by Jenna Jaxon
His companion’s face drooped. “So you can see, my lord, why it will be somewhat more difficult to conduct this business through the mail. But as Grimes and Clarke are responsible for the original error, we will make every attempt to accommodate the dowager countess.” Mr. Clarke stood and slipped the papers back into his black leather valise. “Please give the dowager our sincere condolences on the death of her husband once more and inform her that I shall write her as soon as I return to London. At some point, when she is ready, she must journey to London and sign several documents, including her own will.”
“Of course.” Kersey stood, looking down at Mr. Clarke, thinking furiously about how this catastrophe could be remedied. “I am certain she will be overjoyed to receive this news. Please let me know if there is anything else the earldom can do to facilitate matters.”
“You are very good, Lord Kersey.” Mr. Clarke grasped the handle to his case, which looked as if it outweighed the gentleman by several pounds, and strode to the door. “Please tell the dowager countess that if she has questions, and I suspect she will have many, she has only to write me.”
“I will do that, sir, you have my word.” Kersey managed to smile at the older man before the solicitor strode out into the corridor, where Chambers hovered about with Mr. Clarke’s coat and scarf, ready to show the gentleman the way to his carriage. “Chambers, after you’ve assisted Mr. Clarke, please ask Lord Wetherby to attend me here as soon as possible.”
“Certainly, my lord.” Chambers helped Mr. Clarke with his coat and dark blue knitted scarf before escorting him out.
No sooner had the door closed, than Lord Kersey called to the butler. “Chambers! Bring Wetherby to me now.”
Wide-eyed, the butler bowed, then hurried to the front staircase. He paused but a moment, perhaps to catch his breath, then shot straight up the steps.
Cursing low under his breath, Kersey headed back into the receiving room, making a straight line to the cognac. No need for restraint any longer. Disaster had arrived and must be met head-on. He poured a full tumbler then took a deep sip, allowing the mellow burn to trace its way down into his stomach where it created a glow that went some little way toward comforting him. He’d taken another long sip when Anthony rushed in, wearing only breeches and a stained shirt, looking as if he’d just risen from his bed. At three thirty in the afternoon, it was not beyond the realm of possibility.
“What the deuce has happened, Father?” His son yawned, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. “Chambers insisted you needed me immediately.” He looked about, a petulant grimace on his face. “I see no disaster to merit being dragged from my bed.”
“You’ll see it clearly enough presently.” Kersey downed the rest of his drink and eyed the decanter. He’d like nothing more than to drain the cut-crystal bottle and make this entire nightmare go away, at least temporarily. At last, however, he set the glass down and turned to his offspring. “I have just been handed a piece of news that could ruin us, and I mean financially in the worst way. Unless we can agree on the one course of action that will save us.”
Anthony scrubbed his hands over his face, eyed the decanter, and said thickly, “A hair of the dog wouldn’t be amiss right now.”
Shaking his head, Kersey poured a generous tot and handed it to his son. “I agree you’re going to need this.”
Glancing at his father through slitted eyes, Anthony knocked back the cognac with a practiced hand and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “What’s the matter?”
“Mr. Clarke, the solicitor, has just left, and to say he bore bad tidings is a gross understatement.” Kersey plucked the empty glass from his son’s fingers and set it carefully on the table. “His firm has discovered a last will and testament written by the previous Lord Kersey on the day he died.”
Anthony blinked and his jaw tightened, then he relaxed. “How bad can that be? The lands and property are entailed. He cannot have given any of that to anyone else.”
“True. But he could and did leave a bequest to his wife and daughter.”
With a shrug, Anthony reached for the brandy. “And how much does that amount to?”
“Clarke wouldn’t say anything except there would be a significant change to the Kersey resources.”
The decanter slipped through Anthony’s fingers and thumped loudly on the table. “Significant? How significant?”
“We don’t know. But you now see our predicament a bit more clearly.” Kersey grabbed the brandy and poured sizeable amounts into both their glasses. “There is a good deal of unentailed property thanks to the old earl, including estates, the London townhouse, art, jewelry, and I don’t know what else. It sounds as though a substantial portion of it has been settled on the Dowager Lady Kersey. Unless we can do something to return it to the fold, so to speak.”
Anthony glanced sharply at his father. “How would you propose to do that? Contest the will?”
“Unfortunately, that is not possible. Mr. Clarke, blast his thorough heart, has authenticated it with the witnesses. It will undoubtedly stand up in an English court.” Swirling the amber liquid, Kersey refrained from looking at his heir. Letting the suggestion come from his son, rather than as his own decree, would help ensure Anthony’s wholehearted compliance with the only plan available to them.
“Damn.” Anthony took a swallow of the cognac, the wheels of his mind almost visible as he sorted out their options. “Well, there is one thing we could do, although it would be quite distasteful, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, I am sure it will be.” Kersey relaxed. Praise God the boy was beginning to think like a Garrett. “Still, I don’t believe the duty will be as unpleasant as it might be if the lady were less comely. She seems a pleasant armful at least.”
His son stared at him as though he were mad. “What does her looks have to do with it?”
Kersey frowned. “Only that marrying a handsome woman would be more enticing than marrying a plain one.”
“Marry her?” Anthony’s shocked expression puzzled his father greatly.
“Of course. You will need to marry her to return our rightful property to the family’s control.” Kersey’s brows dipped lower. “What did you think I meant?”
“That we need to kill her, of course.”
“What?” The tumbler of brandy slipped from Kersey’s hand and smashed to the floor, shards of glass and spirits spraying the expensive red and cream Aubusson carpet. “Are you mad?” He stepped away from the mess and grabbed Anthony’s arm. “Don’t let me hear you speak of such a thing ever again. Killing the woman is wrong, and even if it weren’t, if you were caught you’d swing for it.”
Anthony jerked his arm away. “I’m joking, of course. It’s just that anything would be better than being saddled with a mousy little thing like her.” He swallowed the last of his drink, then hurled the glass into the fireplace. Sparks flew as the dregs of the brandy blazed up. “Why can’t you leave me out of it? Marry her to James instead. He’d probably jump at the chance to bed a woman regularly that he didn’t have to pay for.”
Appalled at his son’s callous attitude—although they’d never been close, he’d not seen this sort of behavior in Anthony before—Kersey nevertheless tried to make him see reason. “James’s marrying her won’t do. It would bring the assets back to the family, but not to the Kersey estate. As he doesn’t stand to inherit, unless something untoward befalls you, he’d be a fool to simply deed it back to the earldom. He’d more likely decide he’d be better off retaining the property to create his own little empire.”
“I won’t do it, Father. She’d be an agreeable tumble once or twice, nothing more. I’ll not tie myself to her for all eternity.” Anthony crossed his arms and leaned back, like a recalcitrant horse balking at a difficult jump.
“So keep her in the country and carouse to your heart’s content in Town. You won’t be the first gentleman to do such a thing for money.” Kersey shook his head. He’d believed Anthony would have seen the necessity of this plan
as quickly as he had. So now he needed an inducement to sweeten the pot. “Marry the girl and get her with child as quickly as you can. That may solve all your problems. Childbirth is a chancy thing. Look at what happened to Princess Charlotte, and she had the best doctors available.” He turned away from his son, letting the words sink in, and raised the decanter. “Care for another drink?”
Silence echoed in the still chamber until his son’s footfalls scuffed the parquet floor. “Fill the damn glass.”
Repressing a smile, Kersey did exactly that, then handed the almost dripping tumbler to Anthony. “I thought you would see reason. There’s simply no other way to secure these assets.”
“You don’t even know what she stands to inherit. It could be next to nothing—something left to shame her, like all her husband’s small clothes or the oldest horse in the stable. I might be throwing away my prospects for a collection of chamber pots.”
“The solicitor said the change to our coffers would be significant. We cannot afford the risk.”
Anthony took a substantial sip, then tipped the glass toward his father. “I’m telling you, a widow who’s lost two husbands in such a short space of time must be out of her mind with grief. Easiest thing in the world for her to take poison, or walk out into a lake and drown herself.” He glared at his father. “Trust me, no one would suspect a thing.”
“Do you also intend to commit infanticide while you’re disposing of the mother?” Exasperated by his son’s bloodthirsty streak, Kersey poured himself another as well. “The solicitor said the will benefitted both mother and child. If something happened to the dowager, do you think for a moment you’d be able to get closer than a stone’s throw from that baby? No.” He inhaled the cognac’s sweet fragrance. It seemed to have a calming effect on him. “Trust me on this, Anthony. Seduce the little widow—child’s play for you, I’m sure.”
His son shrugged, but a hint of a smile ghosted across his lips.
“Marry her, assume her inheritance, whatever it is, and then carry on with your life as you normally would. Your mother seems rather taken with the young widow. She can likely keep her entertained here at the Hall while you amuse yourself more handily elsewhere.”
Scowling, Anthony took a long sip of the brandy. “I suppose I will have to do it, won’t I?”
“You are the only one who can.”
“It’s rather difficult being the family savior.”
“Yes.” Kersey nodded. If such a title smoothed the young puppy’s way to performing the deed, then let him think so. And God help the dowager if her inheritance proved to be inadequate. He might be hard pressed to restrain his son’s more violent proclivities.
Chapter Eight
Early Tuesday morning, Maria came downstairs to find Jane already at breakfast, busily cracking a soft-boiled egg. She hit the shell a precise blow that neatly severed the slightly pointed top from the rest of the rotund body. Scooping out the tiny bit of egg, she topped it with a small pat of butter and popped it into her mouth, smiling as she savored the morsel. “Will you join me for eggs and toast, Cousin?”
“How did you know I was behind you?” Maria came forward into the room, her head cocked.
“You must blame Saunders, I assume.” Jane discarded the empty sliver of shell onto her plate and began on the larger portion of egg. “He is so enamored with his elevation to butler he has taken to polishing the silverware once a week. This smooth strip around the teapot”—her cousin tapped it with a fingernail—“is as reflective as a mirror. I saw you quite distinctly as you came to the doorway.”
“So I suppose you do not have eyes in the back of your head, although I for one would not lay a wager on it.” Maria sat across from Jane and laid her napkin in her lap. “Another pot of tea, Saunders, with a boiled egg, toast, and jam.”
“You know you could have your breakfast delivered to you in bed.” Jane raised her head from the egg cup. “Although you are widowed, I am certain that much of an alteration can be claimed if you wish to laze about in the mornings.”
“I could say the same thing to you, Cousin. You could take your rest as well until later in the day.” Maria smiled with an archness to her voice.
“Indeed, I could. But I would then miss all the to-do which will likely break out at any moment.”
“What do you mean, ‘to-do’?” Anxious for some distraction, Maria grabbed a cold piece of Jane’s toast and began to slather it with the creamy butter.
“It has been four whole days since we met the Kerseys.” Sprinkling salt onto her bite of egg, Jane proceeded then to the pepper before eyeing her breakfast with pure joy. “I will wager that the earl will either send for you or put in an appearance himself so he can watch your face crumple when he tells you to pack your bags, he is throwing you out.”
“Throwing us out?” The knife in Maria’s hand hovered above the piece of bread, butter perched on the tip of the utensil. “He indicated no such thing the other day, Jane.” She grabbed Jane’s hand and squeezed. “Have you heard something?”
“Not a word. Really, Maria, unhand me.” Her cousin pulled her hand from Maria’s death grip and shook it. “My handwriting will never be the same. You will not recognize a letter from me when I finally have occasion to write you again. As it is, I must send to Kinellan once more, postponing my visit.”
Jane gave her eggshell a final scrape and, finding nothing on the spoon, then set it on her plate. “I am promising him, however, on my oath of honor, that I will attend his party this Christmas. If you do not wish to be alone with just Saunders and Cook, you might ask to visit your parents. Surely they could make room for you and the baby for a short stay.” Jane paused. “I seem to have come very far afield from the point I was making . . . Oh, yes, will Lord Kersey come by today to send you packing from Francis House.”
“Really, Jane, must you be so dramatic? The next time I see you, you will be on the stage in Drury Lane.”
“If I’d had no prospects of a good marriage I might well have gone on the stage, despite its scandalous reputation.” Folding her napkin precisely, Jane gave the linen a parting crease with her fingers. “I believe I would have had much more fun than I have had, even with Tark.”
“Jane!” Maria’s cheeks heated. Everyone knew that actresses were no better than they should be. To have her cousin admit that she would have indulged in . . . such doings with gentlemen other than her husband was quite shocking. Of course, Maria had found out her cousin had a wild streak she never would have guessed a year ago.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do it now, mind you. Although I have managed my share of discreet liaisons since coming out of mourning.” The far-off look in her cousin’s eyes was accompanied by a totally sly smile. “One must protect one’s reputation even in widowhood.”
“Jane, for goodness’ sake. You were speaking about Lord Kersey forcing me to leave.”
“Oh, yes. Well”—Jane rose and laid her folded napkin on her plate—“the earl has likely been able to give the matter some thought since our meeting on Friday and has come to the conclusion that it will be much more convenient for him if he does not have to pay the upkeep of a woman and her dependents to whom he is not really related at all. Therefore, expect a letter”—Jane pretended she was receiving a letter and unfolded the invisible document—“telling you that after further consideration he wishes you to pack your things and return to from where you came.” With a sweeping gesture, Jane pointed her finger at the door.
Which at that precise moment opened, and Saunders walked through the entryway and right into Jane’s finger.
“Ooof.” The butler staggered back as Jane snatched her finger away from him. “I beg your pardon, my lady.” He straightened his vest with one hand, and brought the other from behind his back, holding a silver tray with a letter on it out toward Maria.
She gave one wild, stricken look at Jane. Surely her cousin hadn’t conjured this missive with her remarks of a few minutes ago. That would be absurd. Hesitantly, Maria took
the letter, looking from Saunders to Jane, not quite knowing what to do.
After an awkward moment of silence, the butler bowed and withdrew, leaving Maria and Jane staring at the sheet of creamy stationery.
“Perhaps it is not from Lord Kersey.” For once Jane seemed taken totally aback. She bit her lips, and kept clenching and opening her hands.
Dutifully, Maria turned the letter over, revealing the melted red wax wafer and the imprint of the Kersey crest. A fit of choked laughter bubbled up in Maria’s throat. This couldn’t be happening, yet what Jane had just suggested seemed to be coming to pass.
“Don’t be silly, my dear.” Her cousin must have caught her panicked air, for Jane pressed her hands stiffly to her sides. “It is likely a simple invitation to dine this evening.”
About as likely as an invitation to take tea with the Prince Regent. She stroked the heavy, smooth paper, turning it over and over. Nothing to do but open it and face whatever was to come. Straightening her back, Maria ripped off the wafer and unfolded the letter.
Dear Maria,
Given our somewhat formal meeting last week, I did not have time to discuss with you the situation the estate finds itself in at present.
An icy chill trickled down her spine, the cold fingers of doom touching every part of her as it made its way down to her toes. Read it. She must read the rest of it. Maria closed her eyes, breathed deeply, then opened them and read on.
As she read further, the ice spreading through her veins stopped. She lifted her gaze from the letter to Jane’s face, her slack jaw making her mouth drop open.
“Maria?” Jane was beside her, her hand supporting her arm as though she thought Maria might swoon. “What has happened?”
“Lord Kersey has asked me to leave Francis House and return to Kersey Hall.” She could scarcely believe the words as she said them. Hadn’t understood them the first time she’d read them.
