A Most Unsuitable Match by Stephanie Whitson Page A

of a chance to know such a fascinating woman. If Mr. Vandekamp was, indeed, the Hubert mentioned in Aunt Edith’s last letter, he would have answers to Fannie’s questions. And she intended to ask them. Today.
    As soon as she heard Hannah stirring below, Fannie summoned her help with petticoats and buttonhooks, corset lacing and hairdressing. When she vented her resentment over the secrets her parents had kept, Hannah chastised, “Don’t be so quick to judge, little miss. Letters only reveal what the person writing them wants us to know. I’m not speaking ill of this Edith woman. I’m just saying that your parents must have had their reasons. All you really know is that there’s a lot you don’t know.”
    Fannie finished buttoning her black silk mourning dress as she said, “I’ve lost count of the number of times Mr. Vandekamp has told me I’m all alone in the world and dangled his list of ‘eligible bachelors’ as a cure for my ‘difficult circumstances.’ ” She pinned a mourning brooch in place over a button. “If he’s known about Edith LeClerc all along, I want to know why he didn’t tell me about her. Especially since she seems to regret all the secrecy.” She reached for the black gloves she’d torn pulling weeds. Only a practiced eye would ever see they’d been torn at all. She could always trust Hannah to take care of things like that.
    Trust. She’d always trusted that Mother and Papa were doing their best, both for each other and for her. She’d assumed she could trust Mr. Vandekamp because they did. But for all her trust, her world was falling apart, one broken shutter at a time, one niggling doubt at a time, one business ledger at a time, and now . . . one revelation at a time.

    Fannie’s eyes had barely adjusted to the dark interior of the bank when the clerk she’d asked to announce her to Mr. Vandekamp returned. Pushing his glasses up on his nose, he squinted up at her. “I’m sorry, miss, but Mr. Vandekamp is with someone. He said to tell you he’ll be available right after lunch.”
    Fannie stared past the clerk at Mr. Vandekamp’s imposing office door. She wasn’t certain her courage would last until after lunch. She needed to see him now.
    The clerk mopped his brow. “I’m truly sorry, miss.”
    Fannie nodded. “May I leave a note?”
    “Of course, miss, of course.” He led Fannie to a desk. She wrote, I have questions about Miss Edith LeClerc. She blew on the ink to hasten its drying, then folded the note and handed it to the waiting clerk. Thanking him, she turned to go.
    She’d just reached the exit when there was a stirring at the back of the bank. Someone called her name. She turned around just as a well-dressed gentleman exited Mr. Vandekamp’s office. Vandekamp shook his hand even as he looked Fannie’s way and beckoned her to come near.
    Clutching the leather envelope containing Edith LeClerc’s letters, Fannie headed back across the bank, newly mindful of the man’s ability to intimidate with his set jaw, thin lips, and perpetual scowl. He didn’t speak when she came near, but merely stepped aside and waved her into his office. As the door closed behind them, Fannie did her best to ignore the chill tracing its way up her spine. Crossing the room, she perched on the edge of one of the sumptuous chairs facing Mr. Vandekamp’s massive desk.
    Taking up his station behind his desk, Mr. Vandekamp reached for the crystal decanter positioned on a tray at his right and poured himself a glass of water. Gulping it down without a word, he set the empty glass down with a thud. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and, lacing his fingers together, said, “The name you wrote on your note intrigues me, Miss Rousseau. Am I to conclude that someone has contacted you to make a claim against your father’s estate?”
    Why would the very mention of Edith LeClerc’s name make him so suspicious? Fannie shook her head. Explaining how she’d found the brown leather