The solicitor's office was everything Amelia had dreaded it would be: dim, stuffy, and lined with leather-bound books that no one had likely read in decades. The air was thick with the smell of pipe smoke and dust, and the single window, though large, seemed incapable of letting in any real light. It was as though the room itself conspired to suffocate her.
Amelia perched on the edge of a chair, a particularly uncomfortable one, designed to discourage lingering, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Across the heavy mahogany desk sat Mr. Crawford, a man whose age was impossible to discern beyond the vague impression of thinning hair and spectacles that balanced on the end of his nose like a disapproving relative.
He had not smiled when she entered, and now, as she finished her explanation, his expression seemed to settle into something that could only be described as mildly irritated boredom. He shuffled a few papers with exaggerated slowness, finally looking up at her with a sigh.
"Miss Ashford," he said, his tone the verbal equivalent of a pat on the head, "I am sorry for the loss of your father and I do sympathize with your situation, truly I do, but these matters are hardly appropriate for a young lady to concern herself with. Your father was very lax with his payments for our services, we couldn't prioritize records and account keeping. "
Amelia stiffened, her spine straightening as though it were pulled by an invisible string. "I fail to see how the appropriateness of my concern is relevant, Mr. Crawford. My father is dead. The debts he has left behind are considerable, and a man named William Thornton seems to believe that my sister's dowry is his to claim. I am here to ensure that is not the case."
Mr. Crawford's brow furrowed, as if the mere act of listening to her caused him physical discomfort. "And what, precisely, do you propose I do about it? That situation feels out of my hands. But knowing your father, he might have very well gambled your sister's hand in marriage. He did, after all, remove your dowry."
"You are my family's solicitor," Amelia replied, the edge of frustration creeping into her voice. "Surely you can—"
"Miss Ashford," he interrupted, holding up a hand to silence her. "I must remind you that it is not within my purview to take direction from an unmarried woman, one who is quite possibly overcome with emotion. Matters of estate and debt are far too complex, not to mention delicate, for someone of your position to manage. If there were a male relative to act on your behalf…" He trailed off, leaving the obvious unsaid.
Amelia's hands curled into fists, her nails biting into the fabric of her gloves. She forced herself to remain calm, though her chest ached with the effort. "There is no male relative, Mr. Crawford. My father saw to that when he gambled away every connection and friendship we might have once had. There is only me, and there is Charlotte. And I will not allow a man like William Thornton to ruin us further simply because I lack the requisite Y-chromosome."
Mr. Crawford blinked, clearly startled by her words. He recovered quickly, though, and the disapproving frown returned to its rightful place on his face. "I must caution you, Miss Ashford, against behaving in a manner that will only exacerbate your difficulties. If Mr. Thornton has legal documentation regarding the debts and inheritance, then there is very little that can be done."
"Very little you will do, you mean," Amelia shot back, her voice sharp now. "You were perfectly happy to take my father's money when it suited you. But now that his daughters require your assistance, you would rather hide behind outdated notions of propriety than lift a finger."
"Miss Ashford," Mr. Crawford said, his tone condescending to the point of insult, "I understand this is a difficult time for you, but you must not let emotion cloud your judgment. These matters are best left to—"
"To whom, Mr. Crawford?" Amelia demanded, rising to her feet so abruptly that the chair scraped loudly against the floor. "To men like you? Men like William Thornton? Who will not hesitate to strip two women of everything they have simply because they can? Forgive me if I do not share your confidence in the male gender's ability to act with honor."
The solicitor's mouth opened and closed in what appeared to be indignation, but Amelia did not wait for his response. She rose sharply, her skirts rustling angrily as she stormed toward the door. She paused with her hand on the knob, glancing back at him over her shoulder.
"If you will not help me, Mr. Crawford, then I will find someone who will. Good day."
She did not give him the satisfaction of watching her leave; instead, she swept out of the room and into the hallway, the door closing behind her with a decisive click. It was only once she reached the street outside that she allowed herself to exhale, her breath shaky as it left her lungs.
The solicitor's words replayed in her mind, each one a needle pricking at her composure. Far too complex for a young lady. Matters best left to someone else. Someone else.
Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her gloves, and she tilted her chin up, determined. "Someone else be damned," she muttered under her breath.
Frustrations burned through Amelia's temper like dry kindling as she stormed away from the solicitor's office, her footsteps sharp and angry against the pavement. Her bonnet tilted precariously as she moved with such force, and her gloved fists clenched at her sides. Words, useless, infuriating words, buzzed in her head like hornets.
Too delicate for such matters. Better left to a man.
The injustice of it all nearly choked her.
And that was when she collided with a very solid, very unsuspecting wall of a man.
Amelia blinked up, startled, into the face of the stranger before her. He was darkly handsome in a way that felt almost infuriating, his strong jawline softened by a faint shadow of stubble, his raven-black hair slightly unruly as though he'd just removed his hat in haste. But it was his eyes that caught her most of all, deep, rich brown, so dark they seemed to drink in the light, and entirely too piercing for her comfort. There was a steadiness in them that made her feel uncomfortably seen, as though he were cataloging every flaw in her hastily pinned hair and wind-rouged cheeks.
"I beg your pardon," Sebastian Sinclair said, taking a startled step back. He balanced himself, his gaze dropping to the woman who had just barreled into him. His hands rose instinctively to settle her as well, though Amelia batted them away before he could touch her, mentally shaking herself out of the endless pools of his eyes.
"Do watch where you're going," Amelia snapped, glaring up at him. Her face was flushed, her breathing quickened, and the force of her rage seemed to make her positively radiant.
He couldn't help but take her in, his initial irritation giving way to reluctant intrigue. She was slight but carried herself with a surprising force, her light blonde hair slipping free from its pins in a way that framed her face with an almost unintentional elegance. Her complexion was fair, with a faint flush of color that suggested either embarrassment or temper, perhaps both.
Sebastian blinked down at her, bemused. It was rare that anyone, let alone a woman, dared to scold him in the middle of the street. Most women would take this opportunity to faint away in hopes he would catch them.
"You ran into me, if we are being accurate," he said smoothly, his lips curling into what he knew was an infuriatingly pleasant smile. "I trust you did not injure yourself?"
"The only injury is to my time," Amelia bit out. "Which I do not have to waste, Lord… whoever-you-are."
Sebastian's brow lifted at that. Whoever-you-are? Did she actually not know, or was this a ruse? She was clearly a lady of Quality given her clothing some dark thing years out of fashion, they were well wore and mended often. But this lady could have made a sack look inviting.
Her eyes that held his attention longer than he intended. A striking blue-green, they seemed to shimmer between stormy sea and summer sky, betraying a sharp intelligence and no small amount of fire. There was no mistaking it, this was a woman who had opinions, and no qualms about expressing them, though she looked far more suited to a ballroom than a battlefield.
"Sinclair," he supplied, far too amused now. "Viscount Allendale. Though I cannot say I often meet women who are unfamiliar with my name."
"How unfortunate for me, then," Amelia shot back, her eyes narrowing. "Do you make a habit of loitering in front of offices to waylay unsuspecting women? Or is this a new pastime?"
Sebastian barked out a laugh. "I assure you, accosting furious women in the street is not my preferred method of entertainment." Maybe he had a new pastime though, this was the most he'd smiled in weeks.
"Perhaps you should find another street," Amelia said crisply, brushing past him with as much dignity as she could manage as she realized how juvenile she sounded.
Sebastian watched her go, the ghost of a smile lingering on his lips. He'd expected her to simper. He'd expected her to apologize or, worse, look at him with calculating interest. But she'd done none of those things. Instead, she'd given him a set-down with such ferocity that it had left him intrigued. It was only then that Sebastian realized the lady didn't give her name back.
Who in God's name was she? And, more importantly, when would he see her again?