An Inheritance for the Birds

by Linda Banche

  Without trying to hide, the prowler crouched and ran toward the dam, his footfalls muted on the grassy bank. He poked at the newly repositioned logs and rocks. One stone on the top of the dam tottered and plopped into the stream with a soft splash.

  Kit had rebuilt the dam in a loose patchwork. When the intruder dislodged enough of the rocks, the entire structure would collapse. As the villain jabbed at the next stone, Kit slipped from his observation post, careful not to disturb Obadiah. Keeping the coop between himself and the scoundrel, he stole through the gateway in the surrounding fence and behind the little building. He peeked around the far edge.

  The culprit, his back to Kit, had advanced to the middle of the pool, knocking rocks off the dam as he proceeded. He thrust off the next stone. Without warning, the larger rocks beneath crashed into the pond with a roar. The man jumped. Hissing, a plume of water shot up higher than the figure and then plunged back down to drench him.

  Kit launched himself into the pond. Grabbing the spluttering man by the collar, he hauled him up and around and aimed a punishing blow to his midsection. Choking, the man jerked and twisted, and Kit’s fist glanced off his shoulder.

  The prowler clasped his hands together and rammed his elbow into Kit’s stomach.

  With a grunt of outgoing air, Kit pitched backward. He kicked out as he fell, knocking the culprit off his feet. Water erupted skyward with a loud splash as they both crashed to the stream bed. Panting, Kit rolled over, pinning the startled villain to the bottom. He caught the man’s flailing arms and secured his hands over his head.

  The scoundrel’s head floated a bare inch above the water’s surface. Thrashing, he lunged up in a desperate attempt to dislodge Kit’s hold. For a second, his head went under water. He came up sputtering and flailed in panic.

  Kit grasped both of the culprit’s hands in one of his and clamped his own body more firmly over his opponent’s. With his free hand, he gripped the knave’s chin. “Move and I force your head under.”

  The man went limp.

  Tom, an ancient blunderbuss at the ready and with a coil of rope slung over his shoulder, ran to the water’s edge. “Mr. Winnington, be you all right?”

  Kit’s breath heaved in loud gulps. “Tom, you cannot know how happy I am to see you. Help me get this cur to his feet.”

  Tom set the blunderbuss and rope on the bank and waded into the pond toward the man’s head. “I’ll take his hands.” As Kit shifted to allow Tom access, the villain arched up, toppling Kit into the pool.

  Tom cursed. He grabbed the man’s hands and yanked. Spluttering, the rogue crashed back into the water. “I have him, sir.”

  Kit swiped the wet hair out of his face and clambered up. Between them, he and Tom maneuvered the thrashing villain onto his feet. Each pinioned one of his arms, and the three men staggered out of the stream, the rascal struggling the whole time.

  They dropped the knave onto the bank. Tom scrambled to sit on his chest and immobilized his arms while Kit tied his hands and feet. When at last they had him trussed up, he quieted.

  Panting, Kit sank down by the man’s head. “Now you can answer my questions.” He pulled off the intruder’s soft hat, which by some miracle had stayed on his head during the fight. Shock ripped through him. “Mr. Palk?”

  The curate glared as he shoved his overlong hair away from his face with his bound hands. “Surprised?”

  “Yes. I suspected several men, but not you.”

  “Of course not.” Mr. Palk’s tone held a sneer. “The good, righteous curate. Always on hand to perform the work of the Lord, visiting the sick and ministering to his flock.” He spat. “And making a pittance too small to support himself.”

  “Or, rather, a man who hopes to gain the finer things in life.” Kit slitted his eyes. “So, you decided to make sure Miss Stratton won the contest, and then marry her. If she would have you.”

  “Damn the contest. I wanted her for her financial skills. I overheard her discussing her latest investment success with Lady Bridges, and I lost no time in courting her. I almost had her convinced, but then Lady Bridges died. Miss Stratton refused to make a decision until the competition ended.” His nostrils flared with anger. “I saw the way you looked at her. If I removed you from the scene, I could renew my pursuit, with the estate as a bonus.”

  The cleric’s mouth curved into a malevolent grin. “But if I cannot have her, at least I have the satisfaction of making you lose the contest.” He jutted his chin toward the dam. “Midnight is long gone and your dam is a shambles.”

  “Ah, but there you are wrong. The competition ended yesterday, or rather the day before, since, as you so helpfully observed, midnight has passed. Miss Stratton and I concocted this charade to ferret out the villain who destroyed the original dam.” Kit chuckled. “And, for your information, Mr. Holt has already declared me the winner.”

  Mr. Palk’s jaw dropped. “Even with your project in pieces?”

  “Without knowing it, you helped me.” Kit explained the terms of the will. “You hurt yourself by wrecking my dam.”

  Mr. Palk’s face clouded with rage, and he struggled against his bonds. “Why, you bastard—”

  Light-colored fabric fluttered by the side of the duck coop and Angela peeked around. She took a step forward. “Kit, I know you asked me to wait, but I thought I heard a struggle, and—” She stopped dead. Her eyes widened. “Mr. Palk?”

  The curate’s lip curled. “I see you are as surprised as everyone else.”

  She slipped to her knees beside the scoundrel. “But why?”

  “For the money, of course. Like every other man who has sniffed around your skirts these two months past.” He hunched a shoulder at Kit. “Including your competitor.”

  Kit grabbed the malicious curate by the collar and hauled him upright. “If you were not tied up, I would plant you a facer for that vile comment.”

  “Vile? Oh, you want Miss Stratton for her sterling qualities?” Mr. Palk replied in a sing-song voice. “Certainly not for her carnal ones.” He sneered. “Prim little bluestocking. Probably worthless in bed. You can have her.”

  Angela sucked in a breath.

  Kit punched the curate.

  Mr. Palk slumped, unconscious, to the ground.

  Wincing, Kit shook his stinging hand. “I have no regrets about hitting him. Tom, let us store this worthless excuse for a man in the barn until morning.”

  The chatter of excited voices floated from the direction of the house, and various servants as well as Mrs. Castin spilled from the passage between the barn and the stable.

  Ignoring the crowd, Kit grabbed Mr. Palk’s shoulders and a grunting Tom caught his feet. The throng followed as they hauled the villain into the barn. None too gently, they dumped him into an unused stall and tied him to one of the sides. Breath heaving from the exertion, Kit swiped the sweat from his forehead. “Let him lie here with the rest of the dung until the constable takes him in charge.”

  Tom laughed. “I will fetch my blunderbuss and be off to bed. Good night to you.” Kit thanked him and they quit the stall, Kit securing the door behind him. Tom herded the other servants before him out of the building, but Mrs. Castin lingered by the stable entry.

  Angela, her eyes haunted, gazed at the insensible man. “I had no idea.”

  “Some people are quite adept at hiding their true natures. I would have bet on Mr. Martyn.” She looked so small and defenseless. How he hated to see her suffering. His touch tentative, he drew her into his arms.

  She leaned into his embrace, half-hiding her face in the folds of his wet shirt.

  He kissed her hair, and the fragrance of violets filled his nostrils. Violets were now his favorite flower. “I regret you had to find out about Palk this way.”

  She dashed her tears away. “Better now than after I had wed him.”

  He tensed. “Had you considered his suit?” Damn the man for hurting her.

  She nodded. “For a little while. He was very nice to me. And even with La
dy Bridges, life here was lonely.” Her shoulders sagged. “I wanted—someone.”

  His heart clattered in his breast. Did he have a chance? “Would you want me?”

  She sniffed. “Please, you are kind to try to make me feel better—”

  “Kindness has nothing to do with it.” He put a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. “If Mr. Holt does not agree to another contest, I will share the estate with you.”

  She shook her head. “And provide fodder for the gossips? We are not related, sir.”

  “We could be.” Releasing his hold, he dropped to one knee. “I love you. Marry me, Angela. Please.”

  She hissed in a breath. “But we have known each other for such a short while.”

  He spread his arms wide. “You knew Mr. Palk for years and never divined his true intentions.” He clasped her hand. “I admit, when I came here, I vowed to dislike you in order to concentrate on winning the estate. But now—” He kissed her palm. “—winning without you would be a hollow victory.”

  “I still have the annuity. Do you expect me to share that money with you?” Her eyes still watery, she forced a teasing note into her voice.

  He barked out a laugh. “Only if you choose.” He nibbled on her fingers. “But you have not answered my question.”

  “Yes.” She caressed his cheek. “Oh, yes! I love you, too.”

  Rising, he caught her to him and kissed her as if the world would end that night. Much too short a time later for his liking, they separated. He rested his forehead against hers. “Now, we must go to our separate beds.” He tilted his chin toward Mrs. Castin, who gazed outside. “But not for too much longer, I hope.”

  ****

  The next afternoon, a smiling Kit stood beside Angela in the drawing room as their guests took their leave.

  The usual visitors had arrived at the peep of dawn to find out the contest winner. Their first sight was of the constable hauling away the curate, kicking and cursing.

  After their shock had abated, nothing could stop them from demanding the competition’s outcome. The ladies perked up when Kit declared he was the winner, but deflated like small hot-air balloons when he announced his betrothal to Angela. The men scowled.

  Angela sighed as Mrs. Castin escorted the last guest out. “I may never again have a lady friend in Theale. I snabbled the most eligible bachelor in the neighborhood.”

  Kit laughed. “‘Snabbled?’ Is that what you call our betrothal?” He sank onto the settee beside her as Obadiah flew into the room and landed at his feet. “And what are you up to, old chap? Now that you have your very own duck coop, I worried you would forget me.”

  Obadiah quacked and snuggled against Kit’s leg.

  “Never fear. You have made a conquest for life.”

  Kit bent over to pet Obadiah’s head. “As much as I enjoy your company, you must return to your own house.” He arched a suspicious eyebrow at the duck. “I wonder how you got in. Have you learned how to open doors?”

  Outside, wheels rattled on the driveway. A coachman called out as he brought his vehicle to a stop.

  Angela pulled a face. “Oh, no. Not more guests.” She rose to tug on the bell cord. “I shall instruct Bates to tell everyone we are not at home.”

  Kit nudged Obadiah aside, ignoring the drake’s annoyed quack, and crossed to the window. “Not a guest, but Mr. Holt. His trip to London was certainly short.”

  The front door scraped open and footsteps tapped on the corridor floor. A beaming Mr. Holt with Mrs. Castin on his arm entered. “I heard about your apprehension of the blackguard who destroyed your dam. I confess, I never would have suspected the curate.”

  Kit shook his hand. “Neither did anyone else.”

  Angela extended her hand to the solicitor, who bowed over her fingers. “We did not expect you back so soon.”

  Mr. Holt bestowed a wider smile on Mrs. Castin before he settled into a chair and took the seat beside her. “I only went as far as Wells. I had sent ahead for the documents I needed and they awaited me there. Despite the setback at the outing when you rushed away, Miss Stratton—”

  Angela gasped. “You saw us?”

  “A mere peek, I assure you. I knew you two would work together to snare the culprit, and I wanted to leave you alone.” He set his portfolio on the table before him. “Especially since I suspected more than just the dam was on your minds. May I offer you my best wishes, Miss Stratton, and my congratulations to you, Mr. Winnington?”

  Kit dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Word spreads quickly.”

  “Indeed. But your betrothal was not unexpected.”

  Kit exchanged a confused glance with Angela. “How could anyone think such a thing? We had never seen each other before May.”

  “You did not know your aunt very well.” Mr. Holt removed a sealed sheet of vellum from his portfolio. “During her final illness, Lady Bridges wrote two letters in case she did not survive to the end of the contest. I was to give you one if you decided to marry and the other if you did not.” He handed the missive to Kit. “I am most pleased to give you the marriage letter.”

  After exchanging another bewildered glance with Angela, Kit broke the note’s wax seal and unfolded the parchment. Angela leaned closer so they could both read.

  Apple Tree Manor

  April 25, 1818

  My dear Kit and Angela,

  I am delighted you will marry. For a long time, I have known you two would suit. The problem was to bring you together and have you discover each was to the other’s liking.

  First, let me say I would never leave either of you destitute.

  Second, I always intended to leave the property to Kit and the monetary grant to Angela.

  Kit, your skill is with the land. I saw your love of your father’s holdings and how hard you worked on an estate that would never be yours. Please use the knowledge you gained there to make Apple Tree Manor even more productive for you and your wife.

  Angela, your skill is with money. After seeing your financial successes, I instructed Mr. Holt to invest my funds in the same ventures. Thanks to you, as of the date of this letter, I leave you investments worth fifty thousand pounds.

  Please forgive Mr. Holt for whatever small deceptions he practiced to further my plans.

  And most of all, be happy.

  Augusta, Lady Bridges

  “Gracious, fifty thousand pounds?” Angela fell against the settee back. “I had no idea Lady Bridges was that rich. Or that my business recommendations were that good.”

  Mr. Holt pulled another sheet from his portfolio. “The amount is now larger. Her ladyship was always well-to-do, but your advice was so extraordinary, she doubled her fortune.” He handed Angela the parchment. “A list of her—now your—investments and their worth as of yesterday. Note how much their value has increased since Lady Bridges wrote the letter.” He sat back in his chair. “Indeed, I committed some of my own funds to the same securities and did quite well, too. I am grateful and, like her ladyship, I wanted to see you two happy.”

  Angela’s forehead furrowed. “But I thought the loser would receive an annuity.”

  “One of the small deceptions Lady Bridges mentioned. ‘Annuity’ sounds smaller than ‘investments’ and I needed to have you both compete for what you thought was the larger prize.”

  “Well, you are forgiven.” Angela passed the list to Kit. His jaw dropped as he read the document. “Gads, fifty-five thousand pounds?” He lowered the sheet to his lap. “I doubt the entire estate is worth that much.”

  Mr. Holt shuffled more papers. “You are correct. Apple Tree Manor is worth approximately forty-five thousand pounds.” He handed another sheet to Kit. “Here is the property’s total value.”

  Angela wagged a finger at the solicitor. “No wonder you never told us the amount of the so-called annuity. We wondered about that omission.”

  Mr. Holt’s smile was sheepish. “I am grateful you were not more persistent.”

  Angela turned to Kit,
her expression amused. “Once we wed, my portion becomes yours. You have done quite well, sir.”

  “Just so. But the money is yours. What say you to this? We set up one trust for you, another for our children and I turn the rest over to you as pin money. With some of my own added as a marriage gift.”

  “A very good solution.”

  “Mr. Holt, please take notes. We can settle the details later.”

  The solicitor inclined his head. He pulled a pencil from his pocket and recorded their directions.

  Kit tapped his fingers on the arm of the settee. “By any chance, did you also fabricate the ‘terms’ about awarding Apple Tree Manor to the one whose project was destroyed?”

  Mr. Holt’s mouth creased into a wide grin. “Indeed. Most of the details of the contest are mine, including putting the estate on the auction block. At the beginning of this year, Lady Bridges instructed me to add a codicil to her will.”

  Angela’s brows furrowed. “I remember your visit. You and Lady Bridges closeted yourselves in the study for two days.”

  “Quite.” The solicitor adjusted his spectacles. “I wrote the will awarding you the securities and Mr. Winnington the land over two years ago. In January, Lady Bridges and I discussed her desire that you two marry. We considered various methods, and the ‘make the ducks happy’ contest was her idea. I believe she intended to bring you together herself, but her health had declined recently. She knew her time was short. In the event of her death, she delegated the task to me.”

  Kit glanced at Angela. “What if we did not wed?”

  “I would have extended the competition until I was certain you did not suit. And then, I would have awarded the inheritance exactly as I have.” He handed Kit a sheaf of papers. “Here is her will.”

  Angela’s gaze swung from Mrs. Castin, who had a slight flush on her cheeks, to the solicitor, who smiled at the lady. “And have you something else to tell us, Mr. Holt?”

  The solicitor leaned over to clasp Mrs. Castin’s hand. The lady’s blush deepened. “Yes. My dear Sophia has made me the happiest of men by accepting my proposal of marriage. One reason I went to Wells was to pick up the special license I had requested from the Archbishop of Canterbury. My connections at Doctors’ Commons in London kept the wait to a minimum.”