Page 171 of The Wallflower Takes All
Yet Gabriel held the letter in his hand and felt, with sudden certainty, that the day had not finished rearranging his future.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Gabriel had spent the better part of his life regarding other people’s emergencies with composure.
He had handled unpaid mortgages, disputed settlements, threatened evictions, forged signatures, contested wills, one baronet who believed “misplaced” was an adequate legal description for an entire estate account book, and Lady Viva Montfort attempting to turn household debt into seed cake. He had watched gentlemen discover ruin, widows discover freedom, heirs discover they had inherited rather less than expected, and creditors discover that sympathy did not constitute payment.
Through it all, Gabriel had remained steady.
It was easier, he discovered, when the emergency belonged to someone else.
The clerk at Wetherby, Crane, and Holt looked down at the card Gabriel had given him, then up at Gabriel’s face. His expression altered.
“Your Grace,” he said, and bowed.
Gabriel stepped back. “I beg your pardon?”
The clerk flushed. “Forgive me, Your—Mr. Ashby. Mr. Wetherby will receive you and Mr. Ashby directly.”
Beside him, Gabriel’s father turned ashen.
Gabriel looked at him. “Do you know what this is about?”
His father looked toward the closed inner door, then back at him. “Possibly.”
“Possibly?”
“I’m certain Mr. Wetherby can explain it more accurately.”
That was not reassuring.
The clerk retreated, anxious to leave before his existence produced additional offenses. Gabriel remained standing in the outer office, hat in hand, while his mind attempted to arrange the impossible into something resembling sense.
Your Grace.
No.
That could not be right.
He was Gabriel Ashby. Solicitor. Son of a solicitor. Grandson of a schoolmaster. A man who had spent the past sennight advising aristocrats, correcting aristocrats, resisting aristocrats, and falling in love with one very beautiful aristocrat.
He had proposed to Poppy with nothing grander than an honest life, a respectable practice, and a promise to stand beside her.
She had accepted him before he could offer her anything else.
That thought held steady when nothing else did.
The inner door opened. A gray-haired gentleman with a narrow face and an excellent coat stepped out.
“Mr. Ashby. Mr. Ashby. I am Wetherby.”
The three men shook hands.
“If you will come in.”
The office into which they were shown looked old, quiet, and expensive in the most forbidding way, confident enough to require no display. Shelves of leather-bound volumes lined one wall. A tall window admitted sober light. The desk was wide, dark, and polished by generations of hands accustomed to arranging centuries on paper. There was no ink stain on it.
Mr. Wetherby seated himself behind the desk. A portfolio tied with red ribbon lay before him.
