Page 4 of Fortune’s Final Folly

Joshua took his key from his pocket and slipped it into the hole, noting not for the first time the resistance when he turned it. With a bit more force, the key turned, and Joshua entered his building. The bell he’d hung overhead rang as the door opened and swung closed behind him.

His assistant, Henry Portstall, was not due in to work for another hour or so. It was Joshua’s routine to arrive early, sort through his tasks for the day, and spend a few minutes alone before the day grew hectic.

Unlike his Bond Street office, this small room, and the even smaller back office cluttered with client folders and reference volumes, was his sanctuary away from everything he found distasteful about the lives of his beau monde counterparts.

Here in Cheapside, Joshua was known merely as Mr. Joshua Stuart, Solicitor.

He was not the son of a duke, nor a lord above his neighbors and other small shop owners, in Cheapside.

Those who lived within walking distance came to him for contracts, negotiations, and many times, simply for advice. Tenants wronged by a landlord. A shop owner seeking the proper dowry befitting his daughter. Or a young, unwed mother needing information on education for her son. In all matters, Joshua was confident he could help those who sought out his help. And he did.

Joshua relished the days he was free to spend away from Bond Street. These were the people who really needed his help.

Pausing to light the several candles lining the front room, Joshua smiled as he made his way to the back office where he kept his desk. Shelving units lined the walls, holding his pocket watch collection and an assortment of large books dedicated to the study of English law.

His uncle, Lord Michael Stuart, had always droned on and on about the one thing a man could never get back: time. Time to spend with his family. Time to pursue passions and activities he enjoyed. And, most importantly, time for the betterment of others and the world at large.

It was the sole reason Joshua had opened the small office here after his uncle’s passing three years prior. He’d visited the area often for business matters, and when the small building had become available for purchase, he’d leapt at the opportunity. Never once had he regretted the decision or the financial investment he’d made.

Along with both offices, his uncle had entrusted him with his priceless watch collection. . Joshua stored most of them at his townhouse, but he kept a few less valuable, yet no less meaningful, pieces in Cheapside to remind him of the path he’d chosen in life.

An existence of servitude to those in need.

Starkly different than the life of luxury and leisure his elder brother, and their father before him, had chosen. Joshua silently chided himself. He gained nothing from dwelling on his family’s excessive lifestyle, nor reminding them of those who lived lives so much less fortunate than they did.

The bell chimed above the front door.

“Good morn,” Joshua called. “Please, have a seat. I will be with you momentarily.”

He picked up the sheet of paper Henry left on his desk each evening and scanned the list of appointments scheduled for the day. Oddly, his first meeting wasn’t until just before noon, though Joshua never turned away an unexpected client when time allowed.

Returning to the front, a courier waited patiently inside the door, clutching a familiar envelope.

It was the same as it had been since he’d taken the position with his uncle’s office. Every three months, a courier arrived with an envelope to be delivered to Vicar and Mrs. Elliott at their residence in Cheapside. Their home was located above a small schoolroom, a few doors down from the vicar’s parish church. It was how Joshua had stumbled across his current office in the first place.

That had been five years ago when he first met Vicar Elliott, his wife, and their daughter, Miss Katherina Elliott—or as the young woman preferred, just Kate.

“Missive for you, my lord.” The courier handed the envelope to him and disappeared out the door once more, his satchel, heavy with his daily deliveries, slung over his shoulder.

Scrawled on the outside of the missive was:

Miss Katherina Elliott

C/O Lord Joshua Stuart, Solicitor

After Miss Kate’s parents had passed away, her father only six months after her mother, the envelopes had come addressed to Kate, the surviving Elliott. He’d always known the parcel held pound notes, but from whom and for what purpose, he did not dare ask. It was not his concern, something his uncle had reminded him of often.

However, it was Joshua’s responsibility to see the envelope delivered in a timely manner and unopened. And so, when he arranged his new office, Joshua had instructed the courier to deliver the quarterly parcels to Cheapside for a swifter delivery to Miss Kate.

His uncle had been a meticulous recordkeeper, and Joshua suspected if he truly wanted to know who the parcels came from and what their purpose was, he could find out. However, privacy and confidentiality were things born and bred into any man who took his position as a solicitor to heart. Which Joshua certainly had since his days at Oxford, learning the law from many great men who’d taken their oath to serve.

He glanced out the front window and across the street. A tall, light-haired man, finely dressed for Cheapside, loitered outside the cobbler’s shop. His attention seemed focused on a stack of papers clutched in his hands as he read, nearly leaning against the building, but straight enough as to not sully his coat.

Two shops down from the man, the door to Miss Kate’s schoolroom was open, and two young boys entered for their daily tutelage, a girl carrying a jug of milk not far behind. After her mother had passed away, Kate had taken over teaching the local children, those blessed with the opportunity to attend school instead of working alongside their families. In return, in lieu of tuition, her pupils gave their teacher fresh eggs, milk, bread, and fabric.

Slipping the envelope under his arm, Joshua left his office, locking up behind himself, and started across the street. The stranger did not turn in his direction nor notice the butcher’s wife who’d exited her shop to sweep the walk.

Joshua straightened his jacket lapel and checked that his hair was not ruffled with his free hand.