Lord Avery's Legacy

by Allison Lane

  “Even Alice and Michael?” His voice was skeptical.

  “Michael is cutting hornbeam today and clearing underbrush. Alice is helping our cook make preserves.” She saw shock in his eyes. “My indoor staff consists of Mrs. Peccles and Mary, the maid who let you in yesterday. I prefer to use our income to improve the estate.”

  “I was not about to rip you up, Miss Wingrave, but I must point out that you are young enough and vibrant enough to need a chaperon. Many dangers lurk in the world, waiting to pounce on the unwary. Ladies wandering about on their own are not safe.”

  “In London that may be true, but Exeter has never posed a problem – at least until you arrived.”

  “Truce, Miss Wingrave.”

  “Of course.” She shrugged. “Five years have passed since I last used a companion. No one minds.”

  They entered the cathedral close. “Magnificent,” he breathed, abandoning his inquisition.

  “You really are interested.” She had thought that he was using sight-seeing as an excuse to learn something to her detriment, an idea his fault-finding amply supported.

  “I have always admired cathedral architecture, and this one is unusual in that the twin towers form the transepts rather than the facade, so there is no crossing tower.”

  She nodded at his observation. “They may have been more traditionally located in the original structure, for they predate the rest by two centuries.”

  “Which accounts for the extensive use of blind arcading in the towers despite its absence in the nave.”

  “Precisely, though you will note that the pepper-pot roofs were a later addition.”

  “From repairs or did construction last into the fifteenth century?”

  “Repairs. The cathedral was completed by the mid-fourteenth.”

  Having established that they shared both knowledge and interest, they abandoned the battle and enjoyed the sights in amity. The Exeter cathedral was impressive, its exterior of gray Beer stone awash in flying buttresses, crocketed pinnacles, and castellated parapets. Penelope insisted that it contained too much decoration, for the western facade rose in windowed tiers, each level partially blocking the one above. But the interior took his breath away – three hundred feet of uninterrupted vaulting.

  “Truly magnificent,” he murmured as they paced the nave.

  She pointed out the cathedral’s treasures – the carved bishop’s throne and the oldest complete set of misericords in the country. The sun passed its zenith to hit the western windows, filling the nave with jeweled light that drew their attention to the minstrel’s gallery, where fourteen angels played medieval instruments.

  “Music is another of my loves,” he admitted. “Do you play?”

  “Very poorly. Our harpsichord needs new quills, but I’ve never had the money.”

  “So Alice is also unmusical.”

  “She plays no instrument, but unlike me, she has the voice of an angel.”

  “Are you saying you don’t sing?” He grinned, his eyes dancing with silver lights.

  “Do frogs sing? Or crows?”

  “Surely you are not that bad!”

  “I would demonstrate, but lightning would level the cathedral, and the city merchants would doubtless arrest me for malicious mischief when their customers fled in panic.”

  “Not if I joined you. They would be too busy saving themselves to notice.”

  She laughed. “Prudence thus begs that we allow others to entertain us. Or do you play an instrument?”

  “The pianoforte,” he admitted. “But not as well as I would like.”

  “Perhaps you should let your relatives fend for themselves for a while and spend some time practicing.”

  “Perhaps.”

  They returned to the White Hart, where he ordered a light repast. Over the meal they discussed books and ideas, discovering a wealth of common interests. She soon had to force herself to recall that he might be an enemy. She had been right about his lethal charm.

  “I’ve no idea how to keep a rein on Millicent,” he admitted once the conversation had drifted to their respective wards. “She is so adept at slipping away that I cannot be sure she is holding to her promise.”

  “What promise?”

  “She vowed to take a chaperon whenever she left the house.”

  “Was that before or after she last met Darksmith?”

  “After the last meeting I know about.”

  “Did she promise to remain with the chaperon?”

  He muttered curses under his breath. “Not in those words. How could I have missed that?”

  “You have little experience with young girls,” she said wryly. “I have raised both a girl and a boy. There is much similarity when it comes to mischief.”

  “Were you mischievous in your youth?”

  “I wasn’t young long enough to find out.” She averted her eyes to carefully pour another cup of tea.

  Just like me. He frowned at the thought, never having considered his life in those terms. But it was true. His childhood had been both short and lonely. His father was the weakest Avery he knew, eschewing all responsibility by wandering from property to property and vice to vice. His mother had nearly died in childbirth, needing ten years to fully recover. By then he was in school. In another five, he was in charge of everything.

  He watched Miss Wingrave drain her cup, struck by her matter-of-fact approach to her burdens. No hint of regret at sacrificing her youth and her future had marred her voice. Something shifted in his heart, raising a desire to replace her lost childhood. He should not have reminded her of that lack, but he had momentarily forgotten her history.

  “You are much different than I first thought,” he said to turn his thoughts away from dangerous ground.

  “Since your aunt’s ideas are so lurid, I’m not surprised.”

  “That is not what I meant. I’m afraid I judged you mostly on looks that day in the lane.”

  “You keep red-haired mistresses?” she asked, then blushed.

  “No, but you look so much like someone I once knew that I assigned you all her faults, especially when I learned you shared a name.”

  She noted his bitterness and laid aside her pique. “She hurt you.”

  He nodded. “She was a deceitful fortune hunter who nearly trapped me into marriage. I’ll never forgive her.”

  “But you should – for your own sake. Hatred will harm you more than she did. And it clouds your judgment. You are undoubtedly besieged by young ladies avid for your title, yet I would wager there are others who like you for yourself, but your cynicism prevents you from seeing them.”

  “I doubt it. My judgment is not that lacking.”

  “Except when it comes to me.”

  “Yes, well—” He had the grace to blush. “How do I know you are not another?”

  “You will accept it in time. I have too many responsibilities to consider marriage. Besides, I am too long in the tooth and too set in my ways to make an acceptable wife. But I can understand your suspicions. After years of abuse at the hands of your family, I can’t bring myself to trust you.”

  His eyes widened. “What an insult.”

  “Not at all. I merely apply past experience to present circumstances – exactly as you do.”

  “I meant the way you disparage yourself. Despite wearing caps and eschewing chaperons, you are nowhere near your dotage.”

  “What society do you frequent, my lord? I have been an ape-leader for years and am now too old, too tall, too boldly colored, too unrefined, and far too independent to ever make an acceptable wife.”

  “Fustian, Miss Wingrave. You are a beautiful woman and could be even more so with an improved wardrobe. You have a well-formed mind that makes conversation delightful. You—”

  “Save the flattery for London,” she interrupted. “You will never convince me to accept an appearance that has always cursed me. My father could not bear to look at me. Nor could Lord Avery, though I did not learn the reason until two years ago. Y
ou treat me like the light-skirt I resemble – and you are not the first to make that mistake. But I have come to terms with my limitations, and no longer repine. My life is full.”

  “For now, but what will you do when your siblings leave the nest?”

  “I will consider that when the time comes,” she answered repressively. “I have too many other problems to waste time worrying about it now.” But that was a lie, she admitted as they returned to his curricle. The question nagged at her with increasing frequency.

  Both her gig and his secretary were at the Golden Stag, but a surprise awaited them. Cawdry had discovered some leads and wished to track them down, so Richard offered her a place in his curricle. His groom would drive her gig back.

  The journey to Winter House passed more quickly than usual. She abandoned her melancholy thoughts. Conversation ranged from books to estate management to his witty but acidic description of the London Season. When he discovered that he need not censure his words for fear of upsetting female sensibilities, he relaxed, enjoying their discussion more than any since visiting Mark. It was a shock to remind himself that she had designs on his ward.

  Penelope was likewise basking in their repartee, finding the intellectual exchanges more stimulating than she had thought possible. Hitherto, the most erudite conversations she had enjoyed with men had been financial discussions with her banker and flirtations with Sir Francis. But the growing warmth in Carrington’s eyes reminded her too sharply of his earlier assaults. She could not trust him.

  “If this war ever ends, I would like to travel,” he admitted after comparing what they knew about ancient Rome. He sighed. “I doubt I can, though. There are too many demands on my time.”

  “You cannot solve everyone’s problems,” she countered. “Most people can manage if they must.”

  “Not Averys.”

  “Even Averys. This family curse you prate about is no more than laziness. It is easier to cry on another’s shoulder than to deal with problems for oneself. As long as you are willing to do all their work, why should they bother?”

  “You speak from ignorance.”

  “Hardly. By your own admission, most of them muddle along without falling into debt. If they suffered a genuine curse, they would not be able to avert disaster. But they do. Self-interest overcomes laziness every time.”

  “You mean—”

  She nodded. “Go ahead. Travel. See the world. Explore your own interests for a change. They won’t destroy themselves before you get back.”

  “Interesting theory, but I doubt it.”

  “Then here is another challenge for you, my lord. Open your mind and review the last ten family crises. Were their shortcomings real or had they merely chosen a different approach to life than you prefer? Did you take on their burdens out of necessity or because running their lives makes you feel omnipotent?”

  “Of all the uncalled-for remarks—” he sputtered. “Do you honestly believe they turn to me unless they absolutely have to? Most of them are mortified to admit their problems, placing walls between us that prevent any affection.”

  “Of course there is no affection,” she agreed. “They sound like lazy parasites. And you do nothing to change them. If your conduct here is any guide, I would wager that you appear on the scene, assign blame for everything that does not meet your standards, then take control into your own hands, treating the culprits like incompetent children in the process. They save face by declaring that they have no interest in pursuing such drudgery and are grateful for your assistance. But you are becoming overburdened. No man is capable of running the world single-handedly – as Napoleon must eventually discover.”

  “You dare to compare me to that monster—!”

  “This is not a subject we need to discuss,” she interrupted. “You already admitted that you do not confess faults easily. Wait until you calm down. Then think about it. Lending a hand during a crisis is commendable, but unless they learn to stand on their own feet, you have done them no lasting good.”

  He subsided. When he reached Winter House, he returned to the earlier subject. “Have you ever wished to travel?”

  “Of course. Rome. Athens. Even Egypt. But such ideas never move from the realm of fantasy to the sphere of dreams. Dreams have to be at least a little possible.”

  “And yours are not?”

  “I live in England, my lord, not Utopia. Travel requires money. There is no long-forgotten relative who will leave me a fortune, no fairy godmother to grant me three wishes, no pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. I can only work with what I have.”

  She collected her packages and bade him farewell, wishing her last outburst had never seen the light of day. Baring any part of herself to an enemy could only make his own plots easier to carry out. And recognizing her bleak future did her spirits no good.

  * * * *

  Richard alternately smiled and frowned all the way home. The day had almost been a time out of time, a period unconnected with any other part of his life. He shook his head, unable to explain how the cynical and reserved Marquess of Carrington had spent an entire afternoon in lighthearted conversation with a scheming jade – and enjoyed himself. It did not bear thinking on, so he put it out of his mind. Tossing the ribbons to a footman, he hurried upstairs. The rest of his uncle’s papers were in the escritoire in the master bedroom. Once he sorted them, he could wind down his visit, though he had no intention of leaving until both of his wards were safely ensconced in school.

  An hour later he stretched his aching back before opening the last drawer. Another stack of lists. How could a man who spent so much time organizing his thoughts be so inept at running his life? He scanned the top page, then jerked to attention and read it more carefully. And again. It was a detailed plan to wrest control of Winter House from the Wingraves and push them out of the neighborhood.

  That feeling of imminent disaster returned, stronger than ever. After years of abuse at the hands of your family… No wonder Miss Wingrave decried all Averys and refused to trust him. Much of the plot had already been set in motion. The second page was a list of payments – to a man for sabotaging the pottery; to another for spreading slow poisons in Winter House fields; to a third for injuring her animals; to a fourth for damaging orchards and forests; and to a fifth for setting fire to the stable. Avery’s ultimate goal was to buy the mortgage. By that time the estate would be worth so little that even selling it would not raise enough. Gareth could call in the loan and take possession.

  Richard totaled the Wingrave’s losses. They were sizable, making Penelope’s matter-of-fact statements about their finances seem unbelievably courageous. How had she managed to stay afloat? Even selling possessions could not cover such losses. But that might explain her attempt to snare Terrence. She would have seen the boy’s interest as another example of the Avery antagonism, perhaps a plot to seduce and ruin Alice. But she could turn the tables by trapping Terrence into marriage and taking control of Tallgrove for herself, thus defeating the Averys at their own game.

  Yet he did not want to believe that. He had enjoyed their day in Exeter. And he felt guilty about Gareth’s scheme even though he had not personally been involved.

  Why would Gareth want Winter House so badly? He again skimmed the papers, searching for a clue. Lucinda’s name appeared in a margin. Had Gareth’s love turned his mind? Winter House had been her dowry. Perhaps he believed that entitled him to the estate. But that was mad.

  The phrase restore ancestral lands was penciled in another spot, though it made no sense. Gareth’s family had not owned Tallgrove very long. He had seen nothing in the ledgers to hint at a connection.

  But he knew little of Winter House. Maybe there was something in its history that could explain his uncle’s obsession – a Roman villa or druidic temple? But Gareth was no scholar and had cared nothing for antiquities.

  When Cawdry returned from Exeter, Richard summoned him to the library.

  “I want an exhaustive history of Winter House,”
he ordered.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Richard handed him a sheet of paper. “Find these fellows and put a stop to further action. Get a complete accounting of their activities. Promise them that there will be no repercussions if they cooperate.”

  “At once.”

  Trouble again tickled his spine, and he wondered why. The plot was over.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “What?” Penelope stared at Michael.

  “Carrington’s secretary was in town this afternoon, questioning the solicitor’s clerk about Winter House.”

  “Damn!” She did not apologize for the profanity. This was the worst news she had received in a long time, for Carrington could not still be researching her family. Thus he must be interested in the estate. Why had she allowed him to lull her suspicions? She had nearly fallen into his trap. Fury brought tears to her eyes – at herself for again allowing a man’s sweet words to blind her, and at him for coveting something so insignificant when he already had so much.

  “What’s wrong, Penny?”

  Michael’s alarm recalled her to the bookroom. “He is continuing his uncle’s tactics.”

  “Did Lord Avery start maligning us, too?”

  “Worse. He spent his final eighteen months trying to force me to sell Winter House.” She related her battles with their neighbor.

  “Why did you never tell me?”

  “He did not resort to underhanded tactics until after you had returned to school last fall. I would have discussed it when you got home, but I thought his death solved the problem.”

  “Does Terrence know about this?”

  “I’ve no idea, but his sudden infatuation looks suspicious. The most straightforward plan would be to attach Alice’s affections and then demand Winter House as her dowry. Have you seen him lately?”

  “No. I did not wish to seek him out, but I am bound to run into him in town.”

  “I don’t suppose he will reveal anything useful, but it is worth a try. Carrington seems to be continuing Lord Avery’s scheme of forcing us to sell. That way he would not sully the Avery family tree with Wingrave blood.”