The Virtuous Cyprian Read online

  “I have the claim to you, Miss Kellaway.”

  “I think not, sir!” she responded furiously. “Upon my word, you have a strange concept of possession! What gives you that right?”

  “Those who put themselves up for sale, Miss Kellaway—” Seagrave began, only to break off as she interrupted him with no thought for courtesy.

  “I am not to be bought, sir, nor have I ever been! You may take your insulting suggestions elsewhere!”

  The Virtuous Cyprian

  Harlequin Historical

  Harlequin Historicals is delighted to introduce author Nicola Cornick

  Brand-new to Harlequin Historical, British author Nicola Cornick had her North American publishing debut in March 2001 with her Regency True Colours.

  Be sure to look for the sequel to True Colours, The Larkswood Legacy, from Harlequin Reader’s Choice in July 2001

  and the sequel to The Virtuous Cyprian, Lady Polly, from Harlequin Historical in August 2001

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  THE VIRTUOUS CYPRIAN

  Nicola Cornick

  THE VIRTUOUS CYPRIAN

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter One

  Nicholas John Rosslyn Seagrave, eighth Earl of Seagrave and Dillingham, was contemplating matrimony. It was not the abstract state that preoccupied him as he strolled along Bond Street in the afternoon sunshine, but his own approaching nuptials, confirmed that very morning by a notice in the Gazette. Miss Louise Elliott, his future Countess, was everything that his pride and lineage demanded: well-bred, accomplished and pretty, albeit in an insipidly pale way. He should have been delighted; instead, he was beset by the habitual boredom which had dogged his heels since his return from the Peninsular Wars several years earlier. All the delights of Town, sampled in full measure, had failed to alleviate this ennui. Now it seemed that his impending marriage could not lift his spirits either.

  Some seventy miles away on Seagrave’s Suffolk estate, it was also a somnolent summer afternoon, and the Earl’s agent, Mr Josselyn, was dozing surreptitiously at his desk in the Dillingham Manor Court. There had been very little business to keep him awake. A dispute over the enclosure of common land had been resolved with the offender reluctantly agreeing to remove his fence; a violent argument between two of the villagers over the antecedents of a certain horse one had sold the other had led to fines on both sides. The last matter of the afternoon was the transfer of a copyhold tenancy on an estate house to the nephew of the late occupant. Mr Josselyn shuffled his papers, anxious to be away. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Mr Walter Mutch has petitioned that the copyhold tenancy for the house named Cookes in the village of Dillingham be transferred to him, by right of inheritance on behalf of his mother, sister of the previous lessee, Mr George Kellaway…’

  The sonorous words echoed in the high rafters. Walter Mutch, a dark young man whom Josselyn privately considered rather wild, got to his feet with a show of respect. Josselyn examined him cynically. Mutch had never been close to his maternal uncle, but had seen his chance quickly enough to claim the house on Kellaway’s death. Cookes was a fine property, set back from the village green and with several acres of orchard and gardens attached. Kellaway had been a gentleman of means, but his interests as a scholar and explorer had led him to choose to rent a house rather than maintain his own home during his long absences abroad. He had been a friend and contemporary of the previous Earl of Seagrave, and it had been natural for him to take a house on the estate. The copyhold agreement under which Kellaway had held Cookes was unusual, allowing for the tenancy to be inherited and not to revert to the Manor. Not that Lord Seagrave would care about the disposal of a minor property like Cookes, his agent thought a little sadly. The Earl seldom visited his Suffolk estate, evidently preferring the more sophisticated pleasures of the capital.

  Josselyn was suddenly distracted by a movement at the back of the room. The courtroom door swung open, the draught of fresh air setting the dust motes dancing and bringing with it the scents of summer. He frowned. Who could be disturbing the court session at this late stage?

  ‘The petition of Walter Mutch having been given due consideration, this court agrees that the house called Cookes be transferred to his name from this, the fifth day of June in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixteen, and in the fifty-sixth year of the reign of our most gracious sovereign King—’

  ‘One moment, sir!’

  The clerk’s quill spluttered on the parchment at the unexpected interruption and he reached hastily for the sand box to help staunch the flow of ink. Josselyn was dazzled by the sunlight and shaded his eyes impatiently.

  ‘Who wishes to speak? Step forward!’

  The door closed behind the newcomer, cutting off the light. A whisper ran round the sparsely populated courtroom.

  ‘Your pardon, sir.’ A woman was coming forward to Josselyn’s desk, gliding across the wooden floor like a ghost, garbed in unrelieved black and heavily veiled. She moved with youth and grace. He watched her approach incredulously. At the back of the room an older woman, also dressed in black, slid self-consciously into a seat by the door. The newcomer had reached the clerk’s table now and was putting back her veil. Josselyn, and every male member of the courtroom below the age of eighty, caught his breath at the dazzling fairness that was revealed. Hair the colour of spun silver curled about a face that could only be described as enchantingly pretty. Eyes of a charming, limpid cornflower blue met his confidingly. Her nose was small and straight, her complexion peaches and spilt cream, and that soft pink, smiling mouth…Josselyn felt himself go hot under the collar.

  ‘Madam?’ All the assurance had gone out of Josselyn’s manner. The whole room appeared to be holding its breath.

  ‘I ask pardon, sir, for this intrusion.’ Her voice was low, musical and slightly husky. A lady, Josselyn thought, even more perplexed. He adjusted his spectacles and fixed her with what he hoped was a professional regard.

  ‘In what manner may we serve you, madam?’

  Her voice, though quiet, carried to all corners of the room. ‘In this manner, sir. My name is Susanna Kellaway of Portman Square, London, and I claim the house of Cookes by right of inheritance as the elder daughter of the late George Kellaway.’

  Mr Josselyn might be a dry-as-dust old lawyer, buried in the country, but even he had heard of Susanna Kellaway. Who had not heard of the scandalous Susanna Kellaway, one of the most famous courtesans in London? The outrageous Susanna, who had been mistress to a whole parade of rich and famous men and whose career had reached new heights recently in a highly publicised and disreputable affair with the Duke of Penscombe? Josselyn found that he was almost gasping for breath. Could this bird of paradise really be the daughter of the scholarly recluse who had lived quietly in Dillingham for over thirty years?

  Walter Mutch was on his feet, his chair clattering back. He had always had a hot temper and was several degrees below his late uncle’s station in country society. He saw no need to hold his tongue. ‘It’s a lie!’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘My uncle never had a child! I protest—’ He started forward, only to be restrained by his younger b
rother.

  ‘There must be some mistake…’ Josselyn began hopelessly, and looked up to meet the comprehension and wicked mischief in the lady’s eyes, which told him more eloquently than any words that his identification of her had been correct.

  ‘I assure you that there is no mistake, sir,’ Susanna Kellaway said, with cool confidence. ‘I have here my parents’ marriage lines and the record of my birth. As I said, sir, I am the rightful claimant to Cookes!’ She placed the papers in front of Josselyn, but they could have been written in Chinese for all the sense he could make of them in his current state of agitation.

  The whole courtroom burst into uproar. Mutch was shouting, his brother pulling on his arm to try to quieten him. The clerk was banging his gavel and demanding order, but no one was taking any notice. All occupants of the room had turned to their neighbours and were avidly debating whether George Kellaway had ever had a daughter, and which members of the village could remember. And such a daughter! Josselyn looked hopelessly at the lady in question and saw that she was enjoying his discomfiture. She evidently appreciated both the effect she invariably had on men and also the drama she had caused. She leant across his table and he caught a tantalising hint of expensive perfume.

  ‘My lawyer will be in touch to negotiate the terms of the lease,’ she said with a charming smile. ‘I bid you good day, sir.’ And so saying, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Josselyn in the midst of the disarray, contemplating the ruin of his afternoon. He reached instinctively for paper and ink with a hand that shook. Normally he would not trouble Lord Seagrave with estate matters, but in this instance…He shook his head incredulously. He dared not risk leaving his lordship in ignorance of this astounding piece of news. Besides, the situation was too complex for him. He had no notion of how Seagrave would feel at a notorious Cyprian establishing herself on his country estate. Remembering the Cyprian and her melting smile, Josselyn came out in a hot sweat again. No, indeed—Lord Seagrave would have to be told.

  ‘Whatever can have brought you here, Susanna?’

  A less thick-skinned woman than Susanna Kellaway might have noticed the lack of enthusiasm in her sister’s voice, but she had become inured to snubs over the years. Besides, she knew that Lucille’s cool welcome stemmed less from disapproval of her twin than recognition of the fact that Susanna only sought her out when she wanted something. She gave her sister the benefit of her feline smile and waved one white hand in a consciously elegant gesture.

  ‘Why, I came to commiserate with you on the death of our dear father! I assume that you had heard?’

  A frown darkened Lucille Kellaway’s fine blue eyes. She was sitting in the prescribed manner for her pupils at Miss Pym’s School for Young Ladies, Oakham: upright with her hands neatly folded in her lap and her feet neatly aligned and peeping from beneath the hem of her old blue merino gown.

  ‘I collect that you refer to the death of George Kellaway? Yes, I heard the news from Mrs Markham.’ She sighed. ‘I fear that I always think of the Markhams as our true parents, for all that our father paid for our upkeep and education!’

  Susanna made a pretty moue. In the school’s shabby parlour she looked both golden and exotic, too rich for her surroundings. ‘For my part, I have no filial regard for either Gilbert Markham or George Kellaway!’ she declared strongly. ‘The former left us penniless and the latter never did anything for us, either living or dead! First he gave us away as babies, then he refused to have anything to do with us whilst we were growing up. When Mr Markham died and we needed him, where was he?’ She answered her own question bitterly. ‘Travelling in China! And we were left to make shift for ourselves! In my opinion, it’s a most unnatural father who can treat his children such, dismissing them without a thought!’

  Lucille Kellaway’s own opinion was that there was no point in feeling resentful about their treatment at the hands of a man neither of them had ever known and could not regard as a father. George Kellaway, widowed when his wife had died in childbirth, had obviously considered himself incapable of raising two daughters on his own. It was also incompatible with his lifestyle as an academic and explorer. He was therefore fortunate that he had a childless cousin, Gilbert Markham, who was only too pleased to take on the responsibility for the children’s upbringing. And they had been happy and well-cared for, Lucille reflected fairly. George Kellaway had provided the money to see his daughters educated at Miss Pym’s school, and they had spent the holidays at the Markhams’ vicarage near Ipswich.

  Their father had never shown any desire to set eyes on his offspring again, but then he had been forever travelling in Europe and, when war broke out, further afield. It would perhaps have been useful to have had him to turn to on Mr Markham’s death, for their adoptive father had left his small competence solely to his wife and the young daughter the couple had unexpectedly produced in later life. There had not been sufficient fortune to keep four people, and Markham had clearly expected Kellaway to support his own daughters. Lucille shrugged. What point was there now in regretting the fact that George Kellaway had been abroad on his cousin’s death, and totally unable to help his children even if he had had the inclination? He had not even appeared to have a man of business to whom they could apply. Penniless, they had been obliged to make their own way in the world—and they had chosen very different courses.

  ‘Did he leave you anything in his will?’ Susanna asked suddenly, the carelessness of her tone belied by the sharp cupidity in her eyes.

  Lucille raised her finely arched brows. ‘His will? I thought he died intestate—in Tibet, was it not? But since he had no property—’

  Susanna relaxed again, the same little, catlike smile on her lips. ‘Now that is where you are wrong, dear sis! I have been living in our father’s house this week past! And a sad bore it has been too,’ she added, with a petulant frown.

  The entry of the school’s housemaid with a pot of tea prevented Lucille from asking her sister to explain this extraordinary sentence. The maid cast Susanna one wary but fascinated look before pinning her gaze firmly on the floor as Miss Pym had undoubtedly instructed her to do. She put the tray before Lucille and backed out, but as she was leaving the room she could not resist another look at the wondrous creature draped over the parlour sofa. Miss Kellaway was so beautiful, she thought wistfully, with her silver gilt curls and warm blue eyes—and that dress of red silk…and the beautiful diamond necklace around her slim throat, a present, no doubt, from the besotted Duke of Penscombe. Fallen woman or not, Susanna Kellaway was much envied at that moment.

  ‘Thank you, Molly,’ Lucille said, a hint of amusement in her voice, and the maid was recalled to the present and could only wonder how so luscious a beauty as Miss Kellaway could have a twin sister as plain as Miss Lucille.

  The door closed behind her, and Lucille considered her sister thoughtfully, seeing her through Molly’s eyes. Susanna had disposed herself artfully on the sofa to display her figure to advantage. Lucille imagined this to be a reflex action of her sister’s since there were no gentlemen present to impress, although she expected the drawing and music masters to appear on some spurious excuse at any moment. The dress of clinging red silk which Molly had so admired plunged indecently at the front and was almost as low at the back; completely inappropriate for the daytime, Lucille thought, particularly within the portals of a school full of impressionable young girls. That Susanna had even been allowed over the threshold of such an establishment had amazed Lucille, for Miss Pym had never made any secret of the fact that she deplored the fact that one of her former pupils had become ‘a woman of low repute’. Miss Pym clearly felt that Susanna’s fall from grace reflected directly on the moral failure of the school.

  ‘You were saying, sister?’ she prompted gently.

  ‘Oh, yes, my sojourn in Suffolk!’ Susanna stifled a delicate yawn. ‘A monstrous tedious place, the country!’ She stopped.

  Lucille, used to her sister’s butterfly mind since childhood, did not display any i
mpatience. ‘Did I understand you to be saying that you had been visiting our father’s house? I was not aware that he owned—’

  ‘But of course you were! We were born at Cookes! I understand that Mr Kellaway always lived there between his travels!’

  Lucille frowned in an attempt to unravel this. ‘Of course I knew of Cookes, but I thought it to be leased. Yet you say you have inherited it?’

  Susanna smiled patronisingly. ‘I have inherited the lease, of course! Old Barnes told me all about it—you remember Mr Markham’s lawyer? I kept him on to deal with my business—why, whatever is the matter?’

  Lucille had clapped her hand to her mouth in horror. ‘Susanna, you do not employ Mr Barnes as your lawyer? Good God, the man’s business was composed solely of country doctors and parsons! Surely you shocked him to the core!’

  Her sister threw back her head with a gurgle of laughter. ‘Which shows how little you know of business, Luce! Barnes was only too happy to take on the work I gave him! What was I saying—oh yes, it was Barnes who read of our father’s death and drew to my attention the fact that I had a claim on the copyhold of Cookes. He is nothing if not thorough! And I thought—why not? There might be some financial advantage in it! After all, mine is not a very secure profession!’

  Lucille put down the china teapot and passed her sister a cup. ‘I see. So you have the right to claim the house and its effects as George Kellaway’s eldest child?’

  ‘So Barnes tells me. But there is no inheritance, for he spent all his money on his travels, and the house is full of nothing but books and bizarre artefacts from China!’ Susanna looked disgusted. ‘It’s all of a piece, I suppose! At any rate, you need not envy me my good fortune!’ She gave her sister her flashing smile.