Sophia had
been too desperately occupied with striving to keep him alive to bother
with the mountain of papers awaiting his attention. When at last she
had settled down to that dreary duty she had discovered most of them to
be unpaid bills, and had been astonished to come across the Deed,
already signed by Stephen in readiness for a transfer of ownership.
Accompanying it had been a letter from Sir Horace Drake, pointing out
that Lord Whitthurst was
half-
owner, and asking that he
require his sister to sign the deed also, in order that Title might be
transferred to the Marquis of Damon's Spa of the Swallows, now under
construction in Dorsetshire. Incredulous, Sophia had skimmed through
the long and involved letter, deducing that for some inexplicable
reason, Stephen had been persuaded to give a great deal of property to
the man who exerted such a great influence over him—and that without
the acquisition of that property Damon's ambitious plans would be
ruined. Seething with resentment, hurt by her brother's suffering,
dreading lest at any moment she lose him, and crushed by the burden of
their financial disaster, she had signed the Deed. Instead of returning
it to Sir Horace Drake however, she had sent for the faithful Amory
Hartwell, entrusted the Deed into his hands, and begged him to act as
her agent and borrow as much cash as possible against their acreage.
Her only stipulation had been that under no circumstances was it to be
built upon. Delighted to be set a task by the lady he hoped to win,
Hartwell had departed vowing he would persist until he obtained such
terms as must delight his goddess.
Through it all, she had never dreamed that today she would be a
guest in the house of the very man against whom she plotted. Nor that
his relations would be so kind to her. She told herself defiantly that
her revenge had been well justified. She had suffered a twinge of
anxiety just now when Ridgley said her brother was a stockholder, not
merely a victim of Damon's smooth-tongued chicanery. But from the
moment of her arrival, the erratic behaviour of the Marquis had branded
him a Creature; and one whose unscrupulous cunning would eventually
have duped her gentle and trusting brother out of every last sou,
stockholder or not! Despite these reflections, she was shaken, and
recovered her composure only when the servants left the room, and
Feather changed the subject, making a pointed remark about Genevieve's
reputation.
"I have not the smallest notion of what you speak," said that young lady, albeit shooting a guilty glance at her cousin.
"Well, I have,
mon petit chou
," said Damon sternly. "You
left a trail of broken hearts all across Europe!" Ignoring Genevieve's
prompt but rather wistful denial, he asked, "Has she been at it again,
Feather?"
"I doubt there's a whole male heart left in Devonshire," affirmed Lady Branden, "Including that of your old friend, Hartwell."
Sophia caught her breath, and her hand tightened convulsively on her
spoon. Hartwell? Amory had never mentioned that he knew the Marquis.
Damon was leaning forward eagerly. "I was not aware he is in Devon."
"I doubt he is," said Miss Hilby, her tone chill, "if he has learned of our departure."
"Gad!" The Marquis settled back in his chair, smiling reminiscently. "Haven't seen Amory since…" He checked abruptly.
"Since that nasty business in Town," the Earl finished. "Very close
shave, that. Did you hear—" He stopped with a gasp and glared at Damon
indignantly.
"Hear what?" demanded Lady Branden.
Damon's face was a suave mask. "You were speaking of Hartwell, dear lady."
She continued to regard him suspiciously. "What's all this about nasty—"
The Marquis glanced to Miss Hilby. "Oh, Feather," she intervened,
"let's not speak of that sordid business. It was horrid, and Lady
Sophia looks tired."
Startled, Sophia protested, "No, but really, I am not."
'"Course the child's tired." Lady Branden slammed down her
serviette. "After the day she's had and worried
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