“Good heavens. Truly?” Relaxing against the chair, Angelina took a sip of the brew. “I’m sorry I mentioned it. We assuredly cannot have that.”
This wasn’t the first time she noticed the servants feared her uncle. What manner of man was the duke? Mama never talked much about him—come to think of it, at all. Her rare conversations about her relatives in England focused on her twin.
Except for the color of their hair, Mama and Aunt Camille were as different in appearance as roses and daisies. Aunt Camille boasted several inches on Mama, was more voluptuous, and had brown eyes and wavy hair. Mama’s hair was straight, and she was petite with blue eyes.
Better add that to the rules.
A man who causes fear should be avoided as a husband.
Not that she would ever find a husband now. Nor, truth to tell, did she want one, except for the baby’s sake. Men were untrustworthy toads.
Once Angelina’s condition was discovered—and although only the first part of May and several weeks remained in the Season—Uncle Ambrose hustled the family off to Wingfield Court.
At her uncle’s insistence, she promptly began wearing black. He remained in Town attending to business for a few weeks more and had joined the family four days ago.
She felt certain he chose to summer at his country house farthest from London because of her.
Aunt Camille confessed Uncle Ambrose was exceedingly conscious of social standing and appearances. It wouldn’t do to have the ton speculating about the recent arrival of a pregnant and husbandless niece. The gossipmongers might jump to all manner of conclusions.
Or hit upon the truth.
Angelina’s face heated. Would she ever become accustomed to the shame? She must. Soon her condition would be apparent to others. The widow facade offered a degree of protection for her child, even if the ploy was a mammoth taradiddle.
At least here, unlike in Salem, she had some anonymity. The story Uncle concocted explaining her missing spouse was quite believable, if somewhat simplistic.
Spencer Thorne, her husband of two weeks, died in a hunting accident. Overwrought and grieving, she departed Massachusetts and the tormenting memories America held for her.
That last portion was true enough, except Mrs. Pettigrove, the abrasive and intrusive chinwag Mama hired as Angelina’s chaperone on the ship, knew she wasn’t married.
Worse, Mrs. Pettigrove’s sister was none other than Lady Clutterbuck, a notorious gossip, according to Aunt Camille. And unfortunately, one that traveled in the same social circles as the duke and duchess. Hence, the prompt departure from London less than a week after Angelina’s arrival.
It wouldn’t take long for the two windbags to put the pieces together, and when they did . . .
Her stomach churned once more. The babe wasn’t the cause this time.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t thought to lie when answering Mrs. Pettigrove’s dozens of prying questions. Gads, the woman never stopped prattling or snooping.
Yes, Angelina was related to nobility. Her grandfather had been the Scottish Earl of Tinsdale, and she journeyed to England for an extended visit with her aunt and uncle, the Duke and Duchess of Waterford.
No, she’d never been to England before, nor did she speak French. Yes, she played the harpsichord, not the harp, and was fond of treacle scones. No, she didn’t think pickled eggs or herring were delicious.
No, she’d never been married.
No. She most certainly was not in the market for a husband.
Those last snippets would be Angelina’s undoing should they become known. She took another sip of the tea, welcoming the soothing warmth that settled her roiling stomach.
She should have told the intrusive fussock she was married to an Arabian sheik and shared a harem with fifteen other wives and three dozen concubines. Oh, and when Jazib had guests, she danced half-naked, wearing nothing other than a bedlah for their entertainment.
It would have been worth the scandal to see the expression on Mrs. Pettigrove’s face. Perhaps it would have silenced her for a blessed moment or two as well.
Thank God they didn’t share a cabin, or Angelina would have been hard pressed not to shove the woman overboard. Though, given the matron’s girth, that would have been a substantial feat. She probably would have bobbed alongside the ship the entire Atlantic crossing, caterwauling and complaining about the unsatisfactory accommodations.
The weather grew rougher as strong winds pushed the vessel onward ahead of schedule. Nausea plagued Angelina, but other passengers were confined to their cabins suffering the same malady. Having never sailed before, she assumed she suffered from seasickness. She was almost grateful. Her infirmity meant she avoided Mrs. Pettigrove’s tiresome company.
Until Angelina arrived at her aunt and uncle’s and continued to be wretchedly ill, she didn’t suspect something more was afoot. A discreet examination by the Waterford’s personal physician confirmed her pregnancy.
She had no more tears to weep when dear Aunt Camille, smelling of lilies rather than gardenias like Mama, took Angelina in her arms.
Her aunt patted Angelina’s shoulders. In her soft, almost undetectable brogue, she said, “None of this is your fault. Love blinds us until it’s too late, and we cannot remedy the choices we have made. There’s naught to do but press on, chin raised and shoulders squared, and make the best of it.”
A wistful tone crept into her voice as she attempted to console Angelina. Nonetheless, she wasn’t the least bit reassured.
She couldn’t remain with her aunt and uncle indefinitely. She refused to hang on someone else’s sleeve and be supported as the poor relation. Neither could she return home with the tale of a deceased husband.
Heavens, Charles might very well be gallivanting around Salem or Boston even now.
If he’d returned to Salem as he vowed he would, her mother and the twins would be disgraced. It wasn’t fair that they should suffer for her ill-conceived choices and Charles’s treachery.
A myriad of women before her had borne a child outside of wedlock and still made something of their lives. She could too. But how?
There weren’t a great deal of alternatives for unmarried women without means. The respectable options included milliner, modiste, companion, or governess. The others, mistress, demimonde, or courtesan—whatever one wished to call them—all equated selling oneself.
That she would never do.
Angelina eliminated employment as a companion or governess. No one would hire her with a newborn babe. A trade of some sort, then. She possessed no real talent except sewing and tatting.
She tapped her chin. Perhaps she might find a position as a seamstress or a lace maker with a reputable modiste. Or better yet, open a cozy establishment herself.
Another thought intruded, and she grimaced. Uncle Ambrose and Aunt Camille would object. They’d protest that gently-bred women didn’t smell of shop.
Setting the teacup aside, Angelina unfolded her legs from beneath her. Ah, that eased the tightness clenching her belly. She smoothed a hand over her stomach. When would she feel her child move within her?
She wasn’t quite done up. She had the modest inheritance from Grandmother Tinsdale and the bag of coins Charles left behind. Her wedding gift from him—the pearl pendant, bracelet, and drop earrings—in addition to her wedding ring, would each bring a tidy sum.
She twisted the ring Uncle Ambrose insisted she still wear. She was a fraud.
Angelina bore no qualms about selling the bitter reminder of Charles’s perfidy. Especially if it meant supporting the child he had gotten on her. She claimed a rather good eye for fashion, and for pleasure, had designed several of Mama’s and the twins’ dresses.
Sighing, she placed a hand atop her stomach again, rubbing away the familiar pressure that plagued her several
times a day.
What’s to become of us, little one?
Chapter 5
Sitting behind his father’s desk in Lambridge Manse’s study, Flynn suppressed a sigh. He shifted his attention from the ledger he’d been studying with his steward, Preston Fleming, since half past seven this morning.
“You’re sure there’s nothing more?”
Flynn had no choice but to confide in Fleming and explain why everything of value must be inventoried. After his initial dismay, the steward tackled the task with his usual efficiency.
Fleming shook his head, sliding his spectacles to the bridge of his nose.
“No, my lord, nothing. I’ve listed the whole of it here at Lambridge.” He pointed a spindly finger at the open ledger. “And the other properties as well, right down to the salt and pepper shakers.”
He waved at the stack of leather books piled on the desk. “Unless there’s a buried treasure somewhere we don’t know about, that’s everything.”
And it wasn’t enough.
That knowledge, like a millstone around Flynn’s neck, weighed heavily on him.
“Thank you, Fleming. You’ve done exceptionally well, and I appreciate it. You may go.”
The sympathy in his steward’s eyes nearly undid him.
“I’ll have your letter of reference penned by this afternoon. It is with deepest regret I must release you and cannot keep the other staff on past August.”
Humiliation didn’t cause the lump in Flynn’s throat. Letting the servants go was akin to turning family out onto the street.
“My lord, the missus has been prattling at me to take down my shingle, as it were, for the last five years. So, I respectfully decline your offer, and instead, tender my resignation.” Fleming withdrew a folded paper from his coat pocket then slid it across the desk.
“And since I’m a man of leisure now, and my time is mine to do with as I wish, I’ll carry on as before. With your permission, of course.”
The steward’s devotion rendered Flynn speechless. He swallowed against the sentiment clogging his throat. “Thank you, Fleming. I’m most grateful.”
Fleming began buttoning his coat. He smiled wryly as he secured the last button. “We may want to keep this conversation to ourselves, my lord. I fear Mrs. Fleming might not understand.”
Asleep on the sofa, Moll and Lasses, Flynn’s King Charles spaniels, stirred. Moll raised her head and yawned. She rested her head on her paws, watching him with her soulful brown eyes. Lasses cracked a sleepy eye open, then snuggled into her sister’s warm side and resumed her slumber.
Fleming gathered his hat and gloves. “Is there any other way I can assist you?”
Worry creased the aged steward’s face. Trusted and loyal, Fleming had been Lambridge Manse’s overseer for more than thirty years—three years longer than Flynn had been alive.
“No, you have been most thorough, and I appreciate your diligence.” Flynn stood and extended his hand.
Fleming hesitated a moment before gripping his palm in a firm handshake.
After releasing the steward’s hand, Flynn gripped the back of his neck and rubbed tension-knotted muscles, trying to ease the tautness. “I suppose you might start by making inquiries about selling the assets.”
“Very good, sir.” Uncharacteristically anxious, Fleming shuffled his feet, fiddling with the brim of his hat. “My lord, if I may be so bold as to inquire, how does the marchioness fare?”
Flynn pulled his attention from the figure printed boldly at the bottom of the ledger’s column. He smiled in genuine pleasure. “Mother is recovering remarkably well. Her speech is much improved.”
A welcome shred of light to illuminate Flynn’s otherwise gloomy existence. Ye gods, his life had fast become the makings of a bloody stage melodrama. What travesty would befall the Bretheridges next?
“Ah, that is good to hear. Mrs. Fleming will be well pleased. We’ve kept her ladyship in our prayers.”
If only Fleming and his wife would join Flynn in praying for the miraculous means to meet the gaming debt owed Waterford. “Thank you. Your prayers are most welcome, and I’ll be sure to tell Mother you asked about her health.”
Fleming took his leave.
Flynn settled into his father’s chair. Unease enshrouded him as if he intruded in Father’s private domain. How long would it take for the feeling to leave?
Would it ever? Entirely?
The study exuded Father’s presence from the lingering smell of his fragrant pipe tobacco to the scent of the beeswax candles he preferred.
Flynn blinked and crimped his mouth against the momentary grief seizing him. The stag he shot as a boy of twelve peered from sightless eyes above the glass cabinet containing a valuable collection of snuff boxes.
Those, too, must be sold.
He shifted his attention to the packed gun cabinet.
Most of them as well. And the carved ivory and jade collections, the family heirlooms, everything.
Moll jumped to the floor. After a long stretch, she pattered to Flynn. Rising onto her haunches, she rested her chin on his knee. Not to be outdone, Lasses trotted to him and did the same. Dogs had an uncanny way of knowing when something was amiss with their masters.
He scratched behind their ears. “What’s to become of us, little ones?”
Glancing at the door, he half-expected Father to be standing there, a merry twinkle in his eyes. Flynn swallowed the lump of emotion rising to his throat again.
He’d left for Lambridge at the break of dawn two mornings after the Wimpleton’s ball. It took that long to meet with Father’s man of business, speak to the authorities, close the house, and make the arrangements for the transference of his father’s body.
He feared the worst when Sethwick told him of Mother’s apoplexy. The entire journey to Lambridge, he’d been terrified he would arrive and find she’d passed.
Although impaired on her right side, Doctor Dawes was optimistic about her recovery.
“I don’t expect the marchioness to ever return to her previous physical condition.” Doctor Dawes scraped a beefy hand along his square jaw. “That is unrealistic given the severity of her illness. But with the appropriate therapy and round the clock care, she should improve in time.”
He’d slapped Flynn on the shoulder. “I’ve heard of a successful new procedure in France—costly and lengthy, but highly effective. Let me write my associate in London. He’s referred several patients for the treatment. I’ll bring you the details when I get them.”
Evidently, Doctor Dawes hadn’t heard of the financial setback—no, ruin—befalling the Bretheridges.
The truth would out soon enough.
Until then, Flynn would do everything possible to keep the calamitous news from his womenfolk.
If Mother and Franny didn’t need him here, Flynn would be aboard the first available ship sailing to Trinidad and Tobago to sell his sugar plantations. At present, he didn’t dare risk spending the funds to hire an agent to take the trip and make the negotiations on his behalf.
Waterford might call the wager due any day. He’d yet to speak with the duke. At least the boor had allowed Flynn that small reprieve.
He hadn’t an iota of doubt that Waterford would demand payment. The debt wasn’t enforceable under the law, but Flynn’s honor mandated the obligation be paid. To fail to do so would lead to social ruin and ostracism.
Elbows on the glossy desktop, Flynn buried his face in his hands.
He must find a way to keep his family in residence at Lambridge. And just as crucial, he must, at all costs, prevent them from discovering the truth regarding Father’s death and his gaming away the lifestyle they’d always enjoyed.
“Flynn, dearest?”
Grandmamma.
He lifted his head a
nd offered a crooked smile as she puttered into the study.
Moll and Lasses rushed to sniff her skirts.
Stooped-shouldered, she scuffed across the floor, leaning on her cane, her black bombazine skirts crackling with her labored movements. Already petite, she had shriveled even more since burying her only son.
Rising, Flynn hurried to take her arm and assist her to a chair, neatly stepping around the excited dogs scurrying around their feet.
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 5
