moment with her fists clenched and her cheeks on fire, trying to plot a rational course. She would talk to Sir William, convince him that she needed no supervision. Let him give
her
the money and the three months. Then let him take her to task for what she
did,
not for what they were all afraid she
might do
!
Without a thought for courtroom proprieties, she skirted the opposition’s barristers and headed straight for the door Sir William had used at the front of the court. She was halted there by a formidable bailiff, who informed her that none but the justice was permitted to come and go through that entrance. Arguing and even pleading were of no avail. She headed for the doors at the rear of the court, determined to be heard.
Finding the way to one of the chief justices’ chambers took a bit of doing; the directions seemed to be as closely guarded as the entrance to a pharaoh’s tomb. In desperation, she crafted a story that she was Sir William’s niece by marriage, late for an appointment with the old fellow, and a knowledgeable clerk took pity on her. She arrived at the door of Sir William’s chambers overheated and out of breath and just in time to hear her name being taken in vain.
“The minute I saw Farnsworth, I knew you had called me down here to meddle in my life,” a deep male voice was declaring. “But you’ve exceeded even my most jaded expectations—saddling me with some damned-fool female out to save the world. This Duncan woman is nothing short of a lunatic—a full-bore, bleeding-heart, go-down-with-the-ship martyr. Did you plan this all along, Uncle, or was my being pressed into your service just an impromptu bit of manipulation?”
Madeline halted just inside the door, her face as scarlet as her tunic. Sir William, still in his robes and wig, was ensconced behind a large desk with his bound leg propped onan ottoman, being read the riot act by a tall, dark figure looming over the desk.
“A
lunatic
?” she said. Sir William looked up, his accuser started and wheeled, and both men looked at her as if she had two heads.
“Good Lord. There she is now,” the man said, tugging both his ire and his vest down and into place. “Madwoman Duncan.”
“That is
Madeline
Duncan, thank you,” she said sharply. “You, I take it, are my proposed keeper.”
“Not if I can bloody well help it,” he declared. “I have better things to do with my time than prevent some idiot female from spending herself into oblivion.” He glanced at Sir William, then turned a glare on her that would have sent a lesser woman into vapors. “If I could tolerate such duty, Uncle, I’d have taken a wife by now.”
Madeline drew up her chin, studying him with the same fierce regard he aimed at her. He was an intimidating figure—tall, dark in coloring, and dressed in a charcoal-gray suit that bespoke both money and the leisure to submit to a tailor’s ministrations. Out of pure habit she took in the details of his garments—the broad padded shoulders of his coat, the close-cut waist, the tight standing collar, and the tuck-front shirt that was so overstarched, it looked like paint on clapboard siding. He wore a black silk cravat with a diamond stickpin instead of a tie, his shoes were covered by dove-gray spats, and precisely one inch of Chinese silk showed above the breast pocket of his coat.
She groaned mentally. If Sir William had combed the city, he couldn’t have found her an overseer less sympathetic to her cause—
a fashion-conscious cynic
. Pulling her gaze from him, she advanced on the desk, determined to hold her own.
“As you can see for yourself, Your Honor, this ‘arrangement’ you have proposed—”
“Ordered,” Sir William corrected her.
“—
ordered
—is unworkable. Can you in any way call thisman objective? or reasonable? He’s already named me a lunatic, an incompetent, a wastrel, a bleeding heart, and a martyr.”
“Ahhh”—Sir William raised an excepting finger—“but those
her
the money and the three months. Then let him take her to task for what she
did,
not for what they were all afraid she
might do
!
Without a thought for courtroom proprieties, she skirted the opposition’s barristers and headed straight for the door Sir William had used at the front of the court. She was halted there by a formidable bailiff, who informed her that none but the justice was permitted to come and go through that entrance. Arguing and even pleading were of no avail. She headed for the doors at the rear of the court, determined to be heard.
Finding the way to one of the chief justices’ chambers took a bit of doing; the directions seemed to be as closely guarded as the entrance to a pharaoh’s tomb. In desperation, she crafted a story that she was Sir William’s niece by marriage, late for an appointment with the old fellow, and a knowledgeable clerk took pity on her. She arrived at the door of Sir William’s chambers overheated and out of breath and just in time to hear her name being taken in vain.
“The minute I saw Farnsworth, I knew you had called me down here to meddle in my life,” a deep male voice was declaring. “But you’ve exceeded even my most jaded expectations—saddling me with some damned-fool female out to save the world. This Duncan woman is nothing short of a lunatic—a full-bore, bleeding-heart, go-down-with-the-ship martyr. Did you plan this all along, Uncle, or was my being pressed into your service just an impromptu bit of manipulation?”
Madeline halted just inside the door, her face as scarlet as her tunic. Sir William, still in his robes and wig, was ensconced behind a large desk with his bound leg propped onan ottoman, being read the riot act by a tall, dark figure looming over the desk.
“A
lunatic
?” she said. Sir William looked up, his accuser started and wheeled, and both men looked at her as if she had two heads.
“Good Lord. There she is now,” the man said, tugging both his ire and his vest down and into place. “Madwoman Duncan.”
“That is
Madeline
Duncan, thank you,” she said sharply. “You, I take it, are my proposed keeper.”
“Not if I can bloody well help it,” he declared. “I have better things to do with my time than prevent some idiot female from spending herself into oblivion.” He glanced at Sir William, then turned a glare on her that would have sent a lesser woman into vapors. “If I could tolerate such duty, Uncle, I’d have taken a wife by now.”
Madeline drew up her chin, studying him with the same fierce regard he aimed at her. He was an intimidating figure—tall, dark in coloring, and dressed in a charcoal-gray suit that bespoke both money and the leisure to submit to a tailor’s ministrations. Out of pure habit she took in the details of his garments—the broad padded shoulders of his coat, the close-cut waist, the tight standing collar, and the tuck-front shirt that was so overstarched, it looked like paint on clapboard siding. He wore a black silk cravat with a diamond stickpin instead of a tie, his shoes were covered by dove-gray spats, and precisely one inch of Chinese silk showed above the breast pocket of his coat.
She groaned mentally. If Sir William had combed the city, he couldn’t have found her an overseer less sympathetic to her cause—
a fashion-conscious cynic
. Pulling her gaze from him, she advanced on the desk, determined to hold her own.
“As you can see for yourself, Your Honor, this ‘arrangement’ you have proposed—”
“Ordered,” Sir William corrected her.
“—
ordered
—is unworkable. Can you in any way call thisman objective? or reasonable? He’s already named me a lunatic, an incompetent, a wastrel, a bleeding heart, and a martyr.”
“Ahhh”—Sir William raised an excepting finger—“but those
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