The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

“Then allow me to introduce the Earl of Stanton,” Jameson said.

A slight raise of the brow was the only visible sign of the lady’s surprise. She smiled. “I knew your father well.”

The question was how well.

“And yet he never once mentioned you,” Oliver said, his voice thick with suspicion.

“That is hardly surprising,” the other Miss Flint countered. “Were you not estranged these last two years? Your father mentioned that you spent time in Italy. Thankfully, I was here to nurse him during his final days.”

The staff at Stanton House had made no mention of a mistress, though in all honesty, why would they? It was not a topic discussed in respectable households.

“And how long were you tending to my father’s needs?”

“Long enough,” came her coy reply. “I attended the funeral, though failed to see you there.”

Something about her lofty manner and dark features seemed familiar. Conceit oozed from every pore — a disdain for the world and everyone in it.

“Have we met before?” Even during drunken bouts, he would not be attracted to someone so superficial.

“I think not.”

He had seen her before, but couldn’t think where.

“You see, Mr Jameson, it is all rather perplexing.” Oliver cleared his throat in a bid to remain calm. “You say this woman is to inherit Morton Manor when it is this lady at my side who lives there. Indeed, allow me to present Miss Flint. She was promised the manor in return for the kindness and care shown to my sister.”

Nicole stood rigid, though he was aware of the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

Mr Jameson jerked his head. “Excuse me, my lord, did you say Miss Flint?”

Oliver lowered his head and turned to Nicole. “Speak up else they will think your claim is a ploy for me to contest her right to the property.”

Still holding onto his arm, Nicole straightened. “I am Miss Flint. The previous earl hired me to care for Lady Rose, and I am here to claim my inheritance.”

“There must be some mistake,” the lady said with a snort of contempt. Her suspicious gaze travelled over Nicole. “Why would Robert leave a house to a girl paid to care for his daughter?”

Oliver had to admit that it seemed out of character. His father was not the giving sort. Still, he’d be damned before he’d let the manor fall into the hands of a stranger.

“How convenient that you share the same name,” Oliver countered. “What proof is there that my father intended you to be his benefactor?”

Mr Jameson picked up the letter lying on his desk and offered it to Oliver. “I think this should be all the proof needed, my lord. That is your father’s seal and signature, is it not?”

With an overwhelming sense of trepidation, Oliver scanned the missive. The seal pressed into the red wax did bear two eagles holding a shield. The scrawled name at the bottom looked to be written in his father’s hand. The contents of the letter confirmed Miss Flint as heir.

Damnation.

This did not bode well for Nicole.

“Yes, the letter appears to have been written by my father. Though he makes no distinction which Miss Flint is the intended beneficiary.”

The lady in red gasped. “As I possess the document, it is obvious Robert refers to me. And I have other letters of a more intimate nature I can present.” She ran her fingertips over the pearl necklace. “The heirloom was a gift and speaks volumes, does it not, my lord?”

This lady was shrewd, cunning, a master manipulator. If this was the Miss Flint due to inherit, the opportunity to scupper his father’s plans proved too great. Equally, Nicole cared about Rose and deserved something for her

plight.

“Though my father was often unpredictable, he would never give a family heirloom to his mistress.” Of that, Oliver was certain. Lord, the man had kept a battered oak bookcase riddled with woodworm because it belonged to his grandfather.

The imposter gave a devilish grin. “Yet here I am wearing it around my neck.”