‘Can this be broken?’ Quinn Ashley’s voice was utterly devoid of any amusement now. ‘I have no intention of retaining this house and estate any longer than it takes me to pack up the books and papers and place it on the market.’
‘No, my lord, it cannot be broken,’ the lawyer said with the firmness of a man who had confronted many an angry heir in the course of his career. ‘The late Lord Dreycott consulted me most carefully to ensure that was the case, as he anticipated your objections. I should further point out that, as the lady has the option to remain here for six months, you will be unable to place this estate on the market until she chooses to leave, whatever your wishes to the contrary.
‘Now, if I might ask for the use of a room to interview each of the beneficiaries, I can settle most of the practical issues during the course of the day, my lord.’
‘Use the study,’ Ashley said. ‘I will discuss this further with you there now, if you would be so good.’ Despite the distance between them Lina could see that he had his face completely under control, but he could not keep the anger out of his eyes. He met her scrutiny and she felt as though she had just turned the key to imprison a tiger in a cage. The horizontal bars of the chair-back dug into her spine as she pressed herself against them in instinctive retreat.
Then self-preservation took over from her worries about what Lord Dreyco
tt might think of her now. She had to face the lawyer and he would want her name. Her heart pounding, Lina got up, ducked through the service door at the back of the dining room and hurried to the stairs.
‘What the hell was the old devil thinking of?’ Quinn demanded as the study door closed behind them.
‘Ensuring that his memoirs are published, my lord,’ Mr Havers said. ‘I believe your great-uncle felt they might be overlooked for some years if you were at liberty to fit them in with your doubtless demanding programme of travels and your own writing.’ He shuffled the papers into various piles on the long table against the wall, obviously indifferent to the fact that his news had set Quinn’s plans for half the year on their head.
‘And what is this nonsense with the girl? Is she the reason the estate cannot be sold for six months?’ Quinn asked. ‘Is she his natural daughter? She has no look of him.’
‘I think it unlikely. I believe this is a quite genuine gesture in memory of his past attachment to her aunt. What is the young lady’s name? Lord Dreycott was curiously reluctant to give it to me.’
‘Haddon.’
Havers made a note. ‘I am sorry, my lord. But I am afraid you are encumbered with this estate, and Miss Haddon, for the term of six months at a minimum, or you forfeit the library.’
Quinn placed his hands flat on the desk and leaned on them, staring down at the worn red morocco leather surface. He had intended selling up the estate, moving everything he wanted to retain to his town house and settling down to establish himself in London. There was pleasurable anticipation in combining a sensible business move with the prospect of a long-awaited revenge on polite society.
He had perfectly respectable reasons to transfer his centre of operations from Constantinople to London—respectable motives to do with trade and scholarship. Now he would have to divide his attention between this easterly parish on the shore, his uncle’s memoirs and his real focus in London.
It was infuriating, but he knew when to yield to superior force. Great-Uncle Simon’s tactics were, as always, masterly. There was no benefit exhausting himself and his temper in an attempt to get around the will; he was stuck with Dreycott Park until the autumn. And he was stuck with the responsibility for a nervous, flirtatious and puzzling young woman as well. He supposed he could just leave her here to keep the place in order for six months.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Quinn said once he had his frustration under control. An outburst of temper would do no good. ‘Feel free to use the desk, Havers. Who do you want first?’
‘Miss Haddon, I think. Thank you, my lord.’
Celina was sitting on one of the hard chairs in the empty hall, her hands in her lap, her back straight. The apron had gone and she had enveloped her blonde hair in a thick black snood. She looked even more like an occupant of a nunnery than before.
She stood up when she saw him, her expression wary. As well it might be, he thought. What am I going to do with you? The option of simply leaving her here to run the house lost savour. His body stirred; it knew exactly what it wanted to do.
‘Havers will see you first, Celina.’
‘I am very sorry, my lord,’ she said as though he had not spoken.
‘For what?’ He was in no mood to be conciliatory.
‘For the fact that you cannot carry out your intentions, for the burden of my presence and for the diminution of your inheritance by the legacy to me.’
That sounded like a prepared speech. ‘The money is in no way an issue, Celina. It was my uncle’s to do with as he pleased and your presence in the household is no burden. If I appear less than pleased with my uncle’s dispositions, it is because of the disruption to my plans.’ And the unaccustomed experience of having my own will thwarted, if truth be told, he added mentally.
It was salutary, after years of doing what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted, to find himself constrained in this way just when he had resolved on a course of action. It was almost as though the old devil had second-guessed him and set out to throw a barrier in his path. Old Simon had been too cynical, and too unconventional, to worry about his own reputation and he would not have wanted Quinn thinking to avenge the slight on his good name.
‘Thank you. It is generous of you to reassure me,’ she said, her voice colourless. ‘It will be uncomfortable for you here, if your neighbours will not call.’ She was flushed now, her eyes, as usual, cast down. ‘Trimble told me about the scandal. It is very shocking that a young man could be treated in such a way.’
‘You believe me the innocent party, then?’ Quinn found himself irritated that her answer mattered.
‘Of course.’ She sounded almost sure, he thought grimly. Not certain, though. How very wise of her. ‘Trimble would not lie about something like that.’ But she thinks I might? ‘It was very honourable of you not to reveal the true parentage of her child.’
He shrugged. It had been romantic wrong-headedness and a wounded heart more than any loftier motive, he suspected, looking back now at his young self. ‘That must have been a source of pride to you,’ she added, laying one hand on his sleeve as though trying to offer comfort
‘I was a romantic young idiot,’ Quinn said. The shuttered gaze lifted a fraction and he knew she was watching him sidelong from beneath her lids. ‘That did not last long. Do not delude yourself that I am some sort of saint, Celina. The high-flown moral stance persisted just as long as it took me to discover the delights of the flesh well away from English double standards.’