Read Online What a Woman Wants (A Manley Maids Novel) by Judi Fennell - Free Book Online
Authors: Judi Fennell
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guy’s fault that her grandmother had had a God complex. She just hoped he was getting paid well. “Okay, fine. Whatever. Just lay it on me so I can get to it.”
Mr. Scanlon arched his eyebrows, which, with the way they moved halfway up his receding hairline, made him look like Mr. Potato Head of the interchangeable facial parts.
She coughed into her fist to cover the giggle. He really did look like Mr. Potato Head.
“I can’t just
give
them to you, Ms. Carolla. Mrs. Martinson left specific instructions, and the first is that I record the precise time when I give you the first document.”
“
First
document?” Livvy leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap. “There are more?”
Exactly how long did she have to jump to Merriweather’s tune? The house was losing more of its appeal every moment.
And when a crash sounded in the next room, the appeal only lessened.
Although it did tick up a notch when she heard a muffled male curse that she was pretty sure was Sean’s—she’d worked very hard to make sure Orwell’s vocabulary was PG-rated at worst.
Mr. Scanlon unlocked the brass latches of his briefcase with a very loud and authoritative
click
. On purpose, she was sure. He’d hung around Merriweather too long.
Of course, given the fact that she sat up straight, crossed her ankles, and clasped her hands in her lap showed just what conditioning could do. Boarding school had been great—if that’s what she could call it—at conditioning.
Except, hey, she was in her own house and didn’t have to do what anyone told her.
Livvy lounged back in the chair, crossed one leg over the other, and put a little swing action into it, enjoying the fact that she didn’t have to toe anyone’s line anymore.
Mr. Scanlon handed her the first document. “If you’ll read that, please.” Then he wrote something down in the journal he also removed from the briefcase.
Livvy gnawed on the inside of her cheek and lifted the paper. It was her grandmother’s handwriting. Livvy had seen the imperial scrawl often enough on the checks the headmistress made sure she saw. All part of that gratitude thing everyone thought she ought to feel.
She flicked the paper and the first word jumped out at her.
Olivia
.
Well, that covered it in a nutshell. No messy emotions like, “My Dear Granddaughter,” or “Darling Olivia.” As if that’d ever happen.
Livvy cleared her throat.
Olivia.
My attorney has all the pertinent documents making what I’m about to explain legal and binding, but I’m sure you can’t be bothered by all the legalese, so I’ll get to the point.
The Martinson name has been revered for centuries. Not just anyone should claim it, and those who do should know its history. Since studying history was not one of your strong suits at the Academy, I have created a series of clues for you to follow. The first will lead you to the next, and so on, until you reach the last.
You have two weeks to the minute from now to find the clues and present the last to my attorney’s firm, whereupon you shall claim your inheritance, or the estate will be sold in accordance with terms I’ve specified to Mr. Scanlon.
I am aware, Olivia, of your hatred for this family. Of your desire to remove yourself from it, so I expect your first instinct to be to throw this away. But consider what turning your back on this home and our vast fortune means. Are you willing to give it all up? Willing to deny all the good your bleeding heart could do with it? The choice is yours.
The clock is ticking.
Don’t fail me, Olivia.
Don’t fail me.
No signature because one wasn’t necessary. Just the directive. Had Merriweather Knightsbridge Martinson ever
asked
for a thing in her life? Livvy doubted it.
She set the paper on the desk. Typical battle-axe self-centeredness. Livvy hadn’t really expected anything else.
She would so love to tell the old woman to shove it, but that’s exactly what Merriweather had expected. The woman had never
Mr. Scanlon arched his eyebrows, which, with the way they moved halfway up his receding hairline, made him look like Mr. Potato Head of the interchangeable facial parts.
She coughed into her fist to cover the giggle. He really did look like Mr. Potato Head.
“I can’t just
give
them to you, Ms. Carolla. Mrs. Martinson left specific instructions, and the first is that I record the precise time when I give you the first document.”
“
First
document?” Livvy leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap. “There are more?”
Exactly how long did she have to jump to Merriweather’s tune? The house was losing more of its appeal every moment.
And when a crash sounded in the next room, the appeal only lessened.
Although it did tick up a notch when she heard a muffled male curse that she was pretty sure was Sean’s—she’d worked very hard to make sure Orwell’s vocabulary was PG-rated at worst.
Mr. Scanlon unlocked the brass latches of his briefcase with a very loud and authoritative
click
. On purpose, she was sure. He’d hung around Merriweather too long.
Of course, given the fact that she sat up straight, crossed her ankles, and clasped her hands in her lap showed just what conditioning could do. Boarding school had been great—if that’s what she could call it—at conditioning.
Except, hey, she was in her own house and didn’t have to do what anyone told her.
Livvy lounged back in the chair, crossed one leg over the other, and put a little swing action into it, enjoying the fact that she didn’t have to toe anyone’s line anymore.
Mr. Scanlon handed her the first document. “If you’ll read that, please.” Then he wrote something down in the journal he also removed from the briefcase.
Livvy gnawed on the inside of her cheek and lifted the paper. It was her grandmother’s handwriting. Livvy had seen the imperial scrawl often enough on the checks the headmistress made sure she saw. All part of that gratitude thing everyone thought she ought to feel.
She flicked the paper and the first word jumped out at her.
Olivia
.
Well, that covered it in a nutshell. No messy emotions like, “My Dear Granddaughter,” or “Darling Olivia.” As if that’d ever happen.
Livvy cleared her throat.
Olivia.
My attorney has all the pertinent documents making what I’m about to explain legal and binding, but I’m sure you can’t be bothered by all the legalese, so I’ll get to the point.
The Martinson name has been revered for centuries. Not just anyone should claim it, and those who do should know its history. Since studying history was not one of your strong suits at the Academy, I have created a series of clues for you to follow. The first will lead you to the next, and so on, until you reach the last.
You have two weeks to the minute from now to find the clues and present the last to my attorney’s firm, whereupon you shall claim your inheritance, or the estate will be sold in accordance with terms I’ve specified to Mr. Scanlon.
I am aware, Olivia, of your hatred for this family. Of your desire to remove yourself from it, so I expect your first instinct to be to throw this away. But consider what turning your back on this home and our vast fortune means. Are you willing to give it all up? Willing to deny all the good your bleeding heart could do with it? The choice is yours.
The clock is ticking.
Don’t fail me, Olivia.
Don’t fail me.
No signature because one wasn’t necessary. Just the directive. Had Merriweather Knightsbridge Martinson ever
asked
for a thing in her life? Livvy doubted it.
She set the paper on the desk. Typical battle-axe self-centeredness. Livvy hadn’t really expected anything else.
She would so love to tell the old woman to shove it, but that’s exactly what Merriweather had expected. The woman had never
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