Читать книгу The Earl's American Heiress - Carol Arens - Страница 13

“It’s the devil’s own night, my lord,” stated Charles Creed, the only coachman Heath trusted to accompany him on the night’s errand.

“Not so different from any other night so close to Whitechapel,” he answered, tugging the brim of a black hat low over his brow. He withdrew the dark mask he was about to tie over his face and gripped it tight in his fingers.

“It’s just that the fog is so yellow and foul. An evil presence is what it is. Who can tell what wickedness it’s hiding.”

“It’s hiding us.”

“And a lucky thing. Looks like the baron is getting worried. There’s two guards by the back door tonight.”

Heath would ask if Creed wanted to wait a few streets away but he already knew the answer would be no.

They sat side by side, pretending to be laughing at some ribald joke as they passed the door. The guards glanced up and then away.

“Wish we knew when the girl was bringing the baby,” Creed whispered when they rounded the corner of the building. “It’s not safe business circling the block.”

“Nothing about this is safe.”

“Which is why you should quit and leave it to me,” the coachman said.

No doubt Creed was correct. Heath was a man under great obligation.

“It takes two of us to get the children safely away.”

“I’ll be right relieved when we can expose the blackguard for good and all.”

Exposing a supposed saint would be a difficult thing to do, especially in this case.

The baron had several benefactors of high rank. He was highly respected by all of society. His good deeds were touted in the newspaper on a regular basis. Even his cousin was a judge of much influence in London.

No, anyone who went to inspect Slademore House would see what Heath had when he’d first gone to ask for Willa’s baby: well-cared-for children doted upon by a loving staff, and fed tarts and treats on a regular basis. They would be gratified to see their generous donations being put to good use.

But they would not have seen what Heath had when, his mind full of questions, he’d gone looking further.

Clearly no one suspected a man who sat in the first pew at church every Sunday to be a greedy soul.

“Don’t you wonder, Creed, why no one ever questions how Slademore manages to dress in such riches? Why that little dog he carries about wears real jewels in his collar?”

“Oh, aye, many times. I think folks are just blinded by him being so angelic-looking.”

Yes, and hadn’t Satan been reputed to be the same?

Leaping off the bench to the ground, Heath nodded up at Creed.

“We have help, though,” Creed said. “There’s our informer. It’s not only us to help the children.”

Without this mysterious ally, they could do nothing. Heath could only assume it was the person who had left the door unlocked for him when he’d rescued Willa’s daughter.

Without the notes Creed received, they could not do this.

While Heath climbed into the interior of the carriage, Creed changed his coat and his hat. The same pair of men in the same coach would draw the attention of the back-door guards who would be on alert since they had been here only nights ago—the very night he had met Cinderella in the garden.

Drawing back the curtain, Heath spotted the bent figure of a woman clearly weeping while she made her way to the back door of Slademore House. She appeared to be carrying a bundle close to her chest.

Creed must have noticed her, too, for the carriage slowed down.

Heath snatched up a pewter-tipped cane. The thing was a weapon as much as a prop. While the carriage creaked along, he jumped out on the side facing away from the guards.

With his shoulders hunched, he limped along the cobblestones, his head dipping toward the ground to hide his mask. He hoped he appeared to be no more threatening than a drunk having trouble maneuvering his way.

He intercepted the woman when she was but thirty feet from the guards.

One of them glanced up; the other yawned.

Heath made a tripping motion and pretended to catch his balance on the lady. He slipped an arm under the baby.

“Come with me,” he whispered.

“You’re him—the Abductor!” She opened her mouth to scream but Heath covered it with his palm.

“It’s him!” called the guard just finishing his yawn. He jerked his coat aside and withdrew a pistol.

Heath yanked the baby away from the woman, believing she would follow.

She did, screeching and yanking on the end of the blanket. He snagged her elbow with his free arm and dragged her toward the moving coach.

“Your cousin, Betty, sent me.” The familiar name silenced her scream.

A shot rang out. He heard the bullet hit a stone on the street. Because of the fog it was hard to tell how close the pursuing footsteps were. Close enough to raise the hairs on his arms, though.

“Get inside!”

Thankfully she made the leap. He handed the infant to her on the run and then dragged himself in after her.

He heard the whip crack over the horse’s ears, felt the lurch of the carriage when the animals jolted into a gallop. Wood splintered when a bullet connected with the back corner of the carriage.

It took three blocks for his heartbeat and his breathing to slow enough to reassure the trembling woman that he was not kidnapping her but taking her and her infant to safety.

Half a mile away from the town house, Creed slowed down to let him out. The coachman continued at a slow, leisurely-looking pace, bearing his charges toward the seashore and the haven of Rock Rose Cottage.

* * *

How could she possibly?

And yet here she sat on the balcony overlooking the very lovely gardens of Fencroft House with the dratted notebook in her lap.

Her brain nearly ached with the studying she had been doing. If it had not been for pleasant memories of a darkly handsome man flitting through her brain at odd times, she would be completely addle-brained by now.

Where had he come from—where had he gone to?

Sheaves of paper fluttered on her lap. The afternoon breeze lifted the scent of roses from below. She shook her head. It didn’t matter about the man.

She was not intended for him, knew nothing about him. For all that she stared down at the fountain she was not likely to see him again.

Glancing back at the notebook, she frowned, wanting to rip the pages to shreds and rain them down on the garden.

She felt part saint for going along with Grandfather’s machinations, also part pawn, and completely a fool.

If she felt a fool to herself she would appear thrice so to others. She was a foreigner to the ways of the British aristocracy in every way she could be.

“Correct forms of address,” her grandfather had written in the bold script he always used.

She had read it so many times that the paper was limp. How did Londoners keep everyone straight? Perhaps one had to be born to it.

If she closed her eyes and thought hard she recalled that she would address the earl as Lord Fencroft, but only for the first meeting. After that she would call him “my lord” or, perhaps in time, Fencroft.

But under the stress of a face-to-face meeting she might forget. The American in her might blurt out something like: How pleasant to meet you, Mr. Cavill. Or what if she accidentally called him Mr. Fencroft—or Oliver! That might result in a great scandal.

But if she became his wife? What did she call him then? Something a bit more personal than his title, she hoped. And if that familiarity was allowed, was she permitted to use it in public or only in private?

And what would he call her? Madeline? She had urged Grandfather to send a telegram to the earl informing him that it would be Clementine who was coming and not Madeline. He’d only laughed and said it was not necessary because Lord Fencroft was a lucky man to get either of his girls.

Pressure built in her head, pounding behind her eyes. She could see it all too clearly—after she made a fool of herself and disgraced Grandfather by incorrectly addressing the earl, she would need to address his siblings.

“Lady Olivia” would be right and easy, or perhaps it was “the Lady Olivia”? She squinted at the note Grandfather had written in the margin. Olivia had married Victor Shaw—the younger son of an earl—which meant she retained her own precedence.

What did that even mean?

Does that change what I call her? Would not “Mrs. Shaw,” or Heaven help them all, “Olivia” suffice for most occasions?

The one thing she did know for certain was that Grandfather was going to regret bringing her here. No doubt he was going to have to take her home a shamed woman without the title he considered so vital to the survival of the Macooish line—which at this moment in time did not exist beyond her and Madeline.

Lost in puzzling out exactly why she had agreed to cross the ocean in the first place, other than perhaps being a martyr to Grandfather’s cause, Clementine found her mind drifting back to the stranger in the garden—again.

She was prone to do that far too easily. Truly, she had no business considering marriage to anyone until she could put that dashing fellow out of her head.

With a sigh she returned her attention to the notebook on her lap and reminded herself that one day she would have to live her life without her grandfather. And how could she possibly do that knowing she had let him down?

She could not and so here she was.

But even now all she had committed to do was to seriously consider the marriage. She would need to meet the earl before she would make such a monumental decision.

While Grandfather had agreed to offer his granddaughter to Oliver Cavill and the earl had agreed to accept her—well, not her so much as Madeline—she, the granddaughter sitting on a balcony in Mayfair needed to know that the man she would spend her life with was someone she could respect.

Love might or might not follow wedding vows and the marriage might still be adequate. But without respect? No, without that a union could only end in misery.

Grandfather seemed convinced that she would be content with his choice for her groom.

Indeed! He’d been confident enough to have invested a fortune in the venture, surely half of it in ball gowns. He would need to succeed in his Scotland venture in order to recoup the cost.

Since Clementine was not convinced that fluff and satin ruffles would ensure happiness, or even basic contentment, she was withholding her final decision. Or so she told herself.

Deep down she knew the Earl of Fencroft would have to be quite unworthy in order for her to break Grandfather’s heart.

So, for now, she had to practice. “It is lovely to meet you, Lady Olivia, or whoever you are in whichever social situation is at hand.” Being alone on the balcony, she allowed a frustrated and unladylike snort to escape her lips. “I’ll need to marry quickly so I can call you good sister and be done with it.”

“And in the meantime Lady Olivia should suffice nicely.”

Clementine turned her cheek up for her grandfather’s kiss.

“Is not your new home grand?” He grinned at the impressively stately building across the way.

Oh, it was grand, but not so formal-looking as to be unwelcoming. A pretty vine twined up the west side of the house while flowering trees bordered a private patio on the east side.

Still, to call the town house home was premature.

“And tomorrow, your season will begin.”

“What was that?” Absorbed in looking at the town house as she had been, she must have misheard.

“Your social season. Your coming out, so to speak.”

“You will recall that I am twenty-three years old and a good five years past time for that.”

“Folderol. I do realize it is late in the season but I still hope to have you presented at court.”

“No, Grandfather. Perhaps I will wed to your liking, but I will not be paraded about like a blushing innocent. It would be humiliating.”

“You are an innocent, are you not? And in the moment you are blushing. I’ve got to warn you, my dear, that as an American you will be suspect. As a foreigner sweeping in to claim a plum of a prize you must observe all the customs.” He reached down and swiped a curl behind her ear. “Do not be surprised if you are resented by the families who have raised their daughters to fill the slippers you are standing in.”

“Well, they most certainly have my blessing because I will not be presented at court. Asking me to quietly marry an earl is one thing, but no one will be better off because I look like—”

“A good and loyal child who deserves every advantage a title can bring. Just think, Clemmie, your children will never suffer from having been conceived of an accident of birth.”

“That is one of the most outrageous things I’ve ever heard you say. I don’t know that one can consider being conceived in an adulterous liaison an accident of birth. And do you truly believe I would allow that to happen?”

“I’m certain my mother did not intend it to happen, and yet it did.”

And he had lived with the unfair label of bastard because of it.

She wished she had not rebuked him so flippantly. The lack of a respectable birth had been his burden and what formed his values. Grandfather craved respectability in a way that most people did not.

And yet she had to point out, “I could marry the corner constable and my children would be respectable.” Was the man in the fountain a constable, perhaps?

“But not protected against life’s unpredictability. I thought you understood, Clemmie. A title gives you power, protection. And I am convinced you will be happy with the earl.”

“There is one of us, then. I’ve yet to even meet the man.”

Judging by the wide smile on his face, Grandfather was confident that all would go as he willed it.

“I told you the truth about him. He’s a fine fellow—an outstanding chap. You will get along well together.”

Oh, she didn’t hope for that much. Only that they would share a mutual respect.

* * *

If Lord and Lady Guthrie’s casual gathering was this grand, what would one of their famous balls be like? It would glitter to the heavens, Clementine figured.

The Macooish mansion in Los Angeles was lovely, a well-known gathering place, but it did not glow with half the formal elegance of this home.

She clenched her fingers on Grandfather’s coat sleeve. As long as she remained attached to him she might get through this—this presentation, this being shown off like a new variety of flower, or bug.

But really, she was far from the first American lady to invade the aristocracy in order to save a peerage from financial ruin.

“How is it that you got us invited to this ‘little gathering’—isn’t that what you called it?” Clementine glanced about the ballroom that Grandfather escorted her into. There had to be a hundred people or more milling about in lively conversation.

And one of them was very likely the fellow expecting to marry Madeline.

She feared the poor earl was in for a disappointment. Grandfather had touted a bride who was as pretty as a butterfly and as lyrical as a sweet melody.

Clementine was neither of those things. The earl was bound to be dissatisfied with her if a woman like her cousin was who he wanted.

“The duke is interested in the Scotland business.” He shot her a wink. “Nothing like a good financial bond to open doors that would have remained closed.”

Money had always been Grandfather’s greatest tool. At least Fencroft would not be disappointed in that part of the bargain. The Macooish fortune in ironworks was beyond respectable.

And yet, Grandfather did not trust that alone to ensure the family’s security.

“Do not be surprised to find other men competing for your attention tonight since no one knows of the arrangement I made with Fencroft. But keep in mind that I have made a bargain with him.”

“As long as you keep in mind that I have yet to agree to anything.” Of course, she would not be here if she did not seriously consider his wish, would she? “Is the earl here?”

Grandfather shook his head. “I don’t see him, but perhaps he is in the parlor, where the gents are gaming.”

If only Oliver Cavill’s absence was not as much relief as it was disappointment.

Also, it did weigh on her that if he was in the parlor it meant he was a gambler. She would feel better about the man had he not been gaming. She hoped there would be other things about her potential intended that she would come to respect.

But it could not be denied that one thing she would have respected was to see him waiting to greet her instead of going into further debt.

“Do you not think a more formal meeting would have been appropriate, Grandfather? It is all rather haphazard, having us meet so casually.”

“To my mind, it’s more comfortable this way.”

As if there could possibly be anything “comfortable” in any of this.

Walking under a huge, exceptionally glittering chandelier, she was aware of people staring at her, the women from under veiled lashes and the men with ill-disguised interest.

“They’ll have heard that you are an American.”

“They aren’t staring at you.”

“I’m not an heiress come to snatch up a peer. I’m sure the debutantes and their mothers are quaking in their dancing slippers wondering who you have set your sights upon.”

“Sneering behind their smiles, more to the point.”

He turned her chin with his fingertips, pulling her gaze away from the frown of a middle-aged woman peering at her through a huge arrangement of orange-and-yellow chrysanthemums. “Clemmie Macooish, keep your chin up just so, and don’t forget that you are the most beautiful woman in this room. It’s no wonder some of them are jealous of you. Why I’ll wager your gown cost more than three of theirs put together.”

Heaven help her, it was probably true. Being a man, Grandfather would not realize that the extravagance gave them even more reason to be resentful of her.

“Put on your best smile. Our hostess approaches.” He patted her fingers where they clamped onto his arm. She suspected that under her gloves, they were as bone white as the lace was.

“Your Grace?” she asked under her breath. This was where it would be revealed whether her studying had been for naught.

Grandfather nodded, his smile bright for the approaching duchess.

If other women’s smiles at Clementine seemed forced, the duchess’s did not. Lady Guthrie was clearly gifted at making a guest feel welcome.

Clementine prayed that her return smile would indicate that she was pleased to be here, especially given that she was not.

While Grandfather led the way with formal pleasantries, Clementine gazed over Her Grace’s shoulder at the garden beyond the open doors. If she became overwhelmed, she would escape to that torchlit paradise and find a private place to catch her breath.

Perhaps once she met her earl the flutters in her belly would settle. What she needed to bear in mind was that the opinions of daughters and mammas did not matter so much in the end. If Fencroft approved of her all would be well.

If she approved of him, all would be very well. For all that she struggled against Grandfather’s insistence that she become a countess, she did want to give him what he wanted most, if it was within her power to do so.

This man she owed everything to had been horribly betrayed by one granddaughter. If she could ease his grief over it, she would. Of course, she had yet to meet Fencroft, so she could not say for certain.

But she would try. She did know that much.

“Come, let me introduce you,” Her Grace declared.

Grandfather’s arm fell away from under her hand.

She prayed that her lips formed a bright and twittering smile.

Grandfather walked toward a group of gentlemen engrossed in lively conversation across the room. She was utterly on her own.

Even though the duchess was leading her to a gathering of women near the garden doors, sanctuary felt miles away.

* * *

Heath strode into the grand entry hall and handed off his black coat, hat and gloves to the servant standing in waiting.

“Thank you, my good man,” he said with a nod.

The fellow returned the nod but did not speak. Now that Heath was Fencroft, life was more formal. He’d been set on some blamed pedestal that kept some people at arm’s length. At the same time other people who had barely spared him a glance in the past attached themselves to him.

His mind returned to the woman in the pond. She didn’t know who he was and so she showed him no deference. It was almost as though he was simply Heath Cavill, second son again. What would he not give to be strolling on a moonlit path at the estate in Derbyshire instead of traversing these marble floors?

What would he not give to hear his brother’s congenial laugh one more time? But death changed everything and so he would not.

By custom, he ought not to be here. He was still in mourning. But in mourning for Oliver. His brother would encourage him to laugh and enjoy his first meeting with Madeline Macooish.

It wasn’t likely that any of the women here would object to his break with tradition. They would think he was looking for a wife, which, in fact, he was.

Going into the ballroom, he felt the gazes of a dozen blushing girls settle upon him. Then again, not him so much as the Earl of Fencroft.

Somewhere among this assembly was a vivacious, blue-eyed heiress who assumed she was about to meet a fellow who was as fun-seeking as she was.

One of the ladies milling about this room was willing to give up life as she had known it for the honor of being called countess.

He rather thought she might regret that choice. Chances were the lady did not understand the restrictions that would be put upon her. Not by him so much as by the rules of polite society.

Other American ladies had made the same choice and later regretted it. The gossip sheet was full of their marital misery.

He would do his best to see that his wife did not suffer by giving herself and her fortune to him, but there was only so much he could do in the face of social opinion.

There was also the matter of surrendering his heart to a wife. He’d done it once, given it quite freely to a fiancée who only pretended to cherish it. He did not wish to go through that despair again.

Which, it suddenly occurred to him, made a marriage by arrangement appealing. While he would be committed to his wife in being faithful to her and providing her with a comfortable life, she would not expect him to invest his heart in the agreement. There was every possibility that she would not want to invest hers, either.

A marriage of convenience suddenly seemed a fine thing.

“Lord Fencroft!” For a split second, Heath expected to hear his brother’s voice answering the greeting of the matron chugging toward him, her freshly presented daughter in tow.

“Lady Meyers,” he answered, cringing at the gravity in his tone while recalling the genuine pleasure Oliver took in making the acquaintance of a debutante. It was the job of an earl to make people feel welcome in his presence. If the half-panicked expression on the girl’s face was anything to go by, he was failing miserably. “What a pleasure it is to see you tonight. I hope you are well.”

“Quite well.” For some reason her smile sagged. “As well as a mother can be when her son goes into trade, I suppose. But here, please meet my daughter, Emily. I’m sure she will find a match to make us all proud.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Emily.” He bowed over her hand, certain he felt the heat of her blush through her glove.

“As it turns out, Emily has one dance free on her card—the next one in fact. It would be a lovely chance for you two young people to get to know one another.”

The right and decent thing to do would be to refuse the dance given that he was here to meet the woman he would marry.

But he’d been neatly boxed in by the matron. Unless he wanted to insult them both, there was nothing to do but graciously agree, or appear to at any rate.

He danced with Lady Emily, half embarrassed by the furious blush reddening her cheeks through every step of the waltz. The last note had barely sounded before she nodded, turned and fled from the dance floor.

Emily’s mother might think her daughter ready for marriage, but the person Heath saw was still a child.

While the girl hurried over to half a dozen young ladies whose heads were bent in apparent gossip, Heath scanned the room for a blond, elegantly coiffed head. He’d learned from Oliver that Miss Macooish was a confident sort, a lady whom he imagined would dance until her feet blistered.

Still in mourning for his brother, Heath would have been excused from dancing, certainly. But mothers continued to come forward asking to put his name on their daughter’s dance card.

While he had no intention of waltzing until his toes blistered, he would dance to honor his brother. Sitting in a dark corner would not serve that purpose. If Oliver were looking down upon the gathering, he did not want him to be frowning.

Debutante after debutante came into his arms, every one of them sweet and pink-cheeked. He could barely tell one from another. A proper earl, like Oliver, in fact, would know every name, what rank and family they came from.

Once or twice, through the whirl of dancers he caught a brief glimpse of a red-haired lady on the arm of an older gentleman.

She was not the one he was looking for. Somewhere there was supposed to be an older man, James Macooish, with his lively blonde granddaughter on his arm.

He would ask his hostess who she was, but how would he explain his interest in her? The arrangement with Macooish was private and he would prefer to keep it so.

He did not see anyone matching Miss Macooish’s description.

Ah, but he spotted the red-haired lady standing with the duchess and being introduced around.

She was new to society, he thought. He would recall that shade of hair had he ever met her. She stood out as a red rose in a bouquet of pink.

He nearly chuckled out loud at the poetic thought because it was something his brother might think. And then, just like that, in a blink, he wanted to weep.

After two hours he no longer felt poetic and the weeping had to do with the blisters he had vowed to avoid.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted Lady Meyers snatch up Emily’s hand and begin an advance upon him.

With the garden doors standing open and only a few feet to his left, he rushed—no, hobbled—through them into the cool sanctuary of the night.

Music faded as he walked along the torchlit path, making his way deep into the garden.

* * *

Clementine sighed and leaned back against the garden bench. Everything smelled green and as soothing as it did in the Los Angeles garden. A good bit cooler, though.

Gazing up, she was reassured to see that the night sky looked the same wherever one traveled.

Misty-looking clouds raced across the face of the moon, making it appear ethereal, fairy-like.

She hadn’t told Grandfather she was escaping to the garden. She should have: it was quite improper to be out here without a chaperone.

The wonderful solitude would not last for long. Knowing her as well as he did, Grandfather would quickly figure out where she’d be.

Even when he did, it would take him a long time to locate her given how very deeply she had wandered along the path and how many secret places the garden hid.

Judging by the rustle of shrubbery and a hushed sigh she had heard while walking along, she assumed she was not as alone out here as it seemed.

She had to admit it was a lovely, late-summer night, just right for romance.

At least it would be for a little while longer. A cool breeze rippled along the stones and made the leaves in her private spot whisper. The hem of her skirt fluttered. She glanced up to see a dense bank of clouds move slowly across the face of the moon.

How quickly did storms advance here in Mayfair? At home one had hours of warning before rain began to fall, which it rarely did this time of year.

But yes, just now, the scent of the air changed. She felt its moist hand brush her skin. And there in the distance? She was fairly certain she saw a flash and, seconds later, she heard the faint rumble of thunder.

This was exciting, since she could not recall the last time she had heard thunder. Two years ago, or three?

In considering whether or not she could be happy in England, she had not anticipated the wetter climate. Rainy days were her favorite.

So, to the positive side of her mental list of reasons she should wed the earl, she added rain. She saw the word in her mind right there beneath afternoon tea and cakes, and strangers in fountains. Since this was merely a mental list, she allowed the handsome stranger to remain on it.

But his inclusion in the list created a problem on the “reasons to sail for home” side of the list. She had liked the fellow, for all the little she knew of him. He reminded her that liking one’s spouse was paramount. At this point she did not know that she could even tolerate the earl—a man who did not show the common courtesy of leaving the gaming room to meet the woman who had the funds to save him from financial ruin.

Even though she held no illusions that the earl was going into the marriage for any reason but monetary gain, she was disturbed by the contrast between the behaviors of the pair of men who were lately on her mind. One of them had gallantly offered to walk her home in the wee hours of the night, while the other had ignored her presence.

Marriage implied a particular kind of intimacy. She did not think she could allow free access of her body to a man she did not at least think highly of.

Recalling how appealing she had found Heath Ramsfield for those few moments she spent with him, she wondered if perhaps she ought to stand firm for a love match.

Wondered until she recalled how Grandfather’s arms had held her through that flood. Held on with a love so fierce she had not been swept away.

That memory, and everything else he had done for her, weighed heavily in her decision.

If only there was someone she could speak with—a trustworthy confidant. Once again, she sorely missed her cousin, even though if she saw her this moment she would chastise her.

Footsteps crunched on the path.

“Excuse me, my lady,” said a deep voice from the shadows. “I did not realize this space was occupied.”