Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Besides, if she was such a fine asset, why did Westover want to get rid of her?

  Archer eyed the fourth player sprawled in his chair.

  The man fidgeted with a nearly empty glass and avoided Archer’s glance.

  “Too bad you folded, Bolton,” Archer said. “You could certainly use an heiress, couldn’t you?”

  Sir Henry Bolton’s lips twisted, and he shrugged before peremptorily ordering more sherry. After taking a long sip, he replied, “I am not the one betting my country estate.”

  When Nathaniel flicked a cold glance at him, Bolton dropped his gaze back to the table and drummed his fingers. The condescending idiot was Lord Westover’s friend, and against Nathaniel’s better judgment, he had allowed Bolton to join the game. The yellow-jacketed coxcomb had not contributed much other than an air of scowling superiority and a few snide comments that only Westover seemed to find amusing.

  Lord Westover leaned forward. “But Archer, think what it will mean to be her guardian. You will have over a hundred thousand to control, even if you must spend a few hours managing her funds. Of course, you will also pay her expenses, her upkeep, and so forth out of her portion, but the rest….” He left the tantalizing possibilities to the imagination.

  “Sounds like a disagreeable responsibility, if you ask me,” Archer replied, mirroring Nathaniel’s own thoughts on the matter.

  “You are missing the point. If you are providing her room and board, you must compensate yourself accordingly. From the proceeds of her fortune.”

  “Are you suggesting I steal from my own ward?”

  “No, no, not at all. But you must have some form of recompense for managing the estate and the chit, herself. Believe me, you will earn it.”

  “You’ve nothing else?” Archer asked, sounding unconvinced.

  “That’s the wager, Archer. The heiress against your fifty thousand.”

  Nathaniel shifted irritably. When his uncle glanced at him, he shook his head. Neither of them needed an American heiress.

  “Done,” Archer agreed, winking at Nathaniel. “Your hand, sir.”

  Lord Westover smiled as he lay down a pair of kings, followed by a pair of jacks. “Beat that, if you can,” he said with annoying complacency.

  Face expressionless, Archer turned over his cards, playing them out with fine, dramatic timing. The ace of spades. The ace of hearts. The ace of clubs. Then, finally, the ace of diamonds.

  Silence fell over the room as the four men stared at the cards distributed evenly in a row on the table.

  Nathaniel blanched and felt his heart thud uncomfortably. The cards in his hand felt like coals from the fire.

  Had Archer cheated? Good God, what a mess, and how ironic considering Archer was always so adamant against “manipulating the odds unfairly”—his euphemism for cheating.

  And yet, Archer had to have cheated.

  Perhaps he was senile. Archer was only forty-six but it was the only answer. He had hardly touched his glass of brandy, so he couldn’t possibly be inebriated.

  What the hell was Nathaniel supposed to do with the bloody ace in his own hand? He reordered his cards, putting the ace on the bottom.

  “Your Grace?” Westover asked. “Your cards, please.”

  “Utterly worthless,” Nathaniel said in a calm voice. He placed his cards face down on the table and stretched out a hand to sweep up the stack in the middle. Merging the cards together would disguise his own damning hand.

  Westover grabbed his wrist. “Perhaps, but let us view them, nonetheless.”

  “Certainly.” Nathaniel shook off the implied insult along with Westover’s hand. With a careless gesture, he turned his cards face upward. As he did so, he slid the ace neatly into his sleeve. In a flick of his wrist, he replaced it with another card, deftly removed from the stack in the center.

  The eight of diamonds.

  “Too bad,” Westover said. “I had hoped you might win the hand, Your Grace.”

  “I have no need of a ward or an heiress,” Nathaniel replied, his voice jaunty with relief. He collected the cards and shuffled them. “And certainly no intention of taking a wife. Not yet, at any rate.”

  At twenty-eight, Nathaniel had no great desire or need to rot away in the stifling regularity of domestic bliss. He could think of nothing more dismal than bland routine.

  “Neither do I,” Archer said. “But I’ve got her anyway, the devil take her. Wouldn’t you rather sign over a few horses from that fine stable, Westover?”

  “No.” Westover’s grating laughter sounded almost forced, and he was obviously relieved when he added, “You’ve won her. I will send my man of business over with the necessary papers to your townhouse tomorrow. My wife has taken the girl on a tour of Northumberland churches, but they ought to be back in three weeks. Time enough to get used to the idea, eh? Now, if you will excuse me, I promised my daughter I would be back before three.” He checked the jeweled watch hanging from a chain stretched across the curve of his belly. “Nearly two-thirty—you will have to excuse me.”

  Archer waved him away and methodically collected the coins and scraps of paper from the center of the table.

  Sir Henry shuffled away, following his friend.

  “Uncle John,” Nathaniel said, relaxing back in his chair and draining his glass of port. “Have you thought about your wife?”

  Archer’s quick fingers stilled for a moment. “Indeed. Indeed, yes, I’ve thought of her. Lady Vee always wanted a daughter. After our little Mary passed away—well, perhaps she’ll finally get the chance for all that female folderol and nonsense. Balls, routs, dinners—that business.” He stood and smiled, although his thin face looked haggard in the flickering candlelight. “I am sure she’ll love the chit. Whoever she is.”

  “I hope so. Do you want me to accompany you home?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Perhaps Lady Victoria will not be as pleased as you expect.” Nathaniel’s presence would prevent any loud protests, at least for one night.

  “Nonsense,” Archer said. “She’ll be ecstatic. Besides,

  I’ve three weeks before she needs to know.”

  Nathaniel sighed. “You know her better than I do.”

  “I would certainly think so,” Archer said as he ambled out of the club, forgetting his hat, gloves and greatcoat.

  Nathaniel collected his belongings and accepted his uncle’s items from the porter, as well.

  Then with a deep breath, he strode out into the damp night.

  Chapter Two

  An accessory after the fact. — Any person (except a married woman succouring her husband), who knowing a felony to have been committed, receives, relieves, comforts, or assists the felon. —Constable’s Pocket Guide.

  Charlotte Haywood sat in the Archers’ hallway and wondered uneasily what she had done that was bad enough to make Lord Westover send her away. She thought the Westovers, while not exactly a loving family, were resigned to her presence until she gained full control of her inheritance in three years.

  What had gone wrong this time?

  She shifted uneasily in her chair, trying not to look worried and confused as she waited to meet Mr. Archer.

  Perhaps she had not done anything wrong. Perhaps Lord Westover had grown desperate over the daunting prospect of Charlotte remaining a spinster in his house. He may have pictured her growing ever more honest—and as a result, acid-tongued—as the years passed. He might have sent her to the Archers, hoping they had a wider circle of acquaintances and could marry her off.

  That did seem possible. Lord Westover had always refused to believe she actually desired to remain unshackled. Indeed, she dreamed of a future where there would be no men to scold her, frown at her, or tell her she was a featherbrained lack-wit simply because she didn’t agree with them.

  “You cannot keep her, John. Whatever were you thinking?” A woman’s voice carried clearly through the closed door a few feet away.

  Keep her? That did not sound promising, n
ot at all.

  Did she not have a single relative who wouldn’t mind her presence in their household until she gained control of her inheritance? In less than three years she would be twenty-four and there would be no more necessity for guardians.

  Tensing, Charlotte edged forward on the stiff, brocade seat. She tried not to listen to the conversation being carried on in the room behind her, but it was nearly impossible. The speakers must be standing against the wall from the way their voices reverberated through the plaster.

  “Your cloak, Miss?” a rather imposing, gray-haired butler murmured, stopping in front of her.

  She stood and gave him the cloak. A draft curled around her, and she shivered. Her hands felt icy and numb. With intense regret, she watched the butler carry away her warm wrap. England was a very cold country, extremely damp and frigid. The summers were far too short to make up for the chill that hung in the air the rest of the year. Charlotte could never seem to adapt to the dreary climate.

  Rubbing her arms, she resolutely deepened her breathing, trying to control her nervousness. She glanced around, desperate for a diversion from her anxiety.

  The butler returned to the hallway and, without a glance in her direction, lumbered to the front door. He pulled out a white cloth with a flourish and slowly, methodically began to polish the brass door handle.

  When he caught her gaze, he straightened and said, “They will be with you shortly, Miss.”

  She nodded, smoothing the skirt of her heavy green traveling dress. The fabric felt rough under her fingers, but the severe tailoring and dark color suited her, and she had worn it to shore up her wavering confidence. She wiped her palms on her skirts more vigorously, trying to drive away the chill.

  After a few minutes the butler left again on a mysterious errand. The foyer stretched out around her, hushed and empty. Charlotte sat back, hands clasped in her lap, as she glanced around. A scattering of personal items—a fan left on a chair and a badly folded opera program on a small table—made the hallway seem more comfortable and cheerful than the Westover’s self-conscious orderliness. Charlotte relaxed a bit, smiling as her gaze caught a tangle of silk ribbons. The ribbons ranged in hue from the palest pink to rich rose-red, knotted together on the top of a delicately carved console against the opposite wall.

  Then she heard the murmur of voices, the words indistinguishable this time. She swallowed and rubbed the base of her neck, trying to dislodge the sudden lump in her throat and the fear that she didn’t belong here. Just like she had not belonged with the Westovers or with anyone else in England.

  Straightening, she stared ahead, afraid now of relaxing her guard. However, the more she tried not to notice, the more her curiosity burned. She so desperately wanted to know what the Archers were like, and if they would like her.

  Curiosity overcoming her caution, she studied the hallway. Several soothing landscapes hung on the walls and a pretty little round table with a bowl of blooming narcissus stood in the center of the hallway, the fragrance filling the small area with the welcoming scent of spring.

  Someone had negligently stacked a pile of correspondence near the edge of the table. The envelopes appeared ready to topple off with the slightest encouragement. Her fingers twitched with the sudden urge to straighten them.

  Charlotte repressed her inquisitiveness and remained seated. It wouldn’t do to be introduced to her new guardian with his correspondence in her hands. She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, calming her rapid heartbeat.

  Her restraint was unlikely to make any difference, but she at least wanted to start out on good terms with her new guardians. She had only been with the Westovers for a few months before they got rid of her and before that—well, it hardly mattered anymore.

  Her chest tightened as her fragile confidence wavered. Was she really so dreadful that the Westovers could not bear to have her with them another three years? She tamped down the useless emotion.

  Charlotte straightened a lock of her unruly hair.

  Then, she smoothed her heavy skirts for the fourth time since her arrival. Time slowed to an agonizing crawl.

  If only she wasn’t so outspoken.

  Words tripped gaily out of her mouth at the least provocation and immersed her in the most appalling troubles. And the older she got, the worse the situation became. Now, it seemed the harder she tried to control herself, the less control she had.

  However, this time, she absolutely had to be polite. It wouldn’t be for long. Soon, her fortune would be in her hands, and she would be free. For now, all she had to do was to keep her more advanced ideas to herself. If she could just be quiet and demure like most English girls, the Archers might let her stay.

  She straightened. Self-mastery was not impossible, she just had to concentrate.

  For the next three years, she absolutely had to avoid speaking to any impressionable female children who would get the wrong ideas, and then proceed to repeat her words, out of context, to their parents.

  Wives must be avoided for the same reason. That wouldn’t be difficult since most of her guardians’ wives avoided her as much as possible anyway, except for Mrs. Edgerton, of course, who had been just as grateful as Charlotte to find someone to talk to. Unfortunately, Mrs. Edgerton had been so inspired by Charlotte’s discourse that she was suddenly driven to tell her husband precisely what she thought of him.

  Charlotte had been horrified, but Mr. Edgerton had handled the situation quite humanely. He never said a word about it to Charlotte. Instead, he had proceeded to search diligently for yet another distant relative who might not object to a rich ward with odd notions about a woman’s position in a family, and he had found the Westovers.

  And the Westovers had subsequently found the Archers.

  The voices in the next room interrupted her thoughts. Charlotte smoothed her hair, tucking a few strands more firmly beneath her lace cap, and tried not to listen. However, they had moved closer to the door again, so it was impossible not to hear them.

  “Now, my love,” a male voice said. “You cannot turn her away. What’s she to do?”

  “That’s hardly my fault, is it? Where are her relatives? If she’s that wealthy, they must be positively falling over themselves to claim her. There must be someone else more appropriate to act as her legal guardian.”

  “No, my dear. And I thought—after Mary—that you’d like the girl as a friend, if not a daughter. Why consider, you can dress her, take her to balls, and perhaps even present her to Society. Wouldn’t you enjoy that?”

  “Oh, John.” The woman’s voice sounded muted. Sad.

  “Mary would have been just twenty-three if she had lived—”

  “Vee, dearest, I would never have mentioned our Mary if I thought it would make you cry.” The voices drifted away for a long moment.

  “No, I am sorry, my love. I’ve been a beast, haven’t I?” the woman asked in a wavering, muffled voice. She sniffed. “However, she’s not a mannequin.” She laughed although the sound was watery and forced. “I cannot just dress her up as I please. She has feelings, too, and a will of her own.”

  The man chuckled. “Never mind, dearest. I didn’t mean to imply she’s just a doll with no mind of her own. But you are wonderful, as always. You are never a beast…precisely.”

  “Oh, John,” the woman replied with tenderness. There was silence and then a breathless giggle.

  Charlotte closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. It improved her hearing to the point where it seemed as if she sat in the room with them.

  “John, what are you doing?” The woman’s breathless voice throbbed, ending in a series of smothered laughs. “Stop that, John, you old goat! It’s the middle of the morning! This is the breakfast room!”

  “Yes, my dear. Now if you would just—”

  “John—” A giggle and sigh interrupted. “John, now, John, really, whatever are you thinking? Oh, John…John!” There was a thump against the wall. And then another.

  Charlo
tte flushed and stood up, uncomfortably warm. The hushed murmurs receded as she walked across the marble floor to stand in front of a soothing pastoral painting. The picture portrayed a deep blue lake bathed in mist with a few white-and-black cows lurking among the wildflowers along the banks.

  Then she noticed one of the cows was actually a demonic-looking black bull. The massive, horned beast stared directly at an innocent little heifer with a charming white face and black ears. The cow leaned forward, happily munching a mouthful of clover, entirely unaware of him.

  Charlotte frowned and rubbed her arms.

  If that cow knew the fate about to befall her, she would gallop off in the opposite direction! Why did so many females allow themselves to be dominated by males barely able to find their way out of the barn?

  What had the artist been thinking to paint such a dreadful thing?

  “Really!” Charlotte said, turning away to eye the envelopes resting on the table. “And they say I am a bad influence.”

  “Miss?” The butler’s solemn voice interrupted her just as she stretched her fingers out to pick up the topmost envelope.

  Every muscle in her body tensed but she did not snatch away her hand despite the strong desire to do so.

  Very deliberately, she pushed the stack further away from the edge of the table and aligned all the corners neatly, just as if she had intended to do that all along.

  Charlotte glanced up. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Archer and Lady Victoria will see you now.”

  A small, hot wave washed over her cheeks despite her efforts at self-control. However, she managed to meet the entirely unsuspicious gaze of the butler with aplomb.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He inclined his head and opened the door to the breakfast room.

  Clutching the sides of her heavy bombazine traveling dress, Charlotte entered. Two slender people stood in front of her, smiling warmly. The woman stepped forward, smoothing her gray silk dress as she moved. The gesture reminded Charlotte of her own nervous habit, but Lady Victoria did not appear worried.