An Heir of Uncertainty

by Everett, Alyssa

Sir again, and Mr. Vaughan. Was that the usual protocol so soon after a peer’s death, or was the butler unaware of his reason for coming here? Win could almost believe the letter he’d received nearly three weeks before had been nothing but a practical joke, an elaborate prank one of his old army comrades was playing, except that Dyson had mentioned Mr. Niven by name and the servants were clearly expecting him.

  The house was better on the inside—much warmer, and not so dark or closed in as Win had feared. Though the floor of the front hall was slate, the rooms on either side boasted thick Persian carpets—expensive ones, if he was any judge. Their rich colors brightened the interior, dispelling any sense of gloom. Win detected no hint of damp or strong drafts, either, and that was saying a lot for such an old pile.

  “Is there a dovecote on the estate?” Freddie asked the butler.

  Dyson’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “A dovecote, sir?”

  “Yes. You know, a columbarium. A structure for housing pigeons or doves. There are dovecotes in France that have upwards of two thousand boulins.”

  “Pigeon holes,” Win translated for the butler’s benefit. “My brother has a great interest in pigeons.” Though he’d long since resigned himself to the hopelessness of persuading Freddie to converse on any other topic, at the moment Win wished his brother were a bit more circumspect about sharing his eccentric single-mindedness with everyone he met.

  “Centuries before Christ, pigeons were delivering the results of the Olympic games to the city-states of ancient Greece,” Freddie told the butler. “That’s why I give all my pigeons classical names. Admetus and Alcestis, Odysseus and Penelope, Baucis and Philemon—”

  Win cut him off. “No need to overwhelm Dyson with the entire list, Freddie.”

  The butler’s face remained admirably impassive. “I’m afraid there’s no dovecote on the abbey grounds, sir.”

  “Really? Well, dash it. Where might the nearest one be?”

  Win had used every tactic at his disposal to persuade his brother to make the trip, including vague intimations that Yorkshire was a pigeon’s paradise. Naturally Freddie wouldn’t rest until he’d sent for his birds. “Let’s worry about that after we’ve seen the rest of—”

  He broke off as the housekeeper, younger and more attractive than he’d expected, arrived to show them to their rooms. Win had no intention of dallying with the servants, but discovering that the upper staff wasn’t made up entirely of antiquated old retainers was a welcome surprise.

  In the room meant for Julia, the chambermaid was still laying the fire. Win deposited his daughter gently on the turned-down bed and drew the crewelwork coverlet up to her chin, hopeful she’d sleep through the night. It was a large room, and pretty, not at all the cheerless cell he’d feared—though after seven days on the road, any room that didn’t look and smell like a coaching inn was bound to seem inviting.

  He emerged back into the corridor to discover that Mrs. Phelps had already shown Freddie to his room. As fond as he was of his brother, Win was grateful to have a moment to himself. Between Julia’s short attention span and Freddie’s obsessive chatter, he’d known scarcely a moment’s peace since leaving Bishop’s Waltham. At least now he knew all there was to know about gauging the health of a pigeon from the look of its droppings.

  His own room turned out to be every bit as inviting as his daughter’s, its paneled walls, mahogany bedstead and silk hangings leaving him still more sanguine about the condition of the house. He’d no sooner washed off the dirt of travel, however, than a soft knock came at the bedroom door.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Dyson said when he answered, “but Mr. Niven wishes to see you in the parlor.”

  He needed the butler’s escort to find the room. It was a large chamber near the front of the house, furnished in what looked like Chippendale, stylish and elegant. Baroque portraits stared down grandly from the walls. Why, Belryth Abbey was downright luxurious.

  Win shook his head at the way he kept sizing up his ancestral home like a horse trader inspecting a nag. He’d have to break the habit before one of the servants caught him checking the silver for hallmarks.

  Two men awaited him. The first was a trim, dapper gentleman with an unlined face and neat silver hair. Seeing Win, he came hurrying forward with his hand outstretched. “I’m Arthur Niven. I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon.”

  Win shook his hand. “I did my best to shave time off the journey. I’ve no taste for being on the road, especially in the winter. I had more than enough of the unsettled life, fighting in Spain.”

  Mr. Niven gestured at the larger man standing just behind him. “This is Mr. Channing. He’s asked to be present for this interview.”

  “I’m magistrate here,” Channing said, likewise shaking Win’s hand, “as well as one of the three trustees of the estate. I contacted Mr. Niven after the late earl’s death, and I’ve been his eyes and ears here when he’s in York.”

  Though Mr. Channing looked to be only a little older than Mr. Niven, the two were physical opposites. Mr. Niven had a suave, fastidious air, while Mr. Channing was dressed in the rumpled tweeds and well-worn top boots of a country squire. He was big and broad, almost Win’s height, with rough hands and a weathered complexion.

  The lawyer waved Win toward an armchair. “Please, have a seat. We’ve a good deal to discuss.”

  Win sat. “From the look on your face, it can’t be good news.”

  “Unfortunately, you have the right of it.”

  “I’ll stand,” Channing said as Mr. Niven chose one of the two chairs facing Win. “I’ve a bad back, and sitting does it no favors.”

  Mr. Niven met Win’s eyes and sighed. “I’m afraid there’s no welcome way to say this. When I wrote to you, I was convinced you were the rightful heir to the late Lord Radbourne’s title and dignities. You and he share an ancestor in the fourth earl, and I could find no closer claimant in the male line.”

  Win tensed. “I sense a ‘but’ coming on.”

  The lawyer gave a sharp nod. “Indeed. You were contacted too precipitously. At the time, I believed that the late Lord Radbourne died with no legitimate issue of his own, with no hope of legitimate issue. But it appears his widow is increasing.”

  The letter Win had received from Mr. Niven had been full of categorical language like the recent decease of his brother and died childless. Nowhere had they mentioned that the late earl even had a widow. “You’ll forgive my frankness, Mr. Niven, but it’s more than 250 miles here from Bishop’s Waltham, and I’ve just traveled the distance in a closed carriage with a small child and a restive nineteen-year-old. I’m not the kind of man who uproots himself at the drop of a hat. You might have determined whether there was a baby on the way before you informed me I was the heir.”

  Mr. Niven’s lips pursed slightly. “Yes. Yes, you’re absolutely right. I apologize for that. I should have waited longer before attempting to contact you. But I’d been assured that Lady Radbourne had explicitly ruled out the possibility of a baby.” He threw a dark look at Mr. Channing that made it clear who his informant had been.

  Mr. Channing bristled. “She told me she wasn’t increasing. Told me flat-out that there wasn’t a chance! And it’s not as if I could question a new widow about her...er, female symptoms. She gave me to believe she had no doubt.”

  “But there is a baby on the way,” Mr. Niven said. “Or, at least, Lady Radbourne informed us five days ago that she believes there is.”

  Mr. Channing looked as if the news had left a bad taste in his mouth. “Aye, though whose baby it may be, God only knows.”

  Win blinked in surprise. “Do you mean to say there’s some doubt about the child’s paternity?”

  “More than some.” Mr. Channing paced the figured carpet in restless dissatisfaction. “Even while her husband was alive, Lady Radbourne was far too friendly with the local doct
or—and him coming and going at all hours too. Most of the neighborhood remarked on it. I wouldn’t put it past her to get with child as soon as she learned her husband was dead, expressly to keep her claws in the Radbourne fortune. After all, she was a Douglass before she married.” He spoke the last sentence as if it were all the evidence he needed.

  Win shifted in his chair. “You forget, I’m not from around here. What does being a Douglass have to say to the matter?”

  Mr. Niven looked pained, but Mr. Channing’s face set in a fierce expression. “Why, her mother had five brats by three different fathers, and there never was a Mister Douglass, if you take my meaning.”

  Win doubted anyone could miss his meaning. So Lady Radbourne’s mother had been an adventuress—and to judge by Channing’s manner, the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

  “Lady Radbourne’s mother and three of her siblings have since died,” Mr. Niven said, his tone far more diplomatic. “She’s half sister to the other surviving girl.”

  Mr. Channing nodded. “Like chalk and cheese, those two—the one dark-haired and as bold as brass, and the other so fair and sickly.”

  Win wondered which of the two sisters Lady Radbourne was, the bold one or the sickly one. He supposed she must be the former, if she’d been carrying on with another man behind her husband’s back.

  Mr. Niven’s expression turned grave. “Unfortunately, there’s no way to prove Lady Radbourne’s baby was conceived adulterously, and even if there were, the law doesn’t concern itself with whether the late Lord Radbourne is the child’s father, but only with whether he could have been. Legally, any baby born within a reasonable gestation after his death must be considered his posthumous child.”

  “A reasonable gestation?” Win said. “How long is that?”

  “It’s not precisely fixed in statute. As a rule, any birth occurring within ten months of the father’s death is deemed legitimate.”

  “Ten months...” So he might remain in limbo until October.

  “Perhaps longer. When the legitimacy of a child is in dispute, most juries are loath to stain a widow’s name and disinherit a fatherless child.” Mr. Niven shrugged. “You do have one recourse, Mr. Vaughan.”

  Mr. Vaughan. Win was glad now he’d chosen not to use the title when giving his name to the butler. “What’s that?”

  The lawyer leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers. “You could obtain a writ de ventre inspiciendo. It would allow you to have Lady Radbourne examined to determine whether she’s truly with child. If she is, you could keep her confined to some fixed place and have her examined regularly until her delivery, then have witnesses present at the birth.”

  Win’s jaw dropped. “My God. That’s really the law?”

  “It’s not often executed these days, but yes, as heir presumptive you have that right. The writ would prevent her from introducing a supposititious child—that is, from feigning pregnancy and attempting to pass off a foundling as the rightful heir.”

  Good Lord, was Lady Radbourne really that devious? Whatever her character, Win knew his own conscience. “No. I’m not going to subject my cousin’s widow to an examination. I’m certainly not going to keep her confined like a common criminal.”

  Mr. Niven’s slightly hooded eyes held an approving glint. “A wise course, if you’ll permit me to say so. Whatever the result of such an examination, Lady Radbourne is still the dowager countess and a dependent of the estate.”

  “She’ll always land on her feet, that one,” Mr. Channing said with a dour look.

  Win heaved a sigh. He’d looked on Mr. Niven’s letter as divine intervention. Hamble Grange wasn’t entailed, and Win’s father had mortgaged the estate years before to pay for his sons’ education and to put a new roof on the house. The crops had suffered in the cold summers of the past few years, and though Win was a careful manager, he was falling behind on the mortgage payments. He’d already had to pull Freddie out of Cambridge—not that Freddie minded, but Win certainly did. If he didn’t find some way to satisfy the bank, he was going to lose the Grange.

  Then there was the added boon of Julia’s growing up a nobleman’s daughter instead of the child of an obscure and cash-strapped gentleman farmer. Lady Julia Vaughan. Just when Win had begun to hope he might finally keep his word to Harriet...

  He rubbed his chin. “So where does all this leave me?”

  “Unfortunately, if Lady Radbourne’s baby should be a boy, his birth divests you of the title and estate. Of course, it’s quite possible the baby will be a girl.”

  “Or Lady Radbourne could miscarry,” Mr. Channing said.

  Both Win and Mr. Niven winced at his oddly optimistic tone, though the lawyer inclined his head smoothly in agreement. “Yes, that’s also a possibility. So you see, your odds are actually a little better than even, Mr. Vaughan. And even if the child should be male, you’ll remain next in line until such time as the boy fathers a son of his own.”

  “But for now, I really have nothing.”

  “What’s that?” Freddie’s voice came from the doorway, sharper than his usual absent-minded tone. “What do you mean, you have nothing?”

  Win glanced over his shoulder to find his brother peering owlishly at the tableau he and the other men presented. “It looks as if I may not be the new earl after all.” He spoke as lightly as he could manage. “Our cousin left a widow behind, and it appears she’s in an interesting condition.”

  Freddie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re joking.”

  “Unfortunately not.” Win made the necessary introductions, then gave Freddie a brief and expurgated version of what Mr. Niven had told him.

  For once, Freddie actually seemed interested in a matter that had nothing to do with pigeons. Though he didn’t precisely stare at the lawyer—Freddie had a bewildering tendency to look off into space when addressing someone—his brows drew down in a disbelieving frown. “So we’ve come here on a fool’s errand?”

  “Yes and no,” Mr. Niven said. “At this point your brother can’t prove his right to the title, so he can’t apply for a writ of summons or take a seat in the Lords. But for the time being, he’s the legal heir. While the trustees of the estate won’t allow him to run it into ruin, he’s entitled to the use and occupancy of the property, at least until Lady Radbourne’s delivery. The rest depends on the countess and her baby.”

  Still frowning, Freddie dropped into a chair. “Well, that’s something, anyway.”

  Yes, it was something—it was uncertainty and delay and confusion. Win didn’t like to let his disappointment show, especially in front of Freddie, who knew nothing of the financial problems facing the Grange. Still, it was a bitter pill to swallow. He’d closed up his house in Hampshire, torn Julia away from her beloved Nurse Drew, and carted Freddie across the length of England, all for naught. He’d spent thirty-one pounds to get here, thirty-one pounds he could ill afford. He’d have to spend thirty-one more just to get back home.

  Of course, he could stay and familiarize himself with the estate, but if he did and Lady Radbourne’s baby turned out to be a boy, he was going to look a proper ass when he crawled back to Hamble Grange with nothing to show for his months of absence. Not only that, but he’d look unfittingly grasping if he lingered here, his brother and daughter in attendance, breathing down the widow’s neck until her confinement.

  He wasn’t even sure how much hung in the balance. He threw a questioning glance at Mr. Niven. “I don’t like to appear crass, but the question must be asked, if only in the spirit of stewardship—how much is the estate worth?”

  The lawyer looked vaguely uncomfortable. “It’s impossible to put a price on the house, the land and the family heirlooms, and besides, they’re all entailed. But I can tell you that the rents and other income come to some thirty thousand a year.”

  Win gasped—a reaction he hastened
to mask with a dry cough.

  Freddie wasn’t so tactful. He lunged forward in his seat. “Did you say thirty thousand?”

  “About that, yes, with the colliery and the shipping interests.”

  Win felt curiously light-headed. Taking the title into account, he’d estimated between eight and twelve, had hoped for as much as fifteen. In his most fanciful moments, he’d dreamed of a princely sum like twenty. But thirty? Hamble Grange brought in scarcely two thousand a year, and that was with a good harvest. Even Harriet’s family, as wealthy as they were, could boast no more than seven.

  Thirty thousand. And such an enormous sum might be his—or it might not. It all depended on the countess and her baby.

  “Gad,” Freddie said. “I wish you’d never asked that question, Win. To come so close to a title only to have it pass one by would be bad enough, but to have thirty thousand pounds slip through one’s fingers...”

  “There’s no sense despairing yet,” Mr. Niven said. “The countess’s condition may pose a mere delay, nothing more.”

  Wearily, Win rose from his chair. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Niven. My brother and I have had a long journey, and my daughter is sleeping upstairs. I can decide in the morning what to do from here.” There was only one thing more he wanted to know. “When do we meet Lady Radbourne?”

  “Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” Mr. Niven assured him. “She’s removed to the dower house with her sister. She won’t trouble you.”

  “No,” Mr. Channing said, breaking into a smile. “She cleared out before she decided she was increasing. The one bit of good news you’ve had since you got here, eh, Mr. Vaughan?”

  Chapter Two

  Sometimes, only one person is missing, and the whole world seems depopulated.

  —Alphonse de Lamartine

  “I wish I were a hedgehog,” Lina said, sitting in the window seat and gazing out at the frosty morning. “Or a dormouse. Then I could hibernate through every winter.”

  Cassandra set down her teacup, looking surprised to hear such talk coming from her sister. “I’ve never liked winter either, but I wouldn’t want to sleep away that much of my life.”