Maggie MacKeever Read Online Free PDF Page A

with my Aunt Dorothea in Yorkshire.”
    Quin stretched out his long legs. “Dotty Aunt Dorothea, mother to the odious Edmund — I have not forgot quite everything, you see. Why aren’t you with your aunt now?”
    So small was the stone bench that his thigh brushed against hers. Kate refused to give him the satisfaction of edging away.
    Nor would she crawl onto his lap, no matter how strong the temptation. “Aunt Dorothea fell down the hall stair. Her heart wasn’t strong.”
    “My condolences on your loss.” Quin began stripping the thorns off his rose branch. “Even though it’s obvious the damned woman didn’t feed you half enough.”
    In contrast to the voluptuous Liliane, Kate must seem as dry and brittle as the stick he held. “Aunt Dorothea was kind, in her way.”
    “But not kind enough to provide for you,” Quin murmured.
    Kate considered the various violent uses to which one might put a denuded rose branch. She inhaled a deep, calming breath. “Edmund was jealous of her fondness for me. My cousin in his tantrums was something we both were eager to avoid. We went on well enough, until Edmund debauched the vicar’s wife.”
    Quin looked contemplative. Kate wondered if he had ever debauched a vicar’s wife. “It made a dreadful scandal,” she hastily continued. “Aunt Dorothea had hysterics, and threatened to cut Edmund out of her will. Not long after, she had her mishap on the steps. There was an inquiry, of course. Her death was deemed an accident.”
    Quin turned sideways on the bench. “You don’t believe it was?”
     Kate met his gaze. “Aunt Dorothea had a new will drawn up and witnessed during one of Edmund’s absences. Once he learns of its existence, I’d not lay odds on my continued good health.”
     
    Chapter Seven
     
    Quin strolled through the gaming rooms. Moxley’s might be located in the raffish Haymarket, but these chambers were as elegantly fitted out as the finest gentleman’s club.
    The same could not be said, alas, for the clientele. Quin was growing tired of pouring inebriated acquaintances into their carriages. It made a man reflect upon the countless occasions when he had been the one being poured.
    And upon the company he kept.
    Near-sobriety was an uncomfortable condition. Quin contemplated his half-filled glass of whiskey, only his second of the night. He felt restless, unsettled, craving he knew not what.
    Solitude, for one thing, Lord Quinton decided, as amber-eyed Daphne shot him a smoldering glance. Ever since Liliane had remained overnight in the house, the other women aspired to do the same. Statuesque brunette Adele claimed to feel a spasm coming on, if not outright palpitations, but was certain her health would improve immensely if she could only gain a comfortable night’s sleep, preferably in his lordship’s bed. Russet-haired Rosamond insisted she had come down with a case of snuffles and only a monster would send her out into the damp.
    Quin was surrounded by conniving females. Including, he suspected, Kate.
    Was Kate truly in danger? Or had she spent the past seventeen years plotting her revenge?
    Verena Wickersham. He hadn’t thought of her in years. His father’s candidate for the next baroness had possessed no finer moral standards than the stable cat.
    It hardly mattered. For whatever reason Quin had set out sowing his wild oats, he had long ago become an unrepentant sinner determined to each every step of his journey to eternal hellfire.
    Now here was Kate, and what he was to do with her, he had no idea.
    Samson touched Quin’s elbow, drawing his attention. “That Coffey cove is raising a rumpus, saying he must speak with you and threatening informations laid.”
    Welcoming the distraction, Quin set down his glass.
    He walked along the carpeted hallway, descended the broad stair. At the bottom stood a door sheeted with iron and covered with green baize, in its center a small aperture through which visitors could be scrutinized.
    Quin put his