by Amelia Smith
Scandal's Heiress
A Regency Romance
by
Amelia Smith
Scandal’s Heiress
by Amelia Smith
Copyright © 2013 Amelia Smith
published at Smashwords
Cover Designed by the author
ISBN 10: 1-941334-00-8
ISBN13: 978-1-941334-00-3
http://www.ameliasmith.net
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Chapter One: After Trafalagar
Chapter Two: The Whistler
Chapter 3: The Storm
Chapter 4: Night
Chapter 5: Sailing On
Chapter 6: England
Chapter 7: Windcastle House
Chapter 8: The Funeral
Chapter 9: Grandmother Miller's Story
Chapter 10: Georgiana's Soiree
Chapter 11: A Ride in the Park
Chapter 12: Family Matters
Chapter 13: The Ball
Chapter 14: A Journey
Chapter 15: Home
Chapter 16: Reckonings
Chapter 17: Declarations
Epilogue: A Wedding
Author's Note
Chapter One: After Trafalagar
Gibraltar, 28 October 1805
“George! George!” Hyacinth called. How could he? He should know better than to run away like that. She ought to have taught him better.
Out on the bay, ships limped in, their sails black with soot, drenched with rain and saltwater. Broken spars littered their decks. The Belleisle had brought news of the victory a few days before, but Admiral Nelson had fallen, so any celebration was tempered with mourning. It was like a pole star had gone out. Other women paced the shore, too, hoping to see a familiar face among the sailors.
“George!” Hyacinth shouted again, as one of the Victory's boats approached. A wisp of her hair escaped its bonnet, curling in the moist air. She tucked it back in resolutely.
“Hallo, Miss,” one of the sailors called. His shipmates hooted and whistled. “My name’s George!”
“Not you!” Hyacinth said. The man was wounded. He shouldn't be flirting.
“I’m looking for a boy,” she clarified. “He’s only ten years old, but tall, with black hair. He wouldn’t be part of the ship’s regular crew.”
The sailors muttered among themselves as they lifted their wounded shipmate onto the sand, wincing even as he winked at her. Hyacinth Grey's young half-brother, George, had stolen away on a ship which was carrying dispatches just as soon as he'd gotten wind of the coming battle. She had tried to help him with his studies, and to stand in for his mother as well as she could, but it hadn't been enough. Their father, Captain Grey, wouldn't be able to bear losing him, not after losing Hyacinth's mother, his wife and the love of his life, then losing the mistress who had consoled him, too. Hyacinth looked at the sailors, hoping they would have some news.
“Aye,” one of them said after a moment. “He made a fine powder monkey.”
A powder monkey. Hyacinth took a deep breath. Captain Grey would have his head. “Is he alive?” she asked.
“I believe so, Miss.”
“Don’t you worry, Miss,” said another sailor, “he’ll be along in good time.”
“Thank you,” Hyacinth said. “If you see him, tell him to report to Captain Grey immediately.”
“Aye aye,” the man called George grinned. “Could you not spare me a kiss and forget your young rapscallion?”
Hyacinth shook her head and walked away, back towards her father's offices. Then she turned to search the harbor one more time.
#
Thomas Pently, alias Smithson, sighted the rock of Gibraltar on the horizon, the starting point of the final leg of his journey, a journey he would rather not have made at all. Spent storm clouds stretched raggedly across the sky, showing streaks of the clear blue sky above. The sea churned, but they had a fair wind behind them at last, after days of being tossed hither and yon by a storm.
Thomas had negotiated passage with the captain of an Arab trader in Alexandria, and the man had agreed to set him down at Gibraltar. From there, he'd thought that it would be easy to arrange passage back to England, but now he wasn’t so sure. Dismasted ships crowded the bay. Perhaps he should sail on to Cadiz with the Arabs and avoid his countrymen a few weeks longer. He could creep his way up the Atlantic coast, one port at a time, stretching his journey.
No, it would be better to get it over with. Even in this dilapidated state, the Navy's fleet would be more efficient than rag-tag merchants. He had expected to find Gibraltar peaceful and well-ordered, but whatever had driven all these broken ships to shore was more than just a storm.
“What is this?” he asked one of the Arab sailors.
“This?” the man answered. “This… there has been a battle, a mighty sea battle.”
That didn’t tell him what he needed to know: Who had won? And when would he be able to find a ship to carry him onwards?
“That’s a Spanish ship,” another of the sailors said. “I have a cousin who sails with them.”
Thomas pulled out his telescope and clicked the cylinders together until they reached their full, functional length. He’d won the piece from a Turkish sailor in a card game. On the rare occasions when he sat at the gaming table, he played to win.
He could make out the names of the ships, French, Spanish, and English, too. All in all, it looked as though the British had emerged victorious, but the flags flying at half-mast worried him.
Half an hour later, Thomas strode along the sands with his bag slung over his shoulder. His trunks had gone ahead on an East Indiaman and were probably already waiting for him in London. Boat after boat nosed up onto the sands as he walked, discharging sailors and officers in every state of body and dress. Some looked hale and hearty, but most bore wounds in one degree or another.
“The Admiral…” he heard, muttered over and over again. Slowly, from the crossing currents of conversation around him, he gathered the news that Admiral Nelson had died in the battle and that his body would be returning to England to lie in state. Ships would sail north soon, then, whatever their current state. The challenge would be to get himself aboard one of them, when half the Navy no doubt wanted to sail home, too.
Thomas carried a letter of introduction addressed to Admiral Nelson, in case he’d needed passage with the Navy. One of the older men at the East India Company's factory in Trivandrum had penned it for him: now he would need to figure out who to deliver it to, or attempt to rely on his family name alone to leverage passage. That, or a reasonable amount of gold coin, would sway most captains.
Ahead, a young woman walked up the beach with unladylike vigor, soft brown curls clinging to the pale skin of her neck.
“George!” she screamed. Thomas saw her dart forward and grab her target, a dark-haired, powder-blackened boy. He looked as if he might break free, then grinned at the young woman.
“It was grand!” he said.
“Captain Grey won’t think so,” she chided. “Off we go!”
She wore a drab but respectable gown. A governess, Thomas concluded. Then she turned and he saw her face. Governesses had gotten prettier since he left England. He lingered where he stood, watching her lead the boy up Gibraltar's muddy streets.
#
Hyacinth tried not to show how relieved she was.
“Father will not be happy,” she said, once the oddly-dressed stranger was out of earshot.
“I don’t care,” George said, trying to worm out of her grip.
The man wasn't dressed like an Eng
lishman, certainly not like any kind of Navy man. He wore a long Indian blouse over vaguely English trousers. He wouldn’t be Indian, though, not with that fair hair and those piercing blue eyes. Maybe Turkish? Whatever nation he belonged to, he exuded arrogance, carrying himself aloft from the chaos of the battle's aftermath, as if he'd come through the storm unscathed. He had smirked at her, amused by her efforts to recapture George. She straightened her back and kept walking.
Then she noticed a brown patch on the side of George’s grimy shirt, a whisper of fresh blood turning it dark red in the middle.
“What is that?” Hyacinth said, turning him to face her.
“Nothing,” said George.
“Were you hit?”
George pulled away from her and started walking towards home. He seemed to be in good spirits, so it could hardly be life-threatening, but she wanted to see for herself.
“Is it serious?” Hyacinth asked him, tucking her hand into her skirts to stop herself from prying.
“It’s just a scratch, see?” George lifted up his shirt. The bandage was old and dirty, but the scab had broken, making it bleed again. Hyacinth couldn't help but imagine how much worse it might have been.
“I'm glad you're back in one piece,” she grumbled.
“I can’t wait to go to sea again!” George said. He was impossible.
#
Hyacinth waited in the parlor with her embroidery on her lap. Embroidery was her best ladylike accomplishment, but today she'd only managed to create a tangle of mismatched threads. At least it gave her something to do with her hands while she waited for her father to return, probably after dark. She was startled by the sound of the door opening, hours before he would usually come home. Captain Grey walked in without so much as removing his coat, shaking the raindrops from his beard and hat. He took out a sealed letter and passed it from hand to hand, worrying its edges.
“He's all right,” Hyacinth said quietly.
“George? Yes, I received your message an hour ago,” her father said distractedly.
“Shall I fetch him?” Hyacinth glanced towards the kitchen, anxious to get George’s scolding and punishment over with.
“No, no,” Captain Grey shook his head and looked out the window. “I have to speak with you first.”
“I know I should have kept closer watch on him,” Hyacinth apologized.
“I never should have asked you to mind the boy,” he said, as if not hearing her, “not for so long, not to be his governess and half a mother, when you needed a mother, too…”
“But he’s my brother, too,” Hyacinth protested. She hadn’t minded. At the very least, it had kept her occupied.
Her father slumped into an armchair and looked at his daughter, his only legitimate child. “You’ve done a fine job trying to raise the boy. I don’t know how he would have managed without you, or with Rosa’s people. He’s been happy here, happy enough, I thought, until this escapade. He’s a fine, spirited lad.”
“Too spirited?” Hyacinth said.
Captain Grey shrugged. “A boy should be spirited at his age. If we were home in England, I wouldn't worry, but…” He stared out the window, north, towards Spain.
“You’re not thinking of sending him to them now, are you?” Hyacinth said. George’s mother had been a kind, gentle woman, but she’d never expressed a wish to return to her family. Rosa had entrusted Hyacinth with looking after George, even if she'd never said so directly.
“No, certainly not. This last trouble has only steeled me to do what I ought to have done long ago. I want both of you as far from this war as possible.”
“To England? London?” Hyacinth had heard tales of London, dazzling tales told by Lady Hamilton and others. She had sometimes dreamed of going there herself, but hadn't wanted to abandon her father and brother.
Captain Grey nodded. His face was tense, lips pressed together. “I've arranged a place for George at a school in Portsmouth, Mr. Portnoy's school. There will be lots of other officers' sons there, born one side of the blanket or the other. He will manage, even if he doesn't like the idea at first.”
“But who will look after you?” Hyacinth asked.
“I have work to keep me busy,” he said, “and there will be plenty of it. I should be in the offices now, portioning out wood for repairs. I should have sent you to stay with Celia years ago, but when your mother died, I couldn’t bear to let you go, and when the yellow fever came again and Rosa…”
“It’s all right,” Hyacinth said. She had been to England once, the summer after her mother died. She’d been eleven years old and lost in grief. Aunt Celia had swept her into a world of pretty dresses and children’s parties. Her father was too wrapped up in mourning to care for her, or her grief at losing her mother, not until after he'd set up a new household, at another navy outpost. Aunt Celia never once mentioned Hyacinth's mother, all summer long.
Captain Grey brought Hyacinth back to Gibraltar, where he’d been stationed after Malta. Their housekeeper was a dark-skinned Andalusian woman, and Captain Grey's mistress. About a year after Hyacinth returned from England, George was born. Their home wasn’t the aristocratic world Celia would have introduced Hyacinth to, but Captain Grey tutored her in the evenings, teaching her Greek, Latin and mathematics. After George's mother died, Hyacinth taught George in his turn. She lived a quiet life, socializing with the few of the younger officers’ wives who lived at the garrison. She didn’t wish for more.
“I should have sent you to London years ago,” her father repeated. “I want you to have all of that… those things Celia always writes about, the dinners and socials and balls.” He waved his hand vaguely. “It’s not too late. If you could just look after George for the journey. I think he will do well at school. You’ve done an admirable job. I couldn’t write Greek half so well at his age, but he needs to be with other boys.”
“But then what will I do?” Hyacinth asked.
“What all young ladies do, I suppose,” her father said vaguely. “You're a lovely young woman, and I'm sure there will be gentlemen clever enough for you in London.”
Hyacinth shook her head. Surely, she was too awkward and provincial for any London gentlemen.
“And there’s also this,” her father said. He had been holding the letter close to his chest, but now he handed it to her. “It came almost a month ago.”
Hyacinth took the letter, embossed in an elegant hand which she didn't recognize.
“It’s from your grandmother’s solicitor,” he explained.
“But weren’t all her affairs settled by Lord Grey?” Her father’s mother had died only five years before, and her grandfather soon after. Her uncle had inherited their small estate, near Brighton.
“Your other grandmother, Mrs. Miller.”
“Oh.” Hyacinth's maternal grandmother had been the mistress of a wealthy earl, and was not at all respectable, though as successful as that sort of woman could ever expect to become. Violet Miller Grey, Hyacinth’s mother, had been illegitimate. That was why her parents had never mingled in high society, or even returned to England. The Navy wasn't as high in the instep as the haute ton.
“I believe there is a cottage near Windcastle, and some jewelry,” her father said. “They’re yours, now.”
“I see.”
“Your mother was a greater lady than any woman I’ve ever met,” he said, looking out the window. “Never mind what side of the blanket she was born on. If anyone tries to brush you with that old scandal, remember that you’re a gentleman’s daughter, and no matter what your grandmother was, you’re a lady.
“And now,” he said, “I’d best see to that young rapscallion. You’ll want to read the letter.”
He strode out towards the kitchen, leaving Hyacinth staring at the envelope, wondering about the grandmother she’d never known. She could hear voices from the kitchen, a calm rebuke, a muttered apology, then only the ordinary prattle of the housekeeper and Maria, her maid, preparing supper.
Hyacint
h cracked the seal and unfolded the letter, smoothing it on the table before her.
Dear Miss Grey,
I extend my heartfelt condolences on the loss of your grandmother. She was a friend as well as an esteemed client and will be sorely missed.
Mrs. Miller left nearly all of her property to you, apart from a few small bequests. This includes a manor house near the Welsh border, some ten thousand in stocks and funds, and a collection of valuable jewelry. They are to be yours until you marry, at which point you will become trustee of the estate until your own daughter, should you have one, comes of age. She wished for me to relay the details of these matters to you directly, in person, but as you are overseas, I feel that you should know the general situation before you undertake the long journey home. She also asked me to advise you to keep your own council on the subject of your inheritance, so as not to be swayed by any erstwhile friends who might seek to use it for their own ends.
In keeping with her wishes, I respectfully advise you to come to London and meet with me at your earliest convenience.
Yours Sincerely,
John Butler, Esq.
Lincoln’s Inn
London
#
Hyacinth sat back and read the letter again. Ten thousand? And a manor house? It was dizzying. She managed the house in Gibraltar quite comfortably on three hundred a year. She doubted that her father had ever had ten thousand pounds of his own together in one place. She hoped that her grandmother's warnings were unnecessary. She had always been sensible with money. If she were a different sort of young lady, she might be tempted to spend it all on fripperies, but as it was, she wouldn't know what to do with it. She would certainly not yield it to any “erstwhile friends.” She must think of something to do with it, some purpose.
With George in school, and her father's household far away, she would have nothing to occupy her, but with her own means, she might accomplish something, but what?
She did not worry overly about a husband's influence. Even in the rocky outpost of Gibraltar, with very few eligible young ladies, the officers scarcely seemed to notice her. She attracted the occasional compliment, but no earnest suitors. She was plain, plainly dressed, and would be entirely unremarkable in the sophisticated society that Aunt Celia might introduce her to. What on earth would she do with herself in England?
