Winslow, she, Kittridge, and her sisters were seated in front of the desk as though in a classroom. Glancing at her, Kit did little more than arch one eyebrow. He knew why, just as she did. The viscount was not in need of funds; her brother was. Her husband had feared Winslow might use her allotment to line his own pockets, whereas he had always given Kit his complete trust. How often had the two men stayed up late into the night talking, laughing, enjoying each other’s company? How often, when faced with a decision, had Lushing mused, “I’ll have to get Kit’s opinion on that”? How often had she been disappointed that he’d valued his friend’s opinion over hers? Not that it was unusual for one man to place more faith in another man’s judgment rather than in a woman’s. Still, it had sometimes hurt that her views were not more often sought.

“Because it is what Lushing thought best,” she said calmly, not really in the mood to have to deal with salvaging his pride.

“It’s not very much,” he stated sourly.

It was a princely sum, but it would not allow her to set aside dowries for her sisters or help Winslow get his crumbling estate back up to snuff. “Is there anything else of import, Mr. Beckwith?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” He gazed down at the will and read, “‘To Lord Kittridge, who has always remained the firmest of friends, I leave my thoroughbreds and hounds.’”

Reaching over, she patted Kit’s arm. “He knew you would care for them as he did. They couldn’t be in better hands.”

“We could have sold them,” Winslow muttered.

“Which is the reason he left them to Kit,” she snapped. “He wanted to ensure they went to someone who would appreciate them.”

“Not to worry,” Kit said. “Your mare will remain with you. He did not mean for me to have her.”

Lushing had gifted her with the white Arabian shortly after they’d wed, and she adored the beast. “Thank you.” She gave her attention back to the solicitor. “Anything else, sir?”