Lady Hartley's Inheritance

by Wendy Soliman

  Luc found it impossible to believe that any man could have been married to this delicious creature and not ensure he’d made definite provision for her future, especially if he knew himself to be dying, which he understood to have been the case with Sir Michael. The fact that he hadn’t done so led Luc to suppose that no other person could have a legitimate claim upon his estate. All the same, he cursed the academic’s dilatory attitude toward such an important aspect of his affairs.

  “Whew!” Clarissa drew rein, patted Albert’s sweaty neck, and smiled radiantly at Luc. “That was truly exhilarating.”

  Luc made no reply. Instead he simply watched her. Her face was flushed, her magnificent eyes sparkling with pleasure. Her hair was all over the place, the cap completely useless, and her breasts heaved against the confines of her shirt as she struggled to regain her breath. Luc, feeling like a gauche, untried youth, couldn’t have put his feelings into words but would have been content to admire her for hours. The sound of other horses approaching brought him to his senses.

  “I was right,” he said softly. “No one would take you for a groom looking as you do now. Perhaps we should return home before we have awkward questions to answer.”

  “Race you back.”

  She applied her heels to Albert’s flanks and sped off. Luc gave her a head start, glorying in the sight of her derrière raised to the elements as she leaned over Albert’s withers, encouraging him forward. Then he allowed Marius his head, and they reached the park gate simultaneously.

  Lord Deverill awaited Clarissa in the hall. She joined him and expressed surprise at seeing not his curricle but his barouche in front of the door, Albert and Arthur resplendent between the shafts. It bore the earl’s crest on the doors. Two liveried tigers were already up behind, and a third held the door open for them.

  “Rather grand for a short trip to Lincoln’s Inn, is it not?”

  “Appearance is everything.” He offered her a conspiratorial wink as he took her hand and assisted her into the carriage. “Might as well make the most of the advantages at our disposal. After all, a little intimidation never hurt anyone.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you have a devious mind?” And much to her surprise Clarissa found she was actually laughing as they set off.

  “Ready, m’dear?” They had reached Twining’s office. She nodded, tamping down her nerves as best she could. “Leave as much of the talking to me as you can and follow whatever lead I take.”

  They were ushered straight into Twining’s office, where Twining and another person rose to greet them.

  “Good morning, Lady Hartley. Lord Deverill, your servant, sir.”

  The stranger stepped forward and bowed to Clarissa. He was a little shorter than her. His hair was black and thinning, his colouring swarthy, his bearded face deeply tanned. His long, aquiline nose and thin lips stretched over uneven and yellowing teeth, prevented him from being truly handsome. But he was still a striking figure. He was clothed in the style of an English gentleman but his garments were cheap and poorly tailored. As she observed him, a small gasp escaped Clarissa’s lips: there was no mistaking the resemblance between her late husband and this man.

  “Lady Hartley.”

  Salik took her hand and offered her an oily smile that she barely noticed. Her mind was in turmoil, every cell in her body rebelling against what she was seeing with her own eyes. This man was Michael’s son. She ought to feel something for him. Some connection.

  But she felt nothing but resentment and antipathy.

  “I knew my father had married a younger lady,” he said, “but no one told me she was such a beauty.”

  “Mind your manners, Salik!”

  Lord Deverill spoke in an authoritative tone which Clarissa imagined few could ignore. But Salik seemed unperturbed at receiving a dressing down from a belted earl, and continued to concentrate his attention solely upon her.

  “Will you not sit down, my lady? Allow me to pour you some coffee.”

  “We’re not here to socialise,” Lord Deverill said.

  Salik finally turned toward Luc and offered him such a slight bow that it was almost an insult. Clarissa knew he’d noticed but he showed no reaction. Instead he guided her to a chair and stood immediately behind it. He seemed to take up an inordinate amount of space in the small office, towering over the other two men.

  “What proof do you bring us of your parenthood, Salik?” he asked.

  “Well, sir, my — ”

  “No, no, Salik. In this country we address the aristocracy by their correct titles. I’m an earl, and you therefore address me as my lord.” He looked down upon Salik, whose face was now fiery red, with almost a sneer. “Since you are unused to polite society you wouldn’t be aware how to carry on, and so on this occasion no offence is taken.”

  Salik bowed. “You have my apologies,” he said curtly.

  “Your proof,” the earl snapped.

  “Well, I have my birth certificate, of course, and my father’s will.”

  “I’ve arranged for a calligrapher to examine the will tomorrow,” Twining said.

  “Whom do you intend to use?”

  Twining gave him a name.

  “What else do you bring to support your claim, Salik?”

  “Memories of my beloved father, which must sustain me for a lifetime.”

  “What age are you, Salik?”

  “One and twenty, sir…er, my lord.”

  Lord Deverill continued to fire questions at him, but as far as Clarissa could judge, he didn’t succeed in catching him out.

  “When did you see Sir Michael last?”

  “About five years ago. He always made a point of visiting my mother and me when he was in Alexandria, but he told us on that occasion he would be unlikely to call again. It made us all very sad, especially my father, since he loved my mother so much.”

  A penetrating silence greeted this remark. Clarissa was left with the uncomfortable feeling that it was the first completely truthful statement Salik had uttered. It certainly explained a great deal of things.

  “Then why didn’t he marry her all those years ago?”

  Salik’s eyes blazed with suppressed resentment. “An English baronet and a simple Muslim girl? He could hardly have brought such a bride back to England. She would never have been accepted, and my father’s career wouldn’t have survived the scandal.”

  “If it was true love, there must have been a way.”

  Salik gulped, clearly angered by his lordship’s disbelieving tone. “The same situation existed in reverse. My father would never have been accepted as my mother’s husband in Egypt. He spoke excellent Arabic, and offered to convert to the Muslim faith for my mother’s sake, but still that wouldn’t have been enough. It was my mother who realised it was impossible. She declined his repeated proposals, although it broke her heart to do so. She knew they would never be left alone to be happy and settled for seeing him occasionally, rather than losing him altogether.”

  “A very touching story, Salik.”

  Lord Deverill sounded as though he didn’t believe a word of it. Unfortunately, Clarissa did.

  “Finally, my father accepted the situation, but he never stopped loving my mother. He supported us financially until the end, and we lived for his visits. Now, in death, when it can no longer harm him, he’s done what he always wished to do. He’s acknowledged me publicly by bequeathing his estate to me.”

  Clarissa tensed at the passionate nature of his words, but the pressure of the earl’s hand on her shoulder prevented her from speaking.

  “We shall have to see about that,” he said.

  “I don’t understand the difficulty.” Salik appeared genuinely perplexed. “Twining informs me that Lady Hartley understands the land well. She may rest assured that there will always be a place for her in my home — and whatever else she desires,” he added, raking his eyes over her body in a manner that made her shudder. “I understand the property is vast, and that there is more than enough
room for us both.”

  “We’ve seen enough for today,” said Lord Deverill abruptly. “You’ll be hearing from me.” Luc handed Clarissa into his carriage and told his coachman to drive around the park.

  “You recognized him, didn’t you?” He spoke gently, taking her hand in his.

  “Yes.” She dropped her eyes toward their joined hands, but made no effort to pull hers free. “There can be no question that he’s Michael’s son. The resemblance around the eyes and mouth, in his mannerisms and expressions, is too marked to leave any room for doubt.”

  “I trust your Michael was less arrogant and better mannered?”

  “Indeed, yes.” Clarissa managed the briefest of bleak smiles. “He was kindness and gentleness itself.”

  “Did you like Salik?”

  She hesitated. “I wanted to as soon as I realised he was who he said he was, but my anger and disappointment got in the way. I wasn’t so much angry with him…it was more that Michael didn’t tell me about him.” She sighed. “But it’s obvious that my husband loved his mother very much. It explains everything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing.” With an obvious effort she roused herself from wherever it was she’d withdrawn to. “What happens now?”

  “Well, just because Salik is your late husband’s son it’s by no means certain that he’s also his heir. The will has yet to be validated.”

  “But it will be.” Her tone was weary with resignation.

  “We can’t know that. Clarissa, even if Twining’s man says the will is genuine, I shall still have it independently verified. There are many other steps to be taken yet, before we even begin to consider defeat.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Try to be positive. There is much to be done, and I’m relying upon your courage.”

  “Why did Michael not tell me?” she muttered over and over. “I had a right to know.”

  “Tell me more about your Michael,” Luc said. “Tell me about his work.”

  “His work.” The smile she offered him didn’t owe much to humour. “Oh, his work was his life. When he was engaged upon some new line of discovery, the rest of the world ceased to exist for him. He started out as a young man. He fell in love with Alexandria well before Napoleon was thrown out of the city. He became obsessed with discovering the location of the tomb of Alexander the Great. No argument could persuade him that it wasn’t in Alexandria.”

  Luc inclined his head. “He was in good company.”

  “Then it was the Lighthouse that held him in thrall. But eventually it was the great debate about the Library of Alexandria that obsessed Michael. He became an expert upon the subject, and knew all the arguments. He wrote papers for the London Geographical Society and lectured at the University. Even into his last year he was still receiving students’ dissertations on the subject for his critique.”

  “A man of dedication, then.”

  “Yes. The library was one of the ancient wonders of the world, and theories abound as to the reason for its burning down. Some claim that Julius Caesar was responsible for the fire. The story goes that he set the dockyards and Alexandrine fleet aflame to save himself from some desperate situation. But the fire spread to the shore and engulfed the library. Michael had doubts about that theory, but there are others.” She shrugged. “Early Christian monks burnt it down, Muslim zealots decimated it…I suppose we shall never know for sure, but the whole subject fascinated Michael, and he brought it alive for me. He described how the original library must have looked with its lecture areas, gardens and zoo, and shrines for each of the muses.”

  “But the place was doomed.”

  “Yes. Michael considered that it contained too much knowledge that offended too many different cultures for it to survive.”

  “It sounds as though Michael infected you with his enthusiasm.”

  “Oh, yes, I could listen to him talk about Egypt for hours. He would tell me about the river traffic on the Nile. I could picture the dhows and feluccas, with their colourful sails and mishmash of nationalities aboard. He made the cities, and Alexandria in particular, come to life. I could practically smell the spices in the souks, see the crowds in the bustling streets and feel the heat of the sun beating down. His love of the Egyptian people was never in doubt.” She paused, her expression reflective. “Perhaps now I understand why.”

  “It would be a mistake to — ”

  “Sometimes I got impatient, because he was so wrapped up in his academic world — ”

  “Leaving you to struggle with the reality of day-to-day living?”

  “Yes.”

  They had arrived back at Grosvenor Square. Luc still held Clarissa’s gloved hand in his. He raised it to his lips and kissed it, watching her confusion and the deep blush that crept across her features.

  “We must try to forget all of this until tomorrow. What say you, shall we attend Lady Gillings’s party this evening with my mother? If nothing else, it will be a diversion.”

  “If you wish.”

  Luc sensed her lack of enthusiasm, and tried another tack. “I have business at the orphanage tomorrow morning,” he said. “Would you care to accompany me?”

  “Oh, yes, please. I have a present for Rosie.”

  “She’ll be delighted, but take care not to get too involved with the children. It’s unkind to raise false expectations.”

  “Yes, you’re right, of course, but Rosie has made a deep impression upon me.” She flashed a brief smile. “Besides, adopting waifs and strays is a passion of mine.”

  They parted in the hall, and Luc went straight to his library, bellowing for Simms.

  “Simms, send someone to Durrant’s Hotel. Tip the clerk generously. I want to know which room is occupied by Omar Salik, and how long he’s been in residence.”

  “I will arrange it at once, my lord.”

  “Who’s the best calligrapher in the capital, Simms?”

  “I believe him to be a man named White, who has premises in Bond Street, my lord.”

  “Contact him on my behalf. I shall shortly have work for him.”

  “I will so inform him, my lord.”

  “Now then, Simms, see if you can answer me this one. Who in the capital is most likely to be able to make a realistic looking forgery of a will? In Arabic.”

  “That, my lord, may require a little research on my part.”

  Simms looked mortified at not being able to answer one of his employer’s questions immediately, but Luc knew that no matter what, he’d have that answer by the end of the day.

  Chapter Nine

  Clarissa and Lord Deverill kept their engagement at the orphanage the following morning. Once again, the first sound to assault their ears was that of childish high spirits. As soon as their arrival became known, a mishmash of children tumbled out of the door to greet them.

  Rosie appeared in their midst and was the first to rush forward and wrap her arms round his lordship’s legs. Her eyes became as large as saucers when Clarissa handed her a package. The little girl ripped it open and gaped when handsome rag doll tumbled to the floor.

  “Is she really just for me?” she asked, hardly able to believe her good fortune.

  “Yes, darling,” Clarissa said. “What shall you call her?”

  “Annie.” She cuddled the doll tightly, as though she expected it to be snatched away from her at any moment.

  “What do you say to Lady Hartley, Rosie?” Mrs. Fielding asked.

  “Thank you, Lady Hartley!” Rosie jumped up and hurled herself into Clarissa’s arms.

  Mrs. Fielding managed to restore order and shepherded her charges back within doors. Clarissa put Rosie down and held her hand as they made their way back to her classroom. The earl had preceded them, and Clarissa found the other children already demanding that he tell them a story.

  “I have business in the office today, children, but perhaps we can persuade Lady Hartley to tell you something about her farm?”

  “Please, Lady Hartley!” chorused
thirty eager voices.

  “Well now, let me see.” Clarissa took a seat, delighted when Rosie didn’t hesitate to climb into her lap. “Have you ever heard the tale of Blazon the Falcon?”

  The children wanted to know what a falcon was. Most of them had never been beyond the London slums; birds of prey were a rare sight in that locality. Clarissa explained what they looked like, describing their hooked beaks, fierce talons, piercing eyes, and plumage to blend in with their surroundings. She drew a passable picture on a slate to illustrate her words and told the spellbound children how Blazon was able to locate lambs lost on the bleak moors by soaring overhead and searching all the tiny areas where they might have accidentally become separated from the rest of the flock. Naturally, the lambs were eventually restored to their anxious mothers but only after suspense filled delays created by Clarissa’s lively imagination.

  The children hung on her every word, telling her she was right not to indicate that Blazon would more than likely have eaten the lost lambs for supper. When her tale came to a happy conclusion there was momentary silence, soon broken by a barrage of questions. As she answered them, Clarissa became aware of a presence behind her. Lord Deverill was leaning against the door jamb, watching her. She was unaware how long he’d been there, but blushed at the maelstrom of conflicting emotions which his scrutinising appraisal engendered deep inside her core. She was shocked to discover that she was noticing him in the way that a woman was supposed to look upon a man. It was something she’d never consciously done in her life before. She was far too sensible, her head too full of more pressing matters, to find time for day-dreaming. But now, somehow, she seemed unable to help it.