by Gaelen Foley
She looked away, shaken and confused by his renewed coldness. If only she knew what she had done to deserve this treatment.
“Her Ladyship designates one hundred pounds to her estimable physician, Andrew Bell, as a token of her thanks for his kindness. Likewise, one hundred pounds to Charles Beecham—myself,” Mr. Beecham added, his pasty face coloring slightly, “in thanks for many years of skilled, loyal service. Very thoughtful,” he murmured. “For Mrs. Rowland’s twelve grandchildren, one hundred fifty pounds each.”
Dev and Lizzie glanced warily at each other again.
Mr. Beecham moved on to reading the dowager’s bequests to her cousins, then laid the document on the table and surveyed all their faces with a brief, businesslike glance. “We will now move on to Lady Strathmore’s instructions for the bulk of her fortune.”
“Charles, you must have missed something.” Devlin’s deep voice rumbled through her senses. “There had to have been some sort of provision for Miss Carlisle in the last section.”
“Er, we are coming to that, sir.”
He raised an eyebrow, then sat back to wait.
Lizzie noticed the cousins staring arrogantly at her, but she paid little mind, still surprised at Devlin’s concern that she should receive her share of the inheritance, however slight.
“Ahem,” Mr. Beecham resumed, giving a little cough into his hand. He opened another flap of his leather folio and pulled out a second piece of paper. “In February, mere weeks before her death, Lady Strathmore made a change to her will. I have verified the viscountess’s signature, along with the testimony of the witnesses.” He nodded toward the old, loyal servants seated by the wall, then swallowed hard. “I shall now read the final instructions, as amended by Lady Strathmore on the night of February the twelfth.”
Across the table, Devlin shifted uneasily in his seat, but his stare was now pinned on his solicitor. For her part, Lizzie resisted the urge to fidget. She had the feeling something strange was going on.
“‘Dear Mr. Beecham,’ ” the lawyer read out, “ ‘I hereby send you my revised will and testament, effective immediately. In August of 1816, I hired a new lady’s companion to help me while away the hours. This young woman, Elizabeth Carlisle, has proved herself to me for her kind heart, a responsible nature, and a character of pure sterling. Though I have often teased Miss Carlisle for her eccentric notions, I find myself at this late hour with a few notions of my own, chiefly, a new design for the manner in which I have decided to disburse my fortune.’ ”
Lizzie furrowed her brow, befuddled. What about the books?
“‘All bequests to my various charitable endowments, my servants, and kin remain unchanged. As to the bulk of my fortune, which was entrusted to me by my most revered Papa—’ ” Mr. Beecham mopped his brow with his handkerchief, edged away from Devlin, and read on.
“‘—I do hereby decree that the entire balance of five hundred thousand pounds be split between my beloved nephew, Devlin, and Elizabeth Carlisle.’ ”
Devlin’s jaw dropped.
“‘The allocation of these funds, however, is contingent upon and only to be granted after the two parties—vis-à-vis, my nephew and Miss Carlisle—have freely and willingly joined together in holy matrimony—’ ”
Lizzie’s mouth fell open. “What?”
Chaos erupted, routing the momentary stunned silence.
The cousins were cursing, the servants were arguing, and Devlin leaped to his feet, sending his chair clattering back.
“This is preposterous!” Devlin roared, slamming his mighty fist on the table. “Damn your eyes, sir! Is this your idea of a prank?”
Everyone was shouting, except for Lizzie, who just sat there in a daze, realizing that, no, it was Lady Strathmore’s idea of a prank. Curse the old girl’s matchmaking!
“Please, ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention, there is more.”
“More?” Devlin bellowed.
“‘Failing the union of these two young people within three months of these proceedings,’ ” Mr. Beecham read on in a shaky voice, “ ‘I do hereby bequeath my entire fortune to the Good Hope Society for the Benefit of Ironworkers in Gravel Lane in the parish of Christchurch. This is my last will and testament as witnessed by my faithful retainers of many years, Mildred Rowland and Jane Willis.’ ”
Everyone gasped, turning to stare accusingly at the housekeeper and cook.
Mrs. Willis cowered a bit, but Mrs. Rowland rose to her feet, clutching her chip reticule in both hands. She glanced around at them with a pugnacious look, but directed her remarks to Devlin. “ ’Tis true, milord, every word. Her Ladyship called me up to her chamber to witness and sign it the night before you left for London. Then she sent me off to bring it ’ere, posthaste. ‘Hand it personally to Mr. Beecham,’ she says, and that’s what I done. On my life, ’tis true—and if you ask me, it’s for the best!”
Lizzie’s eyebrows shot upward at this declaration, but Devlin looked as though he wanted to strangle someone.
“Leave us,” he fairly snarled at the others.
Lizzie assumed he meant that he wished to speak privately to the lawyer and started to rise to leave with the others, but his predator’s stare homed in on her, freezing her midmotion.
“You stay,” he ordered.
His harsh tone jolted her out of her astonishment, indignation pricking her to rise from her chair. It helped to lessen the intimidating factor of his greater size as he loomed across the table, bristling at her.
He planted his hands on the table between them, leaning closer. “Well, Miss Carlisle.” He enunciated each syllable with razor-sharp precision while the lawyer scampered out behind the others. “I knew you were deviously clever, but, my dear, your latest ruse takes the cake.”
“What?”
Glowering, he scrutinized her face. “Explain what just happened here.”
“Explain it? I’m as baffled as you! I haven’t the foggiest inkling why your aunt would do such a thing—”
“Because she wants me leg-shackled, that’s why!” He slammed the heel of his fist on the table between them, then pointed in her face. “And because you put her up to it! The jig is up, sweet. No one’s laughing.”
“What exactly are you accusing me of, you odious fiend?”
“As if you don’t know! Now I am going to call Mr. Beecham back in here,” he ground out as he struggled for calm, “and I expect you to come clean.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“I’ll explain it to you, then, my clever Miss Carlisle! You manipulated my aunt into changing her will so I would be forced to marry you—admit it!” She gasped aloud, but he charged on recklessly. “The two of you conspired against me! She’s wanted me leg-shackled for years, and you thought to land yourself a title—maybe to get back at Alec!”
Her jaw hung slack, but then she snapped her mouth shut in sheer outrage. “You utter egotist! I did no such thing. Do you actually think I am that desperate to have you? Do you really think you’re such a prize? You? A man who lets his name be dragged through the scandal sheets? Who lives in utter decadence? Marry you? My dear Lord Strathmore, I wouldn’t have you if you begged me on your knees. Good day, sir!”
Her insult took him aback for a second. She pivoted and marched out grandly, but a moment later, he lurched into motion.
“Get back here!” he boomed, striding after her. “I’m not done with you!”
“Oh, yes, you are,” she muttered, grabbing her coat out of the clerk’s hands.
Devlin grabbed her elbow none too gently.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried, whirling to face him.
“How dare you accuse me of something so vile? I had nothing to do with your aunt’s mad scheme! I knew nothing about it. And I will prove my innocence by walking away. I can do that, you see. It costs me nothing. You on the other hand, Devil, my dear—I can hardly wait to see them throw you into debtors’ prison!” She yanked her elbow out of his grasp an
d stalked toward the door.
“Damme, they sound like they’re already married,” the clerk remarked under his breath as she passed.
She shot him a scowl and slammed the door behind her, going back out to her pony cart.
Closing his eyes for a second, Dev struggled to leash his wrath, pinching the bridge of his patrician nose for a moment; then he gave up, muttered a curse, and strode outside after her. Short of making a scene in the street, however, there was little he could do. She was marching away swiftly along the pavement, her pretty lavender skirts twitching around her legs with her angry strides. Her spine was very straight, her dainty, black-gloved fists balled at her sides. She glanced over her shoulder as if she could feel his glare. The look she sent him was as sharp as a blow-dart.
Dev bristled, his heart pounding with thwarted lust and fury; then she turned the corner and disappeared into the mews. He suddenly became aware of his aunt’s cousins and the clerk watching him out the bow window of Charles’s office.
He grumbled wordlessly under his breath and pivoted, stalking back toward the office. “Get the carriage,” he muttered to Ben, who stood nearby, looking appalled. On the warpath, Dev marched back into the office.
His audience quickly snapped to attention, looking elsewhere and assuming poses of nonchalance.
“Charles!” he bellowed.
Charles gulped. “Yes, my lord?”
Dev’s stare narrowed, predator-like, on the pudgy little man. Beads of sweat popped out instantly on Charles’s receding forehead.
The solicitor retreated as Dev advanced.
“This,” he growled, “cannot be legal.”
“B-but it is, my lord,” the man stammered, nervously mopping his pate. “Lady Strathmore’s fortune was hers to dispose of h-however she wished.”
“Get me out of this, Charles. Find a way.”
“Y-yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”
“See that you do.”
“It could t-take some t-time—”
“I don’t have time!” he thundered, snatching his greatcoat angrily out of the clerk’s hands. “Remember the pavilion? The repairs? The house on Portman Street? I have bills, Charles. Bills up to my bloody neck! You will make this go away. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Dev stormed out, dragging his fine coat after him. In the next moment, he sprang up into his coach.
“Home!” he snarled at his driver.
Ben barely had time to scramble into the chassis with him. Before the coach had even rolled into motion, Dev pulled open the satinwood liquor compartment beneath the opposite seat and poured himself a generous shot of whiskey. The amber spirits sloshed about in the small tumbler with the coach’s rocking motion. Dev did not give it a chance to spill but downed it in one swig.
“Perfect,” he spat, marginally steadied as the fiery liquid made its way down to his belly. “Just—bloody—perfect.” Then he poured himself another.
Ben eyed him apprehensively.
“Blasted women and their ploys.”
“But, sir, by the light of reason, you cannot really think the girl had anything to do with this—”
“I’m talking about my aunt!” After another soothing swallow, Dev sat back against the squabs and stared at his servant. “The old girl has played me for a fool, Ben. She certainly had the last laugh.” He glanced around at the fancy coach that enclosed them from the dirt and struggle and hubbub of the workaday world, he gazed into his crystal tumbler at the expensive vintage whiskey swirling about, and then he looked at Ben. “I’m destitute.”
Ben looked glum, knowing it was no exaggeration.
“This throws everything I’ve worked for into jeopardy. Do you realize how quickly Carstairs and the others will shut me out if they suspect I’m in dun territory? They don’t trust me as it is. I’m so close…. Damn it! That meddling old schemer!” he shouted. “How could she do this to me? And I swear to God, Ben, if you tell me that I brought it on myself, I’ll strangle you.”
Ben shook his head. Gingerly he offered, “I’m sure that your aunt must’ve had your best interests at heart.”
“I don’t care if she did! I will not be pushed into this! I will not be manipulated from beyond the bloody grave!” he declared, but even greater than his ire at his aunt was Dev’s anger at himself. If he had failed to see this coming, what in the name of Hell did he think he was doing taking on the whole lot of the Horse and Chariot bastards single-handedly?
Maybe, just maybe, he was getting in over his head. But he was in too deep to back out now, nor would he. His only exit from this dark tunnel was by going deeper into their evil. Whether or not he’d come out on the other side remained to be seen. Personally, he did not give a damn whether he survived it or not. Either way, no matter what mad scheme his aunt had devised, he had no intention of dragging Lizzie Carlisle down with him.
Yet he hated himself for hurting her, lashing out blindly with his words. Stunned by his aunt’s prank, he had accused the finest, most principled woman he’d ever known of the lowest sort of scheming. If she were anyone else, the suspicion would have been reasonable enough, but she was not other people. She was Lizzie.
Warm, gentle Lizzie, he thought with an ache. Honest, loyal, caring Lizzie, who could not lie to save her life. But damn, he advised himself, in the future, never cross a clever woman. Still smarting from her tongue-lashing, Dev knew not what to do, so he took another drink.
“Is the idea of marrying her really so unpalatable?” Ben asked softly.
“Don’t be thick, Ben. That’s not it at all,” he mumbled with a sigh, and shook his head.
“What, then? She is not…suitable?”
“I care nothing for her birth or station,” he said wearily. “Look at the circumstances! This is not the time for me to contemplate taking a bride.” His brain half panicked at the thought, utterly refusing what he was being called upon to do.
“Perhaps it is the perfect time.”
Dev snorted. “Didn’t you hear what she said? Not if I begged her on my knees. That, my friend, is a quote.” He downed the rest of his drink, then dropped his head back on the cushioned squab in defeat.
“She didn’t feel that way in Bath. Neither, I daresay, did you.”
Dev scowled, blew a skeptical snort from his nostrils, then gazed out the carriage window, at a loss. Marry Lizzie?…
He shuddered with mingled fear and longing. It would be so easy to fall into her arms and forget all the bitter lessons that life had scarred across his soul, but he would not give in to that traitorous desire. He was not letting that girl into his heart so fate could shatter him again. He had barely put himself back together once already.
“What are you going to do?” Ben asked.
He shook his head. “I’ll think of something.”
When they pulled into Portman Street, he saw that apparently word had gotten out amongst his creditors that today was the day he would be receiving his inheritance. A small crowd of the duns had formed a picket outside his home and stood awaiting his return.
As soon as his carriage came into view, they rushed the vehicle, spooking the horses as they waved their bills. Forced to stop, the vehicle was swiftly surrounded by the clamoring crowd.
“How dare they?” Dev stared out the window, utterly appalled. But each seemed to fear that unless he were in the first batch of merchants to be paid, there would soon be no money left, given Devil Strathmore’s reputation for extravagant living.
“Pardon, milord!” they hollered through the glass. “A moment of your time—”
“I’m from Locke’s—”
“I’m from Tattersall’s—”
“About your tab at the Scarlet Slipper, my lord—”
Dev blanched to see one of the thick-necked whores’ bullies from the high-class brothel where he had often gambled or pursued other pleasures.
“Stand aside!” the coachman shouted, even threatening them with his whip, to no avail.
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“We’ve been patient! We deserve to be paid!” The duns remained stubbornly blocking the carriage from moving on. “Well, he’s got his inheritance now, ain’t he?”
In a wave of fury, Dev started to reach for the door to give the insolent cretins a piece of his mind, but Ben stopped him, spotting one of the scandal-sheet journalists leaning against the wrought-iron fence that girded the area. The jackanapes was smirking as he watched the disgraceful scene, his pencil poised to take notes.
“No, sir,” Ben warned in businesslike outrage, “don’t speak to them. I’ll handle this.” Ben flung open the carriage door and stood on the metal step, towering over the rabble. “Silence!”
They obeyed, looking startled.
Ben tugged at his waistcoat with great pomp. “Be gone at once, all of you, or I shall call the constable! How dare you make a spectacle of this house and invade His Lordship’s privacy? Do you not know the viscount is still in mourning?”
Some dared to scoff, but Ben flung their disrespect back in their faces.
“For shame, sirs!” he thundered. “You will be paid in due time, just as you always have in the past! Begone, or His Lordship vows he will not frequent your establishments again!”
Dev was impressed. He sent his valet a discreet look of admiring surprise.
Ben gave him a subtle wink that said, Not to worry, before jumping down from the coach and securing the carriage door behind him. Having joined the fray, he now began shooing the bill collectors out of the coach’s path. Finally, the vehicle was able to move on. It continued around the corner and down the narrow passage to the mews.
Dev’s temples had begun to throb with a five-hundred-thousand-pound headache. But once his driver had managed to remove him from the mortifying scene, he realized grimly that it was only a taste of what was in store if he did not get his hands on that money. As it was, his neighbors would chew over this bit of scandal for a week, for in high Society, the only sin that was truly verboten was poverty. And that, he grasped, still rather reeling, put him squarely at Lizzie Carlisle’s mercy.
