The mustached solicitor sat at Father’s desk in his ill-fitting gray wool suit and laid out my future. “I do apologize for adding strain to your grief, but I thought you should know as soon as possible,” he began after a few cursory sympathies. “There are many notes due in full within thirty days, or the estate must be sold, and the profits forfeited to pay your debt.”

“His debt.”

“Which, unfortunately, is now yours.” He shrugged awkwardly.

I fisted my hands in my lap. Father still had power over me—even from the grave. “By the estate I must sell, I assume you mean this pianoforte shop? My home?”

He folded his hands over the giant stack of papers, appearing appropriately grave. “I’m sorry to say, that is the only viable asset your father retained amidst all his spending.”

My face heated. “He wasn’t taking students at the end, of course. His income was severely limited.” In fact, most of it had come solely from my performances and the few pianofortes I had restored myself. A bout of apoplexy had left him bedridden for over a year, and I’d watched the funds dwindling. “The debts shall be seen to.”

Yet the man made no motion of standing to leave. “There is one other matter, Miss Mourdant. One of a slightly more sensitive nature.” His fingertips traced the edge of the papers he still held.

I smoothed stray hairs off my warm face with an impatient hand. What could possibly be more sensitive than the mountain of unpaid notes with my name attached to them? “Very well, what is it, then?”

“Well, the matter of guardianship.”

“I am already of age, Mr. Finley.”

“Of course. It isn’t your guardianship, but that of your father’s ward.”

I blinked. “There’s a child? Whose is he?”

“She.” He centered his gaze on my face with a frown. “You aren’t aware of her?”

“Obviously not.” I tamped down my temper, clutching my hands together to keep them still.

“She is a grown woman, actually, and I regret I have few other details on the matter. I have only . . . well, this.” He slid a scrap of paper across the desk to me.

The ward’s address explained the reason for his embarrassment. “Hurstwell. She’s in an asylum?”

“I’m afraid so. She’s been deemed unfit to care for herself, so her guardianship now passes to you.”

“But . . . who is she?”

“Rosamond Swansea. She was your father’s ward, and now she is yours.”

My mouth hung a mite slack—rather unladylike, but I was no actress. I was shocked and could not mask it.

“I assume you’ll want her arrangements to remain the same?”

I blinked, searching my mind. “Why . . . yes, I suppose. Yes, that would be best.”