Irritation tugged, but Arthur suppressed it. Emotion would get him nowhere. “Mrs. Wetherall?”
With a sweep of her skirts, she turned from her contemplation, ridiculous hat still disguising her face. He frowned. That enormous hat was absurd. Why did women think such things were attractive? In addition to being ludicrous, it no doubt put undue pressure and strain upon her neck.
The lady and her hat settled into the chair before his desk. Ill at ease, Arthur sank to his own chair.
Lacing her hands in her lap, the lady finally spoke. “I find I require the services of a solicitor in regards to my late husband’s will.”
The hair at the back of his neck stood up. No. Oh, Christ, no.
She looked up, and every muscle in Arthur’s body seized.
Mrs. Wetherall, formerly Miss Sarah Stanhope and the bane of his childhood, glared at him from beneath her ridiculous hat.