“You have quite made your point," she said stiffly. “However, I should think a titled peer might judge himself compelled to give some consideration to the matter of an heir.”
“How very intriguing that you should mention that, Miss Gordon.”
His eyes narrowed again, and he sat back in his chair and laced his fingers over his ribs, intriguing or convenient? Bonnie now wondered. She had an odd but distinct impression that she had blundered into a trap.
“The fact is I have an heir,” the earl said.
Bonnie could only collect that he was referring to an illegitimate child, but before she could convey her disapproval of this indelicate turn in the conversation. Lord Sedge- wick went on.
“My nephew, Francis. The son of my eldest sister, Judith, and her husband. Sir Robert Heller. And I have given the matter a great deal of consideration in the weeks just past because I am excessively distressed by several recent developments.”
“Distressed by Francis, you mean," Bonnie said.
"Not so much by Francis." He shook his head, and the gray strands woven through his hair gleamed silver in the flickering light of the chandelier. “Francis has been involved in his share of scrapes, but young men will sow their wild oats.”
“As will older ones,” Bonnie said coolly.
“I must concede that point to you. Miss Gordon.” He flashed his winsome grin. “But if we may return to Francis, he's not really a bad sort. A bit skitter-brained in my opinion, but a tolerably good lad nonetheless. The problem lies with his parents.”
Bonnie understood the problem all too well: Papa hadn’t much cared for Aunt Grace either. “You and your sister do not get on,” she rejoined aloud.
“It is not a question of ‘gening on.’ ” He shook his head again. “Although, to say the truth, there was never any great love lost between Judith and myself No, the problem is that Judith and Robert seem determined to exhaust my fortune long before it can pass to Francis.”
“But how?” Bonnie peered around the room, half-expecting to Find Sir Robert and Lady Hellier lifting the silver from the sideboard.
“Nothing so overt as theft.” The earl might have been reading her mind. “But equally effective for all its subtlety. Judith and Robert and I patronize many of the same merchants, and I am given to understand that Robert has always been prodigious slow to pay his bills. Be that as it may, he did—until the past few months—eventually meet his obligations. Lately, however, he has left a number of major debts to languish so long that his creditors discreetly brought the situation to my attention. Indeed. I was advised only this morning that Robert still />wed Hatchett for the phaeton he purchased nearly six months since.” Lord Sedgewick scowled at the memory. “My payment of that bill was the fourth I have made in Robert’s behalf, and I shudder to contemplate what additional debts I shall be obliged to settle in future.” “Obliged?” Bonnie echoed. “Surely you aren't legally responsible for your brother-in-law’s debts.”
“No,” the earl agreed, “but I hold myself morally responsible. Were it not for his connection to me. Robert would have been denied credit years ago. As it is. the merchants are well aware that Francis is my heir, and I fancy they assume I am quite prepared to contribute to his parents’ support.” “And Robert and Judith are confident of their position as well.” Bonnie said, beginning to comprehend the magnitude of his dilemma. “Or so I presume, for they must know you do not intend to marry.”
“Oh, they more than merely know; they have taken great pains to ensure that I remain unwed. If I stand up twice with the same woman at a given assembly, I shortly spy my dear sister whispering in her ear. No doubt warning her of my scandalous reputation and rakeshame habits.” He sketched a sardonic smile. “I-suppose I should be grateful to Judith for defending my bachelorhood so assiduously, but in the circumstances, I bitterly resent her interference.”
"I daresay they would mend their ways if you threatened to cut Francis from your will,” Bonnie mused. “But you can’t do that, can you? Not when an estate is entailed."
“An interesting observation. Miss Gordon.”
“Interesting” jangled in her ear much the way “intriguing” had, and she entertained the same peculiar notion of entrapment. A notion reinforced when Lord Sedgewick sat forward and propped his elbows on the linen tablecloth.
“In point of fact,” he said, “the bulk of my estate is not entailed. Our family seat in Dorset is, of course, and a small seaside home in Hampshire, but that is essentially all. By far the larger portion of my fortune derives from the legacy of my maternal grandfather. I might add that Judith also received a handsome bequest fronj Grandpapa, but she and Robert have squandered every farthing. Whereas—if you will pardon my immodesty in saying so—I invested my inheritance very carefully, and it has nearly quadrupled over the years.”
It was fortunate the earl did not feel compelled to apologize for all his immodesties, Bonnie thought wryly, or he would have time for little else. “So you could modify your will," she commented aloud. “Except—or so I collect—that you’ve no other relative but Francis to designate as your principal heir.”
“No, I have not,” he acknowledged, “but I suddenly discover myself with a golden opportunity to invent such a relative. You, Miss Gordon. I’ve had it in mind for some hours now to pass you off as my niece.”
He had sprung the trap at last, and for a moment, Bonnie could only gape at him, her jaw sagging with shock. "One cannot simply invent a niece,” she protested when she finally found her tongue. "Well, an infant niece perhaps,” she amended, “but I am four-and-twenty years of age."
“Which is perfect as it happens," Lord Sedgewick said.
“because Cornelia wed Thomas Carlisle/ive-and-twenty years ago.”
“Cornelia?” Bonnie’s brain was whirling with confusion, and she wondered if she might have been concussed after all. “Thomas Carlisle?”
“You must recollect my remark that you look astonishingly like my sisters," the earl said by way of reply. “Indeed, it was that observation which prompted me to consider an imposture. Cornelia is the younger of my sisters—younger than Judith, that is, but nine years my own senior.”
Far from dissipating Bonnie’s confusion, his explanation served to bewilder her even further. “And you have it in your mind to persuade Cornelia to pretend she has a daughter? A daughter she has chosen to hide for nearly a quarter of a century?”
“Fortunately, no such persuasion will be necessary. Or unfortunately, perhaps I should have said, because I was immensely fond of Cornelia.” His sapphire eyes briefly clouded, grew distant, then returned to Bonnie. “Be that as it may, you should quite appreciate her story. Miss Gordon, for Cornelia's head was stuffed with the same sort of romantic nonsense you yourself subscribe to.”
Bonnie opened her mouth to object, but Lord Sedgewick waved her to silence.
“Cornelia conceived a great tendre for Thomas Carlisle." he continued, “and one would be hard put to imagine a more unsuitable parti. He tenanted one of our farms at Sedge wood, which meant, of course, that Papa counted him barely a notch above the servants. As if that were not sufficiently horrifying, Tom’s father was a criminal; he’d been hanged some years earlier for a murder he’d committed during a taproom brawl. Tom himself was a bang-up fellow, or so I thought with all the wisdom of my eleven years. But whatever his character, he was no proper match for the daughter of an earl; and I suspect that had Papa ignored the situation, Cornelia would soon have recognized her folly. However, Papa forbade her
any further association with Tom, and I daresay f needn't tell you what happened next."
“They eloped," Bonnie said, and the earl inclined his head. "And did she come to recognize her folly?" Bonnie hoped not, for she did rather like the story. "Have she and Tom been happy, I mean?”
"That I can’t say because we’ve heard nothing from them since the night they fled to Scotland. I wasn’t privy to Papa’s final conversation with Cornelia; he gave us only
the gist of it. However, I surmise he informed her that if she defied his wishes in respect to Tom, he would disown her—financially and personally as well. And if that is the case, I additionally surmise that Tom and Cornelia’s pride has not permitted them to attempt to effect a reconciliation. At any rate. Cornelia left a note stating their intention to emigrate to Barbados, and that is the last I know of them."
"I see,” Bonnie murmured.
"Is that a mere figure of speech," he demanded, "or do you really see? It’s entirely plausible that Cornelia might have a twenty-four-year-old daughter neither Judith nor I has ever heard of. Entirely possible that—in her daughter’s interest—Cornelia might swallow her pride at last and send the girl to England to make a good marriage. The story would be credible even did you not chance to resemble my sisters, and the fact that you do renders it the more so.”
Lord Sedgewick punctuated his commentary with a bite of lamb, then—evidently finding it cold—pushed his plate away and signaled for dessert. This proved to be chocolate blancmange, which was one of Bonnie’s favorites, but her brain was spinning so dizzily by now that she had altogether lost her appetite.
“I do see that the story would be credible," she conceded at length. "That Judith would probably believe I was your mutual niece. What I do not see, however, is how you can expect me—me or any other young woman—to play such a role for the indefinite future—”
"But I expect nothing of the kind,” he interposed. "You would be required to pose as Bonnie Carlisle only a few weeks, only until the end of the Season, let us say. Whatever her deficiencies, Judith is far from stupid, and she would perceive in an instant that Francis could no longer be assured of inheriting my whole estate. Though I should not leave it entirely to her to draw the proper inference; I should naturally drop the occasional remark about a possible redistribution of my wealth.” His grin was one of considerable relish.
“And then?” Bonnie pressed. “After the Season?”
“After the Season, Bonnie Carlisle would discover herself wretchedly homesick and return to Barbados. She would never be seen again, but the damage would be done. Judith and Robert would fairly tremble at the prospect of provoking me; they'd fear that the slightest annoyance might lead me to bequeath my personal fortune to my dear niece. I doubt Robert would risk saddling me with the bill for a new neckcloth, much less another phaeton.”
He glowered again, grinned again, finished his pudding, shoved the bowl aside.
“When Bonnie Carlisle returned to Barbados,” he went on, “Bonnie Gordon would join her aunt in Cheshire. Some weeks later than originally planned, but her aunt would never be the wiser, would she? That is the second factor which so conveniently simplifies our project: the circumstance that you’ve no relatives of your own to tease themselves about your absence.”
Our project, Bonnie noted; he spoke as though she had already consented to abet his scheme. Nor was he far from wrong, for she could perceive no reason to decline. If nothing else, he had offered her a brief respite—six or eight blessed weeks before she would be compelled to confront Aunt Grace. Who, as the earl had pointed out, would never learn of her escapade. She reached for her spoon, thinking to toy with her blancmange while she reviewed his proposal, and observed that Nell’s deft removal of the currant stain had revealed a hole in her sleeve.
“I fear you’ve overlooked one difficulty,” she said. “Cornelia would not send her daughter to England without an adequate wardrobe, and mine is far from that. The dress I was wearing this afternoon was ruined in the accident, and I’ve only two others—”
“But that presents no difficulty whatever!” Lord Sedge- wick interrupted brightly. “As it happens, Judith and her family are on holiday in France. They won’t reach town till late next week, and if we visit the mantua-maker tomorrow, you’ll be suitably rigged out well before then. Indeed, I am confident Mrs. Pruitt will have you ready to attend Lady Lambeth’s assembly next Tuesday.”
Lady Lambeth. An assembly. She was no longer peering wistfully through the shop window, Bonnie reflected; the door had cracked open, and she had been invited inside. There did remain one complication, one she had somehow forgotten as she pondered the earl’s proposition. She had worried, not two hours since, about the impropriety of spending a single unchaperoned night beneath his roof, and if she agreed to portray his niece, her stay would extend to upwards of a month. To say nothing of the wardrobe he had so airily promised to provide: her acceptance of such a gift would rightly be judged compromising in the extreme.
But judged by whom? a tiny voice within her whispered. Aunt Grace would never know of her scandalous conduct, the Powells would never know, and Bonnie was acquainted with no one else in London. Only she and Lord Sedgewick would know the truth of their situation, and the truth was that it was nothing more than a business arrangement.
“Have we a bargain then?”
The earl’s words were precisely those Mr. Powell had employed so many years before, and Bonnie experienced a little jolt of apprehension. Surely, she thought. Fate would not be so unkind as to propel her into a second post as disastrous as the first. No, she could not be tricked again, for what could conceivably go amiss?
“Yes, Lord Sedgewick,” she murmured aloud. “Yes. I fancy we do.”
“Excellent.” He patted his lips with his napkin and tossed the napkin on the table. “As I’ve an appointment tomorrow afternoon, I should like to go to Mrs. Pruitt’s in the morning. We shall leave at half past nine if that is agreeable to you.” “Yes, Lord Sedgewick.”
“Excellent,” he said again, rising from his chair. “I also have an engagement this evening, so I must beg to be excused. Finish your pudding like a good girl. You are, as I mentioned, rather too thin, and I shouldn't wish the world to think I am starving my poor niece. Feel free to request another bowl if you’re still hungry.”
“Yes, Lord Sedgewick.”
He strode to the archway, then turned back round. “Since you are to be my niece, you must henceforth call me Uncle David. Practice that while you eat your pudding, lest you err when we meet Mrs. Pruitt.”
“Yes, L . . . Yes, Uncle David.”
He walked on into the vestibule, and Bonnie stared in his wake, unable to quell an impression that she was dreaming after all.
3
“Miss Bonnie?” As was her wont, Nell opened the bedchamber door without knocking and bounded over the threshold. “Ah, I’m happy to see you're awake, for his lordship wishes to leave at half past nine precisely. He desired me to serve your breakfast here.”
She nodded toward the silver tray in her hands, then strode across the room, and Bonnie gritted her teeth at the agonizing prospect of rising from the bed. Had she entertained any lingering notion that she was dreaming, it would have been most rudely dispelled some ten minutes earlier, when she’d awakened and incautiously sprung to a sitting position. She had expected, per Dr. Selwin’s prediction, to be somewhat "stiff and sore”; but in the event, she felt as though she had spent the entire night on the rack. She had thus far succeeded in lowering both feet to the carpet, but how she was actually to stand and walk, she could not conceive.
"Come now,” Nell said. She had deposited the tray on top of the dressing table and was waving the linen napkin rather like a battle flag. "I daresay you’re a trifle achy this morning. but you’ll feel better if you move about. And much better when you’ve had your breakfast.”
Bonnie strongly doubted that anything short of death would ease her discomfort, but it was clear Nell would brook no
argument. Indeed, Bonnie judged it quite likely that the enormous abigail would forcibly bear her to the dressing table if she declined to go unaided, and she gritted her teeth again and drew herself gingerly up. To her unutterable relief, the pain did moderate a bit as she hobbled across the room—the white-hot bolts in her muscles and joints shrinking to mere nails—and she was able to sink into the chair with only a muffled groan.
“There, did I not tell you?�
�� Nell beamed and laid the napkin on her lap. “And look at the splendid breakfast I brought. His lordship instructed me to give you a whole pot of chocolate; he said you particularly favored chocolate. But he left the rest to me, so I added a little of everything else as well.”
Nell’s idea of “a little” would readily feed a small village, Bonnie observed: a veritable mountain of scrambled eggs, six rashers of bacon, two kidneys, a great bowl of porridge, and three muffins. “Thank you,” she murmured, “but I can’t possibly eat so much. Though I’m certain the food is excellent,” she added quickly as the abigail’s black eyes flickered with suspicion. “As was my dinner last evening. I hope you will tell your sister how greatly I appreciate her cooking. In case Lord Sedgewick neglected to relay my compliments.”
“Uncle David,” Nell corrected “He said I was to remind you should you make a mistake. Remind you that you must call him Uncle David.”
Bonnie had heretofore failed to consider the servants' role in her and the earl’s charade, but she now realized that he would have been compelled to advise the staff what they were at. To confirm what they were at, she amended: Kimball had been present throughout their conversation and had surely provided his mother and aunt a full report.
The Earl's Invention Page 4
