Radnor shook his head. “‘Minerva Hepplewhite’ is not a common name. I found you by putting a notice in The Times. One of your neighbors came forward and pointed me to you.”
She stood and paced while she accommodated the shock. She all but forgot Radnor stood by the fireplace until she turned to retrace her steps and saw him there. Tall. Dark. Formidable. A strict posture. Perhaps he had been in the military. His somewhat craggy features would look good in uniform and giving commands on the field. His blue eyes alternated between deep pools and icy barriers.
He exuded power and authority. He was the kind of man that tempted a woman to depend on him for protection and care. And, perhaps, much more. Oh, yes, Mr. Radnor’s presence contained that kind of power too. She experienced an urge to believe anything he said merely to obtain his good favor.
“How much is this inheritance?”
“There is a direct legacy of ten thousand.”
She gasped, her eyes wide, then turned away as she absorbed her shock.
“There is also a partnership in an enterprise in which the duke had invested,” he said to her back. “That holds the promise of much, much more.”
For the very first time in her life she worried she would swoon. To learn such a thing, and in such a bizarre manner—
That sobered her. Her mind cleared and her thoughts lined up the events of this night. She turned and eyed him. “Who are you? Why were you the one sent to find me?”
He crooked his elbow on the edge of the mantel and relaxed into a pose of aristocratic nonchalance. “The duke was my uncle. His heir, my cousin, asked me to help the solicitor find the unfamiliar legatees so the estate can be disbursed in a timely way.”
His cousin was the new duke. That made him the grandson of a previous one. She tried to picture him at a society ball, but instead kept seeing him in a Roman centurion’s uniform. From the evidence revealed by his snug trousers, he had the legs to look good in one.
“How did the duke die?”
He did not respond right away, which only heightened her interest.
“His country manor house has a parapet at the roofline behind which one can walk. He often went there at night to take some air. Unfortunately, one night he . . . fell.”
The slight hesitation and the subtle shift in tone sent a shiver up her spine. She conquered the alarm and held her composure. “An accident, then.”
“Most likely.”
“You are not sure?”
“It will probably be investigated. Dukes have their privileges, even in death.”
She advanced on him until she stood only five feet away. She gazed right into his eyes. “I think you believe it was no accident. You believe he was pushed.” She stepped closer yet. “Perhaps you believe that I was the one who pushed him.”
The ice with which he met her gaze melted and for an instant she saw enough in his eyes to know she was correct.
“Not at all,” he lied. “Now, to claim this inheritance, you will need to present yourself to the solicitor who is serving as executor of the estate.” He reached into his frockcoat and removed a card. “Here is his name and the location of his chambers.”
He made it sound so simple. Only it wasn’t. This legacy would complicate everything, and reopen a perilous door.
She took the card.
“I will show myself out.”
As he walked toward the door, she stared down at the solicitor’s card.
“Oh, there is one other thing,” he said, turning back. “The solicitor may ask you about your history, to ensure you are the right woman. The will referred to you as Minerva Hepplewhite, previously known as Margaret Finley of Dorset, widow of Algernon Finley.”
Then he was gone, leaving her utterly stunned.
She would have sworn that no one in London knew about her history, except Beth and Beth’s son Jeremy. No one.
Yet apparently this duke—the Duke of Hollinburgh—knew exactly who she was.
Now that she thought about it, she was sure Mr. Radnor had not entered her home to make sure he had her identity correct, as he had claimed. There were better ways to do that. He had done so because he had suspicions about her.
Perhaps because he already knew about the murder accusation she had run from back in Dorset.
* * *
The next morning, Chase left his apartment and walked across St. James’s Square. He approached a