May reached for her throat, uncertain of what to do.
What could it mean for him to come here? This was most unexpected. She rushed a brush through her hair, despairing at the stray curls already pulling free from the pins, a regular condition only worsened by the rainy weather.
There’d be no time to change her damp gown. Aunt Winnie would need assistance preparing for company.
May glanced out the window one last time and watched a liveried footman with a dark umbrella in hand open the carriage door with measured purpose. She stiffened her spine—this would just have to be endured—and set off downstairs in search of her aunt.
Chapter 3
The rains had died away and the heavy clouds parted just enough to allow a sparkling ray of sunlight to pass through to the city. That moment, the first break in a storm, usually calmed May’s heart. It was in that magical instant she felt closest to the mother and father who were as elusive as the sunlight.
Today, May could only spare a wistful glance to the sky from the parlor window. The storm, it seemed, hadn’t truly passed but only moved inside.
Their guest paced the length of the parlor. Dressed in gray breeches with a long black coat fashioned from broadcloth, his heavy body filled the room. He hadn’t arrived alone, either.
Uncle Sires, the eighth Earl of Redfield, had brought with him a stranger. Mr. Tumblestone, a finely dressed gentleman as portly as Aunt Winnie’s lazy tomcat and nearly as old as her uncle, smiled fondly on May while he was presented to her. He took her hand in his and pressed his rather large set of lips to her gloved knuckles.
With introductions out of the way, family members inquired after, and tea sent for, Uncle Sires took to strolling about the parlor again while Mr. Tumblestone settled into a tapestry-covered seat. Aunt Winnie, panting from too much excitement, allowed May to assist her to her favorite chair near the fire.
Her uncle’s sharp gaze missed nothing. His frown lengthened as he took notice of Winnie’s weakened condition. Nothing appeared to please him, in fact. He paused to inspect a silver four-stemmed candleholder set on the mantel. He lifted the piece, turning it in his hand. The expensive wax candles had been burned down all the way to their nubs. Though the silver was polished, the cheaply made candleholder was dented from years of use in a string of households. He wiggled a stem. May held her breath, praying the brittle metal wouldn’t snap under the force of his hand.
He sniffed—a haughty sound—and set the candleholder down. His roaming gaze surveyed the women while Portia, the housekeeper, carried in a tea tray piled with an assortment of sweetmeats, cookies, and toast.
“Thank you,” May said with a kind smile. The unexpected guests had sent Portia into a flurry of activity in the kitchen. Uncle Sires’ arrival, so near to the approaching dinner hour, made one wonder not only if he expected to be fed, but also if he expected to be housed for the night. And not just him.
There was that stranger, Mr. Tumblestone, with him.
“So this is the cottage you wrote to me about,” Uncle Sires said, raking the room with his gaze. The parlor had always felt cozy. Today, under the cloud of her uncle’s glower, it merely felt impossibly small, inadequate.
“You wrote to your uncle?” Aunt Winnie inclined her head toward May. She sounded genuinely baffled. “Why ever didn’t you tell me?” Winnie’s surprise wasn’t unfounded. May never wrote her uncle without her aunt’s prodding.
“I didn’t wish to worry you, Aunt Winnie,” May said and then hesitated. Mr. Tumblestone had leaned forward in his chair—a chair conveniently positioned next to May’s—and appeared far too keen on listening to what promised to be a painfully private family matter.
For once Uncle Sires seemed to approve of her reluctance. “I see my niece is quite the gardener. If I recall properly, she does have an uncommon flare with roses.” He pointed to a small plot just outside the parlor window.
May had tried to encourage a collection of roses to climb an arbor in their tiny garden, allowing bushes of pale pink cabbage roses to intermingle with the white and pale yellow Albas. Her efforts created a tangle of vines heavy with blooms. The flowers were suitable for flower arrangements. They were not, not by any stretch of the imagination, a garden showpiece.
“Perhaps you would like to take a closer look.” In typical Uncle Sires form, the request was presented like a royal command.
Mr. Tumblestone fidgeted nervously for a moment. Drawing his wide lips into a closed-mouthed smile, he directed the strange expression at May and then upon Aunt Winnie. “I think I would enjoy inspecting the blooms.” His smile returned to May, and his watery gaze lingered on her body for several uncomfortable moments. “I am a great lover of beauty.”
He stood then, gave Uncle Sires a knowing nod, and excused himself to go wander outside. May breathed a sigh of relief when the parlor door closed behind him. Something about his manner, like a man starving for sustenance, put her nerves on edge.
“Someone will explain,” Aunt Winnie demanded. Though her heart might be growing weak, her resolve was as strong as ever. “Why would you have correspondences with Sires without my knowledge? And why, Sires, did you bring this man into my house?”
May rushed to her aunt’s side. She crouched down beside the chair, positioning herself between her uncle and Winnie with the hopes of shielding her aunt from hearing anything too upsetting. Winnie placed her hand in May’s. Her aging skin felt thinner than the finest muslin.
“I only meant to protect you,” May said when Uncle Sires opened his mouth to speak. “You must understand that.” May could not imagine a world without Aunt Winnie. She’d do anything to protect the sole person whose love persisted as a sunny constant in her life.
She turned to her uncle. His scowl deepened when their eyes met. “There was no need for you to come all this way over a trifling,” she said.
“Hush, May.” Aunt Winnie’s gentle voice belied the rebuke. She intended to be included in the discussion. The only clue of her aunt’s budding exasperation were the light blotches of color appearing low on her throat. “Sires, you may speak.”
“The child wrote to me asking for money.” Very rarely did Uncle Sires use May’s name. To him, regardless of her age she was forever the child, spoken with a healthy dose of sulfur.
“Is this true?” Aunt Winnie asked of May. “Did something happen to your parents’ funds?”
“The child’s parents are dead,” Uncle Sires announced before May could think of how to explain the situation without worrying her aunt.
Winnie gasped at the horrible news and clutched May’s hand.
“They are not dead,” May said. Her voice sounded shrill like a petulant youth’s. She cleared her throat. “They may not have written for many years, Uncle. Beyond that, there is no evidence that anything is amiss.”
“The child understandably refuses to accept the truth. They were last seen entering a dangerous jungle in South America seven years and five months ago. In light of that and the painful fact no one since saw them leave, I petitioned the courts to dispense with the legal matter of declaring them dead.”
Her aunt squeezed May’s hand, pinching it—a subtle reminder for May to hold her temper.
“I do not understand, Sires,” Winnie said. Her weary gaze hardened. “What does this have to do with May’s request for money? Her parents’ funds should still provide her with a sufficient income.”
“Uncle Sires had the courts seize control of the money, Aunt.” May could not keep the anger from her voice.
Nor could Winnie. “What is the meaning of this?”
“As you know the child’s mother—”
“Our youngest sister, Viola,” Winnie corrected.
“Yes, yes. Our grandmother’s inheritance went solely into Viola’s name. Absent a will, there are questions surrounding the inheritance. I have asked the courts to take control of the funds until the questions are resolved.”
“And who, besides May, do you believe is entitled to
Viola’s fortune?”
“I am, of course. As head of this family, it is only right that I should control the purse strings. A romantic fool, our grandmother, to bestow a fortune to an errant granddaughter. Viola besmirched the family name by marrying that gypsy bastard against my wishes. What assurances do I have that this child won’t act in the same manner? With the promise of a fortune, there is many a blackguard who’d woo the child into some scandalous marriage with false proclamations of love.”
“May would never fall for such trickery.” Aunt Winnie freed her hand from May’s and rose. “She has a level-head on her shoulders. She economizes with that money and has never sought to spend frivolously, unless for my benefit.” She closed the distance between Sires and herself, approaching like an ancient dragon. Her careful steps lent her a rare grace. Winnie normally leaned heavily on a cane or May’s arm. May knew well how it took all her aunt’s concentration to walk unassisted.
She feared the exertion would prove too great a strain on Winnie’s heart.
“Now, Winnie.” Sires retreated a step. “I only have the family’s best interests at heart—even the child’s.”
“Do you? And what did you intend her to do without access to her parents’ money? Will you have her grovel for crumbs? She’s a proud woman. She shouldn’t have to beg.”
“No, no. I would never allow that.” Sires retreated another step.
“And what of me? What did you expect would happen to me without May’s care? I have never possessed a fortune of my own. Will I too be forced to beg?”
Sires stepped back again only to find he’d reached a wall. He sighed deeply and held his hands out in front of him, as if trying to hold Winnie back. “Listen, you know I would never hurt you. I miss you, in fact. I want you to come back to Redfield Abbey with me.” His gaze traversed the room. “And I want you to move into my home here in Bath—with me tonight.”
He had a house here in Bath? The bounder! They’d made no secret of the necessity to move from their London townhouse to Bath. Aunt Winnie had been more than forthcoming with him regarding her failing health. He knew and yet never offered to open up the family home to them?
May pinched her lips together and prayed for calm. Uncle Sires denied his own sister the luxury of his property out of hatred for May—and the sins of her father’s bastard birth. A thousand times a bounder, he was.
“Please, Winnie. Let me see to your care.” His voice slid as smooth as honey off his deceitful tongue. He lowered his hands, no longer trying to hold his sister back but lure her closer.
“But what is to become of May?” Aunt Winnie asked. She gave a nervous glance over her shoulder to where May stood, still half in shock.
“Why, she’ll marry, of course.”
“Marry? But she has no prospects, no suitors. She’s not had the opportunity to pursue that avenue.” Tears appeared in Aunt Winnie’s eyes. Her button nose and round cheeks bloomed a bright red. “She’s spent nearly every waking hour taking care of me. You worry she’ll make a hasty marriage, and then you ask her to do just that?”
“But she must marry,” he said as if May wasn’t in the room or, possibly, too brainless to understand. “Look at her. She’s nearly on the shelf. Before our foolish sister ran off with that crazed gypsy and abandoned her child into our care, she dreamed of the day her babe would marry. Besides, the child’s too headstrong to sink gracefully into the background as you have done, dear Winnie. She needs a man with an iron will to care for her.”
He gave a meaningful glance out the parlor window to where the graying Mr. Tumblestone was making a show of admiring May’s vibrant yellow and pale pink roses.
May could see it in her uncle’s eyes then. The man truly believed he was doing her a great kindness. He smiled as he spoke. “In fact, I have already taken it upon myself to select a suitable gentleman for precisely that task.”
* * * *
“He means to marry you off to a decrepit old man?” Lady Iona’s ice blue eyes couldn’t possibly open any wider.
“I don’t believe he is decrepit.” Though his skin appeared as fragile as Aunt Winnie’s and twice as mottled with unusually shaped liver-colored moles, he moved with the energy of a man half his age.
May swallowed hard, remembering the intimate way Mr. Tumblestone leered at her upon his departure, his hungry gaze not reaching her eyes, his cod-shaped lips moistening. “He is most certainly old,” May whispered.
Iona linked arms with May as they continued to promenade around the interior of the Pump Room, tilting their heads in greeting to acquaintances. Aunt Winnie sat on a cushioned bench near the grand fountain that circulated the sulfur waters prescribed by doctors as a curative for just about every ailment.
The water smelled sour, not much different than eggs left sitting in the sun for too long. Despite her aunt’s constant persuasions, May refused to taste a sip.
Their morning schedule rarely varied. They’d arrive at the Pump Room at eight in the morning, early enough to avoid the thickest crowds, yet late enough to mingle with some of the most influential members of society, which included Iona and several of her unmarried sisters. Iona’s family, led by the respected Duke of Newbury, were all the rage this season, being the highest ranking family to choose Bath over the more popular summer destinations of Brighton or Scotland.
Before anything else, May would first help her aunt to a comfortable bench and then fetch three glasses of the water, the generally prescribed number to drink a day. Winnie took her time sipping the foul liquid while speaking with friends from her youth. When she had drained the glasses, May would offer her arm as support and the two women would take a turn through the marble interior of the Pump Room, spending more time visiting with members of the ton than getting any sort of vigorous exercise.
This morning when May offered her arm, Aunt Winnie had declined. She claimed she wished to save her energies for the evening’s fancy ball at the Upper Rooms. May believed otherwise. Her uncle’s surprise appearance had upset Winnie. She appeared paler than usual, her eyes hazy.
It was Aunt Winnie who’d suggested May stroll with Lady Iona in her stead. May accepted the suggestion gratefully, desperate for a private moment with her closest friend.
She related the whole story to Iona, including how she’d been too shocked to object, too shocked to do anything but promise to accompany her uncle and Mr. Tumblestone to chapel that afternoon and then stroll along Pulteney Street.
“You cannot agree to this marriage. It is barbaric.” Iona’s hold on May’s arm tightened. Whenever matters became sticky, Iona would cling to the nearest female object. May rather appreciated the close contact.
“I don’t have many options. Uncle Sires has made quite certain of that by taking my parents’ money away. He did relent and agree to pay the past three months’ rent to the viscount, claiming it was the only proper thing to do.”
May had lain awake in bed the night before, trying to think of another course of action. Although overdue rents would be paid, Uncle Sires had been most adamant about not paying any future bills. A woman without a shilling to her name didn’t have many options.
“I could seek a position as a lady’s companion or governess if I can convince Aunt Winnie to go against her brother’s wishes and provide me with a reference.”
“Oh no, you mustn’t do that!” Iona squeezed May’s arm so tightly May’s fingers turned numb. “You mustn’t take a position or marry or do anything rash that will take you away from me! Perhaps Papa—”
A burgundy-smooth voice interrupted. “I beg your pardon, ladies.”
Iona was the first to turn to greet the speaker. “My lord.” A graceful smile froze on her lips. A deep red blush spread all the way up to the roots of her hair.
Disquieted by her friend’s reaction, May turned around. “My lord,” she gasped.
Viscount Evers looked as fierce as the devil, dressed in a black high-collared, cut-away short coat. His cream vest wasn’t fully buttoned, a co
mmon style among the wildest rakes. His tan trousers were loose-fitted, casual. His sharp features and jade-colored gaze bore down on her in a most oppressive manner. Why ever would he address her—here—in public? Would he call her out for yesterday’s shocking behavior?
May took a step back, as if retreat could stave off trouble. It wasn’t so much herself she was worried about. Her life was nothing—meaningless. Iona, dear precious, always proper Iona, would be in a world of trouble if her father, the duke, ever learned about their most improper unescorted visit to the viscount’s home. “Please, my lord,” May said, lowering her voice. She was prepared to play the part of withering female and eat a king’s portion of humble pie to safeguard her friend’s reputation.
She didn’t get the chance.
As if trying to prove her uncle’s belief that there was something innately unacceptable about her, her foot slipped. A small puddle of water spilt by some careless drinker made the marble floor under May’s feet slick. Her foot shot out from under her and before she could catch herself, the toe of her slipper became entangled within the folds of her gown’s long skirt. May pitched forward and fully expected to humiliate herself in front of the utterly grim Viscount Evers.
Time slowed. She watched as he stepped forward and spread his arms like a lover greeting some long lost key to his heart. He caught her, his gloved hands curling delightfully around her shoulders in an attempt to save her.
He teetered, his fingers digging into her skin as he struggled to gain his faltering balance. His injured leg could barely support his own weight much less hold up against a clumsy cow such as herself. How nobly stupid of him to rush to her rescue.
Not until that moment did May realize he wasn’t very tall. He was much taller than most women, yes. But he didn’t tower over her like some men, which at the moment was probably a very good thing. Many a time her aunt had swayed, just as the viscount swayed now—a fall imminent. She had never allowed her aunt to fall, and since the viscount was so doggedly determined to save her, May planted her feet and used her strength to help steady him.
The Sweet and Spicy Regency Collection Page 3
