Mr. Weatherwax steepled his fingers in front of him. “And how is your brother faring? Is his health much improved?”

“It’s improving steadily.”

“But not enough for him to come here today.”

A vague sense of foreboding made her hesitate. “As to that…”

“It’s a fair question, Miss Hayes. Much as I enjoy your charming presence, by rights it should be your brother I’m dealing with, not you. Your father’s will states in no uncertain terms that if, by the age of five and twenty, you remain unmarried, the whole of the family business—interests, property, and so forth—goes to Edward Hayes on his twenty-first birthday.” Mr. Weatherwax’s mouth curled into a patronizing smile. “And you are unmarried, are you not?”

Her hands tightened in her lap. “I am.”

“And have you any intention of marrying before your twenty-fifth birthday?”

Anger rose in Laura’s breast. It took an effort to keep it from infiltrating her words. “My twenty-fifth birthday is in two weeks, sir. That’s hardly enough time—”

“Am I to take that as a no?”

“No,” she ground out. “I have no immediate plans to marry.”

He smiled again. “Then we’re at an impasse. With your brother too ill to fulfill his responsibilities—”

“He’s not too ill. Really, Mr. Weatherwax, if my brother—”

“If your brother were competent in mind and body, Miss Hayes, he would have come to meet with me himself—to settle matters and to receive an accounting of where things stand. As it is, I remain convinced that he is not competent. He’s ill, and far too frail for me to hand over control to him. Given the circumstances, I cannot believe that your father would have wished me to do so.”

She opened her mouth to object, but Mr. Weatherwax held up his hand, silencing her.

“It would be a gross dereliction of my duty,” he said. “An act verging perilously close to malpractice.”

“But my father’s will—” Laura began, a note of desperation creeping into her voice. “It couldn’t be clearer.”

“His will can be challenged. Indeed, it shall be challenged if you insist on your brother taking control. There is no judge who would remove me from my role. Not when they see how truly unfit your brother is. It’s frankly a mercy for me to remain in charge of your affairs, my dear.” He looked up at the door. “Ah. And here is Patience with our tea.”

The maidservant entered the room, the teapot and teacups rattling on the tray in her arms.

“Set it down,” Mr. Weatherwax ordered. “Here on my desk. Don’t make a to-do out of it.”

No sooner had the maidservant set down the tray than Laura stood, prompting Mr. Weatherwax to rise from his chair. “I beg your pardon,” she said, “but I must wash my hands.”