When a Lord Needs a Lady

by Jane Goodger

  It was after one long silence on the train when Mr. Wright asked—or rather demanded, “How did you meet my daughter.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “We have time.”

  And so, leaving out only the details about how he’d kissed Katherine and was actually considering asking her to be his mistress, he told him their story. Every time Mr. Wright’s brows snapped together, Graham braced himself for a massive blow, but it never came.

  “You mean to say to me you asked a young girl to meet you at midnight?”

  The way Mr. Wright said it sounded so sordid. Graham supposed it was. He hadn’t been in his right mind. If one were to write down the facts, they would be quite damning. Everything he’d done, every action he’d taken was improper—on both their parts. He knew why he’d carried on so; he’d been completely enchanted by her. But why had she met him?

  “Yes sir, I did. I know it was wrong.”

  “And she did? She met you?”

  “Yes sir. At the time we blamed it on the sea air. But in hindsight I think it was because we were both anonymous. It was very much like going to a masquerade where your identity is completely concealed. I’ve noticed that people do things at a masquerade that they would never do in their normal life.”

  Mr. Wright scowled at him. “I cannot imagine Katherine doing such a thing. And where was her mother?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir,” Graham said, his eyes shifting away.

  “This entire debacle is maddening. My daughter, who’s never done anything more rebellious than wear a red scarf when she should wear brown, would not do the things you say she did. But she obviously did do them—and with a man she thought to be a valet. When did she realize who you were?”

  “It must have been two weeks later that we met at a house party. We immediately recognized one another—and immediately realized we’d both been untruthful. It was at this same house party that my engagement to Miss Von Haupt was announced.”

  “And you took up with Katherine again?” Mr. Wright said.

  “We were at the same house party. It was inevitable that we should see one another. I . . .”

  “You what?” the older man spat.

  “I thought I’d never see her again after Brighton. In my mind, she was a maid and completely unacceptable.”

  “My daughter,” Mr. Wright said with steel in his voice, “is the most acceptable girl you’ll ever meet. Don’t you ever forget that, you pompous prig.”

  Graham was stunned. But he took the epithet like the earlier blow, figuring he deserved it. And to Katherine’s father, he probably did sound like a pompous prig. He did wonder how many blows he’d be able to take before he struck back.

  It was worse than she’d thought. If Katherine had been born in 1790 instead of 1852, Avonleigh, despite the lack of furniture, would have been charming and quite up-to-date. In fact, based on English standards, it was rather modern, architecturally speaking. She didn’t mind the lack of a designated water closet; there were still many homes in England that did not have them. But she did mind that she needed to carry a candle or lamp about in the evening, and reading by the fire became just that—reading by the flicking light of the one fire burning in the house in the library.

  Four rooms were furnished, if one could call them furnished. The library seemed to be the only room in the house that hadn’t been completely stripped. Two bedrooms—what Katherine presumed to be Graham’s and one other adjoining room—were furnished sans paintings and carpeting. A third bedroom had hastily been put together by the home’s skeleton staff—or rather the staff ’s children who still lived in the area. These “children” were men and women in their sixties, who still had quite a time bringing the bed from the attic where it had been stored. A large wardrobe dominated her room, a piece of furniture so huge and so heavy, Katherine had no doubt why it remained in the room. Katherine took the smaller bedroom and gave the other one adjoining the master suite to her mother. With her father on the way, another room would have to be prepared, but the poor movers were so done in by their task, she didn’t have the heart to tell them a fourth room needed to be set up.

  If it broke Katherine’s heart to see this beautiful home stripped nearly bare, she could only wonder what Graham thought about it. It was clear he had cannibalized every bit of what he owned to pay bills. How awful it must have been to watch his things disappear one by one.

  Unlike Bryant Park, the ballroom in Avonleigh was stunning. She was half-tempted to scrape all the gilt paint from the walls to help Graham restore the rest of the home. Three magnificent chandeliers hung from a high sky-blue ceiling, trailing dust from their crystal chains, pendaloques, and intricate scrollwork. A large fireplace, of pink Italian marble, dominated one end of the ballroom, its ornately carved mantel a work of art. Certainly at one time this family had had a huge amount of money. Where had it all gone?

  Katherine, staring up at the strings of dust blowing in some unfelt breeze, heard a scuffling sound behind her and turned. “Hello, Mr. Chase. I was just admiring the ballroom. It certainly is grand.”

  “It is that, miss.”

  “I imagine it makes you sad to see the home like this. It makes me sad and I have no history here.”

  “It may not be the largest home in England, but it is certainly one of the prettiest,” Mr. Chase said, surprising her. Up until that moment, his responses to her queries had been taciturn and painfully concise.

  “I wish I could have seen her in her glory,” she said with a wistful smile.

  “It was the tin, miss.”

  “Tin?”

  “Northumberland used to be a large producer of tin and the old lord invested heavily in it. That and copper.”

  “What happened?”

  “They found large deposits of tin in the Malayan rivers. They were scooping it up from the riverbanks, getting more tin in a day than the mines here could get in a month. Prices dropped. Income dropped. And then very much the same happened to copper.”

  Katherine took in the gilt painting, the beautiful marble flooring, and understood then how fragile it all was. One discovery and all was lost.

  “Then it wasn’t neglect. It was chance. That makes it so much worse, somehow,” she said. She suddenly imagined what it would have been like to discover everything you had was on the brink of disaster. It would have been devastating. How would a man react to the news that he was about to lose everything he possessed, that the legacy generations had built, was teetering on the edge? “Mr. Chase, when did all that happen, the discovery of the tin and copper?”

  He stiffened just slightly. “I believe it was about ten years ago, miss. Just after the old lord had passed. It was a difficult time for his lordship.”

  So, not only did Graham have to deal with his father’s suicide, he was left to watch his world crumble around him. “How awful,” she said. “And right after his father . . .”

  “After his father died, yes,” Mr. Chase said, his voice gone cold once more. But Katherine realized this was only to mask his pain.

  “I know how his father died, Mr. Chase,” she said softly. “And I am so sorry for both of you.”

  Mr. Chase looked both horrified and shocked. “He told . . . I see.”

  “It must have been a terrible time.”

  Mr. Chase nodded, his eyes filled with raw pain. In a matter of moments, he composed himself completely, as if the discussion had never taken place. “I do apologize, Miss Wright. I came in search of you for Mrs. Alcourt. She would like to discuss dinner with you.”

  “Is Mrs. Alcourt also the cook?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  His words were spoken without inflection, but Katherine was certain she detected just the slightest sparkle of humor in his eyes, so she smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Chase, for the warning.”

  “She is waiting in the library.”

  Of course she was. Where else in this house could she be waiting?

  Chapter 15


  The sense of relief Graham felt when the coach finally pulled up in front of Avonleigh was akin to that of a man being told he was not going to die in the gallows this day—or any day. He wasn’t certain he could take another minute of Mr. Wright glaring at him, examining him, interrogating him. He had the distinct feeling the man found him wanting in nearly every category, likely because Graham refused to make excuses for the facts. Yes, he was broke. Yes, he’d made a horrible decision to put all his money with a single investor. Yes, he’d compromised the man’s daughter by agreeing to meet with her privately. Yes, he’d lied to Katherine when they’d first met and met her time and time again secretly. He had no defense. He was guilty—and the man knew it.

  But knowing he was at least partially to blame did nothing to ease the pain in his heart that Katherine had planned all along to trap him. Well, he thought, looking up at Avonleigh’s shabby exterior and knowing it was far, far worse inside, Graham hoped she enjoyed what her actions had wrought.

  “So,” Mr. Wright said, looking around him at the rutted drive, the paint peeling on the door, the overgrown garden, “this is where my daughter is to live.”

  “Yes sir.”

  They’d passed through the small village that desperately needed an influx of cash, and it seemed as if Mr. Wright’s eyes missed nothing—the silent textile mill (the water wheel was in disrepair), the men who should be working sitting outside empty shops, the land that was uncultivated. This was sheep country, and many of the farms were dedicated to raising sheep wool or meat. But without a working mill or slaughterhouse, it was too expensive for many of the farmers to make a good living. Outside mills charged too much, and shipping the raw materials ate into their profits.

  By the time they reached Avonleigh, Mr. Wright had a very good idea of the enormity of the problems facing the estate, Graham had no doubt.

  Graham stepped from the coach, breathing in the sweet Northumberland air, grateful to finally have Mr. Wright’s attention drawn away from him. In his breast pocket, he held the special license, which he hoped to utilize the very next day. He wanted this over. He wanted the Wrights gone. He needed to meet with his solicitor and reexamine what he was to do, what he could do to create some sort of cash flow. Getting the mill operational was his first priority, but the repairs would have to be done on credit. Negotiating such a project with carpenters who knew he had no money would not be an easy feat. Already he’d had some work done on the promise that he was marrying an heiress. When word got out that the heiress had disappeared, it would be near impossible to get any more work or materials on credit.

  Still, with all his worries, it was good to be home, good to look out and see the rolling green hills of Northumberland. The door opened a crack, revealing Mr. Stanfield, looking out, clouded brown eyes squinting to determine who was in the courtyard. Graham had to smile at the absurdity that the old gent was still the butler—as he had been for more than fifty years. He’d started his tenure as butler when Graham’s grandfather was still marquess.

  “Ah, Mr. Stanfield, good to see you. Where are our guests?”

  “Guests, sir?” he asked in his frail voice. “We’ve no guests.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sakes, Mr. Stanfield, we do have guests.”

  “Mrs. Alcourt. This is Mr. Wright. I do hope you can escort him to Mrs. and Miss Wright. No doubt they are in the library.”

  Mrs. Alcourt’s eyes widened. “Mrs. Wright is indeed in the library. But Miss Wright is out and about somewhere with Mr. Chase.”

  “Out and about?”

  “Who is Mr. Chase?” Bartholomew boomed.

  “My valet,” Graham explained calmly, though why on earth Mr. Chase should be escorting Katherine anywhere was a bit of a mystery.

  “She seems to be drawn to the company of valets,” her father said darkly.

  “I believe they are visiting the poorhouse today,” Mrs. Alcourt said.

  “I see.” He found it a bit odd that Mr. Chase had agreed to take Katherine to the poorhouse. Perhaps Katherine had browbeaten him into it, though he found that even more unlikely.

  Avonleigh’s poorhouse was not nearly as crowded as some, and Graham had ensured it was run fairly and properly. When he’d first inherited his title, one of his first actions was to petition the government to have the house’s warden fired. He’d personally hired the current warden, who was dedicated to the cause of improving the life of the poor. But, like everything in Avonleigh, the home needed physical improvements. Though the government paid to run the home, it had always relied on extra attention from Avonleigh, which he had continued to provide even when his own finances were thin. Each child celebrated a birthday. Each Christmas the residents would have gifts. They worked just ten hours a day as compared to their London counterparts, who worked thirteen. He was only able to get away with such leniency because Avonleigh was so very far from London and rarely attracted the attention of the inspectors from the Local Government Board who oversaw the poorhouses. The local poorhouse committee, of which he was chairman, had been criticized in the past for its “lenient and harmful policies” of allowing workers to toil fewer hours than was standard, but Graham simply could not stomach forcing children and the elderly to work from dawn to dusk.

  The news that his daughter was visiting a poorhouse alarmed Mr. Wright, who had no doubt read Oliver Twist—as so many people had. But the Avonleigh House for the Poor was nothing like that depicted by Charles Dickens—though many in England were still as bad or worse.

  “Our poorhouse is well-run and quite unlike what you may have heard about workhouses here,” he assured Mr. Wright as they walked inside. “Katherine has nothing to fear, and she is in good hands with Mr. Chase, who has often visited the home and is well-known there.”

  Bartholomew stopped dead in the entrance. “Have you been robbed?” he asked.

  “No sir,” Graham said, only slightly amused by what he assumed was a joke.

  Bartholomew proceeded down the hall, stopping to open every few doors, before finally saying, “Is there any room in this house that is furnished?”

  “The library. And my bedroom. I do hope the servants were able to scrounge up enough furniture in the attic to create sleeping quarters for your wife and daughter.”

  “I hope you know this is not acceptable,” Bartholomew said, turning fully toward him, and Graham had to stop himself from taking a step back.

  “I agree.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “I had planned to marry a great heiress, but those plans went awry,” Graham said pointedly. He was sick to death of taking all the blame for what had transpired. Yes, he’d been foolish to get caught, but he was not the one who’d set the trap. If his daughter had to live with a bit of inconvenience, Graham figured that was just punishment for what she’d done.

  The older man glared at him and Graham glared right back. “Your daughter . . .” Graham stopped, shaking his head. It was not gentlemanly at all to blame the woman—even if the blame was hers.

  “My daughter what . . . Do go on.”

  “Your daughter will adjust,” Graham said finally, deciding Mr. Wright would certainly give him another blow if he said what he’d meant to: “Your daughter is to blame.”

  Mr. Wright thrust out his jaw and let out a sharp breath through his nostrils, reminding Graham of an angry bull. Graham gave the man a level look, then held out his arm, indicating Mr. Wright should proceed down the hall to the library.

  When they reached the room, Graham watched with interest how husband and wife greeted one another, and was surprised by the warmth the couple displayed toward each other.

  “I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth gushed. “This is all my fault. You have no idea how wretched I feel.” Elizabeth threw herself tearfully into her husband’s arms.

  Graham looked on, slightly annoyed that the two of them were carrying on so. It wasn’t as if their daughter was marrying an ogre and about to be held in a tower room. She was marrying a good
man with a lofty title whose only flaw was an empty bank account.

  “How is she holding up?” Bartholomew asked, much to Graham’s dismay. How was she holding up? She had everything she wanted. Oh, perhaps the condition of Avonleigh had been a bit of an unpleasant surprise, but the girl couldn’t be that shocked, considering she knew he needed to marry Miss Von Haupt for her vast fortune.

  “As well as can be expected,” Mrs. Wright said, looking over to Graham. “Lord Avonleigh, I apologize for my tears, but this has been upsetting. I do hope you understand.”

  Actually, he did not. “Of course,” he said tightly. The woman was a consummate actress. He had no doubt where Katherine had gained her skills.

  A sound at the door drew all their attention, and Graham’s heart pounded painfully when he saw Katherine standing at the library entrance, a wide smile on her face. She looked even more beautiful than he remembered, her eyes shining brightly, her hair upswept with tendrils curling about her neck. Graham took a step back from her and looked away until she ran across the room and threw herself into her father’s arms. Graham couldn’t stop himself from wishing she had thrown herself into his arms—even as he realized how foolish that thought was.

  “It’s so good to see you,” she told her father, and Graham watched as she was swallowed up in the man’s embrace. Bartholomew looked directly at him over his daughter’s shoulder and Graham schooled his features to remain completely impassive. After the embrace, Bartholomew pushed his daughter gently away and, holding her by her upper arms, said, “You don’t have to do this thing. You can come home.”

  “For God’s sake,” Graham muttered. They should be celebrating their coup, not acting as if someone had just died.

  Katherine looked at Graham and gave him a shy smile, which he could not bring himself to return. Her smile slowly faded, replaced by confusion, before she looked back to her father. “Mrs. Von Haupt was there, Father. I cannot go home to the gossip she will no doubt spread if I do. You know how she is.”