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Chapter 2
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Fenshaw's office was in an unassuming brick building on Chancery Lane
in London. George Colby's carriage arrived there just before one—not a surprise, given that the viscount was never late—at which time he hurried Anastasia and Breanna out of the carriage and up the steps.
The slight bang that accompanied the closing of the door alerted the solicitor to their arrival, for he walked out of his inner office, slipping his spectacles onto his nose as he came forward to greet them.
"Good day, George, Breanna." He blinked as his pale gaze shifted to Anastasia. "Or is this Breanna?"
Anastasia shook her head. "No, Mr. Fenshaw. You were right the first time."
He blinked again. "Anastasia, goodness. The resemblance is astonishing." He bowed ever so slightly, giving her a gentle smile. "I don't suppose you remember me. But I remember you—an active little girl with a mind of her own. I'm terribly sorry about your parents. They were fine people, both of them."
"Yes, they were." A flash of memory flitted through Anastasia's mind; a gray-haired gentleman with red cheeks, thick spectacles, and a kind smile offering her a peppermint stick. "Actually, I do remember you. You had the most delicious peppermint sticks in London."
Fenshaw chuckled. "You did so enjoy that candy." He inclined his head, his expression compassionate. "How are you, my dear? Under the circumstances, that is."
"Not as devastated as I was a few months ago. I'm very fortunate to have Uncle George and Breanna. Returning to them and to Medford Manor has made my loss a little more bearable."
"I'm glad."
"I realize we're early, Fenshaw," George interrupted. "But if it's all right with you, we'll proceed. I have another business matter to see to this afternoon and I want to leave for Kent before dusk."
"As you wish." Fenshaw gestured them into his inner office. "Please, come in. Now that everyone is here, we can begin at once."
"Everyone?" George shot him a perplexed look as he crossed the threshold behind his daughter and niece. "Who else…?" He broke off, staring in surprise at the tall, broad-shouldered man who rose to his feet as they entered. "Sheldrake. I don't understand."
Sheldrake? Now that brought Anastasia's head around quickly.
"Nor do I," the marquess was replying, shrugging his dark head. He extended his hand to shake George's. "All I know is that Fenshaw asked me to attend. So here I am." He glanced past George, then bowed politely at Breanna—whom he clearly had no difficulty recognizing, despite the presence of Anastasia by her side. "Breanna, how are you?"
"I'm well, my lord."
"I'm glad to hear that." Damen Lockewood's gaze flickered to Anastasia, and a slight smile curved his lips. "Ah, it seems I don't need an introduction."
"Nor do I," she returned. "Although in your case, it's your name I recognize, rather than your appearance." Eager to remedy that fact, Anastasia stepped forward, curtsying quickly so she could rise and inspect this man she'd heard so much about.
He was tall—over six feet—and powerfully built, with steel-gray eyes, a square jaw, and hard, patrician features. His raven-black hair was cut short at the nape, yet a few strands of it swept over his broad forehead—perhaps the only aspect of him that was even remotely disheveled. His blue tailcoat, silk waistcoat, and white shirt and trousers were of the latest style, worn with the casual elegance of a man who was accustomed to such attire. He carried himself with an air of self-assurance—not arrogance, exactly, but more an awareness that he knew his own capabilities and was not afraid to acknowledge them.
There was something infinitely intriguing about the Marquess of Sheldrake.
"I'm pleased to meet you, my lord," Anastasia continued, watching a corner of Damen Lockewood's mouth lift at her flagrant scrutiny. "My father spoke very highly of you. So did my grandfather. Which leads me to believe that your reputation as a shrewd banker and lever investment adviser is more than just a rumor."
A chuckle escaped his lips. "I'm relieved to hear that. My clients will be as well." He brought Anastasia's fingers to his lips. "Welcome home, my lady." His amusement vanished. "With regard to your father and grandfather, I had the utmost respect for them both. They were fine men and, as I remember, your mother was a lovely, gracious lady. Please accept my condolences on your loss."
"Thank you," she replied softly.
"It's always a pleasure to see you, Sheldrake," George spoke up. "But I still don't understand why you're here." He arched a questioning brow at Fenshaw.
"All of you, have a seat," Fenshaw respo
nded, retreating behind his desk and extracting a folded document from his drawer. "I believe the next few minutes should answer all your questions."
Everyone complied, and Anastasia's interest in Damen Lockewood was forgotten as the finality of what was about to occur sank in. She steeled herself for yet another facet of this painful good-bye with her father, seating herself between Breanna and Lord Sheldrake, and clutching Breanna's hand as Mr. Fenshaw commenced the will reading.
