Someone to Hold

“But my great-uncle’s relatives?” Joel asked, his eyebrows raised.

“I believe,” the solicitor said, a certain note of satisfaction in his voice, “that Viscount Uxbury, Mr. Martin Cox-Phillips, and Mr. Blake Norton will be disappointed. It is altogether possible that one or more of them will contest the will. However, they will be further disappointed if they do. Mr. Cox-Phillips was careful to choose six highly respectable men to witness the signing of his new will. They included his physician, the vicar of his parish church, and two of his closest neighbors, one of whom is a prominent Member of Parliament, while the other is a baronet, the sixth of his line. Yet another is a judge whose word not even the boldest of lawyers would dream of questioning.”

Mr. Crabtree did not linger. Having delivered his message, he rose, shook Joel by the hand, expressed the hope of seeing him soon at his office, wished him a good day, and was gone.

Joel locked the door behind him, went back into the living room, and stood at the window looking out but seeing nothing, not even the departure of the solicitor along the street. No, it had not once occurred to him that his great-uncle would go ahead with his plan to cut his legitimate relatives out of his will even after he, Joel, had told him in no uncertain terms that he had no wish to be used as a pawn in a game of spite.

He had done it anyway.

His great-uncle had been contributing to the orphanage for almost thirty years. Twenty-seven to be exact? That was Joel’s age. Why? His grandmother had always supported him there.

Was it just spite against those other three that had determined him to change his will in Joel’s favor?

Why had he not made himself known a long time ago?

Shame?

Why had he summoned Joel to tell him about the planned change? And had he just made up that story of wanting to thumb his nose so to speak to three men who had never shown any affection for him apart from his money? Had his real reason been a wish to leave everything to a closer relative, grandson, albeit an illegitimate one, of his sister, of whom he had clearly been fond? At the very end had he not been able to resist taking a look at Joel just once before he died? Joel remembered standing for what had seemed a long time in that shaft of sunlight while the old man’s eyes moved over him from head to foot, perhaps looking for some likeness to his sister or his niece.

It was too late to ask the questions. There was the soreness of unshed tears in Joel’s throat.

His first instinct had been to repudiate the will, to tell Crabtree that he still did not want anything, that he would not accept what he had been left. Would it have been possible? The answer did not matter, though, for he had found on more honest reflection that after all he did not want to refuse.

That house was his. Apparently there was another in London. He did not know the extent of the fortune he had inherited, but the solicitor had said it was sizable. Joel had no idea what sort of amount comprised a sizable fortune, but even a few hundred pounds would seem vast to him. He suspected there would be more than that. Thousands, perhaps?

He was rich.

And who did not, in his heart of hearts, wish for a windfall to come his way just once in his lifetime? Who did not secretly dream of all he could have and all he could do with an unexpected fortune?

He and Anna—and the other children too—had played the game numerous times during their growing years. What would you do if someone gave you ten pounds, a hundred pounds, a thousand pounds, a million pounds . . .

And thinking of Anna led him to thinking of Camille. And suddenly he felt the overwhelming, almost panicked need to see her, to tell her, to . . . He did not stop to analyze. He grabbed his hat and his key and left his rooms without looking back. He remembered when he was crossing the bridge that she had been going up to the Royal Crescent this afternoon to visit her mother. Would she be back yet? Would she stay there for dinner? Perhaps for the night?

She was nowhere in the orphanage, and no one knew with any certainty when she would be back, though she had said nothing about not returning tonight. He paced the pavement outside for a few minutes, wondering if he should go up to the Crescent to speak with her there or just go home. It would be thought most peculiar if he went up there, and he might miss her if she came home by a different route from the one he took. He was still undecided when she turned onto the street. Joel hurried toward her, not even noticing that she was not alone.

“There you are,” he said, his whole being flooded with relief. “At last.”

Eighteen

“He took no notice of what I said,” Joel said, grabbing both of Camille’s hands and squeezing tightly. “He did it anyway.”

Camille looked her inquiry while she returned the pressure of his hands. But, strangely, she knew exactly what he was talking about.

“He has left everything to me,” he blurted, “apart from a few bequests to faithful servants and to the orphanage, Camille, to which he has been donating annual sums my whole life. Good God, he has left me everything.” At which moment he became aware of Avery, who was standing quietly beside her. “I beg your pardon. I did not see you there.”

“Dear me,” Avery said faintly. “Am I to understand that you have just inherited Cox-Phillips’s fortune? Allow me to felicitate you.”

“You do not understand,” Joel said, his hands sliding away from Camille’s. “When he informed me at our first meeting a few days ago that he intended changing his will in my favor, I refused the offer quite adamantly.”

“Cox-Phillips informed you? You refused his offer?” Avery said. Inevitably his quizzing glass had found its way into his hand, though he had not raised it quite to his eye. “Rich and powerful men do far more telling than asking, my dear fellow. In many cases it is why they are rich and powerful.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">