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At last, the solicitor came to Miss Daventry. Stratford’s heartbeat sped, and he leaned forward. “For Miss Eleanor Camilla Daventry, the Fourth Earl of Worthing has left a sum of 500£ for her London season, which should be enough to secure a trousseau, a court presentation, her hand, etc.” Good, thought the earl. That should launch her. I wonder where her aunt has lodgings . . . “The earl has also bequeathed Miss Daventry a dowry of fifty acres of unentailed land on the southeastern edge of the property, bordering the stream to Amesbury, known as Munroe Hamlet and its surrounding . . .” The rest of the words were lost as Stratford spun around in his chair. Miss Daventry was so still she looked to be barely breathing. He swiveled back in time to hear the solicitor give the crowning touch. “. . . of which the income—apart from the sum set aside for the London season—will be bestowed on her upon marriage.” Stratford’s mind raced furiously. He’d lost the most lucrative part of his estate—to a chit who wouldn’t benefit from it. At least not until she married, and then the land would pass straight into her husband’s hands. So then Miss Daventry was no better off than before, and now she would be hounded by every fortune hunter on this side of London. He ground his teeth. Of all the fool things. The solicitor stacked his papers neatly and slid them into the stiff leather bag. He removed his spectacles and gave a nod to the earl. Stratford, rooted to his chair, felt all eyes on Miss Daventry as the buzz of conversation in the room increased. Crenshaw, in particular, leered at her in the most repulsive way. Finally, the earl stood and turned as Mrs. Daventry, a gloating smile in place, pulled Miss Daventry’s arm. Of course she would be smug, he thought angrily. What a coup she has made. Then one glance at Miss Daventry’s panic-stricken face gave Stratford pause.