The Nightingale Legacy Read Free

success of his efforts. A good trade, certainly.
    Tomorrow she would tell Mr. Ffalkes what she thought of him. She would call him cheap and niggardly and shewould order that fires be set immediately, in every room, even in the great fireplace in the very old entrance hall that could easily roast an ox. Then she would kick him out. After tomorrow she would never have to see him or his wretched pointy-eared son again, a young man she liked when she didn’t want to smack him for being such a weak sod whenever he chanced to displease his father, which was often, at least when they visited Honeymead Manor.
    “Dear Miss Derwent-Jones.”
    She turned, frowning as she always did whenever Mr. Ffalkes addressed her with such hideous formality, which he did every time he saw her. She managed to erase the frown, striking a cool smile that she’d managed to cultivate during the past two years, exactly two years on the morrow it would be when he’d hauled Owen to Honeymead Manor to woo her. She’d known Owen all her life, and even liked him upon occasion, but that visit started them off in a horrid new direction, their childhood well and truly gone. Ah, what a tortuous drama they’d played, more like a comedy many times.
    The father was a pompous ass, his son a weakling, a young man who would never be allowed to become a man until his father shucked off his mortal coil. But Owen was nice for all that, in a bewildered sort of way, despite his wretched father. Mr. Ffalkes and Owen had been here only three days and she’d wanted to strike her guardian down with the fireplace poker after only twenty minutes. They’d come for her birthday, Mr. Ffalkes had announced, rubbing his hands together as he looked about the entrance hall that had been built by the Countess of Shrewsbury herself in 1587 or thereabouts. Owen would have been utterly distressed if he’d missed her birthday, his fond father had continued, beaming down at her, his eyes cold as his mouth smiled. Owen had stood there, his ears sticking out from hishead, and said nothing, as usual. Yes, the indulgent father had said, slanting a sideways look at the son, dear Owen was so fond of his cousin, so very devoted and concerned with her future and her happiness. Ah, then he’d gone on, laughing now, all fond tolerance, how Owen rhapsodized about her beautiful golden hair (actually it was a neat brown with perhaps a few strands of blond, cooked lighter under the summer sun) and her brilliant violet eyes—plain green her eyes were, if one were intent on reporting but a nodule of truth. On and on it went, until he’d gotten to her teeth. Then he’d failed utterly, finally comparing her teeth to the white cliffs of Dover, and that had made her laugh for she’d expected flawless pearls at the very least, but he’d run out of poetic nonsense and had to fall back on a geological formation.
    She realized then that she’d been standing there, just staring at him. She shook herself, trying to remember if he’d said anything else.
    “Hello, Mr. Ffalkes,” she said, her own smile every bit as frigidly warm as his. “The sun is finally shining. Perhaps the manor will warm up in a couple of weeks if the warm weather holds.”
    “Perhaps, but it isn’t important. I expect you were woolgathering, dear Miss Derwent-Jones. Well, that’s what one expects from charming young ladies, isn’t it? You are up and about quite early for a young miss who spent a late night in—dare I say it?—romantic sylvan pursuits? It’s only just now eight o’clock.”
    “Is this a law of nature I’ve not heard about? A young lady is supposed to stay in bed all day after evening jollity?” She thought fondly of that eager young man she would marry when she was a doddering old crone leaning on a cane.
    “You jest as usual, my dear. You are forever jesting withme, a charming part of your character, I would say, if I were at all charmed by such things. Owen is charmed by your repertoire of jests, but