An Unusual Bequest by Mary Nichols Page B

discovered Cecil had nothing. But that did not explain why he had come to the drawing room to talk to her, nor why he had pretended to be flirting with her. That was the outside of enough! She leaned against the door jamb for support, touching her cheek where he had kissed her. It felt hot. She should have slapped his face, given him a set-down; instead, she had meekly stood and allowed it. He must think her very weak, frightened of him perhaps. But whatever she felt for him, it was not fear, not in the way she feared Cecil and the others.

    Slowly she made her way back to the front of the house and rang for a maid to clear away the tea things. No one else would come for it now. Then she went slowly up the stairs to her room, passing the dining room on her way. The laughter had stopped and the serious business of the card table had begun.

     

    She was in the dining room the following morning, throwing open the windows to let fresh air into the stuffy, smelly room when Cecil came in. He was dressed in a quilted burgundy dressing gown and a white night-cap. He wore slippers with curled toes, but no hose. ‘Ah, Charlotte, up betimes, I see,’ he said, with a pretence at joviality.

    ‘It is half past ten, my lord.’

    ‘Is it, by gad? Still, never mind. Need to speak to you.’

    ‘Oh?’ She waited.

    ‘Yes. Thing is, I’m a little pinched in the pocket. Had a bad run last night, couldn’t shake it off. Need to pay some of it off. Matter of honour, don’t you know.’

    ‘And?’ She knew what was coming, but she wanted to hear him ask.

    ‘And I need a bit of ready blunt, just a little to satisfy them. You can help me, can’t you?’

    ‘With money?’

    ‘Yes, just a few guineas, to show good faith.’

    ‘And where do you suppose I can find a few guineas, my lord? Does it grow on trees? Or perhaps in the ground along with the turnips?’

    ‘It is not a matter for jest.’

    ‘Indeed it is not. But you are out of luck, Cecil. I have none. Do you think I should still be here if I had?’

    ‘I don’t believe you. My father was devoted to you, so I am told. He must have left you something. Why else was there so little in the pot? You sucked it from him.’

    ‘I most certainly did not!’ She was angry now. ‘Lord Hobart was never so wealthy that the allowance he sent to you was not a drain on his resources, especially in his latter years when he could not manage the estate. You may recall I told you so and that you needed to bring the land back into good heart.’

    ‘You dare to lecture me?’ He stepped towards her, so close she could smell his tainted breath and see the anger in his eyes, anger mixed with fear. Viscount Darton had been right: a frightened man was a dangerous one. But she would not retreat before him. ‘You are a lying vixen,’ he said, his face muscles working, making the scar stand out, a long pink weal. ‘You have salted it away and I will have it.’

    ‘I cannot give you what I do not have. You know the terms of your father’s will. Everything but the house and estate in trust for the grandchildren. I have nothing.’

    ‘Your girls are his grandchildren.’

    ‘Yes, but I cannot touch what is theirs—’ She stopped, wondering how true that was. If she could not make use of it, even for her daughters’ sake, then she was truly in a coil. On the other hand, she certainly did not want to put the idea in his head that her daughters’ inheritance could be realised.

    ‘Hmm.’ He seemed to consider this and then smiled. ‘No doubt my father gave you presents before he stuck his spoon in the wall. Jewellery, if not cash…’

    She was about to deny it—what little jewellery she owned had not been given to her by the late Lord Hobart—but stopped when she heard the door open and the Viscount strolled into the room. Unlike his host, he was properly dressed in coffee-coloured pantaloons and a brown stuff coat. His cravat was neatly but not extravagantly tied, his short