Trouble at the Wedding (3 page)

He felt a hint of pity for the fiancée. He knew nothing of Miss Wheaton, but the only conclusion he could come to was that she was an heiress in the mold of Consuelo Vanderbilt—sweet, biddable, probably a bit naive and under the thumb of an ambitious Yankee mother, forced to marry Rummy because she lacked the courage to refuse.

“I
must apologize, gentlemen, for droppin' by your offices this way, but I am just so confused.”

As she spoke, Annabel's voice was as sweet as sugar and her Mississippi drawl was more pronounced than usual. The wide-eyed gaze she gave the three men seated on the other side of the conference table was melting and filled with apology. She'd even brought her mama with her. To any man who knew a Southern girl, these were obvious signs that all hell was about to break loose.

Unfortunately, the lawyers of Cooper, Bentley, and Frye were native New Yorkers, and had little experience dealing with women from the Southern side of the Mason-Dixon line. They were accustomed to seeing Annabel only a few times a year and conducting any business matters surrounding her estate with her uncle Arthur, who was one of her trustees, and who was, like them, a lawyer. The fact that Annabel had come to their offices without her uncle and without any advance notice the day she was supposed to be leaving for England might have caught them off guard, but she could tell they had no inkling of what was coming.

Bless their hearts.

“Thank you for that prenuptial agreement y'all sent over to me last night, gentlemen,” she went on as she leaned down to pull the document in question out of the leather portfolio she'd placed beside her chair. “You obviously put a lot of work into it, and I appreciate that so very much.”

“We're always happy to assist you, Miss Annabel,” Mr. Bentley assured her. “We hope you know that.”

“I do.” She pressed a gloved hand to her bosom, the picture of sincerity. “And I promise I won't take up too much of your time. I just have a few teeny little questions. I'm sure y'all will have me out of your hair in two shakes of a lamb's tail.”

Her mother made a soft sound of derision at this pretense of sweetness and light, and Annabel gave her a gentle kick under the table. The last thing she needed was Mama rolling her eyes right now.

She placed the sheaf of papers on the table and began to rummage through them. From beneath the brim of her pink silk bonnet, she watched her lawyers relax, easing back in their chairs, clasping their hands on their substantial stomachs, the picture of indulgent, fatherly patience.

She stopped at the page she wanted and tapped a particular paragraph with her finger. “It says here that Lord Rumsford is to receive seventy-five thousand dollars per year for the maintenance of his estate, Rumsford Castle.” She looked up and gave them her prettiest smile. “Gentlemen, that is just not going to be acceptable.”

The fatherly patience faded. The three men sat up straight in their chairs and exchanged uneasy glances.

“I've read the reports provided by Lord Rumsford's solicitors,” she went on, “and I know that seventy-five thousand dollars barely covers the shortfall between the expenses of the estate and the income from the land rents. Lord Rumsford's solicitors asked for one hundred thousand dollars, a provision I already agreed to. Why hasn't this been changed?”

Mr. Bentley, as one of her trustees and senior partner of the firm, took charge. “We have written many marital settlements of this kind, Annabel, and the annual sum offered in the agreement is adequate for an English estate the size of Rumsford Castle.”

“Adequate?” Annabel echoed. “Is that all that you believe I am worth, gentlemen? Adequacy?”

The men exchanged glances again, and this time it was Mr. Cooper who chose to speak for the group. “The amount requested by Lord Rumsford's solicitors is well above the estate budget, and we understand some of it shall be spent to restore certain areas of the house and grounds, a waste of money.”

“Mr. Cooper,” she said, still smiling, “we are talking about my future home. My home, and that of my children. It must be taken care of properly.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But you and His Lordship and your children will probably live at Rumsford Castle only a few months a year. The American wives of peers always seem to want to live in London. Based on that knowledge, we thought it best to keep the expenses of the estate to a minimum. And,” he added before Annabel could reply, “we understand some of the funds requested would be used for social activities—balls, parties, and other extravagances.”

“You gentlemen are about as much fun as a funeral,” she said, noting their expressions of disapproval with some humor. “What's wrong with balls and parties?”

“British men of Lord Rumsford's position are notorious for excessively lavish entertainments. Such unnecessary expenditures can only drain your resources, my dear Annabel.”

Annabel, who knew the extent of her resources down to the penny, disagreed. This wasn't just about big balls and lavish parties. Although she'd never had those things, and she wanted them, for sure, there was far more at stake here than entertainment.

In this world, social position was everything. And her family had none. There hadn't been a time in her life when they hadn't been looked down on, and having money hadn't changed that. Seven years ago, when her daddy had died and left her all that money, she'd thought inheriting a fortune was a blessed miracle that would change all their lives for the better. But though she might have prettier clothes now, and fancier houses, and a big, fine motorcar to drive around in, she and her family were still regarded as nothing more than poor white trash.

Annabel's hand tightened around the papers in her grasp. No girl ever forgot what it was like to be poor white trash.

She was determined to rid her family of that stigma once and for all, but the only way to do it was social acceptance, and she'd been hammering away at that particular stone wall for the past seven years without making a particle of difference.

And then Bernard had come along. Bernard would give her and her family the one thing they couldn't buy on their own. Bernard would be the reason her children would never be seen as trash. Her daughters, and her sister, Dinah, too, would have their pick of young men from the finest families. And Bernard would see that no one ever laughed at them again. This wasn't about being frivolous. She was using her inheritance to make an investment in the future, a future that was well worth one hundred thousand dollars a year. Especially when she had more money than she could spend in a lifetime.

“We have your best interests at heart, Annabel,” Mr. Bentley said. “We don't want you wasting your money.”

“Why, that's right kind of you, gentlemen,” she said softly. “But it's my money to waste, now, isn't it?”

Without waiting for an answer, she pushed the sheet of paper with the terms of the estate maintenance across the table. “Rumsford Castle has been in His Lordship's family for over three hundred years. It's important to him, and it's important to me. I'd like this changed to one hundred thousand dollars, please.”

Without waiting for an answer, she went on, “There is also the matter of His Lordship's sisters.” Flipping to that part of the agreement, she once again shoved a sheet of paper across the table. “I'd like you to double the amounts for the pin money allocated to Lady Maude, Lady Alice, and Lady Millicent, if you please, as I asked before. Pretty clothes are important to a girl. And double their marital dowries.”

The men started to interrupt, but she hastened on. “And about His Lordship's personal income, you have allotted only ten thousand dollars per year. I understand he asked for twenty thousand dollars. Is that right?”

Mr. Bentley again took charge. “Many gentlemen of the earl's position find ten thousand dollars quite enough for an allowance.”

“What other gentlemen think doesn't really have much to do with it. I have the best clothes, jewels, and folderols money can buy, and I want my husband to have the best, too.”

“Of course you do, of course you do, but my dear . . .” Mr. Bentley paused, pasting on his fatherly face again. “Perhaps you are letting your heart rule your head a bit here.”

“Uh-oh,” Henrietta murmured. “Now you've done it.”

Unwisely, Mr. Bentley chose to ignore Mama's gentle hint of caution. “This engagement was very sudden, Annabel, and we would be remiss in our duty if we failed to protect your interests. Perhaps in light of these concerns, you would consider a longer engagement. Perhaps, say, a year?”

Annabel quelled that notion with nothing more than a look.

“Six months,” he amended hastily. “Still plenty of time for you and Lord Rumsford to truly be sure you are suited to marry and can agree on how to spend your money wisely.”

“First of all,” she said, a note of steel coming into her sweet-as-pie voice, “my heart
never
rules my head, gentlemen. Second, Bernard and I have already agreed on how to spend the money. It's you three and Uncle Arthur who don't seem to be rowing with the boat here. Third, Bernard and I want to marry, and we see no reason to have a longer engagement. And I'd have thought you gentlemen would be happy for me.” She paused deliberately. “Having my best interests at heart, and all.”

“We are happy for you, my dear,” Mr. Cooper hastened to say. “But we are . . . concerned. Your uncle is, too. We all only want what is best for you. Of course you want to be married, Annabel. Every girl does, but—”

“I am not a girl,” she reminded, interrupting this condescending flow of words. “I'm twenty-five.”

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Frye assured her. “You are a fully grown woman, we know. But that's just it. You
are
a woman. And it's widely understood that women are not particularly skilled in matters of finance.”

Beside her, Henrietta murmured something about Fort Sumter all over again. Annabel, however, had no intention of letting another Civil War break out. Nor did she have time for any more delays over the marital agreement.

She pulled a thick document out of her portfolio. “According to Daddy's will,” she said, setting the sheaf of papers down smack-dab in the center of the table, “I have three trustees, but only two of them need to approve my marriage, isn't that right?”

They nodded—reluctantly.

“And, although Uncle Arthur has refused his permission, my stepfather, Mr. Chumley, has given his, isn't that also right? And you, Mr. Bentley,” she went on without waiting for an answer, “the third trustee, also gave your permission. Do you intend to change your mind?”

He hesitated, and she went on, “You know, I'm starting to think maybe when I'm married and I have control of my own money, I should pick my own lawyers, too.” She turned to her mother. “What do you think, Mama?”

Her mother gave her a wry look in response. “Does it matter what I think?”

Annabel ignored that rather unhelpful response and returned her attention to the men across from her. “After all, there are other lawyers besides the three of you. I'm sure I can find some that are just as capable, and a lot more cooperative.”

She smiled into the dismayed faces across from her and decided it was time to stop pussyfooting around. “Gentlemen, Lord Rumsford and I are getting married aboard the
Atlantic
in six days. Since we don't have a lot of time here, let me tell you what's going to happen, all right? You are going to draw up the prenuptial agreement I want today, with all the changes I have asked for. You will get the proper signatures and give one signed copy to each party involved, including Uncle Arthur. Now, Mr. Bentley, you are still coming to the wedding, aren't you?”

Without waiting for him to answer, she went on as if he already had. “That's good. I'd hate for you to be mad at me over this little set-to we've had and not come to my wedding. If you'd be kind enough to bring my copy of the revised agreement with you this afternoon, you can give it to me aboard ship.” She glanced around. “Now, gentlemen, are there any questions?”

Looking resigned, all three men shook their heads.

“I'm glad to hear it,” she said, and stood up, indicating this meeting was at an end and bringing everyone else at the table to their feet as well. “Thank you for your time today. I do appreciate it. Now Mama and I will get out of your hair, and let y'all get started. You have a lot of work to do before this afternoon.”

She turned toward the door and sailed out of the room in a cloud of soft, expensive French perfume, her mother right behind her, leaving a trio of very unhappy men staring after them.

“It's like herdin' cats,” she muttered once they were out of the law offices and headed for the elevator. “This is the third time I've had to ask them to make these changes, and I just don't understand what's so hard about it.”

“They are good men, Annabel.”

“I know, Mama, I know,” she said as they paused in front of the wrought-iron gate of the elevator and she pressed the electric button to bring it up to the tenth floor. “But they pat me on the head every time I talk to them and act like Uncle Arthur is the only one they have to answer to.”

“I doubt they think that now,” Henrietta said with a touch of humor. “Not after today.”

Annabel smiled. “I did come down hard on 'em, didn't I, Mama?”

“Like a hammer, darlin'.”

“I couldn't help it. All that stuff about how a woman can't manage finances just got under my skin. And then they had to bring up that whole business about waiting a year.”

Henrietta was silent for a moment, then she said, “Would it be so bad to wait? A year isn't all that long.”

Annabel groaned. “Oh, Mama, not you, too. Not again.”

“Well, it's true you and Bernard don't know each other all that well. Maybe—”