The Rake's Inherited Courtesan. Ann Lethbridge

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      At the window, stiff and forbidding in her deep mourning, Mademoiselle Boisette stared out across the English Channel. Outlined against the light, her high-collared black gown revealed shapely curves and a narrow waist. A deliberate ploy to display her charms to advantage, no doubt.

      He wasn’t interested.

      Tripp hovered beside the sturdy Queen Anne sideboard piled high with pastries and platters of sliced roast beef, fruits and cheeses. Red tulips and sunny daffodils in a crystal centrepiece splashed colour into the muted room.

      A glass of red wine in one hand and a fat meat pasty in the other, Tripp had the expression of a well-fed bloodhound. Apparently, reading wills sharpened the appetite.

      ‘Help yourself,’ Tripp said, spraying Christopher with crumbs. ‘Oh, dear me. Excuse me, sir.’ He dabbed at Christopher’s coat front with his napkin.

      Aware of the Molesbys’ entrance into the room and their curious stares as they joined the vicar near the hearth, Christopher smiled and waved Tripp off. ‘No, really. Don’t be concerned.’

      Tripp stopped flapping and gestured to the butler. ‘Drink?’

      For once, a drink sounded like a good idea. Perhaps several, after this got sorted out. Christopher selected a glass of burgundy from the butler’s silver tray. He sent a swift glance towards Mademoiselle Boisette and turned his shoulder to the room at large. ‘Now about this will,’ he murmured. ‘There’s been a mistake.’

      ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ Tripp replied. ‘I helped Mr Evernden draw it up myself last month.’

      ‘Last month?’ Christopher reeled at the implication. Twelve years ago, Christopher’s father had given his younger brother the cut direct and deemed him persona non grata. Christopher never saw him again.

      Until six weeks ago.

      He’d run into Uncle John in London and while he’d barely recognised the gaunt, old fellow, he didn’t have the heart to cut a man whom he remembered for his generosity to him and Garth in their childhood.

      Tripp took another bite of his pasty, chewed and swallowed. ‘That’s right. The moment he returned from London, he insisted I come right around to change his will.’

      Dismay plunged Christopher’s stomach to the floor. He recalled Uncle John leaning on his silver-headed walking stick on St. James’s Street, his eyes twinkling as he asked after Garth and his mother. They’d chatted in a desultory way about Princess Charlotte’s forthcoming wedding. The old man bemoaned the slump in trade since Waterloo and Christopher expressed concern about the Bridgeport riots. And that was it. Not a word of a personal nature crossed their lips and they had shaken hands and parted company. Apparently, simple common courtesy had landed him in a dreadful coil.

      Christopher groaned inwardly. He suddenly wished he had cut off his right hand before allowing the old man to shake it. ‘There must be some way to change it. Pay her off.’

      ‘Mademoiselle Boisette, you mean?’

      Who else would he mean? ‘Yes.’

      After a wishful glance at the sideboard, Tripp said, ‘Perhaps we should discuss this in the study?’

      Christopher glanced around the room where the smattering of local gentry paid their respects by eating everything in sight. In the far corner, Aunt Imogene held court, complaining loudly about the poor state of the ormolu clock to the vicar’s plump wife and casting dark glances at Mademoiselle Boisette’s rigid back. He nodded. ‘Lead the way.’

      Full of old, broken-down furniture and other rubbish, the crowded oak-panelled study smelled of camphor and dust. Moth-eaten feathered and furred trophies leaned against every available upright surface in the gloomy room. Boxes and papers spilled off the shabby desk and cluttered the chairs, leaving nowhere to sit.

      ‘He used to hunt,’ Tripp observed.

      Ignoring the lawyer’s attempt at delay, Christopher frowned. ‘What can I do about this will?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘Bloody hell. What do you mean, nothing?’

      Tripp pursed his lips and lowered his brows.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Christopher said. ‘This all comes as rather a shock.’ He took a swig of his burgundy. At least Uncle John had kept an excellent cellar.

      ‘I imagine Mademoiselle Boisette is also surprised,’ Tripp said, his jowls drooping to his cravat. ‘A pleasant young woman. Always a very gracious hostess.’

      The revelation of unsavoury secrets held no appeal and Christopher pressed on. ‘Can I just sell the house and give her the money?’

      Tripp appeared to consider the question carefully. ‘Your uncle thought her too young. She needs a guardian.’

      ‘Too young?’ The words exploded from Christopher’s mouth. His uncle must have been nigh on sixty. He wanted to throttle Tripp. ‘How old is she?’

      Tripp stiffened. ‘Twenty-three. Your position of guardian is to continue until she’s twenty-five.’

      Dear God! Twenty-three and she had lived with his uncle for twelve years? No wonder the old man had locked himself away from society all these years. His stomach churned. The normally solid ground beneath him seemed to turn into a quagmire.

      ‘I must decline,’ Christopher said.

      Tripp sighed. ‘I feared as much. I told Mr Evernden the family wouldn’t like it. He set great store by you, Mr Christopher. He would have been sorry to learn of his mistake.’

      ‘At the risk of being rude, Mr Tripp, I must be brutally frank. I don’t care what you think or what my uncle thought. I refuse to be imposed upon. I want it sorted out. Now.’

      Tripp looked as affronted as Aunt Imogene. Christopher didn’t care.

      ‘The terms of the will are quite explicit, sir,’ Tripp said.

      ‘What about her mother’s family, or her father?’

      ‘She has no family of which I am aware. Her mother died in France. Mr Evernden did not reveal the name of her father. Anyway, since I gather her father refuses her recognition, it is of no consequence.’

      The thin straw of rescue drifted out of Christopher’s grasp. ‘Then there must be something I can do with her. Some institution where she can learn a skill, somewhere a woman like—’

      Tripp harrumphed. His eyebrows jumped on his crumpled forehead like rabbits on a ploughed field.

      ‘Somewhere for a woman like me, Mr Evernden?’ The cool tone from behind him held the slightest trace of a French accent.

      Hell. Apparently, the impertinent Mademoiselle Boisette had no qualms about eavesdropping. So be it. Beating around the bush only led to disappointed expectations, as he well knew from his business dealings. Christopher swung around to face her.

      Mr Tripp rushed between them. ‘Allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Boisette, Mr Evernden.’

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