“And has no claim whatever on the Place. The estate was not entailed.”
“It generally passed through the eldest male…”
“But your grandfather divided his estate equally between his two sons…”
“Your father and his brother, your uncle Ernest.”
“Both were given an estate—in your father’s case, the Place.”
“Unfortunately, Ernest Hartley was a gambler.”
“Quite ran through his patrimony, as the saying goes.”
“He eventually lost everything and turned to your father for aid.”
“Your father was enjoying a great success in London at that time. He had married your mother and was much in demand. Dear me, his fees! Well, quite astronomical, they seemed.” Mr Whitworth the elder paused for breath.
This time Georgiana could not restrain her need to put a hand to her brow. The world was whirling.
“If we could condense this history, gentlemen?” Viscount Alton’s precise tones jerked both Whitworths out of their rut.
“Er—yes. Well,” said Mr Whitworth, with a careful eye on his lordship, “the long and the short of it is, your father and mother wished to spend some time in Italy. So your father installed your uncle as steward of the Place, put his ready capital in the funds, leased the house in London, and left the country. I believe you were a child at the time.”
Georgiana nodded absent-mindedly. The Place was hers. It had never been Charles’s property, and he had known it.
“When we heard of your father’s death,” broke in the younger Whitworth, warily eyeing the Viscount, “we wrote immediately to you at the villa in Ravello. The letter was returned by your Italian man of business, stating you had returned to England before learning of your uncle’s demise and had planned to stay at the Place.”
Whitworth the elder opened his mouth to respond to his cue, but caught the Viscount’s eye and fell silent, leaving it to his sibling to continue, “We wrote to you there, but the letters were returned without explanation. I
n the end we sent one of our most trusted clerks to see you. He reported that the house was shut up and deserted.”
The elder Whitworth could restrain himself no longer. “No one seemed to know where you’d gone or even if you’d arrived from the Continent.”
Following the tale with difficulty, Georgiana saw what must have occurred. Questions hammered at her brain, but most were not for the solicitors’ ears. She fastened on the one aspect that held greatest importance to her. “You mentioned pictures?”
“Oh, yes. Your father left quite a tidy stack of canvases—some unclaimed portraits, and others—in England. He always claimed they were a sound investment.” The dead tones of the younger solicitor left no doubt of his opinion on the matter.
“But where are they stored?” asked Georgiana.
“Stored?” The elder Whitworth stared at her wordlessly, then turned to his brother for help. But the younger Whitworth had clearly decided this was one cue he would do well to miss. “Er…” said Mr Whitworth, chasing inspiration, “I rather suspect he must have left them at the Place.”
“Are you certain they haven’t been sold?” Lord Winsmere bought into the conversation. “From what you say, Ernest Hartley sounds the type to hock his grandmother’s spectacles. Excuse me, m’dear,” he added in an aside to Georgiana.
But the elder Whitworth waved his hands in a negative gesture. “A reformed character, I assure you. After his—er—brush with the Navy, he was so thankful to be pulled free that he was quite devoted to his brother and his interests.”
“Devoted?” echoed Lord Alton incredulously. “Have you seen the Place?”
“Unfortunately, Mr Hartley was unsuited to the task of managing the estate, although he tried his best.” The younger Whitworth drew his lordship’s fire. “We would seriously doubt he would have sold any of his brother’s paintings. He lived quite retired at the Place until his death, you know.”
“So,” said Georgiana, struggling to take it all in, “the most likely place for my father’s pictures—the ones he left in England—is the Place. But they aren’t there. I looked.”
Both Whitworths shifted uncomfortably but could throw no further light on the matter.
Eventually Mr Whitworth the elder broke the silence. “Are there any instructions you wish to give us, my dear, concerning your property?”
Georgiana blinked, then slowly shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ll need a little time to think things through. It’s all been rather a surprise.”
“Yes, of course. No rush at all,” said the elder Mr Whitworth, resuming his genial state. “Mr Charles Hartley will of course be given due notice to quit.”