when whistling inhales pulled the hairs beneath his nose down, and the roaring exhales that blew the hair above his lip into a frenzy.

  If only the man had a beard. Adventures beyond imagining would have been possible then. Hardly fashionable, which was undoubtedly why Mr. Tuttle-Kirk had opted against the growth, but a mustache was not exactly a usual accessory for a gentleman or a man of business presently.

  But what would Mr. Tuttle-Kirk be without his mustache?

  Horrifying thought.

  “No, I don’t want that for breakfast,” Larkin’s mother said loudly, her words almost slurred with sleep as she sat up with a sharpness that made him jump.

  Larkin eyed his mother warily, uncertain if she were awake or the otherwise. “Mother?”

  Her wide eyes blinked, and she turned to look at him with a quizzical expression. “Larkin, have you considered the idea of appealing to the tenants of Rosennor Hall? Establishing a good rapport there would do well and speak in your favor, should it become necessary. It would certainly put Miss Anson at a disadvantage, if her idea is to eventually gain the entirety of the estate.”

  Incredible, the woman regularly apologized to the step of her sister’s cottage for hitting her toes on it, but she could wake from a long rest with thoughts of blistering clarity.

  And he treasured those moments, rare as they were becoming.

  “I had not considered that, Mother, no,” he answered with real honesty, hiding his idiotic delight and pride. “But it is worth pursuing. I doubt we’ll meet the estate manager today, but I will get his information from Mr. Tuttle-Kirk.”

  His mother nodded, then looked at Tuttle-Kirk, still blissfully snoring with power to take down an empire. She tilted her head to one side. “Do you know, I think he may only be using the lung on the right side of his chest.”

  And there was the mother he had come to know all-too-well. “No, Mother, he is not,” he replied in his usual tone of careful indifference.

  “Oh,” she replied, her brow furrowing in her confusion. She glanced out of the coach window, then suddenly gasped, again with volume to startle Larkin.

  “What?” he demanded as he tried to force feeling back into his legs.

  His mother pointed a pudgy finger out of the window. “Rosennor,” she whispered with the same awe and reverence one usually reserved for a place of worship.

  A jolt of almost childish enthusiasm and excitement lit Larkin’s gut and he leaned across his mother for a better view of his inheritance.

  In the interest of full honesty, Larkin would have to admit that his first impression was rather lackluster. There wasn’t anything wrong with Rosennor Hall, from what he could see, but in his mind, he had built up a castle of sorts. Something that would glisten in the sunlight with its grandeur, its gardens and lake creating an Eden of its own that was the envy of all Hampshire, if not the rest of England’s counties as well. Stately and imposing, Grecian in its design and historic in its existence. The epitome of refinement and status in every stone.

  What he saw was stately, certainly, and some might consider it imposing, but it was rather more… wild. It was not refined, though it was historic, in an Elizabethan sort of way with its gables and red brick exterior. Several windows dotted the facade, most of which were very fine, and the drive to the house itself was in a decent enough condition. The shrubs lining the drive would need to go, however. They had gone beyond overgrown and ventured into the realm of horrifying.

  Larkin frowned to himself, eying the breadth of the house itself. It certainly seemed expansive enough, but it was impossible to tell what was a newer expansion to the original estate. Therefore, he had no idea which windows belonged to his rooms and which belonged to the gorgon in the other coach. He could not let himself evaluate one side of the house against other on the off chance that the side he preferred would turn out to not belong to him at all.

  “Well,” he grunted as he sat back against his seat, “it’s large enough. And exteriors are altered easily enough.”

  He glanced at the still sleeping Mr. Tuttle-Kirk in apprehension, ready to be told that there was a condition against any and all adjustments to the appearance of the estate.

&nb
sp; At this point, it would not have surprised Larkin if he would have to ask permission to retire to bed each evening or else be held in violation of the will.

  “Such lovely shrubs,” his mother sighed, her fingers moving as if to trace one. “Do you think the rest of the garden will look as wild and free? So delightful and fresh.”

  “I certainly hope not,” Larkin muttered with an irritable shift in his seat.

  The coaches pulled into the drive before the house, turning about in an orderly fashion, then stopping almost directly in front of the entrance.

  And they waited.

  Larkin stared at the entrance, blinking at the complete absence of activity. He might have been mistaken, but he had been under the impression that the staff of a house presented themselves to their masters upon arrival. Unless Rosennor Hall’s staff were all lined up inside and making a grand spectacle of the foyer or entrance hall, there was no such show of deference or respect.

  “Cheery spectacle,” Larkin said with false brightness. “No one to greet us. Do we have the wrong day?”

  “The staff have all been given holiday for the time being, sir,” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk announced from his position in the coach, shifting towards the door.

  Larkin gave the man a look, wondering when the man had ceased his artistic rendition of the sleeping aged man and turned back into his jovial, almost attentive, solicitor version of himself. “Indeed? By whose instruction?”

  He hadn’t meant to sound so pretentious, let alone disapproving, but really, to not have the staff present when he arrived was wholly unusual.

  Still, Mr. Tuttle-Kirk was completely unperturbed by it. “Sir Kentworth, sir. It was a condition of his will that his staff received a paid holiday until such time that his beneficiaries take possession of Rosennor.”

  “Of course, it was.” Larkin shook his head as he fiddled with the door of the coach, as there was no footman to help the ladies down or any of their usual duties. “And out of whose legacy did those funds come from?” he queried as he managed to get the door open and step down.

  “Oh, there were funds set aside for them, Mr. Roth. I can assure you, neither you nor Miss Anson are responsible for financial compensation for the staff holiday.”