on milk and honey.’
Alan thought that Frank was a little devious himself. He might be living a rackety life around town, but he possessed a good brain beneath his idly cheerful façade. He suspected that it would not be long before his wild life palled, and Frank, Lord Gresham, would place his obligations and duties first, and not second.
Meantime he was a jolly companion, and it was he who had introduced Alan to La Bencolin at the Ailesburys’: a kindness which Alan had already begun to appreciate before Eleanor and her great-aunt arrived.
‘So that’s Ned’s discovery and his improbable look-alike,’ said George Johnstone’s older brother, Sir Richard, who was a great friend of Lady Stanton’s. He was amusedly watching Alan charm the ladies before taking La Bencolin off to supper. She was hanging on to his arm as though she never meant to let go of it.
‘You know that my brother George is working in the City, Father having left him nothing. He’s been entertaining us all with the goings-on at Dilhorne’s ever since young Master Alan arrived there one fine morning.
‘He entered the office like a whirlwind and frightened everyone to death. Told ’em they were all slackers,’ Sir Richard continued cheerfully, ‘which wasn’t surprising considering George’s attitude to life. He got the job by accident, and being George, didn’t even try to do it properly. Young Dilhorne made ’em work all night, not once, but twice—took off his coat and worked with ’em in his shirtsleeves. He made George do the same—now, that I would like to have seen. Then he sent them all home, and worked most of the next day himself—God knows when he slept, because he was on the town with Ned Hatton the same night!
‘When he’d got everything straight again, after making them work like coolies for the rest of the week, they arrived one day to find that at lunchtime he’d arranged a dam’d fine meal for them all, with enough drink to stun several horses, never mind some half-starved City clerks.
‘He told them afterwards he’d put their pay up if they carried on as devotedly as they had been doing. George thinks he’s God, and has begun to work for his money. What’s more, some whippersnapper of a clerk he’d assaulted on the first day got up and made a drunken speech on Mr Alan, thanking heaven for the day he’d arrived—seems he’d grasped that young Master D had saved the London branch from bankruptcy, and all their jobs into the bargain.
‘I want to meet this paragon, Almeria, and soon. Anyone who is the spit image of Ned Hatton and can make George work must be worth seeing. Tonight he’s walked off with La Bencolin after five minutes’ conversation with her! What will he get up to next?’
‘He can tame Ned, too,’ Almeria said quietly. ‘The only question is, how soon will it be before he leaves Ned behind, or Ned begins to resent him?’
She said nothing of her suspicions that Eleanor had fallen in love—and at first sight, too—with Sir Richard’s paragon. It was perhaps fortunate that Eleanor had missed his encounter with La Bencolin, nor did she see him leave with her later, having been cornered by Victor and Caroline Loring.
Sooner or later the gossip would reach her. Later would be better, when the first gloss of Mr Alan Dilhorne’s arrival had worn off—or so Almeria hoped.
The gloss was not wearing off for Alan. His days were full and he had begun to discover that there were opportunities in London which did not exist in Sydney. And they were not all to do with getting into bed with one of society’s most famous beauties.
His brother, Thomas, had commented shortly before he had left home that a buccaneer like Alan would be able to pillage the pillagers, and he was rapidly beginning to see ways of accomplishing this!
One duty, rather than pleasure, saw him making his way to the Waring family lawyers, who had their offices in Lincoln’s Inns Fields. He dressed with some care, not in Ned’s presents, but in the new suit which his tailor had made for him. Gurney had even tamed his unruly sandy hair, so like his father’s. Thus respectable, he was ushered into the rooms of Hallowes, Bunthorne and Thring.
There were three people waiting for him, and two of them were obviously lawyers. One was sitting at a large desk, the other, holding a pile of papers, was perched on a high stool next to an over-full bookcase, and was obviously the junior of the pair.
The third man was tall and silver-haired. He was in his late fifties or early sixties and the expression on his handsome face could best be described as sardonic when he saw Alan come through the door.
All present rose to their feet.
‘Mr Alan Dilhorne, I believe?’ the senior lawyer said. Alan nodded agreement. He continued, ‘May I present myself? I am Mr John Bunthorne, at your service, and this is Lewis Thring, my junior partner.’
Alan bowed and acknowledged them both.
Bunthorne turned and identified the third man in the room. ‘May I have the honour of presenting you to Sir Patrick Ramsey, KB, once of the 73rd Foot, the Royal Highlanders, stationed in Sydney when Lachlan Macquarie was Governor there. He has come to help us in our duties.’
Sir Patrick bowed gracefully to Alan. Alan responded; the lawyer waved him to a chair before his desk.
‘Being a businessman yourself, Mr Dilhorne, you will, of course, understand that we have a duty to protect the Waring estate from possible impostors.’
He paused, and Alan said, ‘Of course,’ and tried not to look at Sir Patrick who appeared vaguely amused by the whole business.
‘Since we discovered your mother’s existence—Sir John having left her everything without ascertaining whether she was alive or dead—we have taken a number of affidavits from persons resident in Sydney at the time of her marriage but who have now returned to England. These appear to be satisfactory on the face of it.
‘I am sure, though, that you will understand that it seemed wise to ask Sir Patrick Ramsey to meet you as further confirmation, since Colonel Wright left for service in India some six months ago. That is correct, is it not, Sir Patrick?’
Sir Patrick flapped a hand in agreement.
‘Now, as I understand it, Mr Dilhorne, you are here on behalf of your father, Thomas Dilhorne Esquire.’
‘No,’ said Alan, throwing both lawyers into a temporary fluster. ‘My father is Tom, not Thomas, and I am not here on his behalf. It is my mother who inherits the estate, and I represent her.’
Sir Patrick gave a short laugh on hearing this.
Bunthorne favoured Alan with a patronising smile.
‘Not so, Mr Dilhorne. But your mistake is quite understandable, since you may be unaware that under English law your mother’s rights are subsumed under your father’s.’
‘It is you who mistake,’ said Alan gently. ‘At home my mother’s possessions have been contractually reverted back to her. She is a free agent, and, as such, is as full a partner in my father’s firm as myself or my brother Tom.’
Sir Patrick’s laugh was not stifled this time. Memory moved in him when he surveyed Tom Dilhorne’s son.
The lawyer was only temporarily embarrassed. He began again.
‘Your mother’s inheritance. So be it. And you are her representative. Very good.’
