To Wed an Heiress

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  “Never. But I heard word of her—things I did not wish to hear. It was not two months later that she was killed.”

  “Oh my!” Lady Anglesford raised her napkin to her face.

  “Killed? By whom, sir?” asked Mr. Hastings.

  Uncle Harold cocked his head. “I don’t remember what the verdict was. Perhaps her husband? Or her sister?”

  “You don’t remember? Upon my word, that is an important detail to be forgetting!”

  Uncle Harold’s shoulders stooped a little over his plate. “I’ve forgotten my manners to have even mentioned it at dinner. There, there, dear Edith,”—he patted Lady Anglesford’s hand—“we will talk of happier things.”

  Dinner progressed quickly, and the ladies prepared to retire and leave the gentlemen to their port. Lady Anglesford exited first with Arabella close behind and Mrs. Rollo slipping out like a shadow that did not belong. Haro caught Eda’s eye just before she stepped out the door. “Your ankle looks much improved.”

  “Yes, it’s fortunate—since I’ll soon be hobbling through Bath carrying some old dowager’s smelling salts and reticule.”

  “Oh?” Haro was a little taken aback. “Did Mama find you a place so soon?”

  “Of course not, you gudgeon. But I know how it will be when she does.”

  “Eda.”

  “Yes?”

  He cleared his throat, trying to put into words exactly what he wanted to say. “Try not to judge me too harshly.”

  Hellfire! That was not what he had meant to say at all.

  She looked at him curiously. “I don’t, Haro. I never have.” And without another word, she was gone.

  15

  Five gentlemen were left with glasses and the decanter, but that number swiftly dwindled to three when Uncle Harold wandered out a side door into the cold darkness and Torin decided to take to his heels before Oxford could be mentioned once again.

  “Your uncle, he’s not…dangerous, is he?” asked the mill owner. He undid a couple buttons on his waistcoat to ease his digestion.

  “Dangerous?” Haro echoed. “How do you mean?”

  Mr. Hastings snorted. “You know these old fellows with bats in the belfry—could snap at any moment and become violent. You heard him say that he almost killed that fellow in St. Petersburg, and he the one running off with another man’s wife!”

  Haro gave a dismissive wave. “Don’t put too much stock in Uncle Harold’s tales.”

  “So, it’s not true? I’m glad of that. I was almost afraid the old dotard had killed that countess himself, the way he clammed up and said he could not remember who did it.”

  Haro bridled a little. “What are you insinuating?”

  “There, there. No offense meant, Lord Anglesford. I suppose I can stand a few skeletons in the closet as long as the closet has a coat-of-arms painted on it, eh?” He tossed down his glass of port—much more quickly than that fine old vintage deserved—and announced that he had bookkeeping to look over. “The life of a businessman, eh? Never done, never done.”

  Haro bid him a cordial goodnight and found himself alone with Bayeux. “So, you’re going up to London tomorrow?” he inquired politely.

  “Is that what she told you?”

  Yes, Haro decided, Bayeux had been drinking all afternoon. And now he was drinking again, already downing his third glass of spirits since dinner.

  “Yes, she said you had another client to visit.”

  “Well, it’s not so!” Bayeux’s speech was a little slurred. “I’m staying here until matters are sorted to my liking.” The corner of some paper—a letter?—had begun to peep out of his waistcoat pocket, and he tucked it back in violently.

  As master of the house and fiancé to the lady in question, it behooved Haro to inquire further. “What matters are those?”

  But the architect had ceased listening to him. His head was lolling back onto the side of the chair.

  Haro pursed his lips and decided to ring the bell for the footman.

  “Henry, will you see Monsieur Bayeux upstairs? He’s had a bit too much of the bottle, I believe.”

  “Right, m’lord,” said Henry, a young dark-haired fellow who looked quite dapper in the Anglesford livery.

  Bayeux came to his senses a little bit, as Henry hoisted him upright and put an arm around his waist for support.

  “Hold tight, Bayeux,” said Haro, pronouncing his words clearly so even a muddled head could understand. “Henry will help you upstairs and get you to bed.”

  “Merci.” Bayeux’s eyes cleared for a moment. “You are un bon homme, Anglesford. If circumstances were different, I could even like you, I think.”

  “Very kind of you.” Haro grinned wryly. “And don’t forget your letter.” He bent down to retrieve the folded paper that had fallen out of Bayeux’s waistcoat.

  “Mustn’t forget that, must we?” Bayeux jammed it into a clenched fist, and Haro caught sight of a flowery script filling half a page. “Lead on, Henri!” And with that, the inebriated Frenchman was bundled off to bed to sleep off his spirits.

  ***

  Haro was alone, his only occupation to sit beside the fire and wait for the ladies to return. For the sake of tradition, it ought to have been the gentlemen carousing loudly while the women talked in animated voices about embroidery, children, and the domestic arts. But it seemed that neither group was inclined to conviviality tonight.

  Haro was just beginning to enjoy the silence when it was broken by a high-pitched scream. In one swift motion, he dropped his glass on the table and bounded up from his chair.

  Torin popped his head into the room. “What the deuce is all that noise?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

  The two brothers crossed the hall together and shoved open the door of the drawing room. The diminutive Lady Anglesford was perched on the edge of her seat in shocked silence. Mrs. Rollo’s grim mouth had fallen open in a way that made her plain face even more grotesque than usual. And standing in the center of the room, like two dueling gladiators, were Eda and Arabella.

  No blood had been drawn, but the taller, more slender woman had a bright red mark across her left cheek. By all appearances, she had just been slapped, and quite vigorously, by the sturdy, black-haired daughter of the Irish captain.

  “What is happening here?” demanded Haro. He suspected that he already knew the answer to that question.

  “What is happening?” repeated Arabella, her voice pitched unnaturally high. “Your cousin has just given me the greatest insult possible by striking me in the face!”

  “Eda?” Haro’s tone was as hard as ebony.

  “The provocation justified the offense.”

  “What provocation?”

  Eda’s face was as white and gray as Jenny’s coat. She declined to answer, and Arabella was not forthcoming with what had precipitated the violence. Haro cast a glance at his mother, but she only shrugged mutely. Perhaps she had not heard the argument that preceded the slap. Haro refrained from questioning Mrs. Rollo, assuming that she would have little to offer no matter what he asked.

  Torin looked uneasily from one woman to the other. “Perhaps if you would both apologize—”

  “I will not!” said Arabella before he could get any further. “Nor will I accept any apology from Miss Swanycke other than her immediate departure from this house.”

  “I say, that’s rather harsh.” Torin swallowed, glad that Haro—and not he—had the unenviable responsibility of sorting out this situation.

  “It is not only harsh, it is unreasonable,” said Haro.

  Arabella’s eyes glittered dangerously as she heard her fiancé siding with his cousin. The color began to come back into Eda’s face, and she looked at Haro with new interest.

  “Whatever trouble has arisen between you two ladies, I would be much obliged if you would—for my sake—forget it as best you can and shake hands as friends.”

  Slowly, Eda stretched out her right arm. Haro could see her usin
g all of her willpower to keep her fingers from clenching tightly into a fist.

  But Arabella would not reciprocate. Leaving Eda’s hand hanging in midair, she slipped past Haro and Torin and paused with her fingers on the drawing room door. “I thought you would show better sense than this, Haro. I’m sure you will not like what my father has to say to you once he hears about this.”

  Haro inclined his head a little sadly. “I’m sure I shall not, but if you knew me at all, Arabella, you would know that I cannot do otherwise than I have done. Good night, my dear.”

  That last phrase was said sweetly, a white flag Haro had run up in the thick of the melee. Arabella, however, ignored it as surely as she had Eda’s hand and disappeared into the corridor without another word to be said.

  ***

  “Who does she think she is?” exclaimed Torin, staring scornfully after Arabella. “The Prince Regent’s daughter?”

  “Enough!” Haro quelled him with a word.

  The whole family felt the need to frankly discuss this turn of affairs, but the alien presence of Mrs. Rollo constricted their ability to converse. “Perhaps you should see to Miss Hastings,” said Lady Anglesford, giving the dour-faced companion a gentle hint that her presence was no longer wanted. Mrs. Rollo complied with a grunt, and the room lightened like a spring landscape with a break in the rainclouds.

  “I am sorry, Haro,” said Eda. “Truly, I am.” Her penitence was unfeigned. She was still angry enough to drag Arabella to the floor by the hair, but the full impact of what that slap had done to Haro had hit her across the face as soon as he entered. She had wanted, over the last few days, to cause a rift between Haro and Arabella, but now that she had done so, she feared the pain that it would cause him. She stared at him anxiously. Would he hate her for this?

  “You are forgiven,” said Haro easily. He grinned. “At least a slap doesn’t leave any scars.”

  His own sideburns hid the evidence of the scratch marks she had given him years ago when he had teased her mercilessly in the nursery.

  “No.” Eda smiled wanly. “I think the scars from this encounter might be meted out elsewhere.”

  “William Hastings is going to ring you a fine peal!” Torin whistled. “Good Lord, perhaps I should slip away to Oxford and take Eda with me.”

  “Eda’s not going anywhere.” Haro’s feet were planted firmly on the ground, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “I’m not?” Eda looked up at him with surprise. Her usual shell of cynicism cracked a little, letting her vulnerability show in her dark blue eyes.

  “Certainly not. Woldwick is your home, the same as it is mine.”

  “But, Arabel—”

  “Is for me to worry about, not you.”

  “But—”

  “Just sit down and do some embroidery, or whatever it is you do.”

  “Very well.” Eda walked over to the window seat and retrieved her sketchbook. She pulled out the torn pieces of a sketch she had started—and destroyed—back when they were in London. Piecing them together, she smiled to see Haro’s face staring back at her. Then, she pulled out her pencils and set to work on a new sketch. It was the earl again but this time with a firmness in his jaw and a command in his eye that she had never noticed before. It was true what she had said—a woman did like a man with some backbone beneath his coat from Weston’s.

  “Good night, Mama,” said Haro, bestowing a kiss on Lady Anglesford’s cheek. “Good night, Torin.” He gave his brother a nod. Then, he strode out of the drawing room with all the solemnity of ascending the Mount of Olives.

  “What does he mean to do?” asked Torin, a little awestruck.

  “That I can’t tell you,” said Lady Anglesford, “but I’m certain that, whatever it is, we shall all be immensely proud of him.”

  16

  Haro sat quietly in the Chinese-patterned dressing gown that had been kindly returned to his room once its usefulness was over. He might only be imagining it, but he liked to think it smelled a little like roses and lavender—a little like Eda. Patiently, he waited until his valet had brushed off his coat, hung it in the wardrobe, and gathered up the crumpled pile of shirt, cravat, breeches, and stockings. “Can I ask a piece of advice, Garth?”

  The valet’s eyebrows shot up at this unusual question. “Certainly, m’lord.”

  Haro had had ample time to think out his phrasing. “Would you gamble on the probability of wealth and moderate happiness, or hold out for the certainty of financial ruin and the possibility—however slim—of earthly bliss?”

  Garth was taken aback. “I couldn’t say, m’lord, although”—he hesitated—“it was your father that was the gambling man, not you.”

  “Yes, but I’ve found that we’ve all got to stake our wager on something in this life, and I’m wondering if, perhaps, I’ve staked mine on the wrong horse.”

  “Ah, I see. You refer to Miss Hastings and Miss Swanycke.”

  “Exactly. And tonight the situation has been further complicated by Miss Swanycke—”

  “Giving Miss Hastings a basting she’s not likely to forget.”

  Haro looked at his valet in surprise.

  “Sorry, m’lord, but the scullery maid was there tending to the fire when it happened, and they can’t talk of anything else below stairs.”

  “Hmm. What else are they saying below stairs?”

  “That Miss Hastings as good as had it coming, and there isn’t one of them but wouldn’t have liked to have done it himself.” Garth pursed his lips. “But perhaps I oughtn’t t’say anything, m’lord.”

  “No, no, go on.” Haro leaned forward with interest. “I was not aware that my betrothed was so universally despised below stairs.”

  Garth flushed. “Beg pardon, m’lord—”

  “No apologies. Just tell me the truth, man. What do they say about her and why?”

  “I’m not one to carry servants’ tales, m’lord, but Mrs. Alfred’s been keeping company with Mrs. Rollo, and she says her mistress is a proper devil to the hired staff. Her abigail’s the only one she treats fair and fine. But when the mistress comes off cross, woe to groom, or cook, or scullery maid who ventures in her path.”

  “Has she abused any of the servants at Woldwick?”

  “She’s laid no hand on them, m’lord, though she gave Jane, the scullery maid, such a tongue lashing that the girl cried all through her pinafore.”

  “Did Jane do some wrong?”

  “She dropped a log when she went to lay the morning fire, and woke Miss Hastings from her sleep.” Garth grimaced. “And Mr. Hastings ain’t no better, m’lord. I’ve had him tell me a thing or two when I brushed up too close to him in the corridor after leaving your room.”

  Haro put the tips of his fingers together, tapping them thoughtfully. “So to return to the subject of wagers, it seems you’re agreeing with me that I might have staked the wrong horse.”

  “I wasn’t of that mind at first, but ’pon reflection, it seems that way, m’lord.”

  “But, of course, once you’ve laid the bet, there’s hell to pay if you don’t come up to scratch. And besides the breach of promise, there’s the original problem to consider. I’d have to sell Woldwick, you know. And would the staff really prefer being turned out of doors to enduring a hardnosed mistress?”

  Garth finished folding Haro’s cast off clothing and, seizing his boots to take them downstairs for a good polishing, paused a second at the door. “It’s not my place, m’lord, but if it were, I would say worry less about the staff’s likes, and more about what you would prefer. Good night, m’lord.”

  ***

  The following morning, Haro requested an audience with William Hastings. The portly mill owner, as it turned out, would have requested a meeting on his own if Haro had not broached the subject first. “I can only assume this is about that black-haired hussy. God’s blood! How dare she lift a finger to my Arabella! First that jade’s trick with the horse, and now this. And what I want to know is what you intend to do
about it!”

  “Yes, that is the question, isn’t it?” Haro had seated himself in one of the wingbacked chairs by the fire in the library while Mr. Hastings paced the room in a fury. “I strongly suspect Miss Swanycke was provoked in the matter.”

  “Provoked? You mean by Arabella?”

  “Yes, although neither lady will admit what words passed between them.”

  “Hell and tarnation, Anglesford! Do you actually mean to make excuses for your cousin’s vicious attack on my daughter?”

  “No, simply to understand it.”

  “What is there to understand? The vixen is a menace and must go. Arabella told you as much last night.”

  Haro stood up. “Yes, but here’s the rub, Hastings. I don’t like being dictated to in my own house. And Eda, for all her faults, is my cousin and under my mother’s care.” He crossed his arms. “She’ll not be leaving.”

  William Hastings sputtered, astounded that the young earl was actually daring to stand up to him. “Well, if she won’t be leaving, then we shall. And you know what that means, Anglesford—you can say farewell to your precious Woldwick. I won’t be handing over my blunt to a bullheaded man who won’t listen to the advice of his future father-in-law.”

  “And I won’t be handing over my title to a woman who bullies my servants, distresses my mother, and orders me about like a schoolboy.”

  Hastings stopped pacing, his face nearly apoplectic with rage. “You mean to break off the engagement? I’m warning you, Anglesford, I’ll take you to court over it. And whatever pittance you have left to your name after your father’s foolishness will disappear into my pocket. You’ll be ruined.”

  “Perhaps.” Haro was inflexible. “But better an honorable poverty than a dishonorable alliance. Arabella is not—”

  “Why? What have you heard?” Mr. Hastings’ eyes were instantly wary.

  “—the wife for me. She knows how to please a man well enough when she wants to, but all of her best qualities are on the surface, and underneath, there’s more petulance and ill-temper than I’d care to wake up next to every morning.”