Lost Fortune (The Unbridled Series Book 1)

by Sandra E Sinclair

  Lost Fortune

  Sandra E. Sinclair

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Excerpt From Book 2

  About the Author

  Other books by this author

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  The chugging of the steam engine synced with the racing of Rilla Staab’s heart. She hadn’t been home for eight years. Her parents had sent her to a prestigious boarding school for girls in France where she’d not long ago graduated as a governess. She was eager to reconnect with the mother who had doted on her as a child.

  She’d understood the words, “for your protection,” and that her parents had believed they needed to send her away. Nevertheless, she couldn’t suppress the resentment she felt every time she thought about the months of loneliness she’d endured. Alone at ten, in a foreign land where she could barely understand the language.

  Rilla had been taught French as a child. Still, at such a tender age, she wasn’t prepared for the speed at which Parisians spoke, nor their fashion, and the totality of the foreign environment. Until then, she’d never left the security of the establishment owned by her mother, and the place where she was born.

  She looked at the faces of her parents in her locket and sighed, tucking it back safely under her collar. Would they still look the same? Did she even care?

  Children needed their parents, and she had been without hers for too long. She didn’t know if it was possible to maintain a certain level of closeness to people she only had a relationship with through the exchange of letters. She couldn’t rightly say how she felt about what she termed “her abandonment.”

  Even as the engine slowed, her heart maintained its momentum. She fanned her face with a gloved hand. She was here, and when she stepped off the train, she would once again be entering the unknown. Paris was now her home. She knew where everything was, and how to get around. She mopped the perspiration from her brow.

  Her memories of Boston were through the eyes of a child who had barely been allowed outside the door. She didn’t know much then, and she knew even less now. She rose to collect her carpetbag. Her trunks were in the baggage compartment, and she’d been assured she would be reunited with them on the platform.

  The train jerked to a halt, throwing her into the arms of a passing passenger.

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am.” He tilted his hat, after setting her right.

  He smelled of sandalwood, vanilla, and other old spices with an undertone of carbolic. Not the flowery cologne used by the men in France. There was something masculine about the scent of this man.

  Their eyes locked for no more than a second. But that’s all it took for the steel in his cold, gray eyes to suck the air right out of her lungs—mingling with the humidity of the day and the stuffiness of the train.

  Her hand flew to her chest as the thumping of her heart vibrated mercilessly through her fingers. His eyes traveled over her briefly; he tipped his hat once more and turned to leave the train.

  It took a while for her to compose herself; any minute now she would be face to face with her parents. What was she to do? Should she run to them, throw her arms around them, and crush them to her bosom as if she’d never let them go? Or did she stand aloof, kissing the air by their cheeks as the Parisians did?

  She shook her head. They were her parents; she corresponded with them frequently. She smiled as she remembered how eagerly she’d await the post. Her parents kept her abreast of what was going on with the people in their lives.

  Her mother would tell her long stories about everyone both past and present to the point she felt she knew them personally, certain she’d be able to ascertain who was who on first sight. Why was she nervous? But she’d been nursing an uncomfortable gnawing in her stomach from the moment she’d boarded the train.

  Rilla spun around on the platform searching for her parents, as other passenger’s friends and families came to greet them. The noisy chatter, along with the hustle and bustle of the busy station began to die down as the porter wheeled her luggage up to her.

  “Miss Staab?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have your trunks. Do you have a carriage nearby?”

  “Yes, I’m being met.” Although she was beginning to wonder, as the station emptied, and there was no sight of her parents. She removed a piece of paper from her purse. “Do you happen to know where I might find this address?”

  “It’s a fair ways from the station, ma’am. I dare say you can’t get there without having yourself a carriage to take your belongings.”

  “I dare say I won’t.” She repeated, amused by the phrase. “What do you suggest?”

  “Is that a French accent?”

  “Yes…yes, it is.” Rilla gaze covered the station again, still no one she recognized. How could they not be there to meet her? The gnawing turned to nausea. She dabbed at her upper lip with her kerchief. This really was unacceptable. First they carted her off to France, and now they couldn’t even make the time to greet her after her long, arduous journey to get here.

  Her eyes fell on a rather agile man despite his portliness, in an ill-fitted suit, mid-forties at a guess. He was quite openly declaring his presence as he made his way through the few remaining passengers.

  “Excuse me, let me through, begging your pardon… Excuse me, coming through.” He jumped, twisted, and wiggled his way past, when he could quite as easily have walked around them. Rilla raised her handkerchief to her lips to shield her amusement at the sight.

  Having her perfumed kerchief so close to her nose also aided her from the assault on her nostrils of axle grease, burning coal, and the distinct stench of horse manure. Her eyes flickered past him and continued their search for her kin.

  “Miss Staab?” the gentleman in the ill-fitted suit asked, tipping his hat as he came to a stop in front of her. Rilla’s eyes wandered over him.

  “Miss Rilla Staab? I’m Loring Pigeuron.” His fingers shot out ahead of him, and as he waited for Rilla to take his hand, he continued, “Please excuse my manners, I’m your mother’s lawyer.” Rilla took his hand. “I’m here to meet you,” he added.

  Rilla stared, confused. Her mother had made mention of Mr. Pigeuron, many times in her correspondence. However, at no time did her mother’s letter mention he could be likened to a child playing dress up in his even larger papa’s suits.

  More importantly, why would her mother’s lawyer, and not her parents, be meeting her?

  Mr. Pigeuron shoved a paper and some money into the porter’s hand. “See that Miss Staab’s things are brought to this address.” He picked up her carpetbag. “Will you walk with me?” he said, taking her by the elbow, guiding her out of the station.

  Chapter 2

  When speech finally beckoned, she came to a halt, and rounded on him. “Where are my parents, Mr. Pigeuron? I have traveled a long way, and at the very least, they should be here. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Mr. Pigeuron danced from one foot to the next as though taking part in a child’s jumping game. Rilla’s irri
tation at not being met made her blood boil. She was usually of a more temperate disposition, but without an appropriate outlet, she found her rage needed an appropriate target, and the only one available was this boorish man.

  Surely he should be more cultured, being a man of law?

  “Although I appreciate your kindness in coming to meet me, I will not be taking another step until you tell me where my parents are.”

  The lawyer’s shoes became the focus of his interest, as his itchy feet refused to stay still.

  “Please, Miss Staab, what we have to talk about cannot be discussed out here in the open. I urge you to have patience. My office is only a little way farther.” He tugged gently on her sleeve. His face was now free of the blood which had once cherried his cheeks on the station platform.

  “I will come with you, sir, but I want it noted, I’m very disappointed.”

  “I think you will feel differently once we’re in my office.”

  Rilla fell silent and let him lead the way there.

  She was grateful for the support of the comfortable leather wingback armchair in Mr, Pigeuron’s suite of offices. Her legs had caved under her on hearing the distressing news, and Rilla dabbed the tears from her eyes.

  “When did it happen?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “Why did you not try to get word to me? Maybe I could have gotten here sooner.”

  “You were already on the fastest route. Also, it was my understanding, you were without a chaperon. Something this delicate was not news to share with a young woman on her own.”

  “Are they buried?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but not together.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can I get you a glass of port?”

  “No.”

  “If I may be so bold, Miss Staab, I think you should. What I have to tell you may go down better with a little fire in your belly.”

  Rilla stared after him as he moved across the expanse of his office and removed a sealed bottle of port from a bottom drawer of his desk, along with two glasses.

  What could he possibly tell her that would be more catastrophic than losing both her parents at the same time in a tragic carriage accident? Impatiently she twisted her handkerchief in her lap as she watched him pour the scarlet beverage into tiny glasses and make his way toward her.

  She took the glass and tilted it to her lips, emptying the entire content with one swallow. Mr. Pigeuron’s eyes widened as he sipped at his own beverage.

  “Now you deem me ready. What more calamitous news do you have for me?”

  “Well, it’s about your legitimacy—you see…you were born out of wedlock.”

  “Are you telling me I’m a bastard?” The word burned like hot coal and ash as it left her throat, contaminating the air around her.

  Pigeuron cleared his throat several times before answering. “Well, er… I wouldn’t have put it quite so bluntly, but in a manner of speaking, yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying, and as you know this will have quite the impact on your social standing here. Which was why your parents sent you away.”

  Rilla’s tears dried in an instant. Her eyes felt like some cruel person had blown grit into them. She tried to blink away the sensation. Her life was a lie, her social standing, a lie. Her claims to legitimacy, lies too. All lies. She was wrong to believe nothing was worse than losing her parents.

  To discover the duplicity—which was everything she knew—was earthshattering.

  “Would you like me to give you a moment?”

  “No, you might as well tell me everything. My world could not get any more maligned.”

  “It will not feel so bad when you hear the rest of what I have to tell you.”

  “I sincerely doubt the legitimacy of your statement, Mr. Pigeuron.” She gave a wry, dusty chuckle.

  “Please, call me Loring.”

  “I’d rather not. Can we finish concluding our business so I may be on my way?” She pressed her palms to her lap and rubbed back and forth at the material above her knee, willing her legs to stay still.

  “As you wish.” He bowed, then cleared his throat again. The sound began to irk her sensibilities. All she longed to do now, was find the deepest part of the Boston Harbor and throw herself at its mercy. Her life as she knew it, ruined.

  “Then we shall proceed. As the executor of both your parents’ estates, I can tell you, you have inherited property both here in Boston, and Longchapel, California.”

  “I’ve what?”

  “Yes, you are probably one of the wealthiest woman in these parts—”

  “Could this day get any more absurd?” Rilla shook her head. Was there any point to being the wealthiest bastard in Boston? She would never be able to find a good match from a prestigious family. Her standing in society had just plummeted. Even with all the money in the world, there was no changing that, not in Boston.

  “Your mother owned a vast estate and the property on it.” He paused, fiddling with his fountain pen. “A gentleman’s club.”

  Rilla sucked in a breath. She’d heard of such places in Paris. It would seem they had them all over the world.

  “I take it we are not referring to a reputable establishment such as Savile Club in London? You are speaking of a whorehouse? Am I right? You’re telling me, I’m the proud owner of a whorehouse…” Her voice rose an octave or two. She slumped in her chair, eight years of deportment instructions and teachings forgotten in an instant.

  “Well, yes...” Pigeuron shifted in his seat as she glared at him. He pulled on the overlapping sleeve of his jacket. “It may not seem so bad when you hear the rest.”

  “Please stop saying that. Every time you do, it gets worse. Just tell me.”

  “Your inheritance comes with stipulations. You are to sell the Bostonian property, and the proceeds must be used for a legitimate business.”

  “There’s that word again, ‘legitimate.’ Is there anything about my existence that’s legitimate?” She scoffed, then sighed and straightened on the seat. Her years of grooming finally shining through the debasement that was her life.

  She narrowed her gaze when she saw pity in those puffy eyes of his. Resentment ate at her soul. He must have seen something in her expression that startled him. He began his irritating throat clearing once more.

  “Er…your father has left you the controlling interest in a very lucrative gold mine conglomerate in Longchapel, California, as well as a large estate there. The stipulation here is that you leave Boston and marry within a year of being informed of his death.”

  “Have no fear of me staying longer than I have to in Boston. But tell me, who is going to want to marry me now?”

  “Miss Staab, I’ve known both your parents for a long time. They have put these things in place for you to have a good life. A better life than the one they had. I’m quite positive all this is so you don’t repeat their mistakes.”

  “That’s all well and good, Mr. Pigeuron, but if you ask me, they should have thought of that before bringing me into their morally questionable lives.” She stood. “If that’s all of it, I’d like to go and freshen up. Where will I be staying?”

  “Forgive me. I’ll have my boy fetch you a carriage. I’ve reserved a room for you at a very nice guesthouse.”

  “Thank you.”

  “One more thing. I took the liberty of selling the Bostonian property. All you need do is sign the paperwork. I will bring it to you in the morning.”

  “That’s perfect. The sooner I can be gone from here, the better.”

  “And one more thing. I also took the liberty of reserving you a room under another name. Miss Privet.” Seeing Rilla’s stony face, he continued, “I thought it prudent to give you some privacy at this time, just in case of um…” He dithered, but Rilla just sighed and nodded her thanks.

  She followed the attorney’s young clerk out. As she was leaving the office, a young man with hard eyes and a cruel, mocking smile tipped his hat at her as he walked passed, and
into Pigeuron’s office.

  His face was oddly familiar.

  Chapter 3

  “It seems you’ve been holding out on me, Mr. Pigeuron,” Wyatt Worthington said, pacing the expanse of the lawyer’s office. He glanced at the door. The woman he’d passed in the doorway flicked briefly through his mind.

  His eyes felt like granite as they returned to Pigeuron and pierced the other man. The smile on his lips was uncomfortable as he strained to hold it in place, itching to grind his teeth. At the same time, contemplating how much joy it would bring him to use his fist as a form of dental treatment on this lying, crooked, scoundrel.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Pigeuron said, sweat dripping from his forehead. He removed his jacket, threw it over the back of his chair and sat. The stain under the arms on his shirt spread with every word.

  “You know, you really should have made an appointment. You can’t just barge in here. I’m rather busy.” He picked up a file, placed it in a drawer, removed his keychain, and locked it.

  Wyatt continued to stride back and forth, his eyes never leaving Pigeuron’s face. He didn’t trust the man any farther than he could throw him.

  “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s been four days since my father and his mistress were killed in that carriage accident. I want to know where the rest of my inheritance has gone.”

  “Mr. Worthington, your father has left you very well provided for. You have more than most. There is nothing left.”

  Wyatt stopped in front of the desk and folded his arms. “I have it on good authority—that is a lie. I’ve been made to understand my father had property in California, as well as controlling shares he won in a very rich gold mine.” Wyatt pressed his palms flat on the desk and leaned forward. The scent of the other man’s betrayal assaulted his nostrils. Not only did the man look like a pig, he smelled like one.

  Through tight lips, Wyatt said, “You were his lawyer. Therefore, it’s up to you to tell me why those things are not in my possession.” He straightened in amusement, when he saw Pigeuron cower under his gaze. He should be afraid of him, very afraid.