Carola Dunn (5 page)

Two hundred a year, Nerissa prayed, fingers crossed. One hundred a year. Just enough to get her back to York without starving to death on the way. Mr Courtenay or the Foundling Hospital could have the rest with her good will.

“‘The remainder of my worldly goods and chattels, including the manor and demesne of Addlescombe and all monies whatsoever not hitherto accounted for, is to be divided equally between the only two persons with a claim to my benevolence who have never attempted--in the vulgar phrase--to sponge off me, namely, my godson, Miles Courtenay, and my granddaughter, Nerissa Wingate, upon....’“

He was cut off by cries of outrage. Nerissa sat stunned until Mr Courtenay’s hand closed over hers.

“Don’t rejoice too soon, Miss Wingate,” he said with an odd little smile. “I don’t believe we are yet safe home.”

“Upon!” bellowed Mr Harwood in an unexpectedly loud voice. As the babble ceased, he went on in his normal, rather diffident tones. “‘Upon the following conditions.’“ He took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself.

With a coldness in her middle, Nerissa wondered whether her grandfather was going to demand from the grave that she sever all connection with her parents. Sir Barnabas had obviously not forgiven his daughter for marrying against his wishes, or he’d have left his wealth directly to her.

Such a condition would be impossible to fulfil. Better the struggle to make ends meet with Mama and Papa than to live in luxury without them. But oh, to be so near and yet so far!

“Miss Wingate, Mr Courtenay,” the lawyer appealed to them, “pray understand that I am not about to relate my own sentiments but to read Sir Barnabas’s words as dictated to me.”

“I understand,” said Mr Courtenay sardonically, “and I shall not hold you to blame for my godfather’s fulminations, sir, I promise you.”

Biting her lip, Nerissa nodded.

“‘I’--that is, Sir Barnabas--” The lawyer looked despairingly at the inkstand on the desk, as though it might relieve him of his unpleasant task. It failed to respond. “‘I am giving Miles and Nerissa their chance although I am convinced it is impossible that they shall succeed in observing my terms.’“

Sir Neville perked up.

“‘Miles Courtenay, having squandered his patrimony in wild living, has continued to bring disgrace upon his name by using the proceeds of his incessant gambling to indulge in the vilest debauchery, in the pursuit of actresses and other promiscuous women.’“

“Mostly actresses,” murmured Mr Courtenay, unrepentant, “and not merely pursuit, but capture.”

Shocked, Nerissa reinspected him. She would never have guessed he was one of those obnoxious gentlemen like Sir George Clemence who hung about greenrooms looking for females to pester with their attentions. She had quite liked him, but perhaps his motives in taking her up in his curricle had not been as altruistic as she supposed. He had fed her, true, but then Sir George’s attempt at seduction had involved endless boxes of bonbons and invitations to dine with him.

“Your turn,” Mr Courtenay said dryly, motioning towards the lawyer.

“‘As for my granddaughter,’“ Mr Harwood was saying, “‘I judge Nerissa less at fault than my godson in that she did not choose to be bred up in the licentious atmosphere of the theatre. Yet as the twig is bent, so grows the tree. Loath though I am to apply it to my own progeny, I cannot deny that the word actress is synonymous with strumpet.’“

“B-but...” Nerissa stammered as every head swung round to stare at her.

With her usual helpless feeling before the onslaught of a myriad eyes, she turned in entreaty to Mr Courtenay to defend her. The interested gleam in his eyes incensed her, but before she could react Mr Harwood hurried on.

“‘However, I offer Miles and Nerissa an opportunity to reform. They shall receive the above inheritance provided that, for the period of six months from the date of the reading of this, my Testament, primo, Miles shall enter into no wager for money or other valuable consideration; secundo, Nerissa shall so amend her dress and behaviour, eschewing theatrical vulgarity, as to prove herself an acceptable acquaintance to the gentry of this neighbourhood; tertio, they shall both reside at Addlescombe Manor and live chaste, fornicating neither with each other nor any other.’“

Nerissa hid her burning face in her hands.

“To the devil with the old bastard,” roared Mr Courtenay, jumping to his feet. “Alive he failed to rule me, I’ll not let him succeed dead.”

Giving him a commiserating glance, the lawyer ploughed on. “‘If either fail to observe these conditions, the other shall receive both shares. If both fail, all monies and property hereinbefore mentioned shall be disposed of according to the further provisions of this Will, which are not to be divulged at this time.’“

Miss Sophronia waved a vinaigrette under the moaning Lady Philpott’s nose, while the rest converged on Mr Harwood in a clamour of complaints.

“All these years of taking care of him,” Mrs Chidwell berated him, her mighty bosom heaving with fury, “and you let him insult me in favour of a pair of debauched strangers.”

“I’ll contest the deuced thing,” Sir Neville spluttered. “Clearly my brother was not of sound mind.”

Feeling a hand on her shoulder, Nerissa looked up.

“Now you know why I ceased to visit my godfather long since,” said Mr Courtenay with a mirthless grin. “Being lectured on my sins is one thing; being denounced in public is another.”

“Shall you really give up a fortune rather than submit to his rules?”

He subsided onto his chair, his grin becoming rueful. “The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks,” he misquoted. “The truth is, I cannot afford to stand upon principle. The old devil has caught me at a low ebb.”

“Then you mean to stay?” She was not sure whether to be glad or sorry. To be living in the same house with a libertine was not a comfortable prospect. On the other hand, given his helpfulness so far, she had little fear that he’d try to prevent her inheriting her half, and, more than content with half, she did not regard him as a hateful rival. In fact, she could not help liking him. With the rest of the household furiously resentful, he’d be an ally.

Always supposing Mama and Papa agreed to let her remain at Addlescombe--but she had little doubt of that. Though content herself, Mama had always regretted her daughter’s exile from the life of the gentry.

“Yes, I’ll stay.” Sighing, Mr Courtenay ran his hand through already disheveled hair. “I’m holding a devilish hand though. Sir Barnabas was right in that it’s true I’ve a singular weakness for actresses. Let me congratulate you, by the way. I’d like to see you on stage. I’ll be damned if you don’t play the demure damsel to perfection.”

“I’m not an actress!” Nerissa declared irately. “I haven’t the least jot or tittle of Thespian talent.”

“You’re not?” he exclaimed, startled. “Then what maggot got into the old man’s head?”

“You see, my father has always been an actor. He was with a London company which came to play in Porchester one summer, and Mama met him and they fell in love. Sir Barnabas refused to countenance a marriage so Mama ran away with Papa.”

“She went on the stage?”

“Yes, but she and Papa remain devoted to each other and live perfectly respectably. It is possible, you know!”

“Don’t comb my hair,” he said with a sardonic look. “Unlike your grandfather, I’m willing to believe it.”

“My grandfather was not altogether wrong,” she reluctantly acknowledged. “Mama did not want to bring me up in the environment of the London theatre. Although they were both doing very well in Town, we moved away when I was a little girl.”

“Provincial actresses have much the same reputation as their Town kin,” said Mr Courtenay dryly. “I take it your parents continue to tread the boards?”

“At the York Playhouse now.”

“But you didn’t follow them into the profession.”

“No. I feel like Hero.”

“A hero? Oh,
Much Ado About Nothing
. The innocent accused of lechery. I trust you don’t mean to swoon away like one dead?”

“I’m far too angry.”

“A cross between Beatrice and Hero, then. You see, my knowledge of the theatre extends beyond its female denizens. But if your only association is through your parents, how very unfair of Sir Barnabas to tar you with the same brush.”

She flushed. “Well...”

“Don’t tell me you sing and dance? No wonder your grandfather...”

“No! As a matter of fact, I’m the Playhouse’s wardrobe mistress,” she said defiantly.

“A seamstress!” Mr Courtenay burst out laughing.

“And I loathe, abhor, and detest needlework. Whatever your plans,” said Nerissa with dignified determination, “I intend to earn my share of Grandfather’s fortune and never set another stitch in my life. So you will just have to forget your horrid designs upon my person!”

A sudden grinding noise like fingernails on a writing slate raised the hairs on her arms. Mr Courtenay winced too, so it wasn’t his doing, and no one else was near enough. Neither of them could possibly have guessed that it was Sir Barnabas gnashing his teeth.

The impertinent hussy meant to prove him wrong, did she? Wardrobe mistress, actress, dancer, or opera singer, it was all one to him. She belonged to the dissolute world of the theatre. He had made known his conviction that she was incapable of observing the terms of his Will, and no shameless lightskirt was going to give him the lie.

If her resistance to Miles’s seductive wiles turned out to be stronger than expected, then the late baronet would be forced to lend his rakish godson a ghostly hand.

Chapter 4

“Please, ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr Harwood in a harassed voice, “if you will excuse me I must explain to Miss Wingate and Mr Courtenay the practical details of their residence at Addlescombe.”

“Courtenay said he’s not staying,” Aubrey Philpott pointed out querulously, smoothing with a manicured hand the tresses disordered in his agitation.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Miles announced. If he hadn’t already decided to stay, the thought of that counter-coxcomb inheriting and letting the rich fields of Addlescombe go to rack and ruin would have persuaded him.

How difficult could it be to live for six months without women or the cards? He knew men who were addicted to gambling, who would wager large sums on raindrops trickling down a window-pane, or the colour of the next carriage to turn a certain corner. Others, outwardly less reckless, drank while they played until their skill and judgement were destroyed. Miles himself gambled to win. Carefully calculating odds, he avoided brandy and never imbibed more than his bottle of claret during a night at the tables.

Lady Luck was notoriously fickle, yet for several years he had kept himself in reasonable comfort on the proceeds of the cards.

However, if caution prevented ruinous losses, it equally made the winning of a fortune unlikely. Sir Barnabas had offered him that chance, and all he risked was six months of virtuous tedium. In London he might have doubted his ability to resist temptation. At Addlescombe there were no actresses to lure him from the path of righteousness.

He was perfectly prepared to believe Miss Wingate’s claim that she was no actress. Her beautifully articulated speech was the only hint that she might have been on the stage, and in his vast experience most Thespians dropped into the sloppiest way of talking off stage. Recalling the screeches, whines, and foul language of Charmaine and Dorabel, he grinned.

If Sir Barnabas had expected Miss Wingate to cause his fall, he had missed his mark. Not only had she turned out to be a respectable young woman, she was not at all the sort of flamboyant female who attracted Miles.

Which was not to say that he hadn’t taken a liking to her. She had more spirit than he would have expected beneath that meek, drab exterior.

He bowed ironically as Sir Neville passed on the way to the door, supporting his wife. The new baronet’s scowl reminded Miles that it wasn’t only his godfather’s sermons that had driven him away from Addlescombe. The jealous dislike of the rest of the family had not made his visits any pleasanter.

Miss Sophie was another matter. She gave him a timid smile and stepped towards Miss Wingate, her hand held out. Euphemia grabbed her arm.

“Come, Sophie, we must discuss what is to be done about this shocking situation.” She stalked out with her sister in tow.

Mr Harwood had moved two of the straight, shield-back chairs closer to the desk and now he invited Miles and Miss Wingate to take them.

“A moment, sir,” said Miles. “Could this conference possibly be postponed? I have had no breakfast, and Miss Wingate neither breakfast nor, I suspect, dinner last night.”

“Not to mention no sleep,” she added with a grateful glance. “I fear, sir, I shall not understand the half of what you tell me.”

“My dear Miss Wingate, how sadly remiss of me! We lawyers become so involved in our own concerns, we tend to forget the human needs of others.”

“It’s not your fault,” she assured him. “We only arrived just in time for the reading of the Will and it didn’t seem possible to ask that it be delayed while we ate.”

“No, indeed.” Mr Harwood sighed. “I regret to say I am compelled to follow the late baronet’s stated wishes in every respect. However,” he said, brightening, “if you have no objection to a tray in here, nothing forbids your eating while I describe your situation to you in general terms. The details may wait until you have rested. Pray ring the bell, Mr Courtenay.”

Miles obliged.

“Will not Lady Philpott dislike our eating in the library?” Miss Wingate asked anxiously.

“Lady Philpott, ma’am? Her ladyship has no authority in the matter. Addlescombe belongs to you and Mr Courtenay unless you prove yourselves unworthy--in Sir Barnabas’s view. For the next six months, the house and estate are yours to order as you will, though within certain strict limits, naturally.”

“Limits?” Miles asked. “How strict? If our only freedom is to choose whether to eat in the library...”

Snodgrass came in. “You rang, sir?” he said to Mr Harwood.

“Mr Courtenay rang. He and Miss Wingate are now your employers.”