covered in the report which I learned of today."
"And what might that be?" Clinton finished his drink and lit a cigar.
"Well, the earl and Lord Thurston are preparing a betrothal contract between Alan Thurston and Lady Courtland. Lord Thurston is dying and has found himself the victim of creditors, due, shall we say, to his son's misspent youth."
"Gambling debts?" Clinton asked, puffing on his cigar.
"That as well as foreclosure on the properties. The dowry Lady Courtland brings will be enough to pay off the markers and reestablish the mortgage."
Clinton rose, walking to the window to stare out at the expanse of lawn, the cigar clamped firmly between his strong teeth. His voice broke the silence. "What is the extent of the debt?"
"One hundred thousand pounds, sir."
Smedly could not help but notice the staggering amount did not even cause Clinton to flinch, only proceed with another inquiry.
"How long is Lord Thurston expected to live?"
"Each day he lives is considered a gift; that is why the contract was drawn so quickly."
Clinton turned from the window. He held Smedly's gaze with his own and proceeded. "What I want you to do, Mr. Doonesbury, is to buy up every marker against Thurston, and I want it done yesterday."
Smedly rose, picking up his briefcase and nodding affirmatively.
As the carriage ambled posthaste down the drive carrying Smedly on another appointed task, Clinton sat deep in thought before the hearth, his long legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles.
He had set the wheels in motion. His brother Brent should receive his missive by tonight and would arrive in France by the end of the week with the requested information. The letter to his solicitors requesting them to set up a meeting with Courtland and Lord Thurston was already posted, as was another letter to his French financier requesting the transfer of Le Petite to his mistress, and twenty thousand pounds to be deposited in her account.
When Clinton Claremont Barencourte set his mind on securing something, he was relentless, almost ruthless toward his end. He was not easily persuaded from not having it, nor did he waver from his pursuit of it. Right now his end was Lady Courtland, and have her he would. He lifted his drink thinking about lovely Monique. He would do right by her and give her the house and enough money to see her through. Even delectable Monique could not assuage the desire he felt for Tiffany Courtland. He had left Monique many a night with desire burning his loins after a robust romp with her that would have left most men exhausted.
No, he wanted Tiffany Courtland! He thought of the results of his forthcoming meeting with Courtland. The earl would have his daughter married; Thurston would be able to die in peace knowing his family estates were free of encumbrances, and in sound financial position even his wayward son could not undo; and Clinton, well--he smiled broadly--he would leave with the voided contract of marriage and the newly drawn one giving him the ultimate rights to Tiffany Courtland.
Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, and let his mind wander back to when he had returned to France and had been playing cards at the club. Percy Winchester, who was at his table, had remarked to no one in particular, "Have you chaps heard of the Lady Courtland, newest item in the tabloids? Made her debut and is a smash."
Marcel Rousseau, a cohort, laid down his cards, winning the hand, and added, "My brother Pierre speaks of nothing but her." As he pulled in the pile of chips on the table, he continued, "He hasn't been the same; suddenly he wants nothing more than to settle down."
Percy smiled smugly. "Unusual, you know; you French-ies prefer the petite blond types. Heard the lady is tall and dark-haired."
Rodrique Chevalier, dealing the cards, added, "Ah, but we French love women, we are the lovers of the world, no? While you English are more inclined to pale, insipid women of English stock.''
"Hah! Heard your
"And what might that be?" Clinton finished his drink and lit a cigar.
"Well, the earl and Lord Thurston are preparing a betrothal contract between Alan Thurston and Lady Courtland. Lord Thurston is dying and has found himself the victim of creditors, due, shall we say, to his son's misspent youth."
"Gambling debts?" Clinton asked, puffing on his cigar.
"That as well as foreclosure on the properties. The dowry Lady Courtland brings will be enough to pay off the markers and reestablish the mortgage."
Clinton rose, walking to the window to stare out at the expanse of lawn, the cigar clamped firmly between his strong teeth. His voice broke the silence. "What is the extent of the debt?"
"One hundred thousand pounds, sir."
Smedly could not help but notice the staggering amount did not even cause Clinton to flinch, only proceed with another inquiry.
"How long is Lord Thurston expected to live?"
"Each day he lives is considered a gift; that is why the contract was drawn so quickly."
Clinton turned from the window. He held Smedly's gaze with his own and proceeded. "What I want you to do, Mr. Doonesbury, is to buy up every marker against Thurston, and I want it done yesterday."
Smedly rose, picking up his briefcase and nodding affirmatively.
As the carriage ambled posthaste down the drive carrying Smedly on another appointed task, Clinton sat deep in thought before the hearth, his long legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles.
He had set the wheels in motion. His brother Brent should receive his missive by tonight and would arrive in France by the end of the week with the requested information. The letter to his solicitors requesting them to set up a meeting with Courtland and Lord Thurston was already posted, as was another letter to his French financier requesting the transfer of Le Petite to his mistress, and twenty thousand pounds to be deposited in her account.
When Clinton Claremont Barencourte set his mind on securing something, he was relentless, almost ruthless toward his end. He was not easily persuaded from not having it, nor did he waver from his pursuit of it. Right now his end was Lady Courtland, and have her he would. He lifted his drink thinking about lovely Monique. He would do right by her and give her the house and enough money to see her through. Even delectable Monique could not assuage the desire he felt for Tiffany Courtland. He had left Monique many a night with desire burning his loins after a robust romp with her that would have left most men exhausted.
No, he wanted Tiffany Courtland! He thought of the results of his forthcoming meeting with Courtland. The earl would have his daughter married; Thurston would be able to die in peace knowing his family estates were free of encumbrances, and in sound financial position even his wayward son could not undo; and Clinton, well--he smiled broadly--he would leave with the voided contract of marriage and the newly drawn one giving him the ultimate rights to Tiffany Courtland.
Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, and let his mind wander back to when he had returned to France and had been playing cards at the club. Percy Winchester, who was at his table, had remarked to no one in particular, "Have you chaps heard of the Lady Courtland, newest item in the tabloids? Made her debut and is a smash."
Marcel Rousseau, a cohort, laid down his cards, winning the hand, and added, "My brother Pierre speaks of nothing but her." As he pulled in the pile of chips on the table, he continued, "He hasn't been the same; suddenly he wants nothing more than to settle down."
Percy smiled smugly. "Unusual, you know; you French-ies prefer the petite blond types. Heard the lady is tall and dark-haired."
Rodrique Chevalier, dealing the cards, added, "Ah, but we French love women, we are the lovers of the world, no? While you English are more inclined to pale, insipid women of English stock.''
"Hah! Heard your
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