midbreath, she froze. She never allowed herself to notice men. One glance and the lascivious greed in their eyes sent her diving for the cover of cold disdain. She tried not to see them at all. Her interest stemmed from curiosity, nothing else. She focused her gaze on the lawyer.
Mr Tripp began to read. ‘Being of sound mind…’
Beyond the window, fleecy clouds scudded across a robin’s-egg-blue sky, their shadows gambolling like lambs across the familiar green, rolling hills. She would miss walking those headlands between here and Folkestone.
Tripp droned on and she forced herself to listen. Monsieur Jean left small sums of money to his butler and the housekeeper. He left a guinea to each of the other servants. How like the gentle man to remember them. His prized books, already boxed and waiting for transportation, went to an old friend too ill to travel to the funeral.
‘To my sister, Imogene, I leave the ormolu clock which belonged to our mother,’ Tripp intoned.
The clock Mrs Molesby and monsieur had fought over for years. How he had chuckled over that tale. She repressed a smile.
‘Cliff House will be sold to pay my debts,’ Mr Tripp read.
Monsieur Jean had promised her something for her future. She needed very little. Sylvia held her breath.
Pausing, Mr Tripp looked over his pince-nez at the assembled company. He cleared his throat. ‘I leave my ward, Miss Sylvia Boisette, in the charge of my nephew, Mr Christopher Evernden.’
Sylvia gasped at the same moment Christopher Evernden smothered a startled oath with a cough.
The lines etched in Tripp’s face deepened. ‘He will receive whatever funds remain from the sale of Cliff House for her future care. The balance, when she marries, is to be used for her dowry.’
The room rocked around Sylvia as if Cliff House had toppled from its chalky perch and now floated on the wave-tossed English Channel. Sylvia closed her eyes against a surge of nausea, holding her body rigid until her head ceased to spin. She would not let them see her distress.
What had Monsieur Jean done? The dagger of realisation stabbed through her whirling thoughts. By trying to protect her from beyond the grave, he had ruined her plans.
‘Disgusting,’ Imogene Molesby exploded. ‘How dare he foist his ladybird on to a respectable member of this family? It’s disgraceful. There ought to be a law against it.’
Heat scorched her face at the damning tone. She clamped her mouth shut against the desire to cry out against the woman’s injustice. Not for her own sake, but for sullying her beloved Monsieur Jean’s memory.
At the back of the room, the servants moved restlessly and low mutters broke out. She turned and shook her head to stem their loyal defence. She wanted no public outcry marring this day.
Mr Tripp mopped his brow with a large white handkerchief. ‘That concludes the reading of the last will and testament of Mr John Christopher Evernden. A cold collation is offered to the family and mourners in the blue drawing room.’
The ormolu clock on the mantel ticked into the silence.
Hopelessly kind and a dreamer to his dying day, Monsieur Jean had buried her dream of starting a new, respectable life.
The chair arms solid beneath her shaking hands, Sylvia pushed to her feet.
Mr Evernden, shock and horror reflected in his hazel eyes, rose with her and executed a stiff bow. He wanted this as little as she. What English gentleman wouldn’t be horrified at such a dreadful imposition? To be required to care for a woman of ill repute went beyond the pale of family duty.
Tears scalded the backs of her eyes and her mind unravelled at the speed of a spool of wool batted by a cat. She hadn’t felt this lost since, at the age of eleven, she learned she would never see her mother again.
The tattered remnants of her composure her only shield against their censorious faces, she sketched a curtsy to Mr Evernden and the irate Molesbys. She nodded to Mr Tripp and, head held high, strode for the drawing room. The servants parted to allow her through the doorway. She acknowledged their murmured words of support as she passed.
She would not allow this to happen. There must be some way to be rid of this grim young Englishman.
Christopher, appalled and astonished, stalked towards the lawyer. He needed this error corrected immediately.
A hand clutched at his arm. ‘I say, Evernden, we didn’t expect to see you here today.’
Damn. The presence of the Molesbys added another layer of complication to the situation. He reined in his impatience. ‘Mother insisted one of us had to attend. Unfortunately, Garth had another engagement.’
His chubby face shining and his gaze greedy with anticipation, Uncle George slid him a grin. ‘That really is doing it rather too brown, don’t you know. Leaving you saddled with his…’ He coughed delicately into his hand and glanced at the affronted expression on his wife’s horsy face. ‘Well, I mean to say, his ward.’ He winked. ‘I hear she’s ravishing.’
Christopher’s heart sank. Garth’s exploits, along with those of his infamous uncle John, were bad enough. When this news hit the clubs, Christopher’s name would also be dragged through the Evernden mire. No doubt Uncle George would dine out on the story for weeks.
‘Don’t beat about the bush, George,’ Aunt Imogene said with her habitual snort. ‘We all know what sort of female she is.’
Knowing Aunt Imogene and her tendency to take the bit between her teeth, Christopher held his tongue. George stared at his boots, a penitent in purgatory.
In a travesty of a grimace, Imogene bared her protruding yellow teeth. ‘And that is why your father banished him from the family. A young fool, he turned into an old fool. Can you imagine? He left all his money to her. All I got was the ormolu clock.’ Her indignant voice rattled the ill-fitting windows.
Christopher kept his expression bland and his growing ire under firm control. No one could require him to inherit his uncle’s mistress.
‘Excuse me, Aunt Imogene, Uncle George. I need to speak to Tripp.’ He bowed to the old couple and followed the lawyer into the drawing room.
While its cream walls and furnishings gave no indication of its designation as blue, at least this room looked more like a gentleman’s home than the drab library.
At the window, stiff and forbidding in her deep mourning, Mademoiselle Boisette stared out across the English Channel. Outlined against the light, her high-collared black gown revealed shapely curves and a narrow waist. A deliberate ploy to display her charms to advantage, no doubt.
He wasn’t interested.
Tripp hovered beside the sturdy Queen Anne sideboard piled high with pastries and platters of sliced roast beef, fruits and cheeses. Red tulips and sunny daffodils in a crystal centrepiece splashed colour into the muted room.
A glass of red wine in one hand and a fat meat pasty in the other, Tripp had the expression of a well-fed bloodhound. Apparently, reading wills sharpened the appetite.
‘Help yourself,’ Tripp
