For the Love of Lila Read Free

to see you, sir.”
    “Indeed?” Tristan Wyndam looked up from a volume of city statutes, blinking to ease his eyes. Engrossed in note-taking, he hadn’t even heard his clerk open the door. “I don’t have an appointment, do I, Humphries?”
    The clerk stepped inside, closing the door most of the way. “No, sir, but the lady is—”
    “The lady?” He pushed the law book aside and shuffled his note papers into order. “Is she with a solicitor?”
    “No, sir. She says she has only a simple legal question, something pertaining to a trust. I wouldn’t have disturbed you, but I know how highly you esteemed the her father. On several occasions, you’ve mentioned how Sir Francis helped you—”
    “Sir Francis Covington?” He looked up from his papers. “The woman here is his daughter? Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
    “I beg your pardon. I thought I had mentioned her name. Miss Lila Covington.”
    Tristan stared past the clerk at the door, trying to remember if he’d ever been introduced to her. He and Sir Francis had maintained an academic correspondence for several years but met each other in person only twice. The man’s daughter hadn’t accompanied him either time, though he had spoken of her. Tristan remembered being surprised at the excess of fatherly pride he’d displayed. The attribute had seemed out of character in such a practical man.
    “She is his only child,” Humphries said. “I know because my family resided in Devonshire, quite near the Covington estate.”
    Tristan cocked an eyebrow at him. He was tempted to inquire if she was anything like the paragon of intellect her father had described, but he didn’t want to encourage gossip, especially about his mentor’s daughter.
    “I have heard all about her,” the clerk said without prompting. He glanced over his shoulder toward the outer office, then leaned over the desk. “‘Tis said that, having no sons, Sir Francis raised her to follow his academic pursuits, practically molding her into a bluestocking.”
    Tristan’s curiosity deflated. The label “bluestocking” didn’t carry quite the same intrigue as “paragon.” Nay, the epithet usually translated into “dead bore.” And the woman’s maiden name proved she was a spinster—more evidence of the same.
    The clerk lowered his voice to a tone of confidentiality. “‘Tis said that she had male tutors rather than a governess. ‘Tis said–”
    “Send her in, and I’ll see what she has to say.” He picked up his notes, annoyed that he hadn’t cut Humphries off from the start. By waiting, he had wronged Lila Covington and his late mentor. He would make it up by doing whatever he could to advise the woman.
    “Of course, sir.” Humphries bowed and left the room.
    The door opened again and Tristan stood to present himself. But when Miss Covington entered, his note papers slid through his fingers and fluttered to the desk.
    The scholar’s daughter hardly conformed to his idea of a bluestocking. Instead of the bespectacled spinster he had expected, he saw a youthful beauty with sleek black hair and large onyx-like eyes. Her slender body wasn’t shrouded in gray but trimmed in a fashionable bottle-green spencer. Not that she fit the role of debutante, either. She bore herself with too much dignity and offered him no affected smile, only her hand.
    “I am Lila Covington.” Rather than hold her fingers limp in his, she clasped his hand. “Thank you for seeing me. I promise not to take up much of your time.”
    “Tristan Wyndam,” he said, unable to look away from her eyes. Her father had possessed that same intense gaze. Tristan had always taken the trait for a sign of intellect. Now he wondered if there might be something to the old man’s estimation of her, after all. “Please, have a seat. How can I be of service?”
    She sat in the sole other chair and handed him a packet of papers. “This is a copy of my father’s will. You will see that I have marked