Carola Dunn Read Online Free PDF Page B

less.
    Dismissing the servants, Harwood moved on to the last item on the first page. “Er-hem.” He turned pink. “‘To my friend and counsellor, William Harwood,’ hm-hm, ‘the sum of five hundred guineas,’ er, yes, most generous, ‘provided he shall at once take up residence at Addlescombe Manor and there reside as long as may prove necessary to superintend the implementation of the further terms of this, my Will and Testament, in no case to exceed a period of six months.’ Er-hem, yes.”
    “What the deuce?” Neville blustered. Since his brother’s demise the new baronet had behaved as if Addlescombe belonged to him. To have an uninvited guest forced upon him added to the unease caused by the unexpected arrival of his unknown niece.
    “Terms?” Euphemia shrilled. “What terms?”
    “Sir Barnabas set certain conditions to be fulfilled before the remaining legacies are executed.”
    “Conditions!”
    The lawyer cast a reproachful glance towards the inkstand as his dead friend and client cackled.
    Poor Sophie was confused, as usual, Sir Barnabas noted. Miles had adopted an unconvincing pose of boredom, while Nerissa was trying to look as if her head was in the clouds, her mind elsewhere. However, the pair would soon give him their full attention, and the rest already wore altogether satisfactory expressions of surprise and alarm.
    The late baronet hadn’t enjoyed himself so much for years.
     

Chapter 3
     
    Nerissa struggled to keep her eyes open. She wished she had consumed the core of Mr Courtenay’s apple, for the rumbling of her stomach must surely be audible to him, if not to everyone in the room.
    She peeped sideways at him. If he heard the gurgles and groans, he was politely ignoring them. In fact, he was gazing at the picture over the mantelpiece with an air of utter boredom.
    It was a boring picture she decided, a still-life of peaches, wine bottles, and a dead fish. If she went on looking at it any longer, she was certain to fall asleep. She scanned the room. Apart from the fireplace, the door, and two windows with red brocade curtains, all four walls were lined with ceiling-high bookshelves.
    A treasurehouse of calf-bound, gold-tooled books, and most of them not plays! She had learned her letters from plays. At home in York the small house was full of books of plays, scripts and manuscripts and parts of plays. She’d like to sample these shelves, if she was permitted to stay long enough. If she could only keep her eyes open long enough.
    Blinking, she returned to contemplating the gentleman seated beside her.
    He wasn’t at all handsome, not to compare to Lucian Gossett. His nose was a trifle crooked, his dark brows too heavy, his bristly jaw too square. Nor was he as tall as Lucian. She had to admit, however, that there was something rather dashing about the combination of black hair and blue eyes, even with the addition of a day’s growth of beard.
    His clothes, though plain and travel-stained, were of good quality cloth and well made, a cut above the showy but shoddy garb favoured by theatrical people. She recalled that the vehicle he had taken her up in was no shabby gig but an elegant curricle. The very fact that he had rescued her suggested that he did not regard her as a rival. Mr Courtenay had no desperate need of his godfather’s fortune, she concluded. He must have dashed down from London just to show his respect for the deceased.
    She, to the contrary, needed every penny of whatever small sum might have been left her. The proceedings so far gave her the impression that she had been invited as much to tease the residents of the manor as for any serious purpose. If Sir Barnabas was capable of such malice, he had probably directed it equally at his granddaughter. She dared not let her hopes rise too high.
    All the same, she really must try to concentrate upon the endless reading of the Will.
    “‘The following bequests subject to the conditions hereinafter set down:’“ droned