Free Gypsy Heiress by Laura London

moment, the blue lace that covered her bodice swelling and dropping slowly with her long, deep breaths. She gave Brockhaven a glance of acid mockery, tossed her chin, swept up her skirt, and came to stand within a yard of me. Making a faint curtsy, Isabella inclined her head and in a majestically cold voice, she said, “Cousin.”
    Vincent gave a delighted laugh, his face holding a good deal more satisfaction than the occasion seemed to warrant. He put one arm around me and one around his wife. Though the gesture was kindly meant, I felt a stab of anxiety, for it was an ordeal to be claimed as kin by strangers, be they however good-willed.
    “There now!” he said. “We’ve cleared the first hurdle. Shall we sit down like the shining examples of civilized folk that we are, and talk through our situation? Will you offer us tea, Alex?”
    “By all means,” replied Brockhaven. “A family party taking tea at Edgehill. Let’s play the thing to the hilt.” Instead of pulling the call bell, as I’d seen Robert do when he wanted to summon one of his servants, Brockhaven went into the hallway and gave instructions to a footman.
    Vincent took my arm and led me to the chair that his wife had so recently used to shield herself from Brockhaven, and gave me an expectant look that I had come to realize means that a gentleman wants you to sit down so he can do so himself, as it is the English way that ladies must sit down before the men. It is the opposite with gypsies. I sank into the chair, feeling as though I had no more bones than a cloth doll, and Vincent sat with his wife on the short sofa.
    Brockhaven came back into the room and ran a sardonic glance over his company. “Cozy,” he observed. He took a seat opposite Vincent. “I suppose you’ll want to look at the Bible.”
    Vincent dismissed the Bible with the wave of his pale, large-boned right hand. “Leave that for the courts. Your lawyer is convinced of the document’s authenticity; let it stand like that for the present.” His voice was grim, but perfectly self-possessed. “To proceed! It appears that Liza stands to inherit the lion’s share of what we thought was Isabella’s estate.”
    The numbness in my chest grew so heavy that it became an effort to breathe. No wonder Isabella hated me, if she thought that I had come to take away her home. Vincent’s kindness was even greater than I had supposed, for if he had spoken truly, then only the most generous man could greet my arrival with anything touching cordiality. Ellen
had
called me a gypsy heiress, but I had not thought that she meant I was heir to more than a great English name. I’m not sure why my eyes turned with such haste to Lord Brockhaven—for confirmation perhaps? He wasn’t looking at me, but somehow I knew from his expression that Vincent’s words were soundly based. Brockhaven regarded his cousin through half-closed eyes, a strange fire glowing in their depths. If he was enjoying his cousin’s chagrin, he gave no sign. Neither was there an effort to convey sympathy. His lips moved only slightly as he said, “If you thought the estate was Isabella’s, then you’ve been unwise. Her long-lost, though unforgotten uncle, or his offspring, might have appeared at any time to vest their claim.”
    “After twenty years,” Vincent said gently, “it seemed—shall we say—unlikely.”
    Brockhaven made a thin smile. “Yes. We’ve all suffered, haven’t we, from the unlikely.” He transferred his gaze to Isabella, who had been sitting plucking with unmindful agitation at the armrest of the sofa. “As Bartholemew probably told you, you’ll hardly be starving. Liza gets the land and the income from the portion of it used in agriculture, but your trust fund—enough to keep an Oriental caliph in luxury—is still yours. And should you desire it, you have the use of the house for life.”
    Isabella’s eyes were dilated and glistening. “But she gets the land… the land.”
    Brockhaven