Nicola Cornick: The Virtuous Cyprian

“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

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

#563 THE THE WEDDING WAGER

Deborah Hale

#564 THE MARSHAL AND MRS. O’MALLEY

Julianne MacLean

#565 THE SEA SPRITE

Ruth Langan

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

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 brother.