An Inheritance for the Birds

by Linda Banche

  Table of Contents

  An Inheritance for the Birds

  Copyright

  Praise for Linda Banche

  Dedication

  An Inheritance for the Birds

  A word from the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press publication.

  An Inheritance for the Birds

  by

  Linda Banche

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  An Inheritance for the Birds

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Linda Banche

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First English Tea Rose Edition, 2012

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise for Linda Banche

  LADY OF THE STARS

  2010 EPIC eBook Competition Finalist

  in Science Fiction Romance

  “This is a quick read and a delightful short romance. The time-travel aspect is well done, and the characters are nicely fleshed out. The ending brings everything to a comfortable and relatively believable conclusion.”

  ~Romantic Times Book Reviews (4 Stars)

  ~*~

  PUMPKINNAPPER

  2011 EPIC eBook Competition Finalist

  in Historical Romance

  “It’s a Regency era All Hallows Eve tale full of hilarity, a dashing hero and a darling heroine, a nuisance of a goose and possibly a spirit or two. What’s not to like?”

  ~Long and Short Romance Reviews (4.5 Books)

  ~*~

  MISTLETOE EVERYWHERE

  “MISTLETOE EVERYWHERE is fast paced and keeps us involved with the characters. I was happy to see these happy-for-everyone endings and the warm fuzzy I was left with.”

  ~Sizzling Hot Books (5 Hearts)

  ~*~

  GIFTS GONE ASTRAY

  “GIFTS GONE ASTRAY by Linda Banche is a delightful romantic comedy of misunderstandings, ghastly relations (old and young), a sinister suitor and two very different books sent as gifts to the ‘wrong’ people.”

  ~Lindsay Townsend, author (5 Stars)

  Dedication

  For Jim. Again.

  London, England

  May, 1818

  “Make the ducks happy?”

  Mr. Christopher “Kit” Winnington’s first reaction was to toss the letter he held into the rubbish bin. This solicitor’s missive must be a joke. Would he really inherit his late great aunt’s estate if he made her pet ducks happy?

  3 Essex Street

  London

  May 25, 1818

  Dear Mr. Winnington,

  Please be advised that your great aunt, Augusta, wife of the late Baron Julius Bridges, has passed away and named you in her will.

  According to her wishes, as transcribed by me and duly witnessed, you are a contender to inherit her estate, Apple Tree Manor, in Theale, Somersetshire, and all its associated assets.

  Lady Bridges has stipulated a contest to determine the heir. You and Miss Angela Stratton, her ladyship’s companion, are the competitors. The loser will receive an annuity.

  Lady Bridges was a bird fancier. She especially liked ducks and a number of them reside on her property. Whoever makes the ducks happy will win the contest.

  I would like to discuss the terms of the will with you in more detail. Please attend me at the above address at your earliest convenience.

  If you do not respond by June 1, 1818, Miss Stratton will inherit all Lady Bridges’s holdings by default.

  Your servant,

  Mr. Daniel Holt

  Mr. Holt had duly inscribed his lawyerly signature at the bottom of the epistle. The address was a location in the Temple area of The City, where most of London’s solicitors and barristers kept offices.

  But was the letter authentic? Aunt Augusta had always liked birds, but she was also a sharp-witted lady, not inclined to cork-brained schemes.

  Had his loose-screw friends played a joke on him? He rubbed the thick parchment between forefinger and thumb. Such paper was expensive, especially with the added paper tax, and all his comrades were as poor as he. How would they afford the cost?

  He reread the missive. Well, calling on the solicitor wouldn’t hurt. Money was money, and the large and well-tended Apple Tree Manor must be worth a pretty penny. Even the annuity was probably larger than the forty pounds per year he earned as secretary to Lord Hanger.

  His decision made, Kit folded the sheet and secured the note in his waistcoat pocket. At worst, the letter was a hum and the jesters would poke fun at him for a few days. If not…

  He pulled out his pocket watch and examined the dial. Several hours remained before mid-afternoon, when he had to accompany Lord Hanger to one of the nobleman’s so-called business meetings. Kit clenched his teeth. His lordship and his associates would stay up late into the night. Again.

  So he might as well go now. He snapped the watch cover shut and shrugged into his coat, the stench of tobacco smoke from last night’s “business meeting” still clinging to the fabric. Catching up his hat, he departed his bedchamber in the bowels of Lord Hanger’s townhouse.

  At late morning, pedestrians packed the pavements of Jermyn Street. He made slow progress toward and down Haymarket to the intersection with Pall Mall. Dodging a wagon packed with squawking chickens, he crossed to Cockspur Street. The crowd thinned a little as he made his way along Charing Cross to the Strand.

  He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. Although little sunlight penetrated London’s ever-present shroud of coal smoke, the day already sweltered. Another hot day in this unseasonably hot month. He wrinkled his nose at the choking stench of garbage and rotting fish drifting from the Thames, made worse by the heat.

  The Strand came to an end and he crossed onto Essex Street, checking the nameplates on the various buildings he passed. At last he paused before the brick edifice of Number Three. He climbed the stairs to a polished black door.

  Lifting the latch, he entered a small foyer with a coat rack by the side of the entry. A thick dark brown carpet covered the floor, and two matching leather chairs bracketed the front window, a table between them. At the opposite side of the room, a bespectacled clerk, his head down as he busily scribbled away, sat at a high desk. Behind him was another door. The odor of leather and ink hung in the air but, thankfully, no tobacco.

  As Kit, top hat in hand, approached the desk, the clerk looked up, his wire-rimmed spectacles sliding down his long nose. “May I help you, sir?”

  “Yes. I received a letter from Mr. Holt asking me to attend him.”

  “Your name?”

  “Mr. Christopher Winnington.”

  The clerk pushed his spectacles back up and stood. “Ah, yes, the Duck Man. If you will take a seat, I will announce you to Mr. Holt.” He knocked on the door behind him and disappeared within, the wood panel shutting behind him with a sharp click.

  Duck Man? Irritation pricked Kit’s nerves. This appointment must indeed be a prank. The wag responsible was probably in the other room. He should have only a short wait
before he could blister the fellow’s ears.

  He hung his hat on the coat rack beside an old-fashioned black tricorn and took a seat in one of the chairs by the window. After selecting the latest copy of The Gentleman’s Magazine from the pile on the table, he sat back and flipped pages.

  The door behind the clerk’s desk creaked open and male voices filled the air. Two gentlemen walked out of the inner office.

  Kit peeked at the pair over the top edge of the periodical. Mr. Holt certainly looked the part of a solicitor. Fat and wizened, he wore knee breeches, shoes with silver buckles, a powdered wig that had gone out of style twenty years ago, and spectacles with lenses so thick a sunbeam glinting through them flashed rainbows over the walls. Gads, he probably wouldn’t be able to make out Kit’s features.

  The other man, although on the far side of forty, was tall and lean, with a dusting of gray in his full head of black hair. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles like the clerk, and a modern tailcoat and trousers. Still talking, both men crossed the carpet, and the younger man opened the door. Nodding an acknowledgement, the bewigged man scooped the tricorn from the coat rack and huffed down the stairs.

  After shutting the panel, the younger man turned to Kit. “Mr. Winnington? I am Mr. Daniel Holt.”

  Suppressing his surprise, Kit dropped his magazine onto the stack and stood to shake the solicitor’s hand. So much for expectations.

  Mr. Holt ushered Kit into his office, a larger version of the outer room. He gestured Kit to the padded chair before the oak desk and offered tea, which Kit refused. “Good to meet you, Mr. Winnington.” He settled behind the desk and pulled a leather portfolio from the left drawer. After spreading some documents from the case onto the blotter, he folded his hands on the papers. “Have you seen Lady Bridges recently?”

  Kit shook his head. “I last visited her some four years ago, after I finished at Cambridge. I had no idea she died.”

  “A fever carried her off a month ago. One day she was healthy, a week later she was in her grave.” Mr. Holt shook his head. “An illness we are all susceptible to, but the malady was more severe in her case, probably due to her advanced age of ninety-four.”

  “I regret I did not see her again. I always enjoyed her company.”

  “And she liked you; otherwise she would not have included you in her will.”

  “Strange as that will is.” Kit arched an eyebrow. “‘Make the ducks happy?’“

  The solicitor chuckled. “Indeed. A bit unusual, but not unique. More than one elderly lady has left her possessions to her pets, although the pets were usually cats.” He leaned back in his chair. “Before we discuss specifics, let me tell you something about Apple Tree Manor. Since you were last there, Lady Bridges increased her holdings. She received some extraordinary financial advice, which led her to great success in her investments. She used the profits to buy the land adjacent to her property. Apple Tree Manor is now double its original size.”

  The landed estate had been large before. But now—Kit gave a low whistle.

  “Quite so.” Mr. Holt shuffled the papers before him. “As for the terms of the contest—both you and the other contender, Miss Stratton, must reside at Apple Tree Manor. The duration of the competition is two months, during which period you need to do your utmost to make the ducks happy. I propose to run the proceedings from June first until Lammas on August first. Is that time agreeable?”

  “Yes, I can reach Theale by June first.” Kit shifted in his chair. “But why a contest? Why not leave everything to either Miss Stratton or me?”

  “Lady Bridges was fond of you both. She could not decide who would be the better recipient of her largesse. And, as she developed a great affection for her pet ducks, she could not bear the thought of anything untoward befalling them. Hence, this competition.”

  “Ah yes, ducks.” Kit grinned. “Your clerk called me ‘The Duck Man.’”

  Mr. Holt pursed his lips. “I will have a word with him.”

  “No need. I can take a joke.”

  “If you wish some consolation, he calls Miss Stratton ‘The Duck Lady.’ My clerk considers himself a wit.” The solicitor’s voice was dry.

  “Does the Apple Tree Manor portion of the inheritance include enough money to run the property?”

  “Yes. Lady Bridges would never leave her home without sufficient funds to maintain it.”

  “Have you already discussed the will with Miss Stratton?”

  Mr. Holt nodded. “I visited Apple Tree Manor last week. Lady Bridges directed me to inform Miss Stratton first.”

  Kit relaxed against the chair back. “Tell me about Miss Stratton.”

  An appreciative smile overspread the solicitor’s face. “Miss Stratton is the great-granddaughter of Lady Bridges’s dearest friend, the late Countess Erskine. She is a lady of sterling character and is quite intelligent.”

  Kit gave a mental wince. “Sterling character” is code for “prude” and “intelligent” means “ugly.”

  “Miss Stratton’s father died three years ago when she was nineteen, leaving her with no means of support. Lady Bridges took her in as her companion.”

  So she needs to win as much as I do. Kit would not like to leave a lady destitute, but he intended to win. “May I see a copy of the will?”

  “My client has directed me to give you a copy at the end of the competition.” Mr. Holt gathered the papers into a stack. “I believe I have informed you of all the terms. Make the ducks happy and you win the bulk of your aunt’s assets. The loser will receive an annuity. Any questions?”

  “What is the value of the annuity?”

  Mr. Holt removed his spectacles, pulled out a large linen handkerchief from his coat pocket and polished the lenses. “The amount varies. I cannot give an exact value at this time.”

  “How about an esti—”

  Mr. Holt raised a hand. “I will make a suggestion, if I may. Since the ducks are in the care of Miss Stratton, I assume that if you make Miss Stratton happy, the ducks will also be happy.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket and his spectacles to his nose. He cocked an eyebrow. “You are a good-looking, strapping young man. Need I tell you how to make Miss Stratton happy?”

  Kit coughed. Had the solicitor directed him to seduce Miss Stratton? “Who will decide the winner?”

  A half-smile curved Mr. Holt’s lips. “Lady Bridges has designated me. I will arrive at Apple Tree Manor before June first, and, for the most part, I will remain to observe the competition.”

  ****

  Kit pulled his short-brimmed beaver hat down lower over his eyes. Curse the thing. In a driving rain like this one, all the wretched hat does is funnel water down my neck.

  He lifted his lantern high and squinted against the sheeting water. Lightning flicked across the night sky, illuminating the three stories of the Apple Tree Manor house at the top of the curving driveway. Thunder boomed and for a few seconds overpowered the angry rustle of storm-tossed leaves in the surrounding woods.

  Gripping his hat tight against the howling wind, he pushed his way up the gravel road, mud squishing under his boots. After the brilliance of the lightning’s flare, the mansion subsided into a darker patch against the coal-black sky.

  Lowering the lantern to guide his blinded sight, he stumbled up several low steps to the front entrance. Grateful for the portico overhead that shielded him from the tempest’s fury, he dropped his satchel beside him and wiped off his face. Another lightning bolt rent the sky, casting a momentary glow over the door and the etched brass knocker. The knocker’s strike plate, a duck in flight, stood in relief on the metal.

  “Appropriate.” He raised the knocker and rapped several times. The harsh cracks echoed inside and died away. The wind moaned, more lightning flashed, and thunder roared. No one answered his summons.

  His impatience growing, he knocked again. Damnation! With all Aunt Augusta’s wealth, surely she employed a footman or two to receive visitors, even at this hour.

  He had pi
cked up his valise and turned to find the back entrance when the soft scraping of footsteps sounded from the other side of the door. A key rasped in the lock, and the panel creaked open.

  An elderly man, a nightcap on his mussed gray hair and a dressing gown thrown over his nightshirt, held a flickering candle high. He frowned. “May I ask who is calling?” With one hand protecting the flame against the wind, he lowered the taper until its beam fell on Kit. Pleased recognition spread across the man’s wrinkled face. “Why, Master Kit. Good to see you again.”

  “Good to see you, too, Bates.” He shook off some more rain. “But may I enter? Devilish wet out here.”

  The butler hastened to step aside, and Kit strode into a wide, dim foyer. The light from Bates’s candle glistened off the black-and-white marble floor tiles, now spattered with raindrops from Kit’s duster. At the far end of the entry, a wall sconce cast brightness up a large white marble staircase. The steps rose to a landing before branching to the left and the right.

  Soft footfalls tapped on the right branch and a bobbing light descended to the landing. “Who could possibly arrive this late?” A lilting feminine voice drifted to their ears.

  Bates hurried down the corridor, Kit following. “You should not have bothered, Miss Stratton. I have answered the door.”

  “I was already awake. The thunder is so loud.” A little lady clad in a pink nightgown and dressing gown, one hand clutching her hem off the floor, glided down the stairs. Her waist-length blonde braid, shimmering like burnished gold in the candlelight, dangled over one shoulder. Eyebrows and lashes of a deeper gold framed dark eyes set in a porcelain complexion.

  What color are her eyes? All of a sudden, the only thing Kit wanted to know was the color of her eyes.

  Halfway to the bottom, she stopped and lifted her taper high. A smile as warm as the summer heat curved her lush mouth. “Who is our guest?”

  Answering warmth flicked to life in Kit’s chest. An angel. Bates at his heels, he climbed onto the first step. Heart thumping, he swept off his hat and bowed. “Mr. Christopher Winnington.”

  Her inviting smile solidified into a grimace. “Oh, my competitor.” Her voice was as hard as her face. “We wondered when you would come. But we did not expect anyone would be foolish enough to walk through a thunderstorm.”