“But, Cassie—”
“Perhaps one of them even admires me?” She stood and paced back and forth. “Two unmarried gentlemen—handsome gentlemen—seem eager to get to know us better, and you drive them away.”
Was it possible? Might Colonel Vaughan really fancy Cassie? Lina gnawed her lower lip, wondering why the idea should leave her so disheartened. What if the colonel had been trying to make a good impression, and she’d ascribed sinister motives to him only because of Doctor Strickland’s question and her own hopes for her baby?
Then again, he was a man, and men had a way of saying whatever a woman wanted to hear, whether sincere or not. Hadn’t her own father used and abandoned her poor, credulous mother? For that matter, Lina wished she had a ha’penny for every time her mother had believed a man because he’d told her his intentions were honorable. “Even if he had nothing to do with the tea, he’s behaving as if the abbey already belongs to him.”
Cassie gave her an exasperated look. “Can you blame him? The trustees must have led him to believe the title and land were already his.”
Lina couldn’t deny it. The colonel had traveled all the way from Hampshire with his brother and his little girl—and she was an adorable little girl, quiet, neat as a pin, all dimples and dark ringlets. So far, he’d received nothing for his pains except disappointment and hostility. And she was at least partly to blame. However shocked and confused she’d been, she had told Mr. Channing there was no baby on the way.
She wasn’t about to forget the pennyroyal in the tea caddy, but she had no proof Colonel Vaughan was responsible. It was true he’d gone into the house alone, but what were the odds he’d been carrying pennyroyal tea on his person on the off chance an opportunity to slip unobserved into the dower house kitchen might present itself? Where did caution end and wild speculation begin?
Lina sighed. She would keep her wits about her when dealing with the colonel, but do her best to suspend judgment. “I’m sorry, Cassie, but I was worried he...” She stopped, shaking her head. “No, there’s no ‘but’ about it. I should have thought before I spoke.”
“Then you’ll apologize to him?”
Lina hesitated. Being civil to the man until he left the abbey was one thing, but apologizing was quite another. What if he was responsible? She’d spent most of her life poor and despised because of the way gentlemen had mistreated her mother. If she let a man get the upper hand, she was likely to regret it.
As if reading her thoughts, Cassie came and perched beside her on the sofa. “Lina, dear, not every man is untrustworthy. Take Radbourne, for instance. He adored you.”
“Yes.” Not for the first time, Lina suffered the dull ache of loss. “He was always good to us.”
“Then please won’t you give Colonel Vaughan and his brother a chance, and do what you can to mend fences?” Cassie’s eyes turned imploring. “Please?”
Could she really afford to antagonize Colonel Vaughan on the basis of little more than suspicion? If her baby should turn out to be a girl—though she was bound and determined it would be a boy—her future and her child’s would depend largely on Colonel Vaughan’s good will. And there was also Cassie to consider, and her interest in getting to know the gentlemen better.
Lina sighed. “Very well. If we see him again, I’ll apologize.”
“When we see him again.”
“When we see him again, then.”
Cassie beamed, and Lina had to force an answering smile in return.
She might have agreed to beg the colonel’s pardon, but she hadn’t promised to like doing it.
* * *
Win was almost halfway to the abbey, striding in fuming silence alongside his brother, when Freddie broke the quiet. “Is something wrong?”
Win glanced sidelong at him. “Do you mean aside from my itching to throttle Lady Radbourne?”
“You’re itching to throttle Lady Radbourne?”
Win gestured with an emphatic jab of one hand in the direction of the dower house. “Well, wouldn’t you be angry if you were in my place?”
“I can’t say.” Freddie deliberated a moment, his forehead wrinkling. “What is it you’re angry about?”
“What is it I’m angry...?” Win sometimes had trouble believing Freddie inhabited the same world he did. “Didn’t you hear what Lady Radbourne said? She accused me of trying to poison her.”
Freddie’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “I thought she said she wasn’t accusing you.”
“Yes,” Win replied hotly, “and she also said I’m new to the neighborhood, I have the most to gain if any harm should come to her baby, and it’s only natural for my presence here to arouse suspicion.”
Freddie tilted his head to one side. “Isn’t all of that true?”
“What?” Win let out his breath in an angry huff. “Well...strictly speaking it may be accurate, but it’s not as if I go about menacing females. I’m not some cursed Bluebeard.”
“But you just said you were itching to throttle Lady Radbourne.”
Win rounded on his brother in exasperation. “For the love of God, Freddie, do you imagine I would really do such a thing? That was a figure of speech.”
“I did suspect you didn’t intend to follow through,” Freddie said, unfazed. “After all, you had an excellent opportunity to throttle her at the dower house just now, and you didn’t take it. You often say things you don’t mean. But then, you’re my brother, so I have a fair measure of confidence you’re no murderer.”
A fair measure. “Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. I base that on a lifetime of evidence. You know right from wrong. You obey the law. And never once did you do any violence to Harriet, though the two of you quarreled constantly.”
Win stiffened. “We didn’t quarrel constantly.”
“Didn’t you?” Freddie raised an eyebrow in a quizzical expression. “In that case, I must have been absent on those occasions when you took a brief pause.”
Win was too flattened to reply. He’d certainly known Harriet wasn’t happy, and that the last year of their marriage had been especially strained. Though he and Harriet had both tried to make the best of things, she’d been brought up to a life far grander than marriage to a country gentleman with only a handful of tenants. Still, Win hadn’t realized the friction was so apparent that even absent-minded Freddie had seen it.
“What I mean to say is, Lady Radbourne doesn’t know you’re law-abiding,” Freddie continued, “or that you bore Harriet with the patience of Job even after she revealed herself to be a spoiled, ill-tempered shrew.”
“Now, just a moment—”
“You and the countess met only yesterday. For all she knows, your character could be wholly vicious. You could lie, cheat and steal. She has no evidence to the contrary.”
Win was about to object until he recalled having told the countess It’s not Mr. Vaughan, it’s Colonel Vaughan. Perhaps she did have reason to think him less than scrupulously truthful.
Freddie’s mouth curved down in a pensive frown. “Besides, aren’t all females notoriously touchy when they’re breeding? When Harriet was expecting Julia, she once burst into tears merely because I said I hoped the chair she’d chosen was sturdy enough to support her weight. I ask you, does that make sense? Of course not. But Lady Radbourne is in a similar condition, and acting to safeguard her unborn child.” He gazed off into space, considering. “I’m convinced such fierceness is instinctive. Despite its smaller size, a brooding pigeon will wing-slap a human in order to protect the nest. The fault is in the human for blundering too close, of course, and not in the pigeon, which is only defending its eggs.”
Win nodded slowly. For someone so often lacking in insight, sometimes Freddie made a surprising kind of sense.
He’d wanted to be neighborly—and, if he were completely hone
st with himself, perhaps to strike up a flirtation with the first woman he’d found really intriguing since Harriet, one who was not only lovely, but also spirited. But whatever the future might bring, for the present she was the Countess of Radbourne and he was only plain Win Vaughan from Hampshire, a nobody with a young daughter, an eccentric brother and a crushing mortgage.
He’d blundered too close to the little countess, and she’d justly dealt him a wing-slap.
Chapter Six
The clouds may drop down titles and estates, and wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought.
—Edward Young
The next day was market day in the neighboring town of Malton, and Win decided to take Freddie and Julia with him and see what diversions the town had to offer. He was also hoping, though he kept the thought to himself, that at some point he might leave Julia in Freddie’s care for a few minutes and make discreet inquiries into the possibility of engaging a little paid female companionship before he left for Hampshire.
Perhaps some time with an agreeable fille de joie might help dispel the sense of restless dissatisfaction that had taken hold of him. Whatever the reason—whether it was the disappointment of learning he might not inherit after all, the set-down he’d received from Lady Radbourne, or simply the nagging sense of inadequacy that had been plaguing him since Harriet’s death—he could feel himself slipping into a funk. Now he was even having trouble concentrating.
He’d spent the previous evening in the study, going over Belryth Abbey’s account books. He’d been hoping to acquaint himself with the day-to-day operation of the estate, but instead he’d wound up thoroughly frustrated. At first he couldn’t even find the books, and when he did they were in the back of the library, a set of unmarked ledgers locked in a glass-fronted cabinet.
“Could you open this for me?” he’d had to ask Mrs. Phelps.
“I’ll try, sir, but I’m not sure I have the key. I’ve never had to open that case before.”
He hadn’t even been sure the ledgers were the account books he was looking for, but they’d persevered. Fortunately one of the skeleton keys on her ring fit the keyhole, and he hadn’t had to smash the glass or send for Mr. Niven. Sure enough, the unmarked ledgers were six years’ worth of estate records.
“I suppose Lord Radbourne had his own key,” Win had said, hefting the books, “for when he wanted to go over his accounts?”
“I don’t know, sir. Truth be told, the only time I ever saw the account books was when the gentlemen were going over them together, and they did that in the study. I thought one of the trustees must bring them with him, or perhaps Mr. Niven did.”
Once Win had his hands on the books, however, their contents proved every bit as difficult to unlock as their hiding place had been. The rent figures matched those in the bailiff’s receipt book, and there was nothing wrong with the arithmetic in each column of the ledgers, but when he compared the amounts that should have carried over from one quarter to the next, somehow the numbers never matched. Instead the bank deposits and their corresponding receipts were considerably lower than they should have been, though he couldn’t puzzle out where the balance of the income was being credited.
Sitting with the books open before him, Win was so discouraged he rang for Dyson.
“Yes, sir?”
“Be good enough to bring me a bottle of brandy, Dyson.”
A few minutes later, he was nursing a drink, trying to make heads or tails of the discrepancy. Was it negligent bookkeeping? Outright fraud? Or might the late earl have been keeping a secret—a mistress he was supporting, perhaps? In that case, it would have made more sense to record the missing funds as personal expenses rather than to merely muddle the numbers. But as for carelessness or theft, surely Lord Radbourne must have had some system of oversight when it came to his accounting and estate management.
Win had thrown back the last swallow of brandy in his glass and sighed. He would need to look into the matter further before returning to Hampshire.
In the meantime, he was obviously in need of something to restore his equanimity—more brandy, a good night’s sleep, perhaps even an accommodating woman. The first two were easy enough to come by, but the third...
“If we start soon, we can have the dovecote ready before the cold weather returns,” Freddie was saying as they strolled the busy high street in Malton, Win holding Julia’s hand. “I won’t have my squeakers freezing to death in the winter.”
Julia laughed at the word squeakers, but Win said, “I’ve already told you, Freddie, we won’t be staying.”
Win had decided to leave for Bishop’s Waltham sooner rather than later. He only wished he hadn’t made the mistake of confiding in several of his neighbors there about his supposed inheritance. If he had only himself to consider, he wouldn’t care one way or the other what they thought. What harm could a few snickers and a bit of gleeful gossip really do? But Julia’s future happiness and security might well depend on the goodwill of society there, and—well, if it turned out his expectations had been nothing but a pipe dream, he didn’t want his neighbors looking at her as the daughter of some jumped-up pretender with airs above his station. Marrying Harriet had been presumption enough.
“It’s awfully crowded here,” Freddie observed, blithely ignoring Win’s admonition.
It was crowded, with foot traffic choking the pavement and carriages passing back and forth in surprising numbers. “It is market day, after all.”
They had already toured the lending library and the assembly rooms, and enjoyed meat pies from a stall in the marketplace. In an uncharacteristically spendthrift humor, Win had bought Julia a new hair ribbon and a twist of peppermints, and Freddie a pocket atlas. He was trying to think of an excuse he could give his brother in order to slip off alone to the tavern for a quarter of an hour when two slight figures, one in half-mourning and the other dressed entirely in black, emerged from the press of pedestrians on the other side of the street, headed toward them.
The countess and her sister? It was unusual for a widow to venture out while still in deep mourning, but then Lady Radbourne must have been similarly venturesome when he’d first encountered her two days before. Perhaps she, too, had been feeling restless.
Win watched their approach with mingled pleasure and disquiet. Lady Radbourne was as lovely as ever, but after the way he’d stormed out at their last meeting, what could she want with him? He hoped he wasn’t about to be publicly dressed down. Harriet’s father had once called him You damned fortune hunter on a London street, and loudly enough to draw a crowd. Win had wanted to knock the old man’s teeth down his throat, but had been forced to endure the insult in silence for Harriet’s sake. He still had trouble putting it from his mind.
Fortunately, Miss Douglass was smiling her usual sunny smile, and beneath her black bonnet Lady Radbourne wore a faintly conciliatory expression. Win tipped his hat in greeting as they drew near. “Ladies.”
“Why, we didn’t expect to see you in Malton,” Miss Douglass said. “You’re the second party from Belryth we’ve met today. Mr. Channing and Sir John are here as well, for the parish vestry meeting.”
“Sir John?”
Lady Radbourne’s exquisite features turned momentarily stormy. “Sir John Blessingame. My husband’s former guardian.”
“Yes,” Miss Douglass added in her cheerful way. “Until this past August, when Radbourne was rid of him at last.”
Had the late Lord Radbourne really reached his majority only a few months before his death? For some reason, Win had pictured the earl as older. Surely Lady Radbourne must be in her mid-twenties, if she was the eldest of five siblings and Miss Douglass one of the youngest. “I thought we should see the town while we’re in these parts.”
“Have you made up your mind yet how long you intend to stay?” Miss Douglass asked.
“Just four days m
ore. We mean to set out for Hampshire on Wednesday.”
“Oh.” She pushed out her lower lip in a playful pout of disappointment. “So soon.”
“Might I have a word with you, Colonel?” Lady Radbourne asked. “It should take only a moment.” Her voice held a determined note.
Why would she want a private word with him—the better to take him to task? “Yes, of course. Julia, wait with your uncle Freddie.”
He relinquished his daughter’s hand and stepped off a few paces with the countess, while Miss Douglass struck up a smiling conversation with his brother—smiling on her side, at least, for Freddie seemed largely uninterested.
“What can I do for you, Lady Radbourne?” Win asked without preamble. “Is there some new problem at the dower house?”
She raised one eyebrow. “It’s quite possible for me to wish to speak to you for some reason other than to request your assistance.”
“I wasn’t implying—”
She sighed, and her shoulders drooped. In her widow’s weeds she looked small and wan, though still prettier than any other woman of his acquaintance. “Yes, you were, but given the way our previous meetings have gone, you have every right to assume I wish to ask some favor.”
Actually, he’d been hoping she wished to ask some favor, as that seemed infinitely preferable to being told he’d behaved like an ass at the dower house. “Then what is it, ma’am?”
She looked up into his face, her expression earnest. “I wish to apologize for the way I spoke to you yesterday. You were being cordial and I was—well, I was rude and inhospitable. I don’t blame you for being angry with me.”
An apology? He was unaccountably gratified, especially since he doubted she was used to humbling herself. Harriet had never once asked his pardon for anything. A curious warmth spread through him, the warmth of being told, if only this once, that a difficult situation wasn’t entirely his fault. “Then allow me to apologize in turn for having stormed away. It was foolish and, as my brother was quick to point out, rather egotistical of me. You’d known me all of twenty-four hours. To expect you to have blind faith in my character even at the risk of your own safety was self-centered at best.”
An Heir of Uncertainty Page 7
