Free Mandy by Claudy Conn Page B

was strikingly good-looking, the girl beside him was absolutely stunning.
    The artist had portrayed her with her golden hair glowing about her shoulders in long thick waves. Her full lips were curved in a smile that caught his interest and made him stare.
    What sort of female was this that could look so femininely exquisite and yet charge about the countryside breaking her brother out of prison?
    He looked further and found her dark eyes seemed to be laughing. It was as though the artist had captured her thoughts in her eyes and those eyes told him she found life full with amusement and absurdities.
    He turned away. He was being fanciful. What was wrong with him?
    He glanced back again at her portrait because he couldn’t help himself and for a moment, in that moment thought she looked like an angel. This made a smirk curve his lips. No angel does what she had done. She was probably wild to a fault.
    He was, however, intrigued by the sort of gently bred young woman, who would resort to such a thing, be a part of it, and then hide out lord only knew where to keep her brother safe.
    Mrs. Agatha Brinley, a large, dark haired, overly Amazon sized, with little grace and a distasteful way of speaking began to gush in a rush of words as she entered the room, and made him wish she would be quiet.
    He took her measure at once and meant to use it to his advantage when the opportunity arose.
    Agatha Brinley was impressed and did not try and hide it as she spoke in a breathless manner, “Your Grace, how utterly delightful. If only you had sent word, I would have prepared a room to receive you. But no matter, one can be made ready in a trice. Our servants need do no more than place a hot brick in one of the guest rooms.”
    He raised an imperative hand. “Do not concern yourself, madam. I do not stay, for I am promised to the Viscount Skippendon.” He made a sudden decision and dove right into the heart of the matter. “You must realize, of course, why I am here?”
    “Indeed. Such a dreadful business. My poor lovely Celia… seduced and murdered. I am quite heartsick over the wretched affair,” Agatha Brinley said and put a plump hand to her heart.
    The duke watched her carefully, looked into her light brown eyes and there he found fear . Odd that, he thought. Again, he plunged right in. “I understand that your stepdaughter was with child…at least two months the doctor informed us.” He paused for affect, and then continued, “Young Sherborne was at Cambridge during and before that time.”
    “So he was, but he had been home for a fortnight before then…at Easter,” she offered hesitantly.
    “Indeed, but only for a few days and again, the timing would not be quite right,” the duke returned. “I must wonder why you would insinuate that he could be the father, when it is obvious from these circumstances alone, that he is not .”
    “I…er…well… I did not really pay attention to the timing, only to what my stepdaughter had told me.”
    He eyed her with open disdain, and wondered what she had to gain by Ned’s hanging for the murder of her stepdaughter. Without any other facts he instinctively sided with the Sherborne lad. He said with derision, “Then what you are saying is that your stepdaughter actually named her cousin, young Sherborne as the father? Is that what you are trying to tell me?”
    She waved a frenzied hand, “Not in so many words. However, it was what she led me to believe. She said that she had a plan to make him marry her. What else could I think? I often saw that he followed her about…seemed quite taken with her.”
    “I see. I will tell you what I think her words to you meant. I believe the poor woman felt she needed to scheme to get a husband because the father of her child would not marry her,” returned the duke. “Would you not say that makes more sense? My only question here is how could she induce Ned to believe he was the father, unless she meant to keep it a secret for a bit