The Reluctant Widow by Georgette Heyer Page A

Cheviot frowned, as though trying to concentrate his wits. “How will that serve you?” he asked suspiciously.
    “It will serve me.”
    “And you will not step into my shoes?” “I shall not step into your shoes.”
    “I’ll do it!” Cheviot said, plucking at the sheet. “Yes, I’ll do it! I don’t care about Nick. I’ll die happy to think I’ve foiled you!”
    Carlyon nodded, and walked to the door. The doctor followed him, out onto the landing. “You will not do it, my lord!”
    “I shall do it. It is what he wishes.”
    “He does not understand above half of what you would be at! In all the years of my practice I never met a creature so wholly devoid of good! Well I know what patience you have used toward him, what forbearance! It seems to make him hate you the more. He is a vile fellow! But this—! No, it will not do, my lord!”
    “It will do very well. He does not know why I do it, but it is what he wants, and since I have no purpose in my head but to escape an inheritance I do not desire, I shall not sleep the less sound for having in some sort deceived him.”
    “Ay, but will it answer, my lord?” the doctor urged. “To marry him out of hand now might not prove of service to Mr. Nicholas. It must seem—”
    “Oh, I am not thinking of Nicky!” Carlyon said. “He stands in no danger. But it will be better for the lady if it is not generally known that she sees Cheviot for the first time this evening. I think that may be contrived.”
    “Good God!” said the doctor weakly. “Is it so indeed? You go quite beyond me, my lord! How will you contrive it?”
    “Oh, a long-standing betrothal, perhaps—kept secret.” “Kept secret!” exploded Greenlaw. “And why?”
    Carlyon was halfway down the first flight of stairs but he paused and looked up, his rather rare smile softening his face. “My dear sir! For fear of my devilish stratagems, of course!” “Mr. Edward!” pronounced Greenlaw awfully. “That is, my Lord Carlyon!” “Yes?”
    The doctor stared down at him with a fulminating eye. “Nothing!” he said, and went back to his patient.
    Carlyon was met at the foot of the stairs by the landlord, who came out of the coffee room to intercept him. “My lord, the lady would not partake of any refreshment,” he said. “And Parson took a fancy to a drop of Hollands, as is his custom.”
    “Very well. Have you a pen, ink, and some paper?”
    The landlord admitted, with a puzzled frown, that he had these commodities. His brow cleared suddenly. “To be sure! Mr. Eustace will be wishful to make his will!” he discovered. “But it queers me a trifle to know—well, my lord—the lady!”
    “The lady is betrothed to Mr. Eustace.”
    Hitchin’s eyes started at him. “Betrothed to Mr. Eustace!” he gasped. “And her so pleasant-spoken and genteel!”
    “And Mr. Eustace,” pursued Carlyon, ignoring this involuntary outburst, “is desirous of marrying her, so that she may be provided for after his death.”
    The landlord appeared to have difficulty in controlling his voice. He succeeded in enunciating,
    “Yes, my lord!” and tottered away to find the pen and paper He found, after some search, a serviceable quill. He regarded it severely, and made it the recipient of a pithy confidence. “Mr. Eustace, is it?” he said scathingly. “Adone-do! Mr. Eustace never took no such notion into his wicked head, and well you know it! Mr. Eustace to be worriting himself over such things! Ay, justabout, he would! Out of your head that came, my lord, don’t tell me!” The quill, very naturally, returned no answer. Hitchin sniffed and picked up the inkpot. “And a very good thing for you it will be to be shut of Mr. Eustace!” he said.
    Carlyon, meanwhile, had entered the parlor. He found Miss Rochdale and the parson seated on either side of the fireplace. Miss Rochdale looked tired and a little pale, and there was a rather scared look in the eyes which she raised to his. He smiled