Corinna didn’t wait to hear the answer. She knew who it had to be. She’d waited too long to speak up.
Retreating to the cliff parlor, so named because it faced out over the ocean, she sank into one of the highbacked, comfortable chairs, leaned her head back against the green velvet-covered padding, and closed her eyes.
Why hadn’t she said something? More than once she nearly had. And when the duke informed his excited children their uncle was headed home, why hadn’t she told them then?
“Coward.” The hand she raised to her head shook and she dropped it back to her lap.
What would she say if they introduced her? Suppose the duke and duchess asked her to join them for dinner? The duchess had included two evening gowns in the small wardrobe they had supplied, explaining that sometimes they expected the governess to make up an unexpected vacancy at a dinner party.
Looking down at the peach twill dress she now wore, she admitted the dress became her coloring well, showing her off to advantage. She hadn’t expected such kindness, and felt guilty repaying it with deceit.
She had no doubt, if introduced, Marcus would know her. The name, alone, would give her away. What would his reaction be?
He might be angry. She hadn’t written him since word had reached them of Douglas’s death. Granted, she had the excuse of school until she was eighteen, but after that how would she explain her reluctance to tell him of her circumstances?
He would be surprised. But would that surprise be pleasant or a nuisance? She didn’t know him well enough to tell. The Marcus she had once known would have taken it in stride, his easygoing manner turning it into a lark. But, he had been gone for eight years. What was he like now?
The door to the room burst opened and Michael and Caroline entered.
“Corrie! Look! Uncle Edward brought us presents. Mama said we could open them.” This came from Caroline in a rush, accompanied by her plopping down on the floor at Corinna’s feet and beginning to tear the paper from the package she carried.
Michael did the same and moments later there were appreciative oohs and aahs all around.
For Caroline there was a purple fringed shawl the exact same shade as her eyes, decorated with sequins and glass beads in a rainbow of colors. Putting it around her shoulders, she pranced around the room, allowing the light to reflect off the multi-colored brilliants scattered across it.
In his package, Michael found a knife, complete with a small scabbard designed to be worn at the waist. A large amethyst winked from the base of the handle. Corinna thought the four-inch blade looked very sharp and not a little dangerous for a seven-year-old boy.
When the duchess entered the room a few minutes later, she agreed with Corinna, but promised to discuss it with his father before taking it away. Corinna hated to see the disappointment on Michael’s face, but she understood the duchess’s reservations. Michael accepted his mother’s decision with equanimity.
He knew, as did both Corinna and the duchess, that his father tended to indulge his heir, so the likelihood he would be completely denied his present was slim. His father might, however, put restrictions on its use.
Show-and-tell over with, Corinna hustled the children upstairs to wash before tea. As they went up the back stairs, Corinna wondered where Marcus and his brother were and what they might be discussing.
Marcus followed Brand up the staircase and into the spacious library. As he was driven up the drive, he’d been impressed by the size and situation of the large house. Now inside, it wasn’t as opulent as Waring House or Waring Castle, but it was a handsome property. The inside was clean and neat, the floors and banisters polished to a shine. And it was all his. Excitement flooded him for the first time in months.
By unspoken consent, they moved to the chairs situated before the fireplace instead of the desk sitting near the floor-to-ceiling windows. They were greeted first by a small, wiry man with thinning brown hair and sharp, hazel eyes.
“Hiram Boggs, your steward.” Brand performed the introductions.
“So glad to finally meet you, my lord,” the steward boomed, his voice loud in contrast to his slight frame.
“We will finish up, tomorrow, Boggs,” the duke said, “and begin acquainting my brother with his inheritance.” The steward nodded and withdrew.
Brand went to the sideboard and poured two generous portions of brandy into large balloon glasses. He handed one to Marcus. As they sat, Marcus looked at him, one eyebrow raised in query.
“You’re going to need it,” was the only explanation he received.
They talked of generalities for a while, Marcus telling Brand about his time in India, and explaining his decision to leave the army. “It’s not that I wasn’t happy. I truly enjoyed it, but I think I got restless. And Douglas’s death—and Lord Mayo’s—still bother me sometimes.”
It was a simplistic explanation for a far more serious problem, he knew. In Calcutta, his depression had worsened to the point that he had been an easy target for Anjeh. It was just too easy to lose himself in her body and allow her to talk him into taking the opium. He was thankful it hadn’t acted on him as a feel-good hallucinogen as it did others. Instead, it often wiped his memory for a few days, leaving him with a feeling that he was not in control of himself. And that was a feeling he had not liked.
Brand listened in silence, his violet eyes intent. “Perhaps it was for the best,” he agreed. “There are some things you need to know.”
“Such as?”
Brand smiled. “I remember you telling me you never wanted to be our father’s heir.”
Marcus nodded. “True enough.” He took a sip from his glass. The liquor slid into his stomach, settling comfortably. “That was my mother’s wish, not mine. You might say she was obsessed by it.”
Brand’s eyes momentarily took on a faraway look, then turned sad for another moment before shifting back into focus and to Marcus.
“In some ways, she had good reason.” Brand spoke softly.
Marcus wondered whether Brand was weighing how much to tell him of his mother’s past. “She was behind your disappearance, wasn’t she?”
Taking the bull by the horns was a tactic he had employed to advantage in India. Why hedge around a problem, or an uncomfortable situation, when one could face it head on? His mother and father were both dead now. Neither could be hurt by discussing the past.
“Yes, as it turns out, she was.”
“Which, in turn, made her responsible for Michael’s death.”
“True, as well.”
“Was it only so I could inherit, or was there more?”
Brand’s hesitation was only momentary. “There was more.”
Marcus took another sip. “Tell me, and don’t spare the details.”
Brand’s eyes locked with his, and Marcus could see the memories surfacing. “Are you sure?” The look of regret, tinged with sorrow, might have daunted another, but Marcus wanted to know.
He told himself he needed to know how badly he had been tainted. He had to know whether people thought him the son of a murderess. It might affect his future chances for marriage, should he wish to venture there. As a mere second son, with only a courtesy title, his prospects weren’t great. St. Ayers upped the ante, but only by a fraction.
“Your mother was avenging what she perceived to be an egregious wrong done to her father. One our father apparently helped to perpetrate.”
“When?”
“During the time period after Waterloo.” Brand took another sip of his drink. “Our father was part of a group of operatives during the war with Napoleon—spies, if you will. After Waterloo, if you remember your history, you might recall that rumors abounded concerning whether Napoleon might escape from St. Helena as he had from Elba, and raise another army. In 1819, a plot was uncovered to do exactly that. Our father, because of his closeness to the Prince Regent at the time, and his group of operatives, investigated. The trail led back to the Earl St. Ayers.”
Marcus glanced ar
ound the spacious, well-appointed room. He wondered if his father had received the estate for bringing down the traitorous earl.
“The earl was tried and convicted by the House of Lords and a Bill of Attainder was passed, stripping him of his title. He was sentenced to hang.”
“And what has this to do with my mother?” Marcus asked, even as the obvious answer occurred to him. “Don’t tell me—not only was this earl my grandfather, but he was wrongly tried and convicted?”
Brand nodded, a brief smile lighting his solemn features. “Correct.”
This time Marcus took a healthy swig of his drink. Fortified, he looked to his brother again. “Tell me the rest.”
“As it turns out, it wasn’t your grandfather who was coordinating the plot, it was your grandmother. She was French and her family had supported Napoleon through to the bitter end. Your grandfather refused to testify on his own behalf in order to shield his wife.”
“What happened then?”
“With his death, your grandmother and mother—who was fourteen at the time—were left destitute. They managed to get back to France, to your grandmother’s family, where your grandmother lived out her days. Your mother eventually married one of her French cousins, but when he later died, she returned to England.”
“So, do I have any French brothers or sisters?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” Brand took another drink. “According to the letter Father left me, not only was she abused by her own cousins, but when she decided to return to England, they washed their hands of her. He did not, however, elaborate further.”
“I see.” Marcus had to consciously make his hand relax around the glass he held. If he hadn’t, he might have crushed it. “Did she pick Papa as a deliberate target?”
The short silence seemed to last much longer. The air in the room was thick, and he struggled to breathe as he waited for Brand’s answer.
“Apparently, although he didn’t say so. What he did say was that he made no apologies for taking her as his mistress after my mother died. When she became pregnant, he married her. It was as simple as that. He suspected nothing until Michael and I disappeared.”
“That must have been a devastating blow,” Marcus observed. “I remember what he was like growing up. He would have enjoyed all four of us.”
Brand let the comment pass.
“After Michael and I disappeared, he hired a detective to delve into her background and discovered who she was. It was the reason he never allowed her to accompany him to St. Ayers.”
“How did he get it?”
“When George became King in ’20, one of his first acts was to take action against your grandfather. Once he was convicted and stripped of his title, his property was forfeited to the Crown. The King distributed it as he saw fit. He and our father were particular friends, so we received St. Ayers—the family seat. The rest of the holdings—all smaller pieces of property, and a townhouse—have been bought and sold many times over since then. I bought the townhouse two years ago.”
“Why? Isn’t Waring House enough?”
Brand smiled enigmatically. “It wasn’t for me.”
“Then who?”
“You.”
Marcus straightened. “Me?” An estate and a townhouse. “Why?”
“Because those were my instructions.”
“From whom?”
“Father.”
“Why?”
Brand put his glass down on a small table and rose from his chair. Crossing to the desk, he dug a small sheaf of papers from a drawer and returned, handing them to Marcus as he resumed his seat.
“You can read them at your leisure, but it’s pretty dry stuff. The bottom line is that you are now the Earl St. Ayers.” There was no way to miss the amusement, tinged with pride, in Brand’s voice.
Marcus was stunned. If he hadn’t already finished his drink and put down the glass, he would have dropped it. So much for being a second son with no prospects.
“How? I thought you said that Parliament passed a Bill of Attainder. Doesn’t that mean the title’s tainted?”
“Normally yes,” Brand answered. “But what you have in your hands is the document that repeals the original bill. However, because your grandfather died with no immediately traceable male heirs, the title would have died anyway, giving the Queen the ability to grant it as she saw fit. At Parliament’s urging, she granted it to you.”
Marcus looked at his smiling brother suspiciously. “How much did it cost you?”
“Nothing. Father had already set the wheels in motion before his death. According to his letter to me, even if Michael and I hadn’t disappeared, once he discovered your mother’s background, he would have asked to have the title restored to you, anyway. It was his way of making amends for what he considered to be his part in your grandfather’s unjust prosecution.”
“What happened to the others?”
“What others?”
“You said that there was a group of operatives. After what you just told me, I can’t believe my mother only targeted Papa.”
The smile died abruptly. Brand sighed and ran his hand over his face. Marcus had the distinctly uneasy feeling that Brand was trying to shield him from something truly unpleasant.
“They’re all dead.” Brand’s voice was flat.
“I would imagine so. But tell me the truth, did my mother have anything to do with their deaths?”
“Yes.” That one word seemed forced.
“How many of them?”
Brand hesitated, but seemed to recognize Marcus’s determination.
“All of them,” he responded.
“Including Papa?” Marcus hadn’t wanted to ask the question, but once it surfaced he couldn’t let it go. He had to know how far his mother had been prepared to go in her quest for revenge.
“Yes.” The answer was dragged from Brand.
He sat back in his chair. “I see. Why’d she wait so long?”
Brand took another drink. “She said you needed to be groomed more.”
Marcus was laughing before he caught himself. He wasn’t sure why, except that it suddenly seemed amusing his mother would have quibbled about whether or not he was ready to inherit a dukedom she was willing to kill her own husband for.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head, “but she had to know I wasn’t being groomed at all. Not only did I not want to be groomed, but Papa refused to groom me—especially after that gypsy fortune teller told him you were still alive when I was fifteen.” Marcus mulled the information over for a few minutes. “How much of this is public knowledge?”
“Very little, if any. Anyone who might have known about your grandfather firsthand is likely dead. The members of Parliament aren’t likely to bandy the information about. And the title was restored to you three years ago, so it’s old news now.”
Marcus stared. “Three years ago? Why didn’t you say something in one of your letters?”
“Unlike Father, I thought it was news best delivered in person.”
Marcus had no rejoinder to that. Would he have returned before now if he’d known?
“Father anticipated his death,” Brand said, “with a number of written instructions, all to be carried out after his death. He left no contingency uncovered, including the possibility your mother might attempt to do away with me and Felicia.” Marcus started to say something, but Brand continued. “He left me a letter detailing the events surrounding your grandfather’s situation, explaining why he wanted you to have St. Ayers, and even instructions as to where to bury your mother upon her death.”
“And where was that?”
“Here. She is buried in the family cemetery beside her father. I don’t know how it was done, but someone apparently retrieved your grandfather’s body, brought it here, and had him interred. My guess is that it was one of the operatives. Father’s letter said he was sure at least one of them knew the truth.”
The silence stretched to minutes, Marcus digesting this last bit of
information. “Do you still have the letters?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I read them?”
A fleeting smile touched Brand’s lips. “I saved them for just that purpose. And there is also a last letter to you with them. It is sealed, so I am not privy to its contents, but I would guess that he also left you an explanation of sorts as well. I would suggest disposing of all the letters afterwards, though. That chapter in St. Ayers’ history is now closed, and should stay that way.”
Marcus agreed. He would make one more foray into the past by reading his father’s last missives, then put it behind him as best he could.
Chapter Four
“It is our pleasure to bestow upon Lord Marcus Edward Waring the title of Earl St. Ayers, along with all hereditary rights and responsibilities appertaining thereto.”
Queen Victoria to Parliament, 1869
Marcus stood near the edge of the cliff and stared out at the distant horizon before him, lost in thought. The sun shone in a startlingly blue, cloudless, sky, but he saw none of it. A light breeze ruffled his hair and cooled his face, but he barely felt it. High above him birds screeched, swooped, and dived, carried aloft on the breeze one minute, the next plunging toward the sea and rocks below. He took in the vista before him for a short time, then turned his sights inward. His thoughts drowned out the world around him as he pondered the new direction of his life.
An Earl.
Earl St. Ayers.
He’d tried out the title on his tongue last night as he lay in the quiet splendor of the master suite. It still sounded foreign to him.
He felt like a usurper.
He would get used to it, he supposed. In time.
Earlier he’d visited his mother’s grave and stood before it, wondering at what she had been through. He supposed it must have been terrifying for a young girl of fourteen to suddenly be torn from her home, her father disgraced, and banished from the country of her birth. Only to be taken in by relatives who misused her in turn.
The vision of another fourteen-year-old briefly danced before his eyes, and he wondered how Amy might have fared had she lived.
Family Scandals Page 4
