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Dunford waved his arms expansively. "Let's hear it then."
Leverett glanced over at Belle and then back at Dunford. "Perhaps we should speak privately, sir? Since she is not a relation."
"Of course." Dunford turned to Belle. "You don't mind, do you?"
"Oh, not at all," she assured him, her smile saying she would have a thousand questions ready when they were through. "I'll wait."
Dunford motioned toward a door leading to his study. "Right through here, Mr. Leverett."
They left the room, and Belle was delighted to note they did not shut the door properly. She immediately stood up and moved to the chair closest to the slightly open door. She craned her neck, her ears pricking up right away.
A mumble of voices.
More mumble.
And then, from Dunford, "My cousin who?"
Mumble, mumble.
"From where?"
Mumble, mumble, something that sounded like Cornwall.
"How many times removed?"
No, that couldn't have been "eight" that she heard.
"And he left me what?"
Belle clapped her hands together. How delightful! Dunford had just come into an unexpected inheritance. She rather hoped it was something good. One of her friends had just unwillingly inherited thirty-seven cats.
The rest of the conversation was impossible to decipher. After a few minutes the two men emerged and shook hands. Leverett shoved a few papers into his case and said, "I'll have the rest of the documents sent over as soon as possible. We'll need your signature, of course."
"Of course."
Leverett nodded and exited the room.
"Well?" Belle demanded.
Dunford blinked a few times, as if he still couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard. "I seem to have inherited a barony."
"A barony! Goodness, I'm not going to have to call you Lord Dunford now, am I?"
He rolled his eyes. "When was the last time I called you Lady Blackwood?"
"Not ten minutes ago," she pointed out pertly, "when you introduced me to Mr. Leverett."
"Touché, Belle." He sank down onto the sofa, not even waiting for her to seat herself first. "I suppose you may call me Lord Stannage."
"Lord Stannage," she murmured. "How perfectly distinguished. William Dunford, Lord Stannage." She smiled devilishly. "It is William, isn't it?"
Dunford snorted. He was so rarely called by his first name that they had a long-running joke that she couldn't remember it. "I asked my mother," he finally replied. "She said she thinks it's William."
"Who died?" Belle asked baldly.
"Ever brimming with tact and refinement, my dear Arabella."
"Well, you obviously cannot be grieving overmuch over the loss of your, er, distant relative, since you didn't even know of his existence until now."
"A cousin. An eighth cousin, to be exact."
"And they couldn't find anyone more closely related?" she asked disbelievingly. "Not that I begrudge you your good fortune, of course, but it is quite a stretch."
"We seem to be a family of fillies."
"Nicely put," she muttered sarcastically.
"Metaphors aside," he said, ignoring her jibe, "I am now in possession of a title and a small estate in Cornwall."
So she had heard correctly. "Have you ever been to Cornwall?"
"Never. Have you?"
She shook her head. "I hear it's quite dramatic. Cliffs and crashing waves and all that. Very uncivilized."
"How uncivilized could it be, Belle? This is England, after all."
She shrugged. "Are you going to go down for a visit?"
"I suppose I must." He tapped his finger against his thigh. "Uncivilized, you say? I'll probably adore it."
"I hope he hates it here," Henrietta Barrett said, taking a vicious bite of her apple. "I hope he really hates it."
"Now, now, Henry," Mrs. Simpson, the housekeeper of Stannage Park, said with a cluck. "That isn't very charitable of you."
"I'm not feeling terribly charitable at the moment. I've put a lot of work into Stannage Park." Henry's eyes glowed wistfully. She had lived here in Cornwall since the age of eight, when her parents had been killed in a carriage accident in their hometown of Manchester, leaving her orphaned and penniless. Viola, the late baron's late wife, had been her grandmother's cousin and graciously agreed to take her in. Henry had immediately fallen in love with Stannage Park, from the pale stone of the building to the shimmering windows to every last tenant who lived on the property. The servants even had found her polishing the silver one day. "I want everything to sparkle," she had said. "It has to be perfect, for this is truly a perfect place."
And so Cornwall had become her home, more so than Manchester had ever been. Viola had doted on her, and Carlyle, her husband, became a sort of distant father figure. He didn't spend a lot of time with her, but he always had a friendly pat on the head ready when she passed him in the hall. When she was fourteen, however, Viola died, and Carlyle was desolate. He retreated into himself, letting the details of running the estate flounder.
Henry had immediately stepped in. She loved Stannage Park as much as anybody and had firm ideas on how it should be run. For the past six years she had been not only the lady of the manor but the lord as well, universally accepted as the person in charge. And she liked her life just fine.
But Carlyle had died, and the estate and title had passed on to some distant cousin in London who was probably a fop and a dandy. He'd never been to Cornwall before, she'd heard, conveniently forgetting that she'd never been here either before she'd arrived twelve years before.