Free Whisper of Scandal by Nicola Cornick Page B

eyes was anger not embarrassment.
    “Last night,” she said, “you did not scruple to point out to me that David hated me, Lord Grant.” She made a slight gesture. “You will be pleased that there is evidence to support your assertion.”
    Alex saw Churchward stiffen with outrage. The lawyer, he thought with amusement, was looking as though he would like to run him through—if such martial thoughts ever occurred to a peaceful man of the pen.
    “My lord!” Churchward sounded reproachful. “How very ungallant of you to suggest such a thing.”
    “But true,” Joanna said smoothly. “David hated me and through various ingenious means sought to punish me, even after he was dead. Clearly he was every bit as resourceful as everyone claimed him to be.” She sighed. “Anyway, we must let that go and turn to the current matter.”
    “A moment.” Alex held up a hand. He was thinking of the beautiful house in Half Moon Street and the attractive and expensive items with which Lady Joanna Ware surrounded herself. He wondered who was paying for them if her jointure really was as minuscule as she claimed. David Ware’s close relatives were dead and Alex had the impression that Joanna herself, whilst an Earl’s daughter, had come from a relatively impoverishedcountry family. If Ware had left her practically without a feather to fly then her comparative wealth was curious, to say the least.
    “If you inherited little of Ware’s fortune and the bulk of it went to John Hagan,” he said slowly, “how are you funded?”
    He heard Mr. Churchward give a snort of disgust. The lawyer, like Lady Joanna herself, had picked up on the implications of his question:
    “Who is supporting you? Is it a lover?”
    Lady Joanna raised her brows; a smile curved her delectable mouth.
    “I thought that they taught manners at the naval academy, Lord Grant,” she said. “Did you play truant for those lectures?”
    “I find it easier to ask a direct question when I want a straight answer,” Alex said.
    “Well, you are not barking questions at your men now,” Joanna said. She lifted one slim shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Nevertheless, I will answer your question.” Her tone was cold now. “The house in Half Moon Street belongs to Mr. Hagan. As for the rest—prepare yourself for a shock.” Her violet-blue eyes mocked him. “I hope that you are strong enough to withstand it, Lord Grant.” She paused. “I work for my living.”
    “You work? ” Alex was shocked. “As what?” He made no attempt to erase the incredulity from his tone.
    Joanna laughed. “Certainly not as a courtesan—” her tone was derisory “—in case you thought that the only talent I might have to offer.”
    “As to that,” Alex said, holding her eyes, “I really would not know if it is one of your talents.” He paused. “Would I?”
    Her eyes flashed, smoky with dislike. “Nor will you.”
    “My lord, my lady!” Mr. Churchward intervened. The tips of his ears glowed bright red. “If you please.”
    Joanna dropped her gaze. “People pay me to design the interior of their homes, Lord Grant. I am considered to have excellent taste, sufficient that people wish to buy it for themselves. They pay me well and a few years ago I was also fortunate enough to inherit a legacy from my aunt.” She shifted in her seat, glancing again at Mr. Churchward, who was looking most uncomfortable. “But we wander from the point. Mr. Churchward has more bad news to impart, I believe. Let us put him out of his misery.”
    “Thank you, my lady,” Churchward said unhappily. He placed the letter Alex had delivered two days before on the top of his desk and smoothed it as though in doing so he could somehow alter the content.
    “Lord Grant delivered this letter to me on behalf of your husband,” he said to Joanna. “It is a codicil to his will.”
    “David entrusted it to me when he was dying,” Alex added.
    Joanna looked at him thoughtfully. He could not read her