Carola Dunn Read Online Free PDF Page A

loud-voiced spinster of six-and-thirty, smelling of horses and dogs. Her uncle had long since given up hope of matrimony removing her from his house. The two gentlemen who had risen to the bait of the large dowry he offered, she threw back on the grounds that neither could keep up with her in the hunting field.
    Sophronia pattered in, last of the ladies, always a little breathless, pink-cheeked and softly plump. Somehow her crooked cap and the hairpins constantly scattering from her white hair never annoyed Sir Barnabas as did Jane’s shawl. He had been tempted to bequeath a little extra to Sophie. She’d not reap the benefit of it, though, having been firmly under her sister Euphemia’s thumb since childhood.
    Neville was next, Sir Neville now, strutting like a pouter pigeon in the glory of his new title. He had never taken the least interest in the Addlescombe estate and was utterly unfit to run it.
    So was his son, Aubrey. Once a beautiful youth, Aubrey at forty expended all his energy in fighting the encroachment of the years. He had never married because a plain wife was unthinkable and a pretty one too much competition. Sir Barnabas snorted as the creak of his nephew’s corset reached his ears. Man-milliner!
    His other nephew, his sister’s son, entered with the grave mien proper to a clergyman. The Reverend Raymond Reece was a sanctimonious sapskull with the most deplorable Romish tendencies, but no one else had offered him a living and after all, he was family.
    And that was the lot, except for the servants, unless....
    Sir Barnabas’s breath caught in his throat, or would have, had he been breathing. The girl was Anthea’s image. She must be about the age Anthea had been when she faced him with defiance in her eyes and announced that she’d marry Frederick Wingate or no one.
    His daughter marry a strolling player! Out of the question, not even worthy of discussion.
    So she had run off with the fellow. He had managed to hush it up, giving out that she had gone to stay with relatives, and later that she had accepted a suitor and was living in a distant part of the country. None of the neighbours had ever been so impertinent as to ask him for further news of her.
    Anthea had written to her father announcing her marriage. He had not replied. A second letter notified him of the birth of her child. Again he had not responded, but he had kept the letter. Nerissa was the chit’s name, a constant reminder of the theatrical world with its notorious immorality, in the midst of which his granddaughter had been brought up.
    No one could have guessed it by looking at her. In her simple olive-green dress, long-sleeved and high-necked, her hair pinned up in braids, her face innocent of paint, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
    But after all, that was the nature of the beast. The most infamous Cyprians were capable of appearing on the stage as the innocent Miranda, the maligned Desdemona. What the hussy hoped to gain by this show of modesty now that her grandfather was dead, he failed to guess. Perhaps she hoped to influence Harwood in her favour.
    Too late. The Will was written. She’d have her chance to reform her wanton ways but Sir Barnabas was certain she would fail.
    The same went for his unshaven godson. Miles was a good-for-nothing, care-for-nobody libertine and gamester, beyond redemption. Sir Barnabas owned he’d be astonished if the wastrel accepted his challenge, let alone met it, even for the sake of a fortune.
    All any of them cared for was his fortune, the late baronet muttered silently, sweeping the assembled company with an invisibly scornful gaze.
    The last of the upper servants filed in and closed the door. Euphemia shifted weightily in her seat, taking it upon herself to glance around the room through her lorgnette as if it were her business to ensure everyone’s presence. Her complacent air turned to an indignant glare as she noticed Nerissa beside a lounging Miles in the back row of chairs.
    “Mr