by Adele Clee
What an odd thing to say? Why on earth would Oliver know of Mr Jameson’s appointments? Based on Mr Andrews’ strange ramblings, perhaps he was brewing with an illness, too.
“Miss Flint would like to discuss the matter of her inheritance.” Oliver gestured to the lady at his side who had remained silent throughout the bizarre exchange.
Mr Andrews looked at Miss Flint and frowned. “Excuse me, my lord, but I’m confused.”
Oliver was beginning to doubt the sanity of the man charged with the smooth running of the office.
“I would like to speak to Mr Jameson about claiming my inheritance,” Miss Flint said with the same air of frustration Oliver was currently experiencing. “Am I not named as the beneficiary? Am I not the heir of Morton Manor?”
Mr Andrews pushed his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose. “And who might you be?”
Damnation. What was wrong with the man? He was tempted to sniff the clerk’s breath to see if he was partial to a morning tipple.
“This is Miss Flint!” Oliver could no longer suppress his annoyance. “The lady resides at Morton Manor. The house named in the document found in Mr Jameson’s drawer.”
“But that cannot be. Miss Flint is currently with Mr Jameson, discussing details of her inheritance.”
“Excuse me?” Dark shadows passed before Oliver’s eyes. Nicole’s sudden gasp confirmed he had not misheard.
“Miss Flint arrived twenty minutes ago and is in Mr Jameson’s office.”
“But that is not possible.” Every muscle in Oliver’s body grew tense. “Miss Flint is standing here with me now. I brought her back from the manor myself. I want to see Mr Jameson, and I want to see him now.”
Mr Andrews struggled to catch his breath. “No one may enter his room when he’s with a client.”
“We shall see about that. I am most interested in meeting the lady who claims a connection to my father.” Oliver straightened. “You will announce us to Mr Jameson at once.”
Nicole grasped his arm. “Let us leave. I knew it was a mistake. Your father must be acquainted with another lady by that name.”
Oliver turned to her and tutted. “Do not tell me this is a coincidence.”
“Truthfully, can you see your father leaving a house to a paid companion?”
The answer was no. But then he would never have thought his father capable of locking his daughter away in an old asylum, either.
“Announce us now, Mr Andrews, else I shall take my business elsewhere.”
Mr Andrews turned, took two steps forward and then swung around. “If Mr Wild were here he—”
“The fact is he’s not here.” Oliver took Nicole’s hand, placed it in the crook of his arm and marched past Mr Andrews. Mr Jameson’s room was directly opposite Mr Wild’s office. Oliver rapped on the door.
No one answered despite the deep mumbles inside.
He knocked once more and then seized the door knob and strode in.
Mr Jameson jumped up from his chair behind the large oak desk. “What … what is the—” He stopped abruptly when he realised to whom he was speaking. “My lord.” Jameson inclined his head. “Mr Wild is ill, but if you’d be so kind as to wait outside, I shall be with you presently.”
Oliver’s gaze fell to the lady sitting on the opposite side of the desk, wearing a red velvet spencer and matching bonnet. She had the look of a woman who’d sprinted across a field on a hot summer’s day: flushed cheeks, moist lips and a playful glint in her eye capable of bringing any virile man to heel. His eyes moved passed the ebony ringlets bobbing at her cheeks to the cross dangling from the pearl row around her neck.
Bloody hell!
This woman was wearing a Darby heirloom. His grandmother wore the identical one in a portrait hanging in the gallery at Bridewell.
“I see no need to wait outside.” Oliver turned his attention to the solicitor. “Not when I have an interest in the outcome of your meeting. I have just returned from Morton Manor. A house owned by my late father and bequeathed to Miss Flint.”
“Yes,” Jameson nodded. “Miss Flint has come here to claim her inheritance.” The solicitor gestured to the woman sitting demurely in the chair. “Then I trust you have already met.”
The lady looked up at him. “No, we have not had the pleasure.”
“Then allow me to introduce the Earl of Stanton,” Jameson said.
A slight raise of the brow was the only visible sign of the lady’s surprise. She smiled. “I knew your father well.”
The question was how well.
“And yet he never once mentioned you,” Oliver said, his voice thick with suspicion.
“That is hardly surprising,” the other Miss Flint countered. “Were you not estranged these last two years? Your father mentioned that you spent time in Italy. Thankfully, I was here to nurse him during his final days.”
The staff at Stanton House had made no mention of a mistress, though in all honesty, why would they? It was not a topic discussed in respectable households.
“And how long were you tending to my father’s needs?”
“Long enough,” came her coy reply. “I attended the funeral, though failed to see you there.”
Something about her lofty manner and dark features seemed familiar. Conceit oozed from every pore — a disdain for the world and everyone in it.
“Have we met before?” Even during drunken bouts, he would not be attracted to someone so superficial.
“I think not.”
He had seen her before, but couldn’t think where.
“You see, Mr Jameson, it is all rather perplexing.” Oliver cleared his throat in a bid to remain calm. “You say this woman is to inherit Morton Manor when it is this lady at my side who lives there. Indeed, allow me to present Miss Flint. She was promised the manor in return for the kindness and care shown to my sister.”
Nicole stood rigid, though he was aware of the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
Mr Jameson jerked his head. “Excuse me, my lord, did you say Miss Flint?”
Oliver lowered his head and turned to Nicole. “Speak up else they will think your claim is a ploy for me to contest her right to the property.”
Still holding onto his arm, Nicole straightened. “I am Miss Flint. The previous earl hired me to care for Lady Rose, and I am here to claim my inheritance.”
“There must be some mistake,” the lady said with a snort of contempt. Her suspicious gaze travelled over Nicole. “Why would Robert leave a house to a girl paid to care for his daughter?”
Oliver had to admit that it seemed out of character. His father was not the giving sort. Still, he’d be damned before he’d let the manor fall into the hands of a stranger.
“How convenient that you share the same name,” Oliver countered. “What proof is there that my father intended you to be his benefactor?”
Mr Jameson picked up the letter lying on his desk and offered it to Oliver. “I think this should be all the proof needed, my lord. That is your father’s seal and signature, is it not?”
With an overwhelming sense of trepidation, Oliver scanned the missive. The seal pressed into the red wax did bear two eagles holding a shield. The scrawled name at the bottom looked to be written in his father’s hand. The contents of the letter confirmed Miss Flint as heir.
Damnation.
This did not bode well for Nicole.
“Yes, the letter appears to have been written by my father. Though he makes no distinction which Miss Flint is the intended beneficiary.”
The lady in red gasped. “As I possess the document, it is obvious Robert refers to me. And I have other letters of a more intimate nature I can present.” She ran her fingertips over the pearl necklace. “The heirloom was a gift and speaks volumes, does it not, my lord?”
This lady was shrewd, cunning, a master manipulator. If this was the Miss Flint due to inherit, the opportunity to scupper his father’s plans proved too great. Equally, Nicole cared about Rose and deserved something for her
plight.
“Though my father was often unpredictable, he would never give a family heirloom to his mistress.” Of that, Oliver was certain. Lord, the man had kept a battered oak bookcase riddled with woodworm because it belonged to his grandfather.
The imposter gave a devilish grin. “Yet here I am wearing it around my neck.”
“Good God, that necklace was presented to my great-grandmother on her wedding day. Do you honestly believe my father would disrespect her memory in such a manner?”
Nicole squeezed his arm. “You must remain calm,” she whispered. “This problem cannot be solved by exchanging cross words.”
Having Nicole by his side, hearing her pearls of wisdom, soothed away his frustration. He’d never felt a kinship to a woman before. Though there was nothing brotherly about the way he craved her company. The ladies he’d bedded in the past were concerned with pleasure, with the prospect of receiving lavish gifts. Love was the only thing Nicole cared about, and he was beginning to see the value of such a prize.
He nodded to show his respect for her opinion and then handed the letter back to the solicitor. “And what is your view of the situation, Jameson? Did my father mention his mistress when you drew up the papers?”
“Your father discussed making provisions for the lady, that she would know to come to the office upon his death. That suggests that the Miss Flint seated before me is the lady mentioned in the will.” Mr Jameson shrugged and then sighed. “The document is also proof of intention, my lord. As is the necklace you, yourself, have confirmed once belonged to the estate.”
How could Oliver argue with the solicitor’s logic? He had no grounds to contest the evidence. “And so what do you intend to do?”
“I must grant in favour of Miss Flint.” He blinked rapidly and shook his head. “I speak of the lady able to provide evidence of her claim, not the one at your side.”
“Then I demand you do one thing.”
The lady snorted. “You are not in a position to make demands, my lord. Morton Manor is not entailed. What your father chose to do with the property is of no concern of yours.”
She appeared confident in her declaration, so confident that Oliver suspected this lady was indeed the rightful heir. Guilt flared. He’d dragged Nicole to Town on the understanding that he would help her take ownership of the manor.
The whole thing was a bloody debacle.
Rose was still missing — out in the world somewhere, lost and alone. Miss Flint was currently of no fixed abode, staying with a gentleman eager to ruin what was left of her fragile reputation. And his father was rejoicing from the grave, happy in the knowledge that because his son had refused to listen to him, his life was in a shambles.
“We should leave.” Nicole tugged discreetly on his arm. “There is nothing more we can do here.”
“No.” Oliver was determined to discover more about the woman who had the gall to wear his great-grandmother’s necklace. “I require proof of Miss Flint’s identity. Else I shall have no choice but to contest my father’s will.”
“Proof?” Jameson frowned. “Forgive me, my lord, but legally the document is the only proof needed. My hands are tied. I must abide by my client’s wishes and declare Miss Flint here beneficiary.” He gestured to the devil in the red bonnet.
“Then I must tell you that this is not the end of the matter,” he said as Nicole drew him towards the door. “The lady at my side is the rightful heir, and I shall do everything in my power to prove it is the case.”
Chapter Eleven
“We must visit Mr Wild as a matter of urgency.” Oliver climbed inside the carriage and dropped into the seat opposite.
Nicole had waited in the conveyance for ten minutes while he conducted a lengthy conversation with the clerk, Mr Andrews.
“Why? He has no influence over the claim.” She swallowed down the lump in her throat. “You heard what Mr Jameson said. You saw your father’s signature and seal on the document. There is nothing more we can do.”
A dull ache of disappointment filled her chest. In her heart, she’d always known there had been a mistake. Only a doddery old fool would leave a house to a person he hardly knew. And from what she’d learnt of the previous Earl of Stanton, he was not a man concerned with enriching the lives of his servants.
“Something is amiss here. I can sniff out treachery as a hound does a fox hole.” Oliver threw his hat on the seat, and it bounced onto the floor. “Where the hell have I seen that woman before?”
The lady appeared so comfortable in the role of mistress perhaps they’d had a dalliance. The fact he could not remember said little of his moral character. The fact that jealousy seared through Nicole's heart with its fiery blade was also telling.
“It’s possible you met each other whilst out in society,” she said ignoring the burning ache in her chest. “Although she seemed rather confident in her assertion that she’d never met you.”
Nicole had stood like a dimwit, frozen to the spot, while the earl and the other Miss Flint exchanged barbed words.
What was she supposed to do?
How could she argue for her right to a property when Miss Flint wasn’t even her name? Someone had deceived Oliver Darby. But it wasn’t the lady in the red dress and pearl necklace.
“She’s a money-hungry viper,” he snapped. “Don’t ask me how she got her hands on that document, or how in God’s name she knew to call herself Miss Flint.”
“Then you believe she’s a f-fraud?” Lord, had he heard the tremor in her voice. She was the only fraud, the only imposter.
“Of course.” He brushed the ebony lock back from his brow. “My father despised women who sought illicit liaisons out of wedlock. He might have taken another wife, but he’d never have taken a mistress.”
“Then I doubt he would have had a good word to say about me,” Nicole said to lighten the mood. “He would have been horrified to discover you’d taken your mistress to Stanton House.”
The earl smiled. “But you are not my mistress, Miss Flint, though I shall leave the vacancy open should you ever wish to embrace the role.”
When he spoke in such a husky tone, he made the immoral sound so tempting. “Does a kiss not count as an illicit liaison?”
“I think you’ll find the word is kisses. I’ve had the pleasure of tasting your lips twice.” His velvet tone stirred the hairs at her nape. “But no, you would need to give yourself to me, to surrender completely for it to count.”
“But if I refuse financial reward for favours granted, then I would not be considered a mistress. Would I not simply be an independent woman free to choose who I take to my bed?”
His heated gaze pierced her soul. “What are you saying, Miss Flint? Would you want to deepen our acquaintance if I agree to do so on your terms?”
Nicole wasn’t sure what she was saying. All she knew was that she craved his attention, could think of nothing other than kissing him again.
“I am saying I believe one should give their love freely. That it should not be forced out of a sense of duty or be held to ransom.”
To say the words was enough to ruin her for good. But then her reputation was beyond saving. She was a runaway who worked for a living, who slept across the hall from an unmarried gentleman, was a harlot in every sense of the word. It was the sacrifice she’d made to avoid marrying a weasel like Lord Mosgrove.
The earl sat back and rubbed his chin. “Then I find I’ve had a sudden change of heart. I must hope that you do fall in love with me. Only then do I have any chance of exploring the passion that exists between us.”
So he felt the all-consuming hunger, too.
“Considering the fact I only intend to fall in love once in my life, it would not be prudent for you to hope.”
She enjoyed teasing him, although any conversation about love left her questioning the odd sensations growing inside.
“But how will you know when you’re in love? By your own admission, what you expect to feel is something imagined duri
ng moments of fancy.” He shuffled forward until their knees touched. “What if passion is a stepping stone to love? What if the joining of our bodies is the gateway to something far more profound?”
Heavens, this man could induce the Lord to sin.
He made the illicit sound so wonderful. Something to be treasured not treated with disdain. Nicole wanted to believe they were simply the words of a skilled seducer. But she had experienced how compelling passion could be. When Oliver kissed her, her body ached for something more. The voice of logic failed to capture her attention and was pushed to the corner of her mind like an unwanted toy.
Lust was a dangerous thing indeed.
But what good would it do to pander to these new desires? Now that she had no claim to Morton Manor, she could not go back there. She needed to find work. In a day or two, she’d have no option but to head north, to leave London and the Earl of Stanton far behind. Yet she had grown so accustomed to him. She would miss his witty banter, miss his sinful smirk and lascivious lips.
“Perhaps it would be wise to cease all talk of love and passion and concentrate on the matter of Mr Wild.” She did not trust herself when alone with him in a secluded carriage. One touch of his lips and her mind turned to mush. “Are we to call on the gentleman this morning?”
“Your distraction technique might work in the interim, but you cannot avoid the inevitable.” He was much calmer now than when he’d first climbed into the carriage. A wolfish grin had replaced the ugly scowl. His cold eyes were now a brilliant blue. “For whatever reason, we are being drawn down the same path.”
“But you did not answer my question, my lord.”
He inclined his head in acquiescence. “In light of what we have witnessed today, coupled with the fact that Mr Wild has not taken a day off work in the last twenty years, I cannot help but be suspicious.”
There were many questions left unanswered.
Why would Rose’s father hide her in a house meant for his mistress?
Why leave his mistress a haunted manor and not a property in Town?
“If your father died two weeks ago, and Miss Flint was his mistress, as she claims, then why has she not come forward before?”
