Amberley Chronicles Boxset I: The Impostor Debutante My Last Marchioness the Sister Quest (Amberley Chronicles Boxsets Book 1)

by May Burnett

  “So I see. Is there anything I can do in penance for my inadvertent offense?”

  “You could tell me what you do for a living, and why you really came to this place.” Once again there was distrust and wariness in her gaze.

  It was his turn to frown. “I have already told you. To look at the estate behind this wall here on our left side, and possibly buy it. What other reason could I have? As for my profession, I am a businessman.”

  “From London?”

  “Indeed. It is the centre of the country’s, and increasingly, the world’s commerce. For a businessman, it is the logical place to live.”

  “Oh, I know that.”

  They walked in silence for a minute. He wished he had offered his arm, and she had put that delicate hand on it. He wanted her touch. Through the cloth of his shirt and jacket, he would still be acutely consciousness of her nearness and warmth. Too bad that she was a simple countrywoman, albeit with an education beyond her station, and not a young lady of the ton. With her at his side, he’d never be tempted to hire another mistress.

  What was he thinking? He was who he was, and she was not for him, no matter how his body felt drawn to her. From her prim and straight posture, she might not even be attracted to him.

  “Do you know the Spalding family?”

  She gave a slight start. “Everybody in town knows them. Why do you ask?”

  “If I decide to buy the estate they would be my nearest neighbours, and it is important to get on with those.”

  She smiled ironically. “Nobody gets on well with Sir Charles Spalding, but the rest of the family are harmless enough.”

  “Why is Sir Charles so difficult? Would it affect me as his neighbour?”

  “No, his family and staff are the main sufferers, or so it is believed. I will not say anything more on the subject, when you meet Sir Charles you can draw your own conclusions. His neighbours can be glad that at least he is not litigious; Sir Jasper Lobbock and he maintained cool but correct relations.”

  Litigious was an erudite word for a simple woman to use. There was more to this Mrs. Jones than met the eye. Well, she had claimed she was born a lady, and he was increasingly inclined to believe it.

  “There are three sisters in the family, I am told?”

  “You are misinformed. I suppose you refer to the Trellisham sisters, though only one still bears that name.”

  He made his voice yet more casual. “Do you know them?”

  A slight hesitation and infinitesimal shrug. “Not recently.”

  “And then there is a baron in the neighbourhood, Lord Minton?”

  “Yes, at Ranebrink. A most genteel and popular family. He has two sons and two daughters.”

  “I am grateful for your information, Mrs. Jones.”

  They had drawn near to the closed-up house, and once again he tried to see if he could detect any evidence of life.

  Seeing him scrutinize the building, Mrs. Jones stopped and stared at him in an unnerving way. “You appear strangely interested in that empty house. Are you planning to buy it too, by any chance?”

  He also stopped walking. “Hardly. Do you notice that dark spot across half the foundation wall? There is too much humidity. It is not a healthy place for anyone to live in. Besides, I understand it is not offered for sale.”

  “A little mildew is not likely to kill the inhabitants. If it had any, I mean, it is empty after all. ”

  “Perhaps not quickly, but it is not a place where I would advise anyone to stay. The owners should tear it down and build a new house, more solidly.”

  “Not everyone can afford to follow such advice.”

  “Risking one’s health is much more expensive in the long run.”

  She shrugged. “You are no doubt right, but since the house it empty, why were you looking at it so intently?”

  “I thought I saw the curtains twitch when I passed by earlier. I wondered if anybody was staying there, hiding from the world.”

  “How fanciful. It probably was a mouse, running along the curtain.”

  “It certainly looks like a house with rodents inside.”

  Her brows contracted. “How would you know? But never mind. It is time I want back to my grandmother.” With an ironic, very slight curtsy she left by a narrow path between the houses that he had not noticed earlier. He had an irrational impulse to go after her, find out where she lived, but that would have been nonsensical.

  Still, who would have suspected that this placid little town held such a siren?

  Chapter 8

  That night the redheaded Mrs. Jones haunted Jonathan’s dreams. He awoke badly rested and dissatisfied. Maybe all those weeks since he’d last been with a woman were making him overly susceptible to female charms. In an ill humour he washed and dressed, relieved to see that there should be time enough for breakfast before his appointment with Mr. Selbington.

  He had reckoned without the eagerness of that young man, who arrived a full twenty minutes early, and found Jonathan in the common room, eating rashers of ham and bacon that he washed down with ale, not trusting in the quality of the inn’s tea.

  “Mr. Durwent – Sir?”

  A fresh faced blond young man of maybe twenty-five stood before him, comfortably and soberly dressed in dark brown cloth.

  “I am Paul Selbington. Oh, sorry, I am interrupting your breakfast.” The young man actually blushed, like a debutante hearing her first innuendo.

  “Sit down,” Jonathan said, gesturing at the empty chairs all around him. “I’ll be finished in ten minutes. Would you like some ale?”

  Selbington declined the ale, but requested tea from the blonde barmaid, who brought it right away. It was as black as tar. After the first cautious sip, Selbington did not attempt to drink any more.

  “Tell me about Lobbock Manor, Mr. Selbington. How long has it been in your possession?”

  “Uncle Jasper died some six months ago, there was probate, and so on … now we are finally able to sell it, but the location is a bit far from larger towns, and with the bad harvests in recent years, the local gentry are not in a position to buy another estate. Well, except for Lord Pell, I daresay, but he already has so many larger houses.”

  “And your sisters and you are quite determined to sell? Are all the owners of age?”

  “Yes, the four of us are all over twenty-one, Gertrude only by a few weeks.”

  “Why don’t you keep the estate yourselves?”

  “None of us has the means to pay off the other three,” Selbington said frankly. “And to be honest, it is too large for me. I am quite happy in my own small house, where I can accommodate a family when the time comes, as well as two or three pupils I tutor. I am quite at ease there, with a cook-housekeeper and two maids. Why needlessly complicate my life?”

  These words uncomfortably echoed Jonathan’s own feelings, but clearly this stripling did not have his own drive and ambition and plans. Nonetheless he felt compelled to issue a warning.

  “You future wife, if you should marry, may feel differently.”

  The young man shook his head, smiling. “I shall take good care to marry a woman who enjoys my modest style of living, and does not plague me with empty ambitions.” How could he be so confident? But possibly he already had a young lady in his sights.

  “I am done – let’s be off.” Jonathan pushed away the greasy remains of his food and took a last swallow of ale, to dilute the taste.

  “It’s quite close, we could easily walk, but I have the gig.”

  This vehicle looked old but solid, painted in a dull black colour, and was drawn by a somnolent bay gelding whose best days were also behind him. There was just space for both of them on the bench, neither being fat.

  “You are the late Sir Jasper’s nephew, and a gentleman of education,” Jonathan said. “Do you really feel no compunction at selling the estate of your forebears?”

  “My mother’s forebears,” Selbington corrected. “The Selbingtons are a junior branch of the Sussex fa
mily.” He did not add, but Jonathan knew, that the head of the main branch was the Earl of Brincastle. “I have been a scholar since I first learned to write, first in ambition and then in fact. Dealing with tenants and servants is not how I envisage my days.”

  Jonathan was silenced. He had to admire a man who knew so clearly what he wanted out of life, even if his priorities were alien to him.

  They came to the wrought iron gate he had already seen the previous day, and inevitably his thoughts returned to the red-headed Mrs. Jones. He might ask Selbington if he knew her, but this was hardly the moment. He would sound like a womaniser who could not keep his focus on business even for half an hour.

  Selbington descended and opened the gate with a heavy iron key, while Jonathan held the reins; unnecessarily, as the bay showed little propensity to move. They drove between the two pillars, closing but not locking the gate behind them. The drive passed between the oak trees, and took a turn.

  “There it is, Lobbock Manor,” Selbington said, stopping the gig to let him have a good view of the ivy-coated exterior. “I suppose the next owner will change the name.”

  The house showed some signs of having been empty and neglected since the winter, but might still easily be reclaimed. The solid building was only two stories high, and dated back to Elizabethan times, if Jonathan was any judge, though there were modern additions. The ensemble was surprisingly harmonious. Jonathan had not expected to like the place so much. Too bad that he was only pretending to be seriously interested.

  “Lobbock Hall has been in my mother’s family since 1582. There’s also a dower house, last used by my great-aunt Sybelle, in the same style, and not quite half as big,” Selbington explained. “You cannot see it from here; it is about half a mile behind the main house, and has its own gate.”

  They left the gig in the care of a shuffling teenaged groom, the only person in sight. Selbington selected another key, only slightly smaller than the first, to open the front door of the Hall.

  “What about servants? You simply locked the place up?”

  “We didn’t want to go on paying the wages, if we were going to sell anyway,” Selbington explained.

  Jonathan suspected that the heirs didn’t have the money for wages. Had their inheritance not included any capital at all? “I see,” he said noncommittally.

  At least someone had put cloth covers on the furniture, and the dust was not quite as thick as it might have been. There were criss-crossing footprints in it. Selbington regarded them with a puzzled air.

  “These are not your own prints?”

  “Some, and my sisters’ too - but look, the size of those here is larger than my own feet.”

  This was true, though Selbington was not small; the oversize prints had been made with rough boots.

  “Let me give you some advice: buyers are more likely to take a place when it is clean and dusted.”

  “Such a minor detail should not make any difference,” Selbington protested. “Although I suppose you would know. Have you bought many estates?”

  “More houses than estates like this, but yes, it is a part of my business. Though I’m mainly in shipping.”

  “Not a lot of shipping here, so far from the shore,” Selbington said. They slowly walked through the main rooms and kitchens, and came to a long gallery.

  Dozens of pictures decorated its walls. Jonathan stood transfixed.

  “Yes, hideous, isn’t it? Who would want a naked woman that fat with a cut-off head in her hands hanging in his house? Enough to give one nightmares.”

  “Judith and Holofernes,” Jonathan said in a strangled voice. He could have sworn that it was a Rubens, or at least in his style.

  “Yes, I know. A very tasteless subject on which to waste so much oil paint. But the worst is this one.” Selbington pointed to a huge still life with a bleeding dead hare amidst fruit and vegetables, and a very realistic human skull staring out at them through huge eyeholes.

  Jonathan slowly let his eyes pass over the collection, his pulse speeding up. “Have you not had these pictures appraised? If they are originals, they should be quite valuable.”

  “What, this old stuff? They are included in the sale price.”

  “Are you sure?” This was like taking a purse from a dead drunk. Jonathan’s commercial instincts were warring with his sense of fairness. “Maybe your sisters want the pictures?”

  “No, except for one of our great-grandmother, that Gertrude already took with her last week. The big ones in here don’t fit on my walls, even if I wanted them, and I don’t.” His sisters probably had even less room in the overcrowded vicarage.

  “The whole estate for twenty thousand guineas, my agent told me,” Jonathan said, looking at Selbingon.

  “Yes,” the young man said uncertainly. “That is …”

  He had the air of one about to offer a substantial reduction. Jonathan quickly said, “I’ll take it. And I’ll throw in an extra two thousand for the pictures and furniture – and library, I suppose there is one?”

  “In here,” Selbington said, opening a door from the gallery. The library was panelled in oak, in Elizabethan style. There was a beautifully carved fireplace as well as a huge ancient stove covered in blue tiles. “I already removed the books that interested me, and fit into my house,” he said apologetically, “but as you can see, there are plenty left.”

  Indeed there were, most of them bound in leather. There also was another small picture on the wall, of a young Flemish woman in green, holding a flute. It looked like a Van Dyck.

  “Those should also have been appraised,” Jonathan said, giving the seller one last chance to change his mind.

  “Your two thousand extra will do, nobody here is interested in old books. I know that in Oxford they might find buyers, but piecemeal and slowly. I am not a bookseller.”

  So be it, then.

  “We have a deal, Mr. Selbington. Who is your solicitor?”

  The young man blinked in surprise. “But you haven’t even seen the dower house, the grounds, and the hog farm. I’m afraid the saw mill is not in operation right now.”

  Jonathan smiled. “I’ll have a look at them, and the books, but I’m satisfied that the price is fair – more than fair. I can get the money to you within the week, once we have all signed the contract. Your sisters are all willing to do so?”

  “Oh yes, we are all agreed. They will be happy – five hundred guineas extra for each of them.” He was beaming, the poor fool. “This must be celebrated. Would you do me the honour to come to dinner tonight – er, in the Vicarage?”

  “Gladly, but will not your father, the Vicar, or his lady, want to issue the invitation themselves?”

  “I know they will be delighted. And my sisters will definitely want to meet you. Six is the usual hour when we dine.”

  “Then I accept with pleasure. If you find your father has other plans, simply send a message to the inn. I shall stay there until the formalities of the sale are complete, then I’ll move in here. There is plainly much to do.”

  At least now his pretext for coming here was entirely credible. And Jonathan had no choice. He badly wanted to hang that Van Dyck in his own library.

  As they were leaving with the gig, he casually asked, “Do you happen to know a young woman by name of Mrs. Jones? With bright red hair?”

  “No, I cannot say that I do. Jones is a Welsh name, but common enough in the area. The red hair sounds more noticeable, but still by no means unusual.”

  “Never mind, then. What are you planning to buy with your share of the proceeds?”

  “Happiness, if possible.” Selbington seemed to contemplate a long-awaited but by no means sure prospect. “If you are going to settle here, you will see for yourself if I manage it. If not, my sisters can have my share.”

  “I wish you luck in whatever way you are planning to find happiness, Selbington.”

  “Thank you. You have already done quite enough to bring it about.”

  Chapter 9


  Cherry wiped the grime off the dull mirror with a handkerchief, to catch a clearer picture of herself as Mrs. Jones, the impressed seaman’s lonely wife.

  She should have thought of a different name. Sophia Jones was fine, but Mrs. Tom Jones was courting exposure. She added another maxim to the list, for her book of warnings. When choosing a false name, do not take it from a well-known book. Fortunately Mr. Durwent had not seemed to catch on; possibly he was not a great reader. Few people were. And he had noticed that her speech did not go with her simple attire.

  Judging by his reaction to her, the red hair did not diminish her allure; perhaps even the contrary, for Durwent struck her as a sober type who would not easily flirt with chance-met strangers. She had rather invited his bold words, when she thought back to their conversation, and he had backed off right away, as a gentleman would.

  Buckley was even more dangerous than she had thought, with such a man as this Durwent in his service. How had he achieved that? Probably by blackmail and extortion, his usual methods. But that did not excuse Durwent. That he seemed so courteous and gentlemanly only made him more dangerous and reprehensible. And he was an excellent liar, to boot.

  Cherry did not believe for a minute that Durwent was really here to buy the Lobbock estate. He did not look like a man able to fling twenty thousand guineas around, which she had heard was the asking price. Gentlemen who bought such estates did not travel in hired coaches, or stay at the local inn without a single servant.

  The familiar knock on the door cut short these reflections. She went to open and saw Patch, carrying yet another basket.

  “Please come in.”

  Instead of doing so, her sister stared at her incredulously. “Why is your hair red? How can you look like this, when you are a recent widow? Have you completely lost your senses?”

  “Come in,” Cherry repeated, “We can quarrel better inside.” Patch finally yielded to her invitation, and closed the door.

  Half a head taller than she, and still as slim as she had been in her teens, Patch looked uncommonly well this day. Her blond hair was arranged on her head in two thick braids, pinned up in the back and partially covered by a tiny excuse for a straw hat. Her classic bone structure and fair skin were not diminished by the flattened hair. Nor did she look her age. Of the three sisters, Prune was the only one who did, likely because she had borne three children and was fond of sweets. Both Patch and Cherry could still pass for twenty-seven, twenty-five in candlelight.