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mother’s topaz parure, a set of hideous objects which she has long coveted although they render her still sallower than the hazard of nature.’ I beg your pardon, Lady Philpott, but I am required to read every word,” Mr Harwood apologised.
    Lady Philpott moaned. Her husband hushed her, leaning forward in eager anticipation.
    “Yes, yes, man, go on.”
    “To my brother Neville, who sold his house in order to have an excuse to batten on me forever,...”
    As the lawyer read, Nerissa studied her uncle. Sir Neville was a tall, thin man in his sixties whose receding chin and forehead gave him an air of ineptitude. At present, however, he radiated confidence, suggesting he had dismissed the possibility of his brother leaving the estate to a female or outside the family.
    No doubt his confidence was justified, Nerissa reflected regretfully. He was the new baronet and Addlescombe was probably entailed upon the heir to the title, though Mama hadn’t been sure of that.
    Again, woolgathering, she had missed Mr Harwood’s words. Their import was easy to guess from the incredulous fury that distorted Sir Neville’s fishlike features. She was aware of Mr Courtenay abruptly sitting upright beside her as the baronet’s mouth opened and shut soundlessly.
    “That’s all?” he croaked at last. “But... Addlescombe! And there must be at least a hundred thousand in Consols! What the deuce?”
    Nerissa and Mr Courtenay exchanged a glance in which hope was suddenly kindled.
    “Please, Sir Neville,” said Mr Harwood unhappily, “I assure you I had very little influence upon your late brother when it came to writing his Will. I succeeded in reversing his original intention of completely cutting out you and your immediate family on the grounds that he has supported you.... But you are anxious to hear the remaining provisions. Allow me.” He cleared his throat.
    Two hundred a year, Nerissa prayed, fingers crossed. One hundred a year. Just enough to get her back to York without starving to death on the way. Mr Courtenay or the Foundling Hospital could have the rest with her good will.
    “‘The remainder of my worldly goods and chattels, including the manor and demesne of Addlescombe and all monies whatsoever not hitherto accounted for, is to be divided equally between the only two persons with a claim to my benevolence who have never attempted--in the vulgar phrase--to sponge off me, namely, my godson, Miles Courtenay, and my granddaughter, Nerissa Wingate, upon....’“
    He was cut off by cries of outrage. Nerissa sat stunned until Mr Courtenay’s hand closed over hers.
    “Don’t rejoice too soon, Miss Wingate,” he said with an odd little smile. “I don’t believe we are yet safe home.”
    “Upon!” bellowed Mr Harwood in an unexpectedly loud voice. As the babble ceased, he went on in his normal, rather diffident tones. “‘Upon the following conditions.’“ He took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself.
    With a coldness in her middle, Nerissa wondered whether her grandfather was going to demand from the grave that she sever all connection with her parents. Sir Barnabas had obviously not forgiven his daughter for marrying against his wishes, or he’d have left his wealth directly to her.
    Such a condition would be impossible to fulfil. Better the struggle to make ends meet with Mama and Papa than to live in luxury without them. But oh, to be so near and yet so far!
    “Miss Wingate, Mr Courtenay,” the lawyer appealed to them, “pray understand that I am not about to relate my own sentiments but to read Sir Barnabas’s words as dictated to me.”
    “I understand,” said Mr Courtenay sardonically, “and I shall not hold you to blame for my godfather’s fulminations, sir, I promise you.”
    Biting her lip, Nerissa nodded.
    “‘I’--that is, Sir Barnabas--” The lawyer looked despairingly at the inkstand on the desk, as though it might relieve him of his unpleasant task. It failed to respond. “‘I am