The Reluctant Widow by Georgette Heyer

moment Carlyon did not speak. The light, flickering in a little draft, cast his features into relief against the wall. The doctor watched a muscle twitch beside his strong mouth. Then he said, “Let him think it. I can trust Hitchin. I shall hope to give his thoughts another direction. Can he go through a ceremony of marriage?”
    The doctor’s brows rose quickly. “So you are at that, are you?” he muttered. “Yes, but whom will you find, my lord? It has been in my mind, but I see no way of accomplishing it. There is too little time left.”
    “I have brought a lady with me who is willing to marry him. She is belowstairs, with Presteign.”
    The doctor stared at him, a look of appreciative amusement creeping into his eyes. “You have, eh? My lord, after all the years I have known you, ay, and after the scrapes I’ve seen you in, and the bones I’ve set for you, I wonder that you should still have the power to surprise me! But will he consent?”
    “Yes, for you could never bring him to believe that I do not covet his estate. He has suspected me ever since I first broached the matter to him of nourishing some evil design for which his marriage was to serve as a mask.”
    He stopped, for Eustace Cheviot had stirred and opened his eyes. The doctor stepped up to the bed and felt his pulse.
    “Damn you, take your hands off me!” Eustace whispered. “I know I am done for!” Carlyon walked forward to the other side of the bed and stood there looking down at him. The clouded eyes regarded him stupidly for a moment and seemed gradually to regain intelligence. An expression of malevolence crossed the sharp features. Eustace uttered in a faint voice, “I wish I had married to spite you, by God, I do! You thought you could gammon me, but I wasn’t as green as you thought, Carlyon!”
    “Were you not?” Carlyon said evenly.
    “You had some precious scheme to throw dust in the eyes of the world. I don’t know the whole, but I fancy I was to be married so that it might appear that you had no designs upon Highnoons. And then you would have disposed of me, would you not? Ah, but I am more up to smoke than you thought for, my dear cousin, and I would have willed Highnoons away from you within an hour of leaving the church. You thought I had not sense enough to make my will speedily, but I had!”
    “You do yourself harm by talking so much, Mr. Cheviot,” interposed the doctor. A spasm of pain twisted Cheviot’s face; his eyes closed for an instant, but opened again and fixed themselves once more on Carlyon’s face. “Your precious Nick was too quick for you!” he sneered.
    “Too quick for you as well, Eustace.”
    Eustace moved his head restlessly on the pillow. “Yes, by God!” he muttered. “You’ll have it all! Damn you, damn you!”
    “Yes, I shall have it all.”
    “Ay, but I’ll turn it to dust and ashes for you! You will have to see Nick stand his trial! He murdered me, do you hear? He meant to murder me!”
    “I may have to see him stand his trial, but his credit is better than yours, Cousin, and the only witness to your quarrel is devoted to my interest. I shall see Nick acquitted.” The calm certainty with which he spoke had its effect. The dying man gave a groan and made a convulsive attempt to drag himself up on his elbow.
    “For God’s sake, my lord, take care what you are about!” the doctor muttered, restraining him.
    “But he will have to stand his trial!” Eustace gasped. “Your pride won’t stomach that, whatever the event!”
    “No,” Carlyon agreed. “Both my schemes and yours have miscarried. You would see your estate safe from my machinations; I would save Nicky from yours, if I could. Well, I do not value Highnoons above Nicky. I will let it go.”
    Cheviot glared at him, his befogged brain only half comprehending what was said to him, clinging obstinately to its one idea. “How? How?” he panted.
    “You may be married, here and now, and bequeath Highnoons to your wife.”