The Diabolical Baron by Mary Jo Putney

can find some pretext to justify your presence to the staff. Perhaps you could be taking inventory for me, preparatory to winding up the trust. The country air would be good for you, and the Cotswold scenery is some of the finest in Britain.”
    Richard bit his lip reflectively. “I wouldn’t mind getting out of London, and the surgeons are about ready to release me. But will Wargrave Park be full of old family retainers who will instantly recognize me as a Davenport?”
    “No, I think it unlikely. While you greatly resemble your father, his resemblance was to his mother. He did not look at all like a Davenport.”
    The solicitor smiled nostalgically. “Your grand mother was a remarkable woman. Not a great beauty, but with a sweetness of temper that softened even your grandfather. She brought fresh blood and common sense to the family. Had she been alive, the rift between the earl and your father would never have oc curred.”
    “What kind of men were my uncles?” Richard asked.
    “Rodrick, the eldest brother, was wild and extrava gant. Several fortunes went to covering his debts. When he was of an age when he could no longer avoid settling down and taking an interest in his inheritance, he succumbed to lung fever. I sometimes wonder if he died rather than do an honest day’s work.”
    “And the middle brother?”
    “Henry rightly felt that Rodrick was his father’s favorite, while Julius was very much his mother’s son. Instead of becoming his own man, he turned his back on his family. He ... didn’t like women. He would not marry even after he became heir to the estate. I believe it pleased him to frustrate his father.”
    “A delightful pair. More and more I can understand why my father felt no desire to stay in contact with his family.”
    At this point a fracas outside the office distracted Josiah from his account. The clerk Wilkes could be heard saying, “You can’t go in there. Mr. Chelmsford is with a client.”
    The reply was muffled but peremptory. The door flew open and a tall, contemptuous-looking gentleman strode in. He looked to be near forty, but the lines of dissipation in his face may have aged him prematurely. Dark hair and a sallow face contrasted oddly with eyes of a pale, cold aquamarine blue. While his clothing was expensive, he wore it with a damn-your-eyes careless ness that lacked the immaculate neatness Brummell had made fashionable. His glance passed indifferently over Richard to fasten on Josiah.
    “How much longer must this farce go on?” he said in a scornful voice. “Your delay in settling the estate is se riously discommoding me, and I’ve a strong mind to find a judge who agrees the trust should be wound up immediately.”
    Chelmsford looked back coldly. The cheerfully ro tund solicitor had been replaced by the hard-eyed man of law. “Do not waste idle threats on me, Mr. Daven port. Getting the Chancery involved in this would only result in considerably more delay. There is not a lawyer born who cannot stall a case for four or five times the natural length, and I promise you that is what will hap pen if you interfere with your uncle’s will. The trust will end normally in six months. I would suggest you attempt to live within your means until then.”
    The intruder’s mouth tightened. “Then perhaps you could advance me some monies from the estate? It is, after all, my own.”
    “That remains to be seen. In the meantime, I am responsible for the Wargrave lands and fortune, and not a penny will be spent except on legitimate expenses. If the property ever comes to you, it will be intact to that point.”
    “You realize that the day I assume the title, you will cease to be employed by the Wargrave estate?”
    “Believe me, if you do become the next earl, I should resign your employ the moment you inherit.”
    “Then it seems we understand each other perfectly, Chelmsford.” The tall rawboned figure turned in a flurry of driving capes and stormed out, closing the door