The Diabolical Baron Read Free Page B

So choose whatever gown least becomes you, and let us hear your new dances.”
    * * * *
    The law firm of Chelmsford and Marlin, Solicitors, resembled any other such office in the City of London. Bland and impenetrable, it sat on its secrets. Inside, the young man climbing the stairs to Josiah Chelmsford, senior partner, moved with a hesitation beyond the physical limp of his right leg. His face was worn with an accumulation of fatigue and pain—a familiar look on soldiers who had fought for England and were no longer needed in the aftermath of Waterloo.
    The man known as Richard Dalton was glad to have closed the book on that chapter of his life. Waterloo lay ten months in the past, and much of that interval had been spent learning to walk again. He approached what the doctors thought an impossible task with the silent determination that was one of his chief charac teristics.
    That same iron will had kept his command nearly intact while fighting across four countries, and inspired his troops with a loyalty and respect bordering on reverence. Yet though he still wore his faded uniform, in his heart he was a captain no longer.
    Like most people, he regarded lawyers warily, but a chance glimpse of a small advertisement had brought him here today.
     
    ANYONE KNOWING THE WHEREABOUTS OF JULIUS DAVENPORT OR ANY OF HIS HEIRS IS ASKED TO CON TACT CHELMSFORD AND MARL1N, HOLBORN, TO LEARN SOMETHING OF BENEFIT TO SAID JULIUS DAVENPORT AND HEIRS.
     
    The advertisement had been running in the Gazette for months, though Richard had been in no position to see it. When it did catch his eye, he very nearly did not respond. But curiosity outweighed lethargy, and now he was being announced by the surly law clerk. “Captain Richard Dalton to see you.”
    “Come in, come in!” Josiah Chelmsford’s brusque voice carried easily across the cluttered office. The ro tund lawyer glanced up impatiently from his paper- covered desk, then paused with an arrested expression on his face.
    Surveying his visitor carefully, he saw a young man of medium height and wiry build, with a gaunt face that would have been handsome were it less tired. Needs fattening up, the lawyer thought. The thick brown hair was fashionably casual, but through nature, not artifice. Changeable hazel eyes with a crin kle of laughter lines looked from a face browned by years in a harsher sun than England’s.
    The lawyer stood up slowly, extending his hand over the desk. “Don’t tell me you are anyone other than Julius Davenport’s son, because I won’t believe you.”
    The smile that lit Richard’s face as he shook Chelms ford’s hand made him look younger than his twenty-eight years. “You knew my father, sir? I am said to resemble him greatly.”
    “You do indeed. The features show some of your mother, but the build and coloring and overall impression are Julius to the life. Where is your father now?”
    “Dead these last three years.”
    Chelmsford sighed and shook his head as he settled back into his chair. “Have a seat, boy. It is what I feared. I’d heard from him now and again over the years—not much, just an occasional note. But it has been too long since last he wrote. What happened, if you’ll pardon my asking?”
    “He and my mother were sailing a small boat in the Greek Isles. A sudden squall came up—they had no chance.” Richard’s voice was tight; he paused a mo ment, then continued. “It was what they would have wanted, to go together. Few people get the chance to die doing what they love, with the one they love most.”
    He stopped abruptly, having said more than he intended. He had spoken to no one of the tragedy since the village priest’s letter reporting the accident had reached him in Spain. First he couldn’t talk about it, and then there had been no one who had known his family. Living in a world where the friend one break fasted with might be dead by nightfall, it had seemed wrong to burden another with his private grief. Speak ing