Page 37 of Marry in Haste
Cal watched the way the lad strode toward him. “No, you’re not,” he said slowly. “Georgina, or Georgette, maybe, but not George.”
His niece’s gray eyes flashed. “I prefer George.”
“I’m sure you do, but what does it say on the parish register?”
She met his question with a mulish expression and a chin lifted in silent challenge. There was a streak of dried mud across her forehead. He waited. After a moment she said sulkily, “Georgiana. But I don’t answer to that.”
“We’ll discuss it later. In the meantime, I presume there is someone to help see to the horses?” Usually a stableboy would have come out at the first sign of a coach arriving, but there was no sign of anyone.
“I’ll see to them.”
Cal’s brows rose. “Thank you. I’ll meet you in the house in, shall we say ten minutes?”
“You’re very free with my home,” she snapped.
“A habit of uncles,” Cal answered with mock sympathy. He was pleased to have her distracted. It would give him a chance to get the lay of the land.
***
He found the sitting room, a shabby but comfortable-looking room with overstuffed armchairs and lined with bookshelves. A small fire glowed sullenly in a large stone fireplace. Darker patches on the faded paint showed where paintings had once hung. Where were they now?
Cal noticed a small pile of papers—legal documents?—on a table next to the window. He picked up the top one.
It was a letter from Chiswick, the lawyer in Alderton, advising Miss Georgiana to find her mother’s marriage lines and other documentation so he could contest her father’s will.
Marriage lines? Then Miss Georgiana was no bastard after all.
He glanced through the lawyer’s letter again, then read through the fair copy of Henry’s will that lay beneath it. He felt a spurt of anger on the girl’s behalf.
The will made no mention of Georgiana. He’d left her nothing. Not a penny. Dammit, she was his daughter. Henry had no business leaving her without any visible means of support.
How did she live? Who was looking after her? There was no sign of any other adult in evidence. Cal sifted through the documents to see what else he could learn.
A cold draft from the door alerted him to his niece’s return. “How dare you! Those papers are private!” She stormed forward and snatched them out of his hand, her gray eyes sparking with anger. Eyes the exact same color as Cal’s. “Who do you think you are, walking into my home and looking through my private—”
“I told you, I’m your uncle, Calbourne Rutherford, Lord Ashendon since your father died, and currently head of your family.”
She put her chin up. “I’ve only got your word for it that you’re my uncle.”
“That and the evidence of your looking glass—if you use one,” he added, noticing a fresh smear of mud on her cheek. Did she always greet her guests with a dirty face and smelling of the stables?
She scowled, and the family resemblance was even more pronounced. Oh, lord, everyone was going to take this touchy ragamuffin for his daughter.
“How old are you?”
She stiffened. “None of your b—”
“You look about sixteen.”
“I’m eighteen. I turned eighteen last month.”
“And who is looking after you?”
She snorted. “I’m not a child. I don’t need to be looked after. I can take care of myself!”
“Let me rephrase the question; whom do you live with?”
“Finn.” She put a hand on the dog’s collar. “And Martha.”
