Free Whitney, My Love by Judith McNaught Page B

stretched his
long legs out in the duke's luxurious coach.
    For nearly a century, Matthew's forebears had been
entrusted with the private legal affairs of the Westmoreland family, but
since Clayton Westmoreland's principal residences were in England, it was
Matthew's father in the London office of the firm who was personally
acquainted with the duke. Until now, Matthew's only contact with the current
Duke of Claymore had been in writing, and Matthew was especially anxious to
make a good impression today.
    The coach had been climbing steadily, winding gently
around green sloping hills splashed with wildflowers, when the French
country house of the duke finally came into view. Matthew gazed at it in
wonder. Situated atop the verdant hills, the sweeping two-story
stone-and-glass structure was surrounded by terraces overlooking the
panorama that stretched below in every direction.
    At the front of the house, the coach drew to a stop, and
Matthew picked up his case and walked slowly up the terraced stone steps. He
presented his card to the liveried butler and was shown into a spacious
library lined with books which were recessed into shallow alcoves in the
walls.
    Alone for the moment, Matthew looked with awe at the
priceless artifacts reposing on gleaming rosewood tables. A magnificent
Rembrandt hung above the marble fireplace, and part of one wall was covered
with a glorious collection of Rembrandt's etchings. One long wall was
entirely constructed of huge panes of glass with French doors opening out
onto a broad stone terrace that afforded a breathtaking view of the
surrounding countryside.
    At the opposite end of the room, angled toward the
windows, was a massive oak desk, intricately carved around the edges with
leaves and vines. Mentally, Matthew placed the desk as late sixteenth
century and, judging from the splendid craftsmanship, it had probably graced
a royal palace. Walking across the thick Persian carpet, Matthew sat down in
one of the high-backed leather chairs facing the desk, and placed the
deerskin case on the floor beside him.
    The library doors opened, and Matthew came swiftly to
his feet, stealing a quick, appraising look at the dark-haired man upon whom
his future depended. Clayton Westmoreland was in his early thirties,
uncommonly tall, and decidedly handsome. There was a vigorous purposefulness
in his long, quick strides that bespoke an active, athletic life, rather
than the indolence and overindulgence that Matthew normally ascribed to
wealthy gentlemen of the peerage. An aura of carefully restrained power, of
forcefulness, emanated from him.
    A pair of penetrating gray eyes leveled on him, and
Matthew swallowed a little nervously as the duke came around behind the desk
and took his seat. The duke nodded at the chair across the desk, inviting
Matthew to be seated, and said with calm authority, "Shall we begin, Mr.
Bennett?"
    "Certainly," Matthew said. He cleared his throat. "As
you instructed, your grace, we have made inquiries into the young woman's
family and background. Miss Stone is the daughter of Susan Stone-who died
when Miss Stone was five years old-and Martin Albert Stone, who is still
living. She was born on June thirtieth, eighteen hundred, at the family home
near the village of Morsham, approximately seven hours from London.
    "The Stone estate is small but productive, and Martin
Stone has lived in the usual style of the landed gentry. However, about four
years ago, his financial situation altered drastically. If you recall, that
was when part of England was deluged with weeks of rainfall. Estates such as
Stone's which did not have adequate drainage facilities suffered badly, and
Stone apparently suffered more than most because there was no alternate
means of supporting the estate, such as livestock.
    "Our reports indicate that Stone then made some
extremely large and unwise investments in a variety of risky ventures and,
when those failed, he