Captain Ingram's Inheritance Read Online Free

tried to hide it, she had been blue-devilled since Roworth left Nettledene. Had Frank been wrong to agree to leave Brussels? Not that he had been in any case to argue, especially when Roworth, with that high-and-mighty air he put on sometimes, accused him of sacrificing Fanny’s comfort to his own pride.  No, he could not regret coming to the Cohens. Anita was happy, Fanny did not have to struggle for existence, and much as he had mistrusted the notion of a female physician, Miriam was working wonders.
     The doctors had expected him to be crippled, yet he had walked about his chamber each afternoon for a week, feeble, unsteady, but on his own feet. He could move his arms freely, if painfully. Miriam’s salves made him smell like a rose garden, the exercises she prescribed made him ache all over, but they worked. Beyond that he must not think.
     She looked in on her way down to dinner, a strong-willed, handsome woman with richly red hair. “We shall have you downstairs tomorrow,” she promised.
     “I own I’ll be glad to see something beyond these four walls. I know every nick in every beam, every rough spot in the plaster...”
     Miriam laughed. “You shall have new beams to study, or even go out on the terrace if it’s fine. Try to eat well tonight to build up your strength.”
     Shortly after she left, a footman came in with his dinner on a tray. “His lordship’s back, sir,” the lad reported, helping him to sit upright. “Lord Roworth, that is.”
     “Lord Roworth!” What the devil was the man about, returning to torment Fanny again?
     “Just come in this minute, quite unexpected, like. Treats Nettledene like his own home, he does,” he added with pride.
     Frank pondered the news as he picked at his roast beef, carved wafer-thin to tempt an invalid’s uncertain appetite. Roworth must have come to report his success or failure at winning Lady Sophia’s hand. Success would dash Fanny’s hopes forever, but failure would keep them alive, in all probability to die a lingering death. Frank didn’t know which to wish for. He felt helpless, unable to protect his sister.
     Everything would be easier if only Roworth were not on the whole a deuced good fellow.
     The footman returned to remove his tray, shaking his head when he saw how little had been eaten. Frank picked up a book of travellers’ tales he had been reading and tried to forget his troubles.
     A knock on his door, some time later, was a welcome distraction. “Come in,” he called.
     Lord Roworth stuck his head round the door. “Still awake, Ingram? I’ve brought you a brandy. With Miriam’s permission, I hasten to say.” He set two glasses on the bedside table and pulled up a chair.
     Taking his glass, Frank warmed it between thin, white hands. “Am I to wish you happy?” he enquired cautiously.
     “Not yet. I reached London at an awkward hour to call upon Lady Sophia so I decided to ride on and spend the night here. Now I’m here, I might as well stay a couple of days.”
     Nothing settled yet. Frank suppressed a groan. Sipping the brandy, he felt a glow of warmth pervade him.
     “Armagnac,” said Roworth. “Isaac takes my advice on his cellar.”
     “I haven’t tasted anything like this since one of my men snabbled a couple of bottles after we crossed the Pyrenees.” He grinned. “Naturally, I was forced to confiscate them to maintain order in the ranks.”
     “Naturally. Everyone knows Wellington don’t stand for looting. Here’s to your very good health.”
     The commonplace toast reminded Frank of his debility. With an effort he responded, “And to yours, my lord.” He drank again, more deeply than the quality of the brandy deserved.
     “My lord? As I recall, Captain, you were wont to use my name.”
     “My humble apologies, Roworth.” He tried to match the rallying tone. “I intended no insult, I promise you.”
     “Then I shan’t sink to the infamy of calling out a sick man, though Miriam and