Free The Nightingale Legacy by Catherine Coulter Page B

Marcus was well married and running his own estate, just as North would now do as well. He marveled at the ways of life.
    He rode Reggie to the magnificent Mount Hawke stable, a long brick building with tack rooms, large stalls, hay bins, everything his obsessive great-grandfather could think of. He dismounted Reggie, waved to Pa-Dou, and waited until the frail old man had come to take the mare’s reins.
    He chatted with old Pa-Dou, watching in amazement. Hard to believe his arthritic gnarled fingers could so skillfully handle the horses’ reins and saddles.
    Tomorrow he would go to Goonbell. He found himself grinning as he clasped the huge brass knocker and slammed it against the oak door. Goonbell. Good Lord, what if instead of Mount Hawke—surely a name that sounded rather splendid—he lived in Mount Goonbell overlooking the village of Goonbell.
    He was chuckling when Coombe, his butler and his father’s butler before him, opened the doors to him and blinked to see his master actually laughing.
    North eyed the astonished Coombe, realized the reason for his astonishment, and said, “I was just thinking howodd it would sound were we called Mount Goonbell, and not Mount Hawke. It both amuses and terrifies.”
    Coombe appeared to ponder this for a moment, then said, “Surely laughter is too strong a reaction to such an unfortunate thought, my lord.”
    North grunted.
    “Much better,” Coombe said. “Welcome home, my lord, though I can’t imagine why you’re here two weeks sooner than we expected you to be here.”
     
    She hadn’t yet arrived in Goonbell and he knew this was where she would come, at the very least to find out how to reach Scrilady Hall. He asked the fishermen, who knew everything about everyone, and the innkeeper, Mrs. Freely, who outdid the fishermen. No Miss Derwent-Jones.
    He sighed and remounted Reggie. It took him only thirty minutes to reach Scrilady Hall, just outside of Trevellas, no more than a half mile from the sea.
    There were three servants in residence at the seasoned redbrick manor house set amid charmingly wild bougainvillea and roses and jasmine. It was a lovely house and now, he supposed, it belonged to Miss Derwent-Jones, though he wasn’t certain of that.
    But it was here she would come, eventually.
    He was greeted by Dr. Benjamin Treath, who was showing an unknown gentleman about the house.
    “Ah, my boy, do come in. What are you doing here?”
    North only nodded, not yet ready to say anything.
    “This is Mr. Brogan, a solicitor who is here to make an inventory of everything so that Squire Penrose’s will can be executed.”
    “I see,” North said. “When do you expect Miss Derwent-Jones to arrive, Mr. Brogan?”
    There was nothing more than a rapid blinking of Mr.Brogan’s large brown eyes to give away his surprise.
    He merely fastened his eyes on a point just beyond North’s left shoulder and said, “I hadn’t realized, my lord, that you were so intimate with the family. Indeed, there is Miss Derwent-Jones and there is a Mr. Penrose—obviously on the squire’s side of the family—who is the only other family member standing to inherit. Mr. Bennett Penrose has been here in the area on and off over the past five or so years. Of course I can really say no more about it until I’ve read the will to the two aforementioned individuals.”
    “Commendable,” North said. He turned to Dr. Treath. “Are you all right, sir?”
    “Yes, but it’s difficult, North, very difficult. Nothing more has come to light since you left for your trip to London. Ah, you weren’t gone for very long.”
    “No, not long at all. I assume you wrote to Miss Derwent-Jones, Mr. Brogan?”
    Again Mr. Brogan gave no sign of surprise. “Yes, some weeks ago. I don’t know why I haven’t heard from her, but one must suppose that she will arrive shortly. If she doesn’t arrive by the end of the week, I will write again. The post isn’t all that reliable.”
    “Yes, you are probably