Lord Avery's Legacy

by Allison Lane

  Laughing partly in jubilation and partly in relief at escaping Penelope’s scold, he set her away. “Easy, Allie. It’s good to see you, too, but am I permitted to get a word in edgewise?”

  Alice giggled. “Of course. It was just the shock of seeing you here. And so tall. I have to look up to you now. Doesn’t he look like Papa, Penny?”

  “That he does, more so every year. And that is fitting, for you take after your mother.”

  “I wish I could remember her,” said Alice with a sigh. “But this is no time to be maudlin. When did you get back, Michael?”

  “Barely half an hour ago. Where were you?”

  “In the village.” She retrieved her bonnet and a small package. “The pins you needed, Penny. And you’ll never guess who I met.”

  “Who?” Michael smiled indulgently at his sister.

  “Terrence Avery. It must be three years since he last spent long break here.”

  “But how could he not return home with his father so recently gone?” asked Penelope gently.

  “Of course.” Alice blushed. “How stupid of me. Come along, Michael. Let’s leave Penny to finish her work. You won’t believe what Ozzie was doing last week...”

  Penelope watched her half siblings leave. Much as she loved them, she would never be as close to them as they were to each other.

  Terrence’s return boded ill, but perhaps he was cut from a different cloth than his father. Never had a death been so welcome, though the thought was unchristian, at best. But the late viscount’s demise had removed one of her more pressing problems. Too bad fate had replaced it. Michael’s debt already weighed down her shoulders. Despite fifteen years of juggling the demands of their small estate, the burden never grew easier. So many things could destroy them – another rise in prices, bad weather, accident, disease, fire...

  Enough! She rarely felt sorry for herself, but today she could not help it. So much responsibility left her weary.

  It had started at age twelve when her stepmother died in childbirth. Though they had never been close, the woman had been kind to her, taking her on outings, overseeing her education, and even supporting her on those occasions when her father’s indifference turned to antagonism. Walter Wingrave had dearly loved his second wife, falling into a prolonged melancholy after her death that even his long-awaited heir failed to mitigate. Weeks would pass between visits to his children. Penelope did not mind on her own account, but he had previously doted on Alice, who was too young to understand the change.

  So she had been left to look after Alice and the newborn Michael. The servants helped, of course, but even in those days the Wingraves had had a limited staff. Her only rewards were an absentminded thank you when Walter eventually questioned the nursery arrangements and the trust implied in his will, which appointed her as their guardian.

  When Walter’s failing health had removed his last interest in worldly affairs, she’d assumed control of the estate, appalled to discover that it was both run-down and heavily mortgaged. She’d fired their hidebound steward and initiated the changes that would eventually produce a comfortable income.

  Walter’s death had led to her biggest battle – convincing a skeptical banker that she was an acceptable steward. The bank could have called in the loan or insisted that she hire a man to oversee operations. Either action would have cost them the estate. There was no money for additional help. But she had won the day, for the books showed an improving financial picture in the years she had run Winter House.

  Now she faced a new challenge. Their resources would not cover a hundred-pound gaming debt. How was she to replace the money before the next payment was due?

  * * * *

  Lord Carrington restlessly paced the terrace at Bridgeport Abbey, his eyes fixed on the flagstones at his feet instead of the spectacular view.

  What was he doing here?

  Escaping. And not just from his mother’s house party, which surely must have died a natural death by now.

  He grimaced, rejecting every one of his supposed reasons for this unannounced visit. Running away did not accord with his position in the world, but that was exactly what he had done. Why else was he intruding on his closest friend barely two months after the man’s wedding? There were plenty of other places he could have gone – London, Brighton, any of half-a-dozen estates he had not visited in over a year, his ward’s estate, the homes of friends who were not in need of privacy. Yet he had come here, needing a holiday from both business and matchmaking.

  Not that Mark had questioned his arrival. Richard had a standing invitation from both the earl and the new countess, but it was gauche to arrive at this time. Despite their professed pleasure in his company, he felt decidedly de trop. And more than a little envious. They were so very much in love.

  Elaine was already expecting, so excited that she discussed her condition freely, even around Mark’s six-year-old daughter. Worse, the Bridgeports matched wits in a continuing quotation game that left Richard feeling ignorant and stupid, for he could identify less than half of the lines that they threw at each other. Nor could he follow the silent conversations that arose from the uncited surrounding text and brought a blush to Elaine’s cheeks or a rakish sparkle to Mark’s eyes. Even young Helen could cite facts Richard did not know. It was all rather lowering, more so when he realized that despite being Mark’s closest friend for five-and-twenty years, he was acquainted with only one facet of the total man. Before his marriage, Mark had been a notorious libertine and renowned Corinthian. Who would have believed that he was also intimately familiar with poetry and philosophy?

  But Richard was not ready to return home. His mother would never condemn his unannounced departure, but she would be disappointed. And how could he explain his objections? His ideas were changing, but even he was not yet sure how. He had always wanted a wife who could look past the marquessate and see the man beneath the title, a wife who cared for more than social position, a wife who was also a friend. But now he wanted more – a wife whose eyes would glow with pleasure, who could share conversation or silence in equal comfort. After a fortnight at Bridgeport Abbey, he yearned for the love that Mark enjoyed. Yet he had no idea how to find it. He could be peg-legged, squint-eyed, and mad without affecting girls’ fawning flirtatiousness and simpering smiles.

  And time was running out. He must settle the succession. He had worked too hard at building his fortune to allow his holdings to fall into the hands of a fribble who would dissipate every penny until the marquessate was flirting with indebtedness as it had done under most of the previous lords. No one currently in the line of succession possessed the intelligence and backbone to manage his holdings – as he knew all too well; he’d already rescued most of them from ineptitude, some more than once.

  Mark had helped him acquire his new wealth by allowing him to share the services of his extraordinary man of business, a financial wizard who had multiplied his fortune many times over. Richard would do nothing to jeopardize those gains. To increase the odds that his heir would be competent, his wife must be both intelligent and strong-willed. Only love would prevent such a one from becoming a managing harridan.

  “Damnation!” he muttered as a horseman dressed in the maroon and gray Carrington livery pounded up the drive. Who needed help now?

  His position as head of the Avery family was more of a bother than an honor. He had acceded to the title at age fifteen, his determination and maturity standing out in a family long cursed with weak wills and poor judgment. Averys muddled through life from crisis to crisis, averting disaster only by soliciting outside help – which he had provided for eighteen years now. At first it had felt odd being consulted by uncles and cousins who were thirty or forty years his senior, but it did not take long to realize that he had inherited the only backbone in the family. He had addressed many crises over the years, from financial embarrassments and unsuitable attachments to personal conflicts, potential scandals, and estate problems. He had discharged dishonest servants, introduced
girls and boys to society, patched up a longstanding quarrel, and bought colors for three young cousins. What would it be this time?

  Mark brought the letter outside ten minutes later. “Bad news?” he asked as Richard groaned.

  “It could be worse. It’s from my Aunt Mathilda.”

  “Have I met her?”

  “I doubt it. I’ve not seen her myself in several years. Uncle Gareth died back in May, naming me guardian for his two children and trustee for the estate until Terrence is five-and-twenty.”

  Mark grimaced. “How old is the lad now?”

  “Twenty. At least the estate will be solvent. Gareth was the wealthiest of my father’s second cousins, and my aunt had a substantial dowry. I should have gone there instead of here, I suppose, but I was not in the mood to cope with her histrionics. Not after wasting a month on Reggie’s love life.” His cousin Reggie was the greenest lad he’d ever introduced to society. The boy’s father had contrived urgent business elsewhere to avoid the job himself, then thrown a fit over the results.

  Mark chuckled.

  He glared. “You wouldn’t laugh if you had been the one to face Uncle George with the news that you supported his son’s desire to marry a chit who had not even made her bows to society and whose guardian was half a step in front of the tipstaffs.”

  “Did you mention that you approved it to prevent the girl from compromising you?”

  “Of course not! And I would never have allowed her to do so, in any case. But all is now well. Her guardian has accepted a governorship in the Indies, which will take care of his financial problems. And knowing his conniving wife won’t see London for a few years pleases me no end. Reggie will wed at Christmas and live on Uncle George’s estate, where he is unlikely to get into trouble. At least I will no longer have to bear-lead him in town. I never saw a greener cub.”

  “Nor I. So what does the excitable Aunt Mathilda want?”

  “More cousin trouble. Terrence has fallen into the clutches of an unscrupulous seductress.”

  “Not another one!”

  “Fortune hunters lie rather thick on the ground just now,” he agreed. “And Terrence has enough blunt to attract them. I have a very bad feeling about this.”

  “You had best make haste, then,” urged Mark, frowning. “I’ve never known one of your feelings to fail.”

  He nodded. All his life, he had exhibited an uncanny sense of trouble, both for himself and for his closest friends. It had saved him from harm when he balked at accompanying a group to Richmond – the subsequent carriage accident had badly injured all passengers. It had proven prescient the day Mark’s daughter escaped her governess. Mark had immediately dispatched several search parties, finding Helen in a collapsed cave before she succumbed to her injuries. Now the feeling was back.

  Mark returned indoors. Frowning, Richard reread the missive. Were his aunt’s fears exaggerated? Despite her confused agitation, her terror seemed genuine, but she included few details.

  You must help! she had scrawled untidily. Poor Terrence has succumbed to the blandishments of an unscrupulous seductress and believes himself in love. All nonsense, of course, but those unspeakable farm girls will stoop to anything to get their hands on his inheritance. They’ve nothing of their own. Come soon! I fear he will elope, for he claims that I am plotting against him.

  There was much more, but he set the recrossed page aside. He despised fortune hunters. Instead of the classics, schools should teach young men the dangers lurking behind the seductive smiles and other wiles that women inevitably employed to mask their plots. There ought to be a law against allowing young cubs into mixed company without intensive training in how to recognize traps. Not one of them was capable of rational thought when they first arrived in town. Poor Terrence. The lad was at least as green as Reggie.

  Pray God he would be in time to stop the scheming jade!

  Resigned to spending the rest of his life rescuing incompetent relatives from their own unwitting mistakes, he strode into the Abbey, his mind already outlining plans – his secretary must join him to help check the books; he would need his own horses, for Gareth Avery had never been complimented on his stables; a wardrobe suitable for a house in mourning…

  Half an hour later, the messenger returned to Carrington Castle, a sheaf of orders tucked into his pocket.

  Chapter Two

  Richard tooled his curricle along the lane that led to Tallgrove Manor, if that ostler had his directions straight, which he thought highly unlikely. Nothing had gone right for days.

  He had left Bridgeport Abbey at dawn, expecting to arrive at Tallgrove shortly after dusk. He would not have attempted to make the journey in a single day in winter, of course, but August days were long, and Mathilda’s demands were urgent.

  So much for planning.

  A rainstorm had blown up from nowhere, stranding him at a derelict inn. Even worse, his baggage coach was far behind, so he had no change of clothes or even a razor. After enduring two days of a damp, lumpy bed, nearly inedible food, and the company of what he suspected was a band of cutthroats, he left. But the roads were in pitiful condition. Even the turnpikes were rutted, while country lanes remained nearly impassable. He had run into further delay when one of his horses cast a shoe.

  What abominable timing! His groom was with the baggage coach, for Richard had wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Leading the animal to the next inn and finding a new team had taken nearly four hours, and the only horses available were the worst he had driven in years – slow, unmatched, and nearly unresponsive. If the horses were so bad, could he trust the ostler’s directions?

  Memories had taunted him as he slogged through the mud – his mother’s admonitions; the loneliness inherent in being the sole arbiter of family problems; Mark and Elaine locked in each other’s arms the moment they thought he was gone; female voices proclaiming him cold, harsh, and solemn. But he wasn’t! And his own inconsistency bedeviled him as well. Though he condemned the girls’ temerity in criticizing a lord, he derided toadeaters.

  His head swirled.

  He wrested his thoughts back to Tallgrove. What calamity lurked there? His premonition had grown with each delay until this sojourn loomed as the pivotal point of his life. Only life-threatening situations had triggered this feeling in the past, a fact that had lodged his heart in his throat since the summons arrived.

  He negotiated a sharp corner, grimacing at the unkempt hedgerows that blocked any view of the countryside. Six feet tall, they narrowed the lane until two carriages could not pass in many places. He preferred the open vistas around Carrington Cast—

  “Bloody hell!”

  In sudden panic, he jerked the miserable team hard enough to risk ditching his favorite curricle, averting that disaster only because their tough mouths made them slow to respond. But he was unable to escape an accident. The peasant woman he had spotted too late flew into the ditch, a splash of water and crash of breaking pottery nearly drowning her scream.

  “No!”

  Snubbing the ribbons, he leaped to the ground, some of his panic subsiding when she tried to rise. But his apology froze on his tongue.

  “Infernal, cow-handed fool,” she muttered to herself as her struggles sank her deeper into the mire. “Why can’t gentlemen pay attention to what they are doing? If he is in such a hurry, he should have stayed on the turnpike.”

  He suppressed his temper, for she was not really addressing him. “I was paying attention, but I hardly expected to find someone walking down the middle of the lane,” he growled in his own defense, grabbing her arm to help her out of the ditch. The mud was reluctant to release its hostage. When it finally surrendered to his superior force, she slammed against him, nearly knocking him down.

  “Thank you – I think.” She wrung out her dripping mobcap, using its cleanest edge to wipe her face. “As to paying attention, honesty compels me to point out that you were driving far too fast down the wrong side of the road.”

  He barely heard he
r. Every inch of his body had registered her shape. Young. Firm. Voluptuous. He could still feel the impact of nipples peaked from cold water. His gaze caught on her torn bodice where her breasts fought to burst free of the tight gown. Heat exploded through his loins. He had encountered such a bosom once before. A wave of longing wafted him into the past…

  A hand suddenly flashed up to slap his face. Appalled, he realized that he had unconsciously caressed one glorious bud, brushing his palm wonderingly over its tip.

  “My God!” he choked, rapidly backing several paces. “I—”

  “Lecher!” she snapped, following him across the lane. “Cad! Unprincipled rogue!” She accompanied each word by a blow to his shoulders with her sodden cap.

  He struggled to breathe, shocked into speechlessness by his unwarranted conduct. He had never assaulted a woman. Even in his heedless youth he would not have dreamed of such an uninvited advance. His head swirling in chagrin, he took in her appearance.

  She was tall – nearly his own height – and slender, which only emphasized her generous breasts. Her dripping gown clung to long legs and rounded hips, sending a new wave of unaccustomed lust rampaging into his loins. Flaming hair encompassing shades from chestnut through copper to antique gold escaped a prim knot to frame her head in a nebulous halo. More than her bosom looked familiar. He had seen that combination of sapphire eyes and red hair before, though these highlighted a freckled oval rather than a porcelain heart. And she neither simpered nor flirted. Every muscle quivered in fury as she abused his character, his conduct, and his ancestry.

  Not until he tripped over his curricle did he overcome his vocal paralysis. “Enough, ma’am!” he declared in his Voice of Authority – the one that never failed to command respect from inferiors. “It was only a touch, and unintentional at that. I believe you have amply avenged any insult. Perhaps in future you will walk on the verge and save yourself some trouble.”

  She ignored his tone. “Are you blind? I was on the verge! You were driving down the wrong side!” She whacked him again.