by Carol Arens
The weak flames gave off scant warmth and even less light. Shadows hovered in the corners of the room; they swirled about his heart like mist.
It was too easy to imagine Oliver still sitting at the desk, a blanket draped across his shoulders and a cloth close at hand for him to cough into. The scent of cigar smoke lingering in the room made Heath feel that if he but blinked, his brother would be there.
“At last! I feared you would not come.”
His sister’s voice crackled with worry. It hadn’t always sounded so vulnerable, but Oliver’s death so close on the heels of her husband’s had changed her.
Death changed everything. To this day grief for Wilhelmina came upon him at unexpected times. Of course, it was not only his fiancée’s death that haunted him, but the secrets she kept in life.
“We made decent time given the storm.” In fact he would give the coachman extra pay for having to bear the cold and the wet in order for him to get here and deal with Olivia’s perceived “chaos.”
“No doubt you were loath to leave your mistress.”
“I don’t have a mistress.”
“No?” Her bow-like mouth pressed tight. It was hard for his sister to accept that not all men were like her late husband. “So you say, but I think you spend too much time at Rock Rose Cottage not to have one stashed away.”
Everyone faced betrayal at some point in life. His sister had trusted and adored her husband, until the day he passed away in the bed of his mistress. Given all Olivia had been through, Heath tried to smile past her suspicions.
He strode over to where she stood in the doorway, dipped his head and kissed her cheek. “I’d have been here sooner but the roads were complete muck. I’m just lucky my driver was skilled enough to keep us from getting stuck like so many others were.”
“Just remember, brother, a mistress and the devil are one and the same.”
“Let’s sit while you tell me what chaos Mr. Robinson has left behind.”
Since he could not tell her the truth about his business at the seashore, he did not argue further about there being no mistress, even though he was quite weary of her continued accusations.
He sat down on the divan. Olivia eased down beside him with a deflated sigh.
What he must remind himself was that she was a widow, that she and four-year-old Victor were dependent upon him for everything. Truly, a woman without a man to protect her was helpless in society.
Willa’s face flashed in his mind. The helplessness in her sad brown eyes had always made him feel protective of her, even when they were children. In the end that expression had been his undoing.
“Solicitors have been pounding on the door and demanding payment for debts that they claimed Oliver incurred. Three of them two days ago, and one this morning. I sent them away as best I could.”
“With their ears red and ringing, I imagine.”
She shrugged. “It’s no more than they deserved, but I fear the obligations are valid. I loved Oliver—you know I did—but he could be irresponsible.”
“I think he wanted to squeeze as much living as he could out of his failing body.”
“Perhaps, and who could blame him? But really, our brother ought to have hired someone more capable as our accountant. What did Mr. Robinson really have to recommend himself other than being Oliver’s chum from Cambridge? I didn’t think so much of it at the time but looking at it now I ought to have. The pair of them laughed and indulged in spirits when they worked on the ledgers.”
He did not know that, but it hardly surprised him. Oliver sought gaiety above most everything else. No doubt that pursuit had hastened his death. Doctor after doctor had warned him to leave the caustic air of London for the sake of his lungs. He would not consider it because he found country life dull. He used to claim all the charming, lively ladies lived in town and that was where he would reside.
“Our brother did enjoy a good time.”
“I thought,” Olivia murmured with a sigh, “that was the reason he wanted to marry that rich, flighty American, for the thrill of doing something risqué. But I see better now. We’ll need an auditor to know for sure, but I fear we might be bankrupt.”
“I’ll wire James Macooish, let him know that our brother is gone and he need not bring his granddaughter. I suppose I ought to have done it straightaway, but with—”
“You will not. The girl is coming to marry the Earl of Fencroft. Fifth or sixth, it hardly matters.”
“It matters a great deal when you are the sixth.”
“Don’t be selfish, Heath. You have a duty to the Fencroft estate. Without Miss Macooish’s fortune we will be utterly lost. How many people will be left in ruin if you do not marry her?”
“The woman would have suited our brother. He always did like brightly feathered birds. From what Oliver had to say about her I believe she is quite freehearted and pretty, and no doubt frivolous. You know me better than to think we would make a good match.”
“That hardly matters. I made a love match and look where that got me. Believe me, little brother, better to set your sights low and not be disappointed. If you won’t think of all the souls Fencroft Manor supports, consider the well-being of your nephew. He might be the one to take over the title one day.”
“If I marry the heiress, her son will inherit.”
“Don’t be silly. American women are notoriously infertile. They will be the ruin of the aristocracy. It’s what everyone says.”
Life had certainly spun Heath about and dropped him on his noble head. Unless he wedded Madeline—wasn’t that her name? Truthfully, until this moment he’d given his future sister-in-law little thought, but unless he wedded her, there would be nothing for Victor to inherit. His hardworking tenants and all of Fencroft Manor’s trusted servants would be cast out onto the street.
For all that he longed to leap off the couch and dash off a telegram to Macooish, he sat there long after his sister kissed his cheek and went to bed. He watched the dying flames until the room finally went dark.
Chapter Two
London, nine weeks and a dozen and a half ball gowns later...
“Loyal to a fault,” Clementine muttered while sitting on the balcony of the apartment Grandfather had rented and gazing down at the midnight stillness of the garden below. “Exceedingly and preposterously loyal.”
Excessive was what it was. She had never considered herself to be a weakling, but surely any woman with a backbone would have refused to even consider Grandfather’s scheme.
And yet here she was, sleepless in London, with a notebook on her lap and a lantern glowing on the table beside her. Grandfather’s handwriting on the pages blurred before her eyes. The more she stared at the instructions on how to address the titled, the wavier the letters became.
From down below, she heard the soothing tap of water in a fountain. Squinting through the dark, she could see how large it was. It might rightly be called a pond.
This building was vastly elegant, as was the garden that separated it from Fencroft House on the other side. In fact, Grandfather had rented this apartment because of its proximity to the Fencroft place. Perhaps he thought she would fall in love with the environs and look favorably upon the man.
That remained to be seen, but the garden did look appealing by moonlight. The landlord had told Grandfather that the garden was shared space between the apartment and the town house.
If she looked hard she could see the outline of the three-story brick building across the way.
As late as it was, even the servants were abed. No one would be the wiser if she slipped outside.
Within fifteen minutes she was sitting on an ornate iron bench three stories below her balcony.
Fresh, cool air washed over her face, a welcome change from the stifling yellow fog that had clung to everything earlier in the day.
Truly, there had
been moments when it hurt to breathe. She’d felt great pity for those forced to go about their daily business muddling through it.
Thankfully, at about sundown a fresh wind had blown it away, allowing the moon to shine down, to cleanse and bless everything with its pure, cold light.
The thought was quite poetic and it made her smile. She hoped she would remember it when she went back upstairs and took her pen and paper out of the secretary.
She might not, though, since she was in no hurry to leave this tranquil spot. It would be nice to sit here until the first rays of morning light peeked over the rooftops, but she was fairly certain it would be forbidden.
Given that Grandfather had cautioned her to observe every social rule, appear beyond reproach in everything she said or did, she doubted she ought to be down here by herself for even a moment.
Still, who was to know that she sat here blissfully listening to the rustle of tall shrubbery in the breeze, and the tinkle of the fountain?
Not a single soul. She was free to sit here and wonder what she was doing in London in the first place, why she had even considered Grandfather’s outrageous request—not demand. She was free to sit here and wonder what she was doing in London in the first place, why she had even considered Grandfather’s outrageous request—not demand.
And yet here she sat, somewhat contentedly listening to the sound of pattering droplets hitting the surface of the large pond when she ought to be seething in indignation.
But it was soothing, and while not as dramatic as the crashing waves of the ocean, it was lovely in its own way. Perhaps if she viewed events as an adventure, at least until she made up her mind about them, she could find a bit of peace within herself.
To that end she must make a point of sneaking out every night.
Solitude was something that even Grandfather’s fortune could not purchase. Closing her eyes, Clementine listened to a symphony of frogs accompanied by the twitter of a nightingale. London might be a pleasant place after all. In time she might—
“Curse it!”
A man’s exclamation cut the peace of the moment. He sounded startled more than angry. The sudden rustling of brush gave way to a husky gasp.
She leaped off the bench, ready to flee. Who would be creeping about in the hedge at this hour unless he was an intruder up to no good? Perhaps a thief or a pillager?
A cat dashed across the walkway at the same moment the dark-clad figure tumbled into the fountain. She could not be certain, but she thought he hit his head on a stone going in.
Oh, dear!
The pond was only knee-deep, but the man was floating facedown in it.
It was possible that he was a villain, or equally possible that he had a very good reason to be out here, the same as she did. In any case, she could hardly let him drown.
Running, she came to the edge of the water, stepped into it, slippers and gown forgotten—but not forgotten enough not to feel horrible for the servant who would have to make them presentable again.
Reaching for the man’s shoulders, she had to kick aside the long black coat he wore because it floated about him, getting tangled in her skirt and restricting her movement.
Giving a solid yank, she managed to get him on his back. Mercy, but he was heavy and, oh, my—
If he was a villain, he was a dashing one, with dark hair and a sweep of black, seductive eyelashes. Until this moment Clementine hadn’t known a man’s lashes could be seductive.
No doubt his villainy consisted of sneaking home from a tryst.
She patted his cheek. “Wake up, sir!”
All at once he lunged, caught her about the hips and dragged her down.
She beat on his forearms. “Why! You great lurching oaf! Let me go before I scream!” Which she could not do without everyone knowing she had come outside in the dark. It would not be well received to be found in the fountain in the slippery embrace of a man.
The most amazing eyes she had ever seen focused on her face. Slowly, as if shuffling through dense fog, the fellow came back from wherever the blow had taken him.
“Wh-what?” he stuttered, wiping his face and then reaching for his hat, which bobbed about on the surface of the water.
“As best I can tell, you were startled by a cat.” She snagged the soggy headwear and handed it to him. “You hit your head after you fell through the bush and into the pond. There is a bit of swelling above your right eye, but so far it doesn’t appear too horrid.”
What was horrid, and funny at the same time, was that she was sitting side by side with a stranger in a fountain, the pair of them blinking away water dripping down their foreheads.
“And who do I have to thank for my rescue?” he asked, swiping the hair back from his face.
Certainly not Clementine Jane Macooish! The scandal would be enormous were anyone to find out about this.
“Jane—Fitz.”
* * *
“Thank you, Lady Fitz.” Heath did not recall anyone by the last name of Fitz among the titled but he had no wish to offend his beautiful rescuer by assuming she was not. Clearly she was an American but she might still be titled if she was married to a peer.
It was difficult to determine the color of her eyes in the darkness. The shade of her curly, tumbled hair was disguised as well, given that it was dripping wet and dappled with moonlight. Fortunately the midnight dousing appeared not to have dampened the lively spirit shining from the lady’s eyes—no, not that so much as lively and serious all in one suspicious glance while she studied him.
“Miss Fitz will do nicely, I think.”
The right thing to do would be to rise from the water and offer her a hand up, but she was gazing at him with her head tipped ever so slightly to one side. He found her fascinating, so all he wanted was to sit here and look at her.
“I believe—” her brows lifted in a slender, delicate arch “—it would be polite to introduce yourself so that I do not decide you are a criminal bent on mayhem.”
“I assure you that I am not.”
That admission did not mean he would reveal himself as Fencroft. How would he explain his reason for dashing through the garden at this hour like a fleeing criminal? Better she thought he was bent on mayhem.
If his business of the evening came to light, lives would be threatened, the Fencroft estate ruined.
“My name is Heath Ramsfield.” The first surname to pop into his mind was his butler’s, so he used it. “You are shivering, Miss Fitz. We should get out of the water.”
He stood, reached for her hand and saw that it was bare, but he clamped his fingers around it anyway. The last thing he wanted was for her to slip and be injured, which would force him to seek help. Anyone he called upon would recognize him.
“I can only wonder, Mr. Ramsfield, are you always so skittish of cats?”
“It did appear rather suddenly.”
He stood a respectable distance from her, although barely, being captivated as he was by moonlight reflecting in the beads of water dotting her face. She had a beautiful nose, not pert as so many desired, but straight and elegant. It might have given her a stern demeanor were it not for the good humor warming her eyes.
“Oh, yes.” She squeezed her fingers around the hank of hair dripping over her shoulder and wrung out the water. “They do tend to do that.”
Water dribbling from their clothing onto the stones chimed with the droplets sprinkling in the fountain. A breeze scuttled through the shrubbery, making him shiver. It would be wise and proper to part company now, but he found he did not want to.
Who was this woman and why was she here in his garden? It was not as though he could come right out and ask, not without admitting he had a right to know.
“I suppose I have ruined your evening, and your gown.”
“Oh, I think not. I’ve never rescued anyone from a fountain in the middl
e of the night before. It was a riveting distraction.”
He laughed quietly. When was the last time he had done that? “And I thank you. But what did you need distracting from? Perhaps I can help?”
She was silent for a moment, holding him with her gaze, judging to determine if he was worthy of her confidence, he imagined.
The woman seemed as wise as she was attractive. Probably as different from the one he was contracted to marry in every way there could be. It was harsh of him to judge his future bride before he ever met her, but if she appealed to Oliver, he doubted Madeline Macooish would suit him.
“That is unlikely unless you know how a common-born woman would address, well, let’s say an earl or a viscount, in case she passes him in a hallway or on the street.”
Or in a water fountain with the night so close and intimate about them.
“I suspect he might just appreciate ‘Good day.’”
If only he were free to pursue a woman of his choosing! It couldn’t be this woman, a commoner and a poor American—society would never recover from it—but one like her. If there was one like her to be had.
“That sounds delightfully simple. But now that you know why I was in the garden, I’d like to know what you are doing here.”
She spoke to him with boldness and he found it quite appealing. Would she do so if she knew him to be the lordly master of the house next door? He was glad she didn’t know it, since the very thought was as pompous as a strutting rooster.
“There are some things a gentleman cannot reveal. Let’s just say I thought it an inviting path to take on my way home.”
“Yes, until you encountered a cat. I can’t be sure but it appeared to have been a black cat. I hope you do not also encounter a string of bad luck.”
“To tell you the truth, Miss Fitz, tripping over the cat and coming awake in the pond with you was the nicest thing to happen to me all evening.”
The nicest thing to happen to him in a very long time, in fact.
“Being plucked from certain death is nice of an evening.”
