For the Love of Lila (2 page)

Mr. Humphries tapped on the door. No answer came from within, but the clerk turned the knob. Lila leaned forward to peer inside.

She could see the corner of another desk, also occupied by a man. Humphries shifted a little and...
oh dear
. The second man was the one she’d seen in the great hall—the one with the long hair and nice nose. Now she could see his eyes, too—surprisingly blue and edged with enviable lashes.

Was it too much to wish he might be another clerk?

“Someone to see you, sir,” Humphries said.

The other man looked up, and her stomach began to ripple again. “Indeed? I don’t have an appointment, do I, Humphries?”

Something in her midsection turned over, and her fingers tightened around her portfolio. Blast her silly constitution! A moment ago, she’d been resigned to meeting this barrister. Why should the fact that he had a handsome face intimidate her? Was she a schoolroom miss, given to flights of romantic fancy? No, she was a worldly woman, capable of conquering such whims with a single stroke of rationality.

She glanced at the door, now closed but for a crack. Through the opening, she could just discern a portion of Mr. Wyndam’s thick hair, tickling the crest of his jaw. Her blood quickened and she dropped her gaze, smoothing down the wool of her skirt. But it was understandable that she should feel a wee bit nervous. After all, this man represented her best chance to obtain her trust money. She could allow herself some apprehension about meeting him.

What she would not allow was for him to see her lack of ease, to think even for one minute that he held any power over her. He most certainly did not. She’d already reasoned that she could do without the trust if she had to. The loss would delay her move to Paris—likely delay it for years—but she knew how to wait. She had spent a long time waiting for Paris.

She rose, shoulders back, and reminded herself what stable ground she stood on. Her father had created the trust for her, and Tristan Wyndam was indebted to her father. He would agree to see her, and he would help her access the money. He had no good reason to deny her.

Turning to face the door to his office, she lifted her chin higher. She’d make sure nothing in her demeanor—no sign of weakness or silliness—would give him even a poor reason.

CHAPTER TWO

“Someone 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 the section that concerns the trust he left me. The pertinent reference begins in the third paragraph. I am here because I should like to close that trust, and I need to know how to proceed.”

He scanned the document. The provisions were fairly standard, except for the trust’s being rather large and invested exceedingly well. A holding like this would best be retained as long as possible, though Miss Covington seemed to have other plans.

“I see that your uncle is named trustee,” he said, reading on. “He easily could have told you how to proceed.”

He heard her clear her throat, but she made no reply.

“I presume you don’t have immediate plans to marry, or your betrothed would be handling this.”

This time she sniffed. “No, I do not have plans to marry.”

A hard note in her tone made him look up. Bitterness? No, he read something else in the set of her jaw—determination.

She fixed her eyes on his. “How soon can I receive my money?”

He folded his hands on the desk. If she indeed took after her father, perhaps he could appeal to her sense of logic.

“I don’t recommend closing the trust,” he said, watching her face. “Your father had a talent for investment. You won’t get a better return elsewhere.”

“Profit is not always of primary consideration, Mr. Wyndam.” Her gaze didn’t waver, demonstrating a scrutiny that further convinced him she shared her father’s learning capacity.

Pity his head for business had bypassed her.

“What
is
your primary consideration?” he asked. She likely had no assets beyond the trust. If she meant to expend the money or reinvest it poorly, she could end up with nothing.

“I’m sure you’ll understand if I choose not to share any personal information.”

He did not understand, but he kept the thought to himself.

He looked back down to the document, not yet ready to rest his case. Surely, an intelligent woman would not want to undermine her entire worth. “Perhaps you might withdraw only the sum you require at the moment. Indeed, I urge you to leave the majority of the principle intact.”

“I shall require all of the money, Mr. Wyndam.”

His gaze darted back to her face, and for an instant he saw her fine black brows tilt upward. Another second, and her countenance went stoic, but he suspected she had more doubts than she would admit.

He searched her eyes for a hint to her motives. Why did she need so much money? Not for something frivolous, he felt certain. Might her uncle be in financial distress? If so, he did not like her giving up her security for a man who ought to tend to his own finances. With no money of her own, she would have to live as a poor relation forever, perhaps even be obliged to earn her keep elsewhere.

“Your father intended this money for your dowry.” He turned the will around to face her and pointed to a sentence in the center. “Pray read what he stipulates here.”

She didn’t bother looking down. “Mr. Wyndam, I am well versed with the contents of the will. Had I married in the two years since my father’s death, the money would have served as my dowry. But at five-and-twenty I become entitled to do what I please with it. Well, today I am five-and-twenty, and I am pleased to collect my inheritance.”

He turned the paper back around and stared at the words, though he, too, knew what they said. Damn, he hated to see her make such a poor decision. He always seemed to feel the cases he took on too personally—an unfortunate tendency in a barrister.

“Happy birthday,” he mumbled, stalling while he decided what to say next.

“Thank you, sir. I intend to enjoy it well.”

Another minute passed while he pretended to study the document, trying to persuade himself to allow the chit her foolishness. But she was Sir Francis’ daughter. The man had spent countless hours reviewing Tristan’s theses and contributing his own vital insights. Besides, he could not quite erase the vulnerability he’d glimpsed in her face. Though she had determined to close her trust, something about the plan worried her.

“Without a dowry, you will greatly diminish your chances of marrying well,” he said quietly, aware she wouldn’t appreciate his counsel.

“I shall not be getting married, Mr. Wyndam.” She pursed her lips, but one corner of her mouth tugged upward, giving her a look of satisfaction rather than petulance. “If nothing else, my age should make that apparent.”

“Not at all.” He had to force his gaze from her pout, noting that his thoughts had taken yet a more personal turn. As he returned to her eyes, their depth struck him again. He glanced over her creamy complexion and hair the color and sheen of coal. She was among the class of beauty his mother would call an
Incomparable
, yet she thought herself unmarriageable. Perhaps her education had chased away a few would-be suitors. Men often felt threatened by intelligent women.

“Is your birthday at the root of all this?” he asked. “Society has some daft notions about when a young woman ought to marry. Men are not expected to wed until their thirties. Why should a female consider herself past marriage any sooner?”

She raised one eyebrow. “I commend you on your reasoning, sir, but you mistake mine. I don’t wish to marry. My decision is based on my principles, not my age.”

“What principles?”

Her lips parted, but for a moment she said nothing. When she did, she dropped her gaze. “I don’t believe I need discuss my private beliefs with a stranger.”

“No, of course not.” His let out a long breath. He supposed he had no choice but to let her ruin her life. At such moments, he could hardly wait till the day when he would put the office of barrister behind him. When he attained a seat in Parliament, he would make laws, change laws, influence a society, not simply expedite the whims of a few. And not have to feel anguish for each individual who made a bad decision.

He had just picked up his quill when his clerk knocked on the open door, ducking his head through the frame.

“Beg pardon, Mr. Wyndam.” Humphries held up a handful of papers. “You still haven’t signed your traveling documents for Paris. If they aren’t processed this afternoon, you won’t be able to depart on time.”

“Leave them on my desk, Mr. Humphries. I shall get to them in a moment.”

The clerk set down the sheets and exited, and Tristan looked back to Miss Covington. She lifted her gaze from the traveling documents to his eyes and wet her lips as if about to say something. Instead, she looked back down into her lap.

“What is it, Miss Covington?” he asked, hoping she would confide her misgivings—or at least tell him why she needed so much money.

Her large eyes grew yet a trifle wider, the only hint that she felt any trepidation. “You are traveling to Paris?”

He held back a sigh. After such a crescendo, nothing but idle chatter. “Yes, the day after tomorrow.”

She stared down at her folded hands. “I myself am...on my way to Paris.”

He watched her averted face with renewed curiosity. Perhaps she had a purpose to this speech, after all. “When do you leave?”

“Well...I have not yet made the arrangements.” She met his gaze, her face still inclined so that she looked at him through long lashes. “I have limited experience with that sort of thing. I wonder if, perhaps, you might tell me how one goes about obtaining a passport and securing passage across the Channel. I also need to hire a companion, maybe a groom as well. I could use some guidance in all these areas.”

He frowned. Did she truly believe an unmarried woman could travel abroad on her own? The idea was preposterous. But from what he’d observed of her so far, he had a feeling she wouldn’t want to be told so. He hesitated. “I begin to see why you want to close your trust. Such a journey will incur a great deal of expense.”

“Yes. I confess I’d also welcome any suggestions you have for economy.”

He drew in a deep breath. “Miss Covington, have you considered the dangers of this undertaking? You could be held up by highwaymen or, at the least, swindled by dishonest innkeepers. Not to mention the injury your reputation would suffer if society were to learn of your traveling without proper chaperonage.”