IVAN

Belinda Seneschal, spinster, leaned back in her chair.

“What’s to be done?” she demanded.

Her solicitor fingered his chin.

“It’s simple enough,” he said, surveying a letter. “The house and its contents are yours—and Captain Pomeroy’s. They’ve only to be made over, and then, er, then . . .”

“Exactly,” observed Miss Seneschal. “What then?”

Forsyth, solicitor, frowned.

“Then you arrange to take possession.”

Belinda raised her sweet eyebrows.