Richard clenched his jaw, anger firing his blood as it always did on this first sight of the manor. He remembered it from his childhood before he had left for school. Before his mother’s death. Before his father’s passion for drink and gaming had very nearly lost it all.
As always, his fury mixed with a grudging gratitude to his irresponsible parent. Richard had been well on his way to treading his father’s path. If not for the obligations thrust upon him with his sire’s demise and whatever sense of duty passed to him through his mother’s blood, he would have fared no better with his life than the previous earl.
And, as always, his anger fueled his determination as well.
A peal of laughter and the bark of a dog sounded in the distance, and Richard couldn’t resist an answering grin. At least his sisters had retained their spirit. Of course, they were all too young to remember when life here had been substantially different. And it wasn’t as if they lived as beggars in the streets of London, never knowing where their next meal would come from. They still had a roof over their heads, such as it was, and their family name, thanks to Richard’s efforts, had regained some measure of its former respect. Even their finances were slowly improving.
He reached the broad stone steps that swept up in a graceful curve to the front entry and slid off his horse. When he was a boy, there would have been someone near at hand to take the reins. In its grander days, the estate would have provided employment for more than a hundred servants in the house and stables and grounds. There were nowhere near that number when Richard had come into his questionable inheritance, and he’d let most of those still in service go, retaining only old Ned, who attempted to keep the house from falling down around their heads, and his wife, Molly. Shelbrooke Manor was as much their home as it was his.
Tenants remained as well, farmers who fared little better than he but kept food on the table for their families and, in lieu of rent—his—with a paltry amount left for market. Production could be vastly increased, but improvements to the land and implementation of the latest in agricultural methods were costly. The fortunes of all who inhabited the estate, be it in the manor or in the cottages, were as tied together today as they had been for generations. And it took funds to improve their lot.
Richard looped the reins over the saddle and strode up the steps. The horse wouldn’t go far. He too was home.
He reached the wide wooden door, weathered from years of protecting those within from rain and cold and whatever else threatened. He grasped the big brass handle and pushed. The door swung open with a protesting creak.
“Richard!” The call mingled with the incessant bark of an overexcited dog. He braced himself and turned.
A large, dripping, brown-and-white fur ball bounded toward him, followed by his youngest sister, just as exuberant and nearly as wet. The dog skidded to a stop at the bottom of the steps and started up the stairs.
“Henry,” Richard said sharply.
The beast stopped short and stared up with what could only be described as adoration in his brown eyes. His body quivered with barely suppressed joy and the impetus of a madly wagging tail.
“He just wants to welcome you home. He misses you, you know.” Becky halted beside the dog and grinned. “So do I.”
“As I miss you, little sister.” He smiled down at her. At age sixteen she still had more hoyden than miss in her. Her dark hair was mahogany red, and with every passing day she showed the promise of exceptional beauty. A blessing or a curse. “I would hug you, but—”
She laughed and pushed a wet strand of hair away from her face. “I was trying to give Henry a bath.” “
Or he was giving you one.” A whiff of wet dog assailed his nostrils. “Apparently he needs bathing.”
Becky wrinkled her nose. “Henry has an alarming tendency to roll in the most vile things he can find.”
As if in response to the criticism, Henry chose that moment to shake himself. Water and its accompanying pungent scent sprayed in a wide arc.
“Now, now, Henry.” Becky grabbed his collar and pulled him farther from Richard. “Stop that this instant.”
“Rebecca!” An indignant yell sounded from someone still out of sight.
Richard raised a brow.
Becky widened her eyes innocently. “She wanted to help.”
Jocelyn rounded the far corner of the house and stalked toward them. “Blast it all, you were supposed to hold on to the damnable …”
She pulled up short, and her demeanor changed abruptly. At once her manner was proper and dignified, and she strolled toward them. Becky rolled her eyes toward the heavens. Jocelyn was barely a year older than Becky, and, while all his sisters shared a similarity in height and features, they couldn’t have been farther apart in temperament. At this distance, Richard was certain Jocelyn didn’t recognize him. She’d never been able to see clearly past a distance of about fifteen feet, but she disdained even the mere suggestion of spectacles. She too would be a beauty far sooner than he wished and, in contrast to Becky, was well aware of it.
Jocelyn drew closer, pursing her lips in a well-practiced pout. “Rebecca, you didn’t tell me we had a visitor.”
Becky glanced at Richard and grinned. “We don’t.”
Jocelyn paused and squinted. “Richard?”
“Were you expecting another gentleman caller?” he said dryly.
Becky snorted. “Hardly.”
“Not expecting, merely hoping.” Jocelyn sighed dramatically and reached the bottom stair. She kept a wide berth between herself and Henry, who ignored her in favor of sniffing something interesting in a crack in the stone. She climbed the steps and placed a sisterly kiss on Richard’s cheek. “I—we— will never meet any acceptable, or even interesting, gentlemen exiled here in the country. Why can’t we come live with you in London?”
“I don’t want to live in London,” Becky said quickly. “I’m quite happy right here, thank you.”
Jocelyn shot her a withering look. “Then you can stay.”
Richard bit back a groan. It was an ongoing point of dissension. Where Becky would have been content to spend her life in the country, Jocelyn could not wait until the day she could travel to London. Even the reality of their finances did not diminish her burning desire for a season in town.
“Richard.” She hooked her arm through his and gazed up at him, her eyes wide and pleading. Her lashes fluttered, her voice lowered. “Please.”
“Good God, where did you learn to do that?” Shock rang in his voice.
“To do what?” Her honey-colored eyes, a shade darker than her hair, opened even wider, if possible. Richard knew full well he had to do something to come up with the dowries to ensure good marriages for all the girls, but his first priority was of necessity his oldest sisters. He’d thought, or perhaps had hoped, that he had a bit more time to find suitable matches for the younger pair. Apparently he was wrong.
“You haven’t been home for weeks,” Becky said pointedly, “and she’s been listening to Aunt Louella.”
“I should have known,” he muttered. Since the day Lady Louella Codling had moved into Shelbrooke Manor to care for her dead sister’s children, she’d filled the girls’ heads with talk of London and the season, dashing suitors and glittering balls. Fortunately, in Jocelyn alone had Louella’s stories found fertile ground.
“Aunt Louella is simply trying to prepare us for our proper positions in life,” Jocelyn said loftily. “Not that anything she could do could possibly help you.”
“Perhaps I don’t need as much help as you do,” Becky smirked.
Jocelyn wrinkled her nose. Becky stuck out her tongue.
“As always, it’s good to be home,” Richard sighed. “However, I can only stay for the night.”
“Richard!” the sisters wailed in unison.
“Business, my dears.” The girls traded glances, abruptly united against a common enemy. Were they up to something? He brushed the thought away. He had no time for their nonsense. “Now then
, Becky, do something about that beast and then join us inside. I assume the others are about somewhere?”
“Emma, Marianne, and Aunt Louella are in the drawing room. Mending.” Jocelyn said the word as if it were obscene.
“Excellent. I need to speak to everyone, and I would prefer to do it at once.”
Again, the sisters exchanged looks. They were definitely up to something. Unholy allies. But in what? He shuddered at the thought.
“What about?” Becky narrowed her eyes in suspicion.
“Patience, my dear. Get rid of the dog.” He smiled, turned, and stepped into the house, leaving behind the murmur of curious voices. At least they weren’t screeching at one another, although admittedly he usually found their bickering more amusing than annoying.
He strode across the wide front hall between flanking staircases that rose to a gallery overlooking the entry, and tried to ignore the discolored rectangles on the walls where paintings had once hung. He turned into the west corridor and headed to the small salon.
His two oldest sisters and his aunt sat amid baskets of clothes, bent over needlework in what was probably a vain attempt to make well-worn clothing last a bit longer.
“Good day.”
“Richard.” Emma tossed aside the fabric in her hand and stood. He crossed the room and enfolded her in an affectionate hug. With her dark hair and dark eyes, she was the sister most like him in appearance and, these days, manner as well. Practical and matter-of-fact, she well understood the realities of their lives, and the household accounts were entrusted to her in his absence. She drew back and studied his face. “We hadn’t heard from you. We were worried. Are you quite all right?”
“You haven’t been here for a month,” Aunt Louella said through tight lips. “You’re supposed to come every week.”
“We thought perhaps you’d been kidnapped by pirates.” Marianne grinned and pushed the spectacles that had slid to the tip of her nose back into place. Fairer in coloring than Jocelyn but every bit as pretty, Marianne had no concern for appearance. Her light blonde hair was typically an unruly riot of curls around her head, her clothing always a bit disheveled. She lived in her books and her poems and her own dreams.
He laughed and stepped to her. “Nothing so adventurous, I’m afraid.” He bent and brushed his lips across her forehead. “Simply too busy to get away.”
“He says he has something to tell us,” Jocelyn proclaimed as she walked into the room.
“Something serious?” Emma frowned. “Not bad news, I hope.”
Becky appeared in the doorway. “You haven’t discovered more of father’s debts, have you?”
“Not at all. It’s something rather pleasant, I should think.” Of course, Jocelyn wouldn’t think it was pleasant at all. Neither, he suspected, would Emma. Marianne was far too absorbed by her own world to particularly care where she lived, and he still had a few years before he needed to deal with Becky.
“Do we have money again?” Jocelyn cried with delight.
“Can we get another horse then?” Becky said.
“And a better carriage,” Aunt Louella sniffed.
“This one is barely held together.”
“The roof first, Aunt,” Emma smiled.
“And books that haven’t been chewed on by mice,” Marianne said wistfully.
“And clothes, Richard. Something fashionable. Made by a real modeste. Maybe even from Paris.” Jocelyn grabbed her skirt and stretched it out on either side. “Not these old rags that we’ve made ourselves and remade over and over.”
“Something pretty would be nice.” Becky nodded thoughtfully, and Richard realized even Becky was nearly grown.
Marianne’s voice rose eagerly. “In bright colors.”
“White is appropriate for a girl who is as yet unmarried, regardless of her advancing years,” Aunt Louella said primly. Emma and Marianne traded long-suffering glances. “Although pale pastels are permissible.”
“And silks and satins,” Emma said. “I saw a pattern in the village—”
At once the room erupted in excited feminine chatter. Richard stared, a sinking sensation in his stomach. It wasn’t so much that he had to deflate their excitement, although he did regret the need to do just that, as it was the fact that his prospects for providing them with what they wanted, what they deserved, on his own were slim. “No, no, it’s nothing like that.”
The optimism on their faces vanished, snuffed out with the finality of a breath upon a flame, and guilt washed through him. He had it within his power right now to guarantee them a move to London, grand seasons, substantial dowries, and all the new clothes they could wear in a lifetime.
All he had to do was marry Gillian under her terms and everything they needed, everything they wanted, would be assured. Didn’t they deserve that much and more?
Didn’t he?
“It was rather too much to expect,” Emma said with an overbright smile. She nodded at Marianne, who stood, as if on cue, and moved to her older sister’s side. “Still, since the subject of our finances—”
“Or lack of them,” Jocelyn muttered and stepped to stand beside Emma.
“—has been broached.” Emma squared her shoulders. Becky joined Marianne. “We wish to discuss the situation. There are questions we should like answered.”
Richard stared. His sisters stared back, the same determined expression on each lovely face. There was a resolute air about them, and at once he realized this was no impulsive encounter but a confrontation planned and plotted. They faced him like an opposing army determined to conquer and unwilling to take prisoners. He was outnumbered. He glanced at his aunt. She alone remained seated, her hands busy with her mending, a curious smile of anticipation on her face. He didn’t like that smile any more than he liked the looks on the faces of his sisters.
“Very well then,” he said slowly. “Ask your questions.”
The girls exchanged glances. Emma raised her chin. “We all remember what it was like here in the years before father’s death. When the only time he came home from London was to select another painting to sell—”
“Or a horse,” Becky added.
“Or anything else that would finance his losses at the gaming tables,” Marianne said.
“He would have sold one of us had the opportunity presented itself.” Jocelyn’s voice held a touch of bitterness, and he could scarcely blame her. “He put a pretty face on it but we all know he was about to sell Emma when he died.”
“Jocelyn,” Emma snapped. It was known, yet rarely discussed aloud, that their father had indeed been negotiating a marriage for Emma to a wealthy, elderly lord. The man had been willing to pay off most of the earl’s debts in exchange for the hand of the then barely seventeen-year-old girl.
“That scarcely matters now.”
“Richard should know,” Marianne said, her tone even and without condemnation. “It’s not as if he was here at all back then.”
Once again guilt stabbed him. He’d been far too busy living his own decadent life to note what was happening at Shelbrooke Manor. He’d been at school when his mother had died and, in the years that followed, had seen little reason for more than an occasional trip to the country. No, he’d been too busy squandering funds he didn’t have, confident that his promissory notes were backed up by the family fortune. In truth, the first debts he’d managed to pay off were those of his own making.
“I know,” he said quietly.
It was in fact that very arrangement that had made him realize how dire his family’s situation had become. The creature his father had promised Emma to had approached Richard the day of the funeral, demanding Richard live up to the agreement.
The lord was more than three times her age and wealthy enough, but Richard had heard disturbing rumors about his preferences when it came to the fairer sex. Indeed, there were questions about the nature of the deaths of his two previous wives.
Granted, at that time Richard knew little of his sisters’ lives, in truth did no
t know his sisters at all, but the idea of a relation of his bound to the despicable man’s perverse whims snapped something inside him. In a moment of perfect clarity he’d realized that Emma’s future, the futures of his family and himself, were in his hands and his alone. “I regret I didn’t know before—”
“That’s neither here nor there at the moment,” Emma said quickly. The two of them had agreed years ago not to bring up the topic, although Richard wondered now if they should have at least told the rest of the family he was aware of the alleged betrothal. And had taken steps to end it. “It’s no longer of any significance.”
“Isn’t it?” Jocelyn crossed her arms in a gesture of defiance. “Isn’t that the heart of what we wish to ask him?”
“How do we know you won’t sell one of us to the highest bidder?” Becky’s eyes flashed. “Or do something else every bit as wicked?”
“Becky,” Emma snapped.
Shock coursed through him. “How can you, any of you, think such a thing? I’ve spent the last five years trying my best—”
“You can’t blame them, us, for wondering, Richard. For being concerned—”
“If a son is like a father …” Aunt Louella murmured.
“Haven’t I done all I can to improve our lot in life? Your lot in life?” He ran his fingers through his hair, angered as much by the implication of his aunt’s comment as by the basic truth, and the fear, deep inside, that they could be right. “Blast it all, is that what this is about? Is this what has you worried?”
“No.” Emma slanted a quelling look at her sisters. “We know you would never do that. How ever—”
“We want to know about the money, Richard.” Marianne’s firm gaze pinned his.
Emma drew a deep breath. “We want to know where you get it.”
“Although it’s scarcely a significant amount,” Jocelyn muttered.
The Husband List Page 9
