brought to mind a barrel of McTavish's Bruichladdich brew. It was obvious that great deal of effort had been put into denying the realities of the mirror—the greying hair was done up in an elaborate style more befitting a Diamond of the First Water, and the expensive silk gown, with its tiered flounces and overskirt of fine sarcenet, seemed an overly fussy choice for a country afternoon.
Still, all the finery could not disguise the unfortunate resemblance to a hogshead.
The first impression was only reinforced by a closer study of the scowling face. Layers of rouge and powder could not cover up the hardened squint of the brown eyes or the perpetual frown lines that were etched around the corners of her thinned mouth.
Zara gave an inward sigh. Though she suspected as much from the letter in her pocket, it appeared the lady before her was truly as wooden and unyielding as an iron-banded cask of oak.
"Hmmph." With a moue of distaste, her adversary settled herself into one of the chairs. "Who do you think you are, gel?" she demanded without preamble. "Storming into this house unannounced and uninvited?"
Zara quirked a small smile. "Did the butler not inform you of our identity? We shall have to see that the staff receives better training. In the meantime, allow me to introduce the new Baron Kenworth." She gave a wave of her hand at Nonny who, to his credit, inclined a polite bow. "I am his sister, and Master Perseus is our younger brother. And you are?"
The other lady was so taken aback by the question that she didn't think to demur. "I am Lady Farrington," she said stiffly. "Great aunt to the duke. And I assure you, he will, as a concerned relative, use his considerable power to see that all this nonsense is quickly resolved."
Good Lord, not another dratted duke to trouble their lives!
Pushing such disquieting thoughts aside, Zara went on. "As to our arrival, I was unaware that the baron needed an invitation to enter his own home." After a fraction of a pause, she couldn't resist adding, "Speaking of which, who invited you here?"
The sputtering took several moments to get under control. "Invited me! Why, you... you..." Lady Farrington's face was now purpling with outrage, making Zara wonder whether she should ring for a maid and some vinaigrette. "It is my grandson, and not some ragamuffin come lately to these shores, who has legitimate claim to the title and lands," she cried. "Why, I have a good mind to have you and your scheming siblings tossed out on your ear."
Anger at the implied insult to the union of her parents goaded Zara into losing what remained of her temper. Heedless of the consequences, she replied with equal heat. "Ha! By whom? If you are so certain our claim is fraudulent, your highly-paid lackeys would have flaunted the proof of it long ago."
Her challenge caused the other lady to go a bit pale beneath the paint on her cheeks.
Sensing her advantage, Zara pressed on. "It is my understanding that the late baron's man of affairs will be arriving here shortly to go over the will, and sort through the conflicting claims of succession. Until then, you have no right to toss us from this place." She crossed her arms. "Indeed, I have every confidence that the facts will show my brother to be the rightful heir."
"Indeed?" The word, though softly spoken, was heavy with sarcasm.
Zara watched a young man saunter up Lady Farrington's chair. One manicured hand draped negligently atop the striped brocade as the other began to toy with the cluster of fobs dangling from his watch chain.
Her brow furrowed. It was odd—for all the fuss and attention to detail the fastidious Duke of Prestwick devoted to his wardrobe, he had somehow made his appearance seem a picture of understated elegance. On the other hand, the gentleman lounging in a posture of studied ennui, while no doubt sporting the first crack in London fashion, looked utterly absurd. His collar was cut so high that turning his head more than several inches
Still, all the finery could not disguise the unfortunate resemblance to a hogshead.
The first impression was only reinforced by a closer study of the scowling face. Layers of rouge and powder could not cover up the hardened squint of the brown eyes or the perpetual frown lines that were etched around the corners of her thinned mouth.
Zara gave an inward sigh. Though she suspected as much from the letter in her pocket, it appeared the lady before her was truly as wooden and unyielding as an iron-banded cask of oak.
"Hmmph." With a moue of distaste, her adversary settled herself into one of the chairs. "Who do you think you are, gel?" she demanded without preamble. "Storming into this house unannounced and uninvited?"
Zara quirked a small smile. "Did the butler not inform you of our identity? We shall have to see that the staff receives better training. In the meantime, allow me to introduce the new Baron Kenworth." She gave a wave of her hand at Nonny who, to his credit, inclined a polite bow. "I am his sister, and Master Perseus is our younger brother. And you are?"
The other lady was so taken aback by the question that she didn't think to demur. "I am Lady Farrington," she said stiffly. "Great aunt to the duke. And I assure you, he will, as a concerned relative, use his considerable power to see that all this nonsense is quickly resolved."
Good Lord, not another dratted duke to trouble their lives!
Pushing such disquieting thoughts aside, Zara went on. "As to our arrival, I was unaware that the baron needed an invitation to enter his own home." After a fraction of a pause, she couldn't resist adding, "Speaking of which, who invited you here?"
The sputtering took several moments to get under control. "Invited me! Why, you... you..." Lady Farrington's face was now purpling with outrage, making Zara wonder whether she should ring for a maid and some vinaigrette. "It is my grandson, and not some ragamuffin come lately to these shores, who has legitimate claim to the title and lands," she cried. "Why, I have a good mind to have you and your scheming siblings tossed out on your ear."
Anger at the implied insult to the union of her parents goaded Zara into losing what remained of her temper. Heedless of the consequences, she replied with equal heat. "Ha! By whom? If you are so certain our claim is fraudulent, your highly-paid lackeys would have flaunted the proof of it long ago."
Her challenge caused the other lady to go a bit pale beneath the paint on her cheeks.
Sensing her advantage, Zara pressed on. "It is my understanding that the late baron's man of affairs will be arriving here shortly to go over the will, and sort through the conflicting claims of succession. Until then, you have no right to toss us from this place." She crossed her arms. "Indeed, I have every confidence that the facts will show my brother to be the rightful heir."
"Indeed?" The word, though softly spoken, was heavy with sarcasm.
Zara watched a young man saunter up Lady Farrington's chair. One manicured hand draped negligently atop the striped brocade as the other began to toy with the cluster of fobs dangling from his watch chain.
Her brow furrowed. It was odd—for all the fuss and attention to detail the fastidious Duke of Prestwick devoted to his wardrobe, he had somehow made his appearance seem a picture of understated elegance. On the other hand, the gentleman lounging in a posture of studied ennui, while no doubt sporting the first crack in London fashion, looked utterly absurd. His collar was cut so high that turning his head more than several inches
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