Free A Wicked Gentleman by Jane Feather Page A

furniture was still under dust covers, the curtains drawn tightly across the long windows to prevent any possibility of daylight, or, heaven forfend, sunlight from penetrating its dusty shadows.
    She crossed the room and pulled back one set of heavy velvet drapes, releasing a cloud of dust. “Aunt Sophia’s lawyer must know what condition the house is in,” she observed, moving to another window. “He must have visited her on occasion. He won’t be surprised at the state of this room, but at least we could let in some light.”
    â€œNot that there is much,” Livia said, drawing back the third set of curtains and sneezing violently. “Even if the windows were clean. With all that rain, it’s dark as a dungeon out there.”
    â€œAnd cold as charity in here,” Cornelia added. She rubbed a circle in the grime on one long window and stared out at the rain-drenched street. “Oh, I think this must be our viscount. That’s quite a turnout he’s driving. He’s obviously not short of a guinea or two.”
    â€œLet me see.” Livia came to her side and peered through the cleared glass. “Oh, yes, I see what you mean. Beautiful pair of horses.” She rubbed a wider circle in the grime. “I can’t see much of the driver, though. He’s all wrapped up. The collar of his greatcoat is turned up to his ears.”
    â€œIt would be in this weather…fancy driving an open carriage,” Cornelia said with a shake of her head. “Why didn’t he take a hackney? Any sane man would.”
    â€œPerhaps he isn’t,” Livia murmured. “Sane, I mean. Would a sane man want to pay that kind of money for this wreck?” She waved a hand around the room.
    â€œMoney, enough of it, will put the house right,” Cornelia said. “It has some very aristocratic lines to it. A noble house under all this neglect.”
    â€œPerhaps you’re right…oh, he’s drawing up. He’s giving his reins to his tiger. You’d better go into the parlor before he knocks at the door. I’ll wait in here.”
    Cornelia went swiftly into the hall and whisked herself into the parlor. She debated where to position herself to best effect when Viscount Bonham walked in. Before the fire? Over by the window, in an armchair deep in a book? No, not the latter, she decided. The chairs sagged too much for a graceful rise from their depths. The window seat was a possibility. She could be found there, her head bent over her sewing. But she’d left her workbox upstairs…no the secretaire. She would have her back to the door, apparently occupied with letter writing.
    The knocker sounded as she sat down and picked up an ancient quill. It hadn’t been sharpened in years, and she looked at its ragged tip with some dismay. But there was no time to change her position now. She aimed the pen at the inkstand, only to discover it dry as a bone. Now she could hear voices in the hall. The viscount’s clipped tones, Morecombe’s broad Yorkshire monosyllables. And then the parlor door opened.
    â€œIn ’ere, sir,” Morecombe declared without embellishment, and departed, closing the door firmly behind him.
    Harry stood for a second, hat in hand, torn between amusement and indignation at his unceremonious admission to the house. The man hadn’t even offered to take his hat and his dripping driving coat.
    The woman at the secretaire didn’t turn around immediately, then she said in a soft voice that immediately brought his hackles up, “Forgive me, Lord Bonham, just one minute more.” She reached for the sander and sprinkled it liberally over her page, then turned slowly in her chair, regarding him with a half smile, which only a fool would mistake as friendly, before rising to her feet.
    â€œI believe we have already met, sir.” She continued to regard him quizzically, but the glitter in her blue eyes was