Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two

by Mary Lancaster

  “You’re right,” she said. “I don’t believe them. I’ll send for our solicitor.”

  “Good idea.” He smiled and suddenly all attention was only on her. It was almost giddying. “You can tell me how it goes on our expedition of pleasure tomorrow.”

  “You’re going to the abbey, too?”

  “Yes, but you shan’t need a dragon. We’ll be fiercely chaperoned by Lady Frances and Lady Crowmore.”

  Gillie’s heart gave an unpleasant little jolt, but she merely smiled, gave a slight curtsey, and passed on her way.

  *

  The morning proved to be showery. Gillie half hoped and half feared for the expedition to be put off. Somehow, the presence of Lady Crowmore spoiled the pleasure for her, which was ridiculous when she’d never even met the woman. A man of Wickenden’s nature was bound to have a past. She didn’t care about it. Much. But if she was totally honest with herself, she feared it wasn’t past at all. She’d caught glimpses of Lady Crowmore watching him, and although Gillie was not greatly experienced in matters of love, she very much doubted they were the looks of a mere friend.

  She didn’t even know why it mattered. Wickenden was merely passing the time with Gillie, no doubt enjoying the game of discreet flirting along with the danger of secret, passionate kisses. There would never be any more for her, and she knew it would hurt her when he left Blackhaven.

  In the meantime, she had more important things to worry about. Bernard and Aunt Margaret were, naturally, both flabbergasted when she told them about the visit of Captain Muir’s supposed widow. They agreed with her that it was impossible, and both were with her when Mr. Worthing turned up, closely followed by a Mr. Featherstone, Lord Braithwaite’s man of business from London.

  “His lordship asked me to call and help in any way I can,” Mr, Featherstone explained, with a quick glance at Mr. Worthing. “I have no wish to step on your toes, sir, but I have come across such cases before.”

  Mr. Worthing, with no sign of professional jealousy, welcomed a second pair of experienced eyes, and Gillie proposed they meet the imposters in the dining room, where they could sit around a table and keep things businesslike.

  “Mrs. Muir” and her cousin were announced promptly at eleven o’clock. Although Isabella was still rigid with disapproval that bordered on contempt, Gillie politely introduced her aunt and brother, neither of whom offered to shake hands, and the solicitors. Then she sent for tea and invited everyone to sit around the dining room table.

  Isabella spoke first, directing a torrent of stiff Spanish at Bernard, who looked totally blank.

  M. de Garnache hastily translated. “My cousin proposes to come immediately to the point,” he said, extracting a sheaf of papers from his leather satchel and setting them in front of Isabella. She pushed them across the table to Bernard. “The marriage license,” M. de Garnache explained. “And the certificate of the marriage between your father and Madame Muir. Also a copy of his will in which he names Madame Muir as his heir to this house and all his possessions, including his income from Blackfield Farm, for her lifetime, after which everything will pass to his eldest son, Bernard.”

  Gillie was unpleasantly surprised by the documents, but she reminded herself that they could easily be forgeries. She hoped so, for all things being equal, Bernard couldn’t hope to inherit for the next twenty or thirty years at least.

  Bernard rifled through the documents, frowning, before passing them to Mr. Worthing without a word.

  The Spanish woman spoke again, with an unmistakable curl to her lip. She still sounded angry.

  “Madame Muir wishes to express her outrage at your disrespect for her husband,” M. de Garnache said smoothly. “To be holding parties within a year of his death is shocking enough, but to have turned his home into a gaming hell is beyond what she is prepared to tolerate. She therefore insists that you vacate this house within the week, after which time, she will remain in sole possession until her death.”

  Bernard released an exclamation only half under his breath. Gillie, flushed with anger, caught Isabella’s hard gaze and laughed in her face. “In your dreams,” she said deliberately. “And only there.”

  Unexpectedly, there was a flash of something very like surprise in Isabella’s eyes, which had widened at Gillie’s retort. It might have been reaction to the tone of her voice, but Gillie didn’t think so. She thought Isabella understood far more English than she was letting on. She was just letting her “cousin” do the dirty work.

  Mr. Worthing looked up over the documents and regarded Isabella over his spectacles. “Firstly, Madame, you have no say, legal or otherwise, in how my clients conduct their lives. Secondly, there is no question of you gaining admittance to this house in anything like a week. All these documents must be verified, and considering the distances involved and the state of war which exists in Europe, this will not happen within a month.” He tidied the papers and passed them to Mr. Featherstone. “In the circumstances, I would advise you to make whatever alternative living arrangements you wish. You may leave your address with my office and we shall contact you as soon as our business is complete.”

  From Isabella’s stunned expression, Gillie was sure she caught the gist of that. Nevertheless, she waited until M. de Garnache had translated the whole before she rose to her feet. Two angry red spots of color had appeared on her cheeks.

  Mr. Worthing rose and bowed. “Good day, Madame. Monsieur.”

  Bernard and Mr. Featherstone also rose politely. M. de Garnache stumbled slightly as he stood. Gillie remained exactly where she was, watching Isabella as impassively as she knew how. Inside, she was hugging the unexpectedly redoubtable Mr. Worthing and cheering like a hoyden.

  “This is a disgrace!” M. de Garnache blustered. “The good captain would turn in his grave to see his poor pregnant wife treated in such a way!”

  “Then it is a pity,” Mr. Featherstone observed, walking across to open the dining room door, “that the good captain did not see fit to tell his family or anyone else about his marriage. The problem would not then exist.”

  Isabella swept out of the room without a word. Her “cousin” hesitated, as though he wished to stay and fight the issue, but the sight of Bernard and Mr. Worthing advancing to stand with Mr. Featherstone, clearly decided him against it. He merely flared his nostrils and stalked from the room.

  Mr. Featherstone closed the door. Bernard grinned, wringing the hands of both solicitors. “Excellently well done, gentlemen!” he enthused. “I applaud you!”

  “You were magnificent,” Gillie agreed, leaping up at last with sheer relief. “The insolence of that woman! Under no possibilities could my father ever have married such a creature!”

  A quick glance out of the window showed her Isabella walking out of the gate, one arm protectively over her belly. She really was with child, Gillie thought uneasily. That part, at least, was true.

  “And that slimy Frenchman,” Bernard said, “daring to tell us what my father might have wished or thought! I’ll tell you this much, he’d never have allowed anyone to turn us out of our home and if that woman believes otherwise, she never even met my father.”

  “That may all be true,” Mr. Worthing said heavily. “On the other hand, I have to tell that at first glance, the documents seem genuine.”

  Gillie jerked back round to face them. “What? Even the will?”

  “Especially the will,” Mr. Worthing said. “The signature looks very much like your father’s. Which doesn’t mean it is his, of course. It could just mean our friends did some very good research.”

  “The other documents look genuine too,” Mr. Featherstone admitted, “but you cannot be ejected from your home until they are proven without doubt. Mr. Worthing has given you time, but not necessarily any more than that.”

  Bernard and Gillie both sank back into their chairs.

  “Truly?” Gillie said. “You actually think their claims are true?”

  “On the whole, no,” Mr. Worthing said with a
quick glance at his colleague. “But it is as well to be prepared for the worst. We shall begin investigations immediately.”

  “Kit!” Gillie said suddenly. “Kit Grantham was in Spain at the same time as my father! He would have known if my father had got married, and he is here in Blackhaven.”

  “An excellent place to start,” Mr. Worthing approved. “Mr. Featherstone and I shall set in motion the dull, legal investigation while you speak to your friends.” He took Gillie’s hand and pressed it. “Keep your spirits up, my dear. We shall sort this out.”

  *

  There was little time to prepare for the abbey expedition. Quite deliberately, Gillie had left off the grey mourning dress for the meeting with her supposed stepmother, and instead worn a colorful printed calico gown. Aunt Margaret, who seemed to pay more attention to what she wore these days, approved it as just the thing for a spring expedition of pleasure, being bright and pretty and not too fine a material for the March winds liable to spring up.

  Unfortunately, she had to wear it with her everyday pelisse and her best bonnet which, at least, vaguely matched the gown in color.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she wore the black kid gloves rather than the lighter pair.

  She allowed herself only one glance in the mirror, for she’d never cared hugely for her appearance and was well aware she could never compete in dress with the Conway ladies and their wealthy guests. With a quick shrug, she left the bedchamber, calling for Bernard to hurry, for the carriage was waiting.

  Bernard, of course, with the possibility of seeing his divine Catherine again, would not have missed the expedition for the world.

  In fact, several carriages stood in a line from their front gate, all but blocking the street. Lady Serena waved from the first one, beckoning, and a footman stood by to open the door.

  “Don’t you feel like a princess?” Bernard murmured sardonically in Gillie’s ear.

  “Don’t you?” she retorted and climbed into the carriage.

  “We’ve room for both of you,” Serena said gaily.

  It was something of a shock to discover that the carriage’s other occupant was none other than Lady Crowmore. Bernard, obviously, was delighted, although the lady herself looked bored. If she noticed his effusions, they amused her.

  “So what happened this morning?” Serena demanded as the carriage bowled along the road through the town. “Did you send the insolent woman packing?”

  “For now,” Gillie said ruefully, “at least until her claims can be proven.”

  “I must say it doesn’t sound very like Captain Muir to have done such a thing,” Serena allowed.

  “Men behave differently in war,” Lady Crowmore pronounced. “But I can see why you would want to keep your darling little house. Is it truly run as a gaming house?”

  “Why, would you like an invitation?” Gillie said before she could bite her tongue.

  “I might,” Lady Crowmore said, without apparent offence. “Like you, my dear, I don’t always care to do the expected.”

  “They’re just card parties,” Bernard said anxiously. “There’s no reason in the world why you shouldn’t attend.”

  Except, of course, that Lady Braithwaite might eject her from the castle. Since that would not, on the whole, have upset Gillie, she kept her mouth shut.

  “Do you have a roulette wheel?” Lady Crowmore inquired.

  “Of course not,” Gillie retorted.

  “Maybe you should purchase one. They’re very popular, I believe. And the house always wins.”

  “How long are you staying at Braithwaite Castle?” Gillie asked pleasantly.

  Lady Crowmore laughed. “I believe most of us depart on Monday, giving her ladyship time to set things to right without her troublesome guests before she herself leaves for London the day after.”

  “It will seem quiet in Blackhaven,” Gillie observed, her words mechanical as she realized how dull, how empty, her world would be again without Lord Wickenden’s disturbing presence.

  Lady Crowmore regarded her thoughtfully, as though looking for the barb in her remark. “It seems quiet in Blackhaven now.”

  “We brought easels and watercolors and things,” Serena broke in hastily, “for those who wish to paint. Frances and Lady Crowmore have set up a competition among some of the ladies, and the gentlemen are to judge.”

  “Do you paint, Miss Muir?” Lady Crowmore inquired lazily.

  “I daub,” Gillie replied. “But no one older than seven is likely to recognize what it is.”

  Lady Crowmore actually smiled, a flicker of interest, perhaps even liking in her languid eyes. “Are you being modest or truthful?”

  “Truthful,” Bernard said with cheerful brotherly contempt.

  “I enjoy it,” Gillie confessed, “but I’m more known for enthusiasm than talent. I look forward to seeing your work, though.”

  “Oh I never work at it,” Lady Crowmore said with a yawn. “I never work at anything.”

  “I expect you never need to,” Bernard said.

  “Of course I don’t. I’ve never needed to do anything.”

  There didn’t seem much to say to that, though it struck Gillie for the first time that Lady Crowmore was an unhappy person. It made her more interesting to Gillie. And presumably to Lord Wickenden…although perhaps he was the route of her sorrow?

  “We are quite a cavalcade,” Gillie observed to Serena as they left the town behind at last. “Have you brought all your guests?”

  “Lord, no. One carriage is full of food and furniture! It’s largely the younger people. Catherine Winslow is with us, too, and the vicar’s wife for ultimate propriety. Braithwaite and Lord Wickenden are riding…”

  Gillie missed the rest of the list through relief at discovering Wickenden’s presence. It wasn’t just that she wanted to tell him about the morning’s meeting and discuss the traitor problem. His presence seemed to have become necessary to her comfort – which was bizarre when he was so far from being a comfortable presence. Perhaps it was his excitement that she craved, a sop to the boredom of mourning and interminable card parties.

  The picturesque ruins of Blackhaven Abbey stood on the top of a hill which stretched out into a large wood. It overlooked the rocky cliffs and the sea on one side and the rolling hills and farms on another. The abbey itself consisted now only of a few ruined walls in picturesque shapes, a fine arched window, a dramatic pillar stretching up toward the clouds, and a few large, fallen stones which Gillie had used to sit on to stare dreamily out to sea and imagine the wonder of the world beyond Blackhaven.

  How odd, when her every concern now was to stay in Blackhaven… Or was it? In their present circumstances, there was simply nowhere else for Bernard and her to go. The tiny rental income from Black Farm was all they had since their father’s death, apart from what they earned through the card parties. And the card parties would only work here among friends. If they really had to leave the house to Isabella, Gillie had no idea what they would do.

  She and Bernard would both have to earn livings. Perhaps she could become governess to a travelling family and see the world.

  “Gillie!” Lady Frances caught her almost as soon as she stepped out of the carriage. “What is this I hear about an unknown wicked stepmother?”

  Gillie murmured a condensed version of recent events as she didn’t particularly want to discuss it in front of everyone. Besides which, she’d just caught sight of Lord Wickenden with Lord Braithwaite and one of the other guests from the castle riding out of the woods on horseback. They’d clearly got here well ahead of the carriages and spent the time exploring.

  For a time, everyone wandered around the ruins, and the ladies began to pick out which views they wished to paint. Gillie, who had too many other things on her mind to concentrate, picked an old favored spot from childhood. She could sit on a stone and gaze through the tumbled-down arch to the sea. One of the castle footmen came and placed an easel for her, offered her a folding chair, which she rejected w
ith thanks.

  Lady Frances, since she was organizing the event, rushed up to deliver some paper and brushes, and called to the footman to bring a cup of water. “Good luck,” she murmured to Gillie.

  “I would need more than luck,” Gillie observed. “Much more – as you know!”

  Frances laughed and skipped off toward Miss Winslow. “I wish you it anyway!”

  “May I join you?”

  Gillie turned quickly toward the speaker and discovered Lady Crowmore already instructing the footman to set up her chair and easel only a couple of feet from Gillie’s place.

  “Of course,” she said civilly.

  “Trust a native to find the best view,” Lady Crowmore remarked as she settled herself in the chair and pinned a piece of paper to her easel.

  “I don’t think there’s a poor one,” Gillie said lightly.

  If there was someone she could have chosen not to sit beside, it would have been Lady Crowmore. However, having chosen her position, she could hardly stand up now and move somewhere else. And in fact, for most of the painting time, it was easy to forget she was there. Both women painted in silence, particularly after Bernard attached himself to Lady Crowmore’s elbow and tried to make admiring conversation about her painting. In no uncertain terms, Lady Crowmore sent him away. Gillie would have been relieved at no longer having to listen to her brother’s embarrassing effusions, were it not for the expression of hurt she glimpsed on his face as he departed – like a devoted dog who’d been kicked.

  “You think me cruel,” Lady Crowmore observed.

  “I would not presume to tell you so.”

  “Think of the alternative,” Lady Crowmore drawled.

  Briefly, Gillie met her gaze, then inclined her head and went on in silence daubing grey paint in the vague shape of the abbey arch.

  Occasionally, other gentleman wandered by to admire and Gillie gathered that Lady Crowmore’s piece was indeed excellent.

  “I suppose your sister’s is better,” Lady Crowmore said to Lord Braithwaite.

  “Serena’s is a horrible muddle,” Braithwaite replied brutally, “But Frances’s is quite good.”