The Virtuous Cyprian. Nicola Cornick

in a highly publicised and disreputable affair with the Duke of Penscombe? Josselyn found that he was almost gasping for breath. Could this bird of paradise really be the daughter of the scholarly recluse who had lived quietly in Dillingham for over thirty years?

      Walter Mutch was on his feet, his chair clattering back. He had always had a hot temper and was several degrees below his late uncle’s station in country society. He saw no need to hold his tongue. ‘It’s a lie!’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘My uncle never had a child! I protest—’ He started forward, only to be restrained by his younger brother.

      ‘There must be some mistake…’ Josselyn began hopelessly, and looked up to meet the comprehension and wicked mischief in the lady’s eyes, which told him more eloquently than any words that his identification of her had been correct.

      ‘I assure you that there is no mistake, sir,’ Susanna Kellaway said, with cool confidence. ‘I have here my parents’ marriage lines and the record of my birth. As I said, sir, I am the rightful claimant to Cookes!’ She placed the papers in front of Josselyn, but they could have been written in Chinese for all the sense he could make of them in his current state of agitation.

      The whole courtroom burst into uproar. Mutch was shouting, his brother pulling on his arm to try to quieten him. The clerk was banging his gavel and demanding order, but no one was taking any notice. All occupants of the room had turned to their neighbours and were avidly debating whether George Kellaway had ever had a daughter, and which members of the village could remember. And such a daughter! Josselyn looked hopelessly at the lady in question and saw that she was enjoying his discomfiture. She evidently appreciated both the effect she invariably had on men and also the drama she had caused. She leant across his table and he caught a tantalising hint of expensive perfume.

      ‘My lawyer will be in touch to negotiate the terms of the lease,’ she said with a charming smile. ‘I bid you good day, sir.’ And so saying, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Josselyn in the midst of the disarray, contemplating the ruin of his afternoon. He reached instinctively for paper and ink with a hand that shook. Normally he would not trouble Lord Seagrave with estate matters, but in this instance…He shook his head incredulously. He dared not risk leaving his lordship in ignorance of this astounding piece of news. Besides, the situation was too complex for him. He had no notion of how Seagrave would feel at a notorious Cyprian establishing herself on his country estate. Remembering the Cyprian and her melting smile, Josselyn came out in a hot sweat again. No, indeed—Lord Seagrave would have to be told.

      

      ‘Whatever can have brought you here, Susanna?’

      A less thick-skinned woman than Susanna Kellaway might have noticed the lack of enthusiasm in her sister’s voice, but she had become inured to snubs over the years. Besides, she knew that Lucille’s cool welcome stemmed less from disapproval of her twin than recognition of the fact that Susanna only sought her out when she wanted something. She gave her sister the benefit of her feline smile and waved one white hand in a consciously elegant gesture.

      ‘Why, I came to commiserate with you on the death of our dear father! I assume that you had heard?’

      A frown darkened Lucille Kellaway’s fine blue eyes. She was sitting in the prescribed manner for her pupils at Miss Pym’s School for Young Ladies, Oakham: upright with her hands neatly folded in her lap and her feet neatly aligned and peeping from beneath the hem of her old blue merino gown.

      ‘I collect that you refer to the death of George Kellaway? Yes, I heard the news from Mrs Markham.’ She sighed. ‘I fear that I always think of the Markhams as our true parents, for all that our father paid for our upkeep and education!’

      Susanna made a pretty moue. In the school’s shabby parlour she looked both golden and exotic, too rich for her surroundings. ‘For my part, I have no filial regard for either Gilbert Markham or George Kellaway!’ she declared strongly. ‘The former left us penniless and the latter never did anything for us, either living or dead! First he gave us away as babies, then he refused to have anything to do with us whilst we were growing up. When Mr Markham died and we needed him, where was he?’ She answered her own question bitterly. ‘Travelling in China! And we were left to make shift for ourselves! In my opinion, it’s a most unnatural father who can treat his children such, dismissing them without a thought!’

      Lucille Kellaway’s own opinion was that there was no point in feeling resentful about their treatment at the hands of a man neither of them had ever known and could not regard as a father. George Kellaway, widowed when his wife had died in childbirth, had obviously considered himself incapable of raising two daughters on his own. It was also incompatible with his lifestyle as an academic and explorer. He was therefore fortunate that he had a childless cousin, Gilbert Markham, who was only too pleased to take on the responsibility for the children’s upbringing. And they had been happy and well-cared for, Lucille reflected fairly. George Kellaway had provided the money to see his daughters educated at Miss Pym’s school, and they had spent the holidays at the Markhams’ vicarage near Ipswich.

      Their father had never shown any desire to set eyes on his offspring again, but then he had been forever travelling in Europe and, when war broke out, further afield. It would perhaps have been useful to have had him to turn to on Mr Markham’s death, for their adoptive father had left his small competence solely to his wife and the young daughter the couple had unexpectedly produced in later life. There had not been sufficient fortune to keep four people, and Markham had clearly expected Kellaway to support his own daughters. Lucille shrugged. What point was there now in regretting the fact that George Kellaway had been abroad on his cousin’s death, and totally unable to help his children even if he had had the inclination? He had not even appeared to have a man of business to whom they could apply. Penniless, they had been obliged to make their own way in the world—and they had chosen very different courses.

      ‘Did he leave you anything in his will?’ Susanna asked suddenly, the carelessness of her tone belied by the sharp cupidity in her eyes.

      Lucille raised her finely arched brows. ‘His will? I thought he died intestate—in Tibet, was it not? But since he had no property—’

      Susanna relaxed again, the same little, catlike smile on her lips. ‘Now that is where you are wrong, dear sis! I have been living in our father’s house this week past! And a sad bore it has been too,’ she added, with a petulant frown.

      The entry of the school’s housemaid with a pot of tea prevented Lucille from asking her sister to explain this extraordinary sentence. The maid cast Susanna one wary but fascinated look before pinning her gaze firmly on the floor as Miss Pym had undoubtedly instructed her to do. She put the tray before Lucille and backed out, but as she was leaving the room she could not resist another look at the wondrous creature draped over the parlour sofa. Miss Kellaway was so beautiful, she thought wistfully, with her silver gilt curls and warm blue eyes—and that dress of red silk…and the beautiful diamond necklace around her slim throat, a present, no doubt, from the besotted Duke of Penscombe. Fallen woman or not, Susanna Kellaway was much envied at that moment.

      ‘Thank you, Molly,’ Lucille said, a hint of amusement in her voice, and the maid was recalled to the present and could only wonder how so luscious a beauty as Miss Kellaway could have a twin sister as plain as Miss Lucille.

      The door closed behind her, and Lucille considered her sister thoughtfully, seeing her through Molly’s eyes. Susanna had disposed herself artfully on the sofa to display her figure to advantage. Lucille imagined this to be a reflex action of her sister’s since there were no gentlemen present to impress, although she expected the drawing and music masters to appear on some spurious excuse at any moment. The dress of clinging red silk which Molly had so admired plunged indecently at the front and was almost as low at the back; completely inappropriate for the daytime, Lucille thought, particularly within the portals of a school full of impressionable young girls. That Susanna had even been allowed over the threshold of such an establishment had amazed Lucille, for Miss Pym had never made any secret of the fact that she deplored the fact that one of her former pupils had become ‘a woman of low repute’. Miss Pym clearly felt that Susanna’s fall from grace reflected directly on the