Page 11 of Miss Desirable
“You speak Frog when you want to avoid honest feelings,” Dorning said, hand on the door latch. “Rather like I signal an intent to attack by looking left.” He sailed over the threshold on that observation and did what Xavier had brought him along to do and what he did so well—played the charming lordling while setting all about him aflutter.
Within five minutes, clerks had taken hats, coats, and walking sticks, despite the lack of an appointment. Xavier and his escort were shown to a fussy little parlor overstuffed with old tomes and a few disintegrating editions ofLa Belle Assemblée.A tea tray arrived a few moments later, followed by no less personage than Frampton Belcher, senior partner, who offered bows all around.
Belcher’s pale blue eyes held speculation where Xavier was concerned. His manner through the introductions was that blend of bluff good cheer, deference, and self-importance that characterized successful shopkeepers.
And successful swindlers. The luxurious appointments in Belcher’s private office suggested he might be a bit of both.
“Our call is an occasion for some delicacy,” Dorning said, assuming a wing chair before it had been offered. “We bring you tidings from Miss Catherine Fairchild.”
Dorning had chosen the grouping before the hearth—which held only a dying gesture in the direction of a fire—rather than allow Belcher the advantage of sitting behind his desk. Belcher thus had no choice but to gesture Xavier into a chair before assuming one himself.
“Miss Fairchild’s bereavement is much to be pitied,” Belcher said. “Her parents loved her dearly.”
Platitudes that did not even admit Miss Fairchild was a client. Dorning withdrew her note from his breast pocket and passed it over to Belcher.
“We come as her emissaries,” Dorning said. “You are to establish a pension for her butler, Deems, payable directly to him at the address of his choosing for the rest of his natural days, effective immediately. Miss Fairchild has chosen the Wentworth bank for this transaction and asks you to have an appropriate principal sum moved for that purpose.”
Belcher’s expression did not change, but his gaze narrowed as he read Miss Fairchild’s missive. “This will take some time. I must meet with Miss Fairchild, authenticate her direction, consult with her present bankers…”
Dorning affected puzzlement. “You do not recognize your client’s signature, Mr. Belcher? In recent months, you have had to handle not one but two estates on the family’s behalf, and even I know that requires a great deal of signed paperwork from the beneficiary. Then too, Miss Fairchild inherited significant sums from her uncle, and that would also necessitate that you become familiar with her signature—or do I mistake the matter?”
Calculation, or recalculation, filled the ensuing silence.
“I recognize this as her signature,” Belcher said, visually dismissing Xavier as the lackey brought along to serve as a witness. “I do not encourage my clients to act in haste following a bereavement, Mr. Dorning. One’s judgment at such a time—”
“Miss Fairchild’s guidance is quite clear,” Dorning said. “Deems has served long and loyally and has earned his recompense. With the death of Lord Fairchild, the butler should all but expect to be granted retirement. That you have not suggested pensioning him surprises me. Good help becomes much more difficult to hire as the Season advances.”
Xavier had had to point that out to Dorning, who probably thought trustworthy butlers sprang from the head of Zeus on command.
“I will send to the agencies,” Belcher said on a sigh. “When we have a replacement in hand who can meet the standard Deems has—”
“Deems will be given the happy news tomorrow morning,” Dorning said, rising, “and he will be free to quit the metropolis by sundown. You will deal with the bankers this afternoon, and Miss Fairchild has already chosen Deems’s replacement. Thank you for giving this matter your utmost attention, Belcher. I will be sure to remark your attentiveness when next I am in conversation with my brothers. Miss Fairchild is available should the bankers need any signatures from her, though of course they will have to call on her privately, given the circumstances.”
Dorning beamed lordly benevolence at the solicitor and gave Xavier a moment to bow as well. Xavier adopted the demeanor of a well-mannered aide-de-camp embarrassed by his superior officer’s high-handedness and left the interview without having uttered a single word.
“That went well,” Dorning said. “You are correct, though, that something doesn’t smell right. Why would Belcher drag his feet implementing a predictable decision on Catherine’s part when she’s in a position to sackhim?”
That had not occurred to Xavier. “With two estates to settle, she’d sack her solicitors?”
Dorning rested his walking stick against his shoulder. “Lady Fairchild’s late brother is the source of most of Catherine’s wealth. Using her maternal family’s solicitors for the estate matters makes more sense than sticking with Lord Fairchild’s firm.”
“Because Catherine is illegitimate?” Xavier asked.
“Becausethe moneycomes from the maternal side of the family,” Dorning said. “Those solicitors are already familiar with the investments, the real property, the contractual obligations. Belcher has no grasp of those factors, and why should Catherine pay for his education?”
“She should not. Do you know which firm her uncle used?”
“I can find out, or you could simply ask her.”
On the far walkway, Lord Fortescue parted from his companion and dodged vehicles to cross the street. He nodded to Dorning, passed an indifferent glance over Xavier, and let himself into Belcher’s office.
“You don’t care for Lord Fortescue?” Dorning asked.
“He buys good brandy and doesn’t pay for it,” Xavier said as a breeze scented with horse droppings wafted by. “Loses the invoices, swears he sent along payment, then orders more. I do not do business with him, and I warned Goddard not to do business with him. By mutual agreement, the colonel and I are both out of whatever vintage Lord Fortescue needs.”
“Don’t be too hard on the fellow,” Dorning said. “We younger sons don’t have it easy. For all that Armbruster’s a dashing blade turned out in the first stare now, his nickname at school was Lord Fartescue. Lord Fart for short.”
The English did have their endearing qualities. “What was your nickname?”
