by Allison Lane
But he froze with his hand on the bell-pull. This was Linden’s solution – hide the pain beneath a haze of wine.
Is wedding Sir Winton’s chit really so mad?
He jumped. Where had that idea come from?
Refusing Linden’s suggestions was an automatic reaction, he realized. Since childhood, the man had demanded blind obedience. That contest of wills intruded into every other disagreement, building even minor skirmishes into major battles.
He had long considered Linden a religious fanatic, but in truth, his obsession bore little trace of church dogma. He wasn’t opposed to sin. He merely railed against enjoying life, condemning everything pleasurable: dressing in the current mode, visiting the clubs, a glass of port, a willing maid, an innocuous hand of cards, an invigorating set of country dances. But his most fervent lectures were always reserved for gaming.
He paced faster.
He might wish his father in Hades, but anger did not extend to his mother. She had always supported him against Linden’s tirades, easing his punishments, concealing incidents she knew would trigger a new round of disapproval, giving him her unqualified love and support. How could he blithely pick up the threads of his own life, knowing that she faced poverty with no guarantee she would even have a roof over her head? Linden had nothing left. Even spending his remaining years in an endless round of house parties would not work. Few would welcome a guest who could not pay vails to the servants when he left.
He must explore every possible solution before condemning his mother to such a life. And one solution was recovering the Park. His parents could remain there while he lived elsewhere.
Marriages of convenience had been the custom for centuries. Most worked well enough. Excavating would keep him occupied, offering an excuse to avoid his wife if she proved too annoying. The idea of forming an alliance with Sir Winton set his teeth on edge, but he would deal with it.
Somehow.
A night of thought convinced him that it was the only honorable path. Yet his reputation stood in the way. Though he rarely lacked willing bed partners – many considered him handsome, and his aura attracted the adventurous – this situation was different. The courtesan class might enjoy the thrill of dallying with the notorious Tony Linden, but no respectable lady considered him eligible, not even those who flirted outrageously with the danger he supposedly represented.
Sir Winton had already refused a match, so he must approach Miss Vale directly. But she would only consider him if she judged him on his merits, which meant hiding his identity. Even deformed maidens incarcerated in the country would have heard the rumors.
Could he manage such a deception? Wedding under a false name – or even an incomplete name – could lead to an annulment for fraud, so he must disclose the truth before marriage. Only love might prompt a woman to overlook his deceit. And only revealing his real self would convince her that his reputation was false. He must also hide the fact that he was a fortune hunter.
He cringed, for he despised that term and all it stood for. But he could not deny that he was, in fact, a fortune hunter. He was willing to wed a stranger, described by her own father as a deformed freak, because he needed her dowry.
He paced the length of the gallery and back, scanning his ancestors as he wrestled with the problem. He must court Miss Vale, hide his identity and purpose, convince her he cared, and win her heart so thoroughly that she would forgive his imposture and wed him anyway. And he must do it under Sir Winton’s nose.
Damnation! It wasn’t possible.
He stared at his mother’s portrait. It had been painted shortly after her marriage and revealed a carefree happiness he’d never recognized. Her smile was wide, her eyes sparkling. He could see her twirling around a ballroom, charming every gentleman into slavish adoration. But that girl was gone, replaced by a timid woman struggling to survive in a harsh world. Could he release her from her long imprisonment? She had often sacrificed her own pleasure to protect him from Linden’s wrath, so he owed her his best effort. Even restoring the security of Linden Park would not balance all she had done for him.
He resumed pacing, this time looking for ways around each obstacle. Approaching Miss Vale as Tony Linden was impossible. Even a recluse would associate the name with vice. So he must conceal his identity and accept the consequences of such a deceit.
But concealing his identity posed serious problems. He had never spoken to Sir Winton, but he knew the man by sight. Thus, he had to assume that Sir Winton would recognize him. The conundrum beat against his temples. How could he hide in a house headed by a man who knew him, a man who had already refused to consider him as a suitor…
His great-grandfather stared down from the wall, brown eyes twinkling with humor.
Brown eyes.
The Linden looks.
Jon.
Every detail fell neatly into place as he rode toward the village. From a distance, he and Jon were nearly identical – same height, same build, same dark brown hair. At close quarters, the resemblance ended, but Sir Winton had never been close.
In light of the family looks, hiding his connection to Linden Park was impossible, but if he and Jon exchanged identities, he could appear as an innocent bystander. Jon could be the rakehell fortune hunter that everyone avoided. It should not be difficult. Jon knew him better than anyone and could copy the flamboyant bow and exaggerated formality that made Tony Linden stand out in any crowd. The contrast allowed Anthony Torwell to fade into the background.
Ten-year-old Jon had moved to Linden Park after the death of his parents. Tony had welcomed him, delighted to have a playmate only a year his senior. Despite their differences – Jon was quiet, conformable, and avoided trouble – they had become closer than brothers. Tony had been the leader, his insistence drawing Jon into numerous pranks. But Jon had never complained, just as Tony had never begrudged Linden’s preference for Jon’s quiet obedience or the way he held Jon up as a pattern card during every lecture. Only the boys knew how often Jon covered up Tony’s escapades.
The closeness remained. Jon continued to protect him by keeping his secrets. He was the only one besides Torwell’s single servant who knew the antiquarian. That was a secret even Lady Linden did not share.
“Tony!” exclaimed Jon when he arrived on the vicarage doorstep. “I did not expect you here until Christmas.”
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?” Jon sent his housekeeper for refreshments, then ushered him into the library.
“Father lost the estate in a dice game.”
Jon choked. Tony had to pound him on the back before he could breathe again. “D-dice?”
“He also lost everything else.” He explained. Jon’s shock matched his own.
“What will Aunt Mary do?”
“I will have to provide for her.” Tony shrugged.
“Living with Uncle Thomas will land you in Bedlam in a week.”
“Exactly, which is why I must recover the estate. But Sir Winton will never allow me near his daughter – which is why I need your help.”
“You want me to court the girl?” Jon blanched.
Tony grimaced. Jon’s adherence to Linden’s puritanical demands had left him unusually innocent. How was he to find a wife when he had no experience of the fair sex? But that was a problem for later.
“No. I won’t put you through that. But you must assume my identity at Vale House. She cannot find out who I am until I have won her heart.”
Jon again choked.
“You have to help me,” said Tony firmly. “And not just for Mother’s sake. What will happen to the tenants, the villagers, even the staff if a fortune hunter gains control of the Park?”
“Dear Lord above.” His face was now stark white. “They would be ruined.”
Tony nodded. “A fortune hunter would not care that they have served the Lindens for centuries. He would strip the estate of every penny, raise rents to exorbitant levels, and dismiss anyone who objected. He might even remov
e you – the bishop would never keep a vicar over the objections of the principal landowner.”
“But why must I impersonate you? Can’t you approach her in secret?” Jon’s voice squeaked.
“Father claims she is deformed – quoting Sir Winton, I’ve no doubt, since he can’t know the wench – so she is probably secluded.”
Jon nodded. Locking up the imperfect was common among the great families.
“When Father offered my hand, Sir Winton turned it down, citing my reputation. So he would hardly allow me to court her.”
“That damnable reputation!” Jon snorted. “How many times have I begged you to redeem yourself?”
“Society does not easily admit fault.” He shrugged. “There is little I can do about it at the moment, and time is of the essence. Sir Winton demands that we leave within the month.” He paused while the housekeeper delivered cakes and a pot of tea. “The plan is simple. You will be the depraved Tony Linden. To protect her virtue, Miss Vale will naturally stay close to the soft-spoken vicar. Sir Winton probably knows me by sight, but only from a distance, so you should pass easily enough. Once she is firmly caught, I will reveal the truth, but by then it will not matter.”
“This cannot possibly work,” protested Jon. “How can you court a woman under false pretenses?”
“I’m not. I must lie about my name, but everything else will be the exact truth. My reputation is false, as you well know. Why should I allow rumor to condemn me without a hearing?”
“It sounds too easy. You can’t have thought this through. Remember what happened with Squire Perkins?”
“I was only twelve. Of course I overlooked a few details.” But he grinned, remembering the red-faced squire’s indignation. The man was nearly as disapproving as Linden.
“Take time to think, Tony.”
“I have. It will be easy. We will stage an accident near the gates. Sir Winton can hardly refuse us refuge – reputation aside, Tony Linden outranks him. And he will be accompanied by a vicar, who can keep his baser instincts under control. Miss Vale must be starving for company. She is already six-and-twenty, but I’d never heard of her, so Sir Winton must keep her incarcerated. Attention from an infatuated gentleman will warm her heart. A day or two should see the matter finished.”
“Very well. Aunt Mary has always treated me as her son. I have to help her. But I cannot believe this will work. No matter what face you put on the matter, you plan to deceive the girl. I despise dishonesty.”
“But it is occasionally necessary.” He thrust his conscience aside. “I will use the name Torwell to prevent confusion. I am accustomed to wearing it and doubt anyone at Vale House knows it. Two Lindens might raise questions.”
Mounting his horse an hour later, he headed home, details circling his mind. This was the only way he could protect his mother, he reminded himself as regrets pricked at his resolve. They surged into a stab of pain as he passed a copse of trees where a young couple swayed in a passionate embrace.
The intensity of those regrets took him by surprise, spawning a wave of yearning. He would never know love now, thanks to his father. But he had no choice. His course was set. Turning back would make it impossible to live with himself.
He stiffened his spine, setting heels to his horse. The copse was soon far behind. But though regret dutifully followed conscience into oblivion, he couldn’t quite banish his loneliness.
* * * *
“Sir Winton has returned,” announced Murch when Alex reached the house. “He wishes to speak with you in the library.”
“I thought he went back to London,” she muttered, frowning. She was covered in mud from working on the temple. Digging so soon after a deluge had not been her brightest idea, but she’d wanted to make up for the time she had lost during his last visit. Winter was fast approaching, which would put a halt to further excavations until spring.
“His coachman claims he went to Lincolnshire.”
“There and back in a week? What was he doing?” Even with ideal traveling conditions, he couldn’t have spent more than a few hours at his destination. And why return to Gloucestershire instead of London?
“The hip bath is in your room, Miss Alex. As is hot water.”
She heard the warning in his voice. Murch had been more of a father than Sir Winton. It had been Murch who’d summoned a doctor when she broke her arm; Murch who’d protected her the time Sir Winton tried to blame her for the horse he’d lamed in a drunken rage; Murch who kept her excavations secret and persuaded the staff to do likewise. He had offered comfort, support, and even advice when she was unsure how to deal with Richard, and he’d detected the vicious nature Richard’s first tutor had successfully hidden from her, allowing her to replace the man before serious damage was done.
But he never forgot his place, so the warning note in his voice was a shock. Whatever awaited her in the library would not be good.
Half an hour later, Alex approached her father.
“Congratulations, my dear.” Sir Winton actually smiled. “You will make your bows to London next spring.”
“What absurdity is this?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes. He’d cursed for years because she was unmarriageable. A come-out was thus a waste of money. He’d even forbidden a visit to Bath, claiming she would only embarrass herself by flaunting her failings before the world. How could he drag her to town when they both knew that advanced age added a new fault to the list? She’d been on the shelf for years, as he frequently reminded her. Did he mean to make her into a laughingstock?
For once he read her face. “You need not fear failure, for your dowry is large enough to guarantee success. Gentlemen will beg for your hand. And about time, too. I thought I’d never find a way to get rid of you.”
“Dowry?” she asked suspiciously, even as pain from this new proof of his disdain stabbed her heart.
“Forty thousand pounds and a productive estate.”
Her eyes widened until she feared they would bounce onto the floor. “And how did you acquire so much?”
“Dice.” He shifted to avoid her accusing stare. “Is it my fault the man is a poor player who demanded throw after throw when he began to lose?”
“What man?”
“Lord Linden.” He shrugged.
“You will return every shilling, for I do not want a Season.” She glared at him. Did he actually expect gratitude for forcing her to fend off every fortune hunter in the country? The man was a bigger fool than even she had believed.
The usual frown snapped onto his face. His eyes glittered. “The fortune is already in your name, in trust for your husband. You will participate in the next Season, and you will do nothing to discourage suitors. I will bar you from Vale House if you try to return unwed. I’ve had enough of your appalling manners and vicious spite. And I’ve had enough of your scheming. Don’t think belligerence and swearing will continue driving gentlemen away in the future. No one will care. Unless you marry, I’ll see you stripped, tossed into a taproom, and wed to whoever has a strong enough stomach to ravish you.”
The subject was closed. Alex stumbled to her room, furious to find tears streaming down her cheeks. She never cried. Doing so over a man who wished she’d never been born was absurd.
She should have expected something like this. Now that Richard was in school, he need no longer put up with her reminders of his duty as a landowner. So he’d concocted this scheme.
She shivered. Tossing her to a pack of desperate men was beyond her worse nightmares. She had to find an escape.
Could she return the dowry? Something must have been wrong with the game. He won and lost enormous sums so often that fortunes meant nothing to him. So why had he refused to meet her eyes when he mentioned this one?
“Damnation!” She slammed a fist onto her bed. He must have fleeced Linden. “How could even he stoop so low?”
But the idea gave her hope. All she had to do was prove his dishonor.
“You have known Father most of your life, have
n’t you?” she asked Murch when he brought her dinner tray. She refused to eat in the dining room.
He nodded.
“Does he know how to cheat at dice?”
Murch froze, but finally nodded. “He once owned a fine pair of uphills, though he swore he never bet with them – gentleman’s honor, you know. I thought little of it, for his usual game has always been cards. But he could make them do just about anything.”
“That is what I feared, though how can I prove it to Linden’s satisfaction?”
“Linden?” His gaze sharpened.
“What do you know of Linden?”
Murch sighed. “Not much, but Sir Winton knew a Linden at school – he used to brag about winning his allowance every quarter. The lad was a terrible card player who could be goaded into betting wildly. Apparently he viewed gaming, drinking, and wenching as proof of his manhood.”
“Any idea where those dice are now?”
He shook his head. “I’ve not seen them in twenty years or more, Miss Alex.”
Alex nodded, having expected that answer. Retrieving them might explain her father’s first unexpected visit – he usually passed autumn at a series of hunting parties. Perhaps his week-long stay had given him a chance to recover his skill.
It was a nice theory, but worthless. Conjecture proved nothing. No one had seen the dice in years. Even if the game had been crooked, she could guarantee that there were no witnesses. Without evidence of cheating, Linden could not demand restitution. The trust would prevent her from returning the winnings outright.
A sleepless night brought no solutions. Women had no rights even without the complication of a trust, though she had to try. The moment he left for London, she summoned her carriage.
But her solicitor dashed any hope. Sir Winton had tied up the trust so she could touch nothing. The moment she wed, everything transferred to her husband. In the meantime, it was administered by a London banker, whose instructions could be modified only by Sir Winton – and even Sir Winton could not withdraw a shilling.
