The Property of a Gentleman. Helen Dickson

most important, profitable commodities in England. Its potential and economic significance is immense. I have seen for myself that mines are being sunk all the way along Atwood Valley, and your father told me himself that Atwood Mine has no rival. Trade is increasing at a rapid rate and explorations have shown there are unexploited deep seams of coal reserves. My dear girl—you would be a fool to let it go.’

      For the first time Eve felt a reluctant stirring of admiration for her grandmother. The intensity of feeling in her voice and her eyes told her that she cared, that it did matter to her what became of her, and she was grateful, but she could not suppress a deep sigh. ‘You make it sound like an ultimatum, Grandmother—like some necessary evil.’

      ‘I don’t mean to—but you must think about it,’ she said animatedly, thumping her stick, which she was never without, hard on the carpet. ‘Let Gerald play at being Lord of the Manor all he likes—but you take control of the mine.’

      ‘Me and Mr Fitzalan, of course.’

      ‘Yes. You know your father would not have set down these conditions had he not your best interests at heart. He always wanted you and Mr Fitzalan to marry and this was his way of bringing it about. Take what is offered, Eve, and ask no questions. Had things been different he would have wanted you to marry a man of your own choosing, but knowing he would not be here to look after you, to protect you, he did what he thought was right and best for you.’

      Eve’s eyes remained doubtful, but on looking at the situation with cold logic, it was with reluctance that she recognised the sense of her grandmother’s words. She was right. If she wanted to hold on to her pride and something she considered to be her birthright, then she really had no choice.

      ‘I promise I shall give the matter serious thought, Grandmother. At this moment I cannot say more than that.’

      Gerald left for his home on the day following the funeral, leaving Eve with the knowledge that he would return to take up residence at Burntwood Hall just as soon as he had put his affairs in order.

      She was alone in her father’s study, writing letters to people who had been unable to travel to the funeral, when he entered to tell her of his departure and what he intended to do. She had no choice but to speak to him, to see the mockery in his eyes and hear the lust in his voice. She shuddered at the sight of him for she disliked him intensely. The mere thought of him had the power to make her draw her breath in sharply.

      If he was aware of it he seemed unconcerned and chose to ignore it. He relaxed at the sight of her, a twisted smile curving his lips, and yet his expression remained hard, his eyes alert, boldly lingering appreciatively, greedily, on the soft swelling mounds of her breasts, insolently taking in every detail. Eve met his gaze coldly. She had known ever since his last visit to Burntwood Hall that he was attracted by her—known it by the way he looked at her—and she hated him—the smile on his slack lips, the glint in his dark eyes.

      Sitting in a large winged chair beside the fire, he folded his hands casually across his rapidly expanding stomach and stretched his legs out in front of him with the lazy grace of a big cat, a cold, calculating gleam in his eyes as he looked at her sitting demurely at her father’s desk.

      ‘Do forgive me for intruding on your privacy, Eve, but I wanted to speak to you before returning to my home. I waited until I knew your grandmother would be resting, when I would be sure to find you alone. There is much to be done, you understand. Not wishing to appear uncharitable I just wanted to tell you that you must continue to look on Burntwood Hall as your home for just as long as you want to—that I have no intention of “turning you out”, so to speak,’ he said, with feigned sympathy and generosity in his eyes.

      The truth of it was that Gerald had become aware of Eve as a woman several visits ago—an extremely beautiful and desirable woman, and extremely accessible while ever she continued to live at Burntwood Hall—but more importantly he also saw her as a means of retaining Atwood Mine, which would revert to him should she refuse to marry Marcus Fitzalan, and provide him with a much needed constant source of revenue for years to come.

      But he was also in the devil of a fix. Having borrowed money after losing heavily at cards at his club in St James’s, from men who knew he was Sir John Somerville’s heir—a great deal of money, thirty-five thousand pounds to be exact, with an extortionate interest on the amount borrowed—there was no possible way he could repay the loan until he came into his inheritance. Before he left London the moneylenders, having heard of Sir John’s death, had begun turning on the pressure for him to repay the loan with a terrible force. They were closing in on him, crushing him like a vice. He had to get the money. He was becoming desperate. The mere thought of what they would do to him if he didn’t come up with it made sweat break out on the palms of his hands and his heart pound uncontrollably.

      These men were experts at what they did, men who would not be crossed or defied. Gerald had soon learned from their dealings with others that beneath their elegant exteriors they possessed muscles of steel combined with a ruthlessness and cruelty that stopped at nothing—tactics he would not hesitate to employ himself on others to obtain the means to repay the loan and get these men off his back for good, and only the income from Atwood Mine would enable him to obtain the kind of money he needed to do that. Sir John’s death had come as an enormous relief. He could not believe his good fortune—but without the mine his inheritance would not be enough to repay what he owed without selling off more land and property.