Read Online The Golden Leopard by Lynn Kerstan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lynn Kerstan
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the stakes will triple once the real shooting begins. There’s gaming in the evenings as well, although I wouldn’t bet against Duran at the whist table. Pageter’s winning a little there, but not enough to cover his other losses.”
She could hardly believe what she was hearing. John Pageter was the most serious-minded, upright man she had ever known. Of course he gambled—all gentlemen did—but never to excess. Not John. Something was wrong here.
Suddenly unable to watch any longer, she took leave of Lord Marley and set out for the house, hoping that Helena would arrive today with the bank drafts for her clients. That would provide the excuse she needed to leave High Tor and its most annoying resident.
The post had arrived, she saw by the orderly chaos in the entrance hall. Geeson was sorting the contents of the leather bag into neat piles and laying them out on a sideboard while footmen with chased-silver trays moved up and down the staircase, delivering letters to the guest rooms and quickly returning for another stack.
Smiling when she came up to him, Geeson handed her three letters, two from clients and one from her secretary, which she opened and read immediately. Helena’s cold had worsened, but she expected to be well enough to travel before the end of the week. Lord Duran had stopped calling at the town house.
No surprise there. Jessica was scanning the last of Helena’s message when Mariah, an open letter in her hand, slipped from the drawing room and walked unsteadily toward the staircase. Her face was pale as milk.
Jessica moved to intercept her. “What is it? Have you received bad news?”
Mariah gazed at her kidskin slippers. “No. Not really. But I shall have to leave for Dorset.” The letter fluttered in her hand. “Do you suppose it would be acceptable for me to wait until morning? But there’s no reason—is there?—since it won’t be dark for hours and hours yet.”
The foyer was no place to extract the reason for her distress. “Come with me,” Jessica said, gripping her arm and towing her toward the rear passageway.
By the time they arrived at the one place in the house that was certain to be deserted, Mariah had begun to weep. “Why are we here?” she whimpered.
“Because I hate it here.” Jessica unlatched the door and tugged her sister into the conservatory. And stopped as if she had slammed into an invisible wall. “God in heaven, Mariah. Did you do this?”
Brilliant sunlight streamed through clear glass panes, all of them intact. Directly ahead, the tiled floor gave way to gravel paths, a pair of them, each winding through a patchwork of lush green plants and bright flowers. Stunned, she released Mariah’s arm to examine an herb garden filled with rosemary, feverfew, Saint-John’s-wort, and lavender.
Who could have done this? Not her father, who wouldn’t know a turnip from his elbow.
Mariah was still standing by the door, her expression confused and miserable. “I didn’t think you’d ever set foot in here, Jessica. Perhaps I should have told you. I had nothing to do with it, of course.”
The accustomed, unwelcome impatience itched at Jessica’s skin. “Never mind the conservatory,” she said briskly. “What is in that letter?”
Mariah glanced down at her fisted hand and the paper crunched inside it. “A disappointment. Gerald wishes me to return to Dorset immediately. He doesn’t say when he expects to arrive, but I am to be there when he does. So you see, I must set out this afternoon, in case he has already . . .” Her voice, faltering toward the end, faded altogether.
“Rubbish. Why must you scamper home because he has snapped his fingers? And I should be very much surprised if he has the least intention of joining you there. Not until matters are settled between us.”
“Us? You and Gerald?”
“A question of business, that is all. I intend to put an end to his scheming. For now, simply write him back and say that it is not convenient
She could hardly believe what she was hearing. John Pageter was the most serious-minded, upright man she had ever known. Of course he gambled—all gentlemen did—but never to excess. Not John. Something was wrong here.
Suddenly unable to watch any longer, she took leave of Lord Marley and set out for the house, hoping that Helena would arrive today with the bank drafts for her clients. That would provide the excuse she needed to leave High Tor and its most annoying resident.
The post had arrived, she saw by the orderly chaos in the entrance hall. Geeson was sorting the contents of the leather bag into neat piles and laying them out on a sideboard while footmen with chased-silver trays moved up and down the staircase, delivering letters to the guest rooms and quickly returning for another stack.
Smiling when she came up to him, Geeson handed her three letters, two from clients and one from her secretary, which she opened and read immediately. Helena’s cold had worsened, but she expected to be well enough to travel before the end of the week. Lord Duran had stopped calling at the town house.
No surprise there. Jessica was scanning the last of Helena’s message when Mariah, an open letter in her hand, slipped from the drawing room and walked unsteadily toward the staircase. Her face was pale as milk.
Jessica moved to intercept her. “What is it? Have you received bad news?”
Mariah gazed at her kidskin slippers. “No. Not really. But I shall have to leave for Dorset.” The letter fluttered in her hand. “Do you suppose it would be acceptable for me to wait until morning? But there’s no reason—is there?—since it won’t be dark for hours and hours yet.”
The foyer was no place to extract the reason for her distress. “Come with me,” Jessica said, gripping her arm and towing her toward the rear passageway.
By the time they arrived at the one place in the house that was certain to be deserted, Mariah had begun to weep. “Why are we here?” she whimpered.
“Because I hate it here.” Jessica unlatched the door and tugged her sister into the conservatory. And stopped as if she had slammed into an invisible wall. “God in heaven, Mariah. Did you do this?”
Brilliant sunlight streamed through clear glass panes, all of them intact. Directly ahead, the tiled floor gave way to gravel paths, a pair of them, each winding through a patchwork of lush green plants and bright flowers. Stunned, she released Mariah’s arm to examine an herb garden filled with rosemary, feverfew, Saint-John’s-wort, and lavender.
Who could have done this? Not her father, who wouldn’t know a turnip from his elbow.
Mariah was still standing by the door, her expression confused and miserable. “I didn’t think you’d ever set foot in here, Jessica. Perhaps I should have told you. I had nothing to do with it, of course.”
The accustomed, unwelcome impatience itched at Jessica’s skin. “Never mind the conservatory,” she said briskly. “What is in that letter?”
Mariah glanced down at her fisted hand and the paper crunched inside it. “A disappointment. Gerald wishes me to return to Dorset immediately. He doesn’t say when he expects to arrive, but I am to be there when he does. So you see, I must set out this afternoon, in case he has already . . .” Her voice, faltering toward the end, faded altogether.
“Rubbish. Why must you scamper home because he has snapped his fingers? And I should be very much surprised if he has the least intention of joining you there. Not until matters are settled between us.”
“Us? You and Gerald?”
“A question of business, that is all. I intend to put an end to his scheming. For now, simply write him back and say that it is not convenient
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