The Heir

by Catherine Coulter

  “Yes,” he said slowly, as he rose, “I am here for the reading of the earl’s will.”

  “God, you are damnable, unspeakable!”

  “What venom from such a lovely mouth,” he said mildly as he shrugged into his coat. “Tell me, gentle lady, has no man yet taken you in hand? Perhaps taken that lovely throat between his hands and forced you to pay attention to his words? No, I can see that you have run wild, that you have been allowed to do just as you please with no regard to others and what they may be thinking or feeling.” He took a step toward her. “Perhaps I could be convinced to bring you to some sort of obedience. You do want taming. Perhaps I could even bring myself to thrash you.”

  Joy filled her. He had threatened her. He was as vulgar and common as she had first believed. She said almost jovially, “Come here, you bastard, and let me show you what a lady can do.” She took a sudden step to her right, waving her hand at him, taunting him, motioning for him to come to her.

  But he didn’t move. His left eyebrow shot up a good inch, making the arch more arrogant, just as her father’s eyebrows had done, particularly when he had spoken in that cold indifferent way to his wife, to Arabella’s mother. No, she wouldn’t think about that. Surely when her father had done that, her mother had done something to provoke it. Yes, certainly. It had happened rarely. It had been nothing.

  “If I am a bastard, then you must be the ill-begotten daughter of a fishmonger. As to my coming near to you, why, I can think of little else that would give me lesser pleasure. You think to strike me with the riding crop? I recommend that you think carefully before you raise that crop to me. I am larger than you and I am a man. I do caution you to exercise caution.”

  “I have thought through everything very carefully. You are a coward.”

  “You are very lucky that you are female,” he said finally, and then he laughed, fully and richly, and she saw that he had dimples, as deep as hers, in each cheek.

  “Yes,” he said, looking at her up and down, insulting her with that male assessing look, and knowing it. “One would almost think that you wished me to wrest that riding crop from you and give you a sound thrashing. Are you one of those females who enjoy rough play?”

  “You try it and I will see you in Hell.” It dawned on her with something of a shock that she no longer held the reins of control. She knew a moment of uncertainty about herself. Because she could not bear to feel the weaker, her anger twisted and knotted inside her. She clutched the riding crop in her hand so tightly that a stab of pain shot up her fingers.

  No, she wouldn’t let him have control. She forced herself to loosen her grip on the riding crop. “Get off my land,” she said, her voice as autocratic as her father’s had been when military men had come to Evesham Abbey to speak to him on war matters.

  “Your land? Though you have the manners and tongue of an ill-bred, spoiled young man, you surely cannot mean to lay claim to the earl’s title? No, you cannot do that.”

  He unwittingly struck at the festering wound deep within her, laying it open, raw and ugly. She was filled with the despair of failure, with the old hatred of herself for not being born a boy, her father’s heir, her father’s pride. A curse lay leaden on her tongue. She whipped back her head, drew upon a reserve of strength unique to herself, and said with dignity that took him off his guard, for it sat strangely upon the shoulders of one so young, “I suppose it is now my mother’s land. Unfortunately, my father did not have a son, as I said earlier, nor did his younger brother, Thomas. It grieves me as it must have grieved him, for his title must become extinct. My father was not blessed in the sex of his offspring.”

  Admirable, he thought. Dear God, she was beautiful, now more beautiful than she had been five minutes before. Aloud he said easily, “Don’t reproach yourself for being a woman. Surely you cannot imagine that the fault somehow lies within you. Your father was more proud of you than he would have been of a dozen sons.” He felt a stirring of compassion for her, for the leap of hope in her gray eyes, eyes so much like his. He didn’t like it.

  Lady Arabella, daughter of the late Earl of Strafford was back again, her voice filled with contempt. “You could hardly know what my father felt. He would not have recognized you. If you ever saw him, it was only at a distance. If he did sire you, he would have never allowed you to come near Evesham Abbey, near his wife, near me, his daughter. My father was honorable. He was faithful to his wife. He held honor dear.”

  He wanted to tell her that what she’d said hadn’t made a lot of sense, but he said only, “As you will.”

  Arabella stiffened rigid as an oak sapling. He was dismissing her? She sensed in him a habit of command, the easy use of authority, the confidence of a man used to being obeyed, but surely that couldn’t be right. He was probably exactly what he looked like—a pirate and a rogue, a man who lived by his wits, a man who cared little for anyone, in short, her father’s bastard.

  She said calmly, “I bid you good-bye. I only hope that your sense of honor will prohibit your presence at Evesham Abbey. It would cause my mother great pain were you to intrude upon her grief. If you have any decency at all, you will stay away.” Would he think she was begging him? God, surely not. She shouted, “Stay away! I order you to stay away from my home!”

  She turned from him abruptly and strode with the long strides of a man away from him. She paused, and turned back to him. “As a bastard, you should speak to my father’s solicitor. Perhaps he left something for you, a token, perhaps. Had I been he, I wouldn’t have left you anything.” She turned on her heel again and walked quickly away. She tasted victory; she had taken control from him at the end. She had that, at least.

  He stood in thoughtful silence, staring after her. “No,” he said quietly, lightly tapping his gloves against his open hand, “my presence won’t cause your mother pain. But you will suffer, Lady Arabella. You are perhaps more arrogant than your father, though that is a very close call. You are damnably proud, but still, I am sorry for it.”

  There was only silence save for the gentle rustling of the thin-armed water reeds.

  5

  Lady Ann sat between her daughter and Elsbeth, her stepdaughter, her shoulders hunched slightly forward and her ivory hands clasped tightly in her lap. The heavy black veils hung about her face, obscuring the smooth plaits of blond hair and weighing down her back so that she could no longer sit board-straight. She was hot and wished only that it were evening so she could be alone in the curtain-drawn coolness of her bedchamber, out of the wretched black clothing that shrouded her from head to toe.

  George Brammersley, solicitor to her late husband, had arrived only yesterday in one of the earl’s crested carriages; now he arranged himself with his usual show of dignity behind the great oak library desk. Lady Ann watched as he dallied, first polishing the small circles of his glasses, then settling them with practiced ease on the bridge of his vein-lined hawk nose. He slowly spread a sheaf of papers before him on the top of the desk, arranging them first one way and then another. His rheumy old eyes studiously avoided the three women. Lady Ann longed for a brush to smooth down the unruly wisps of gray frazzled hair that stood about his scalp at odd angles. He was a very old friend of her late husband’s. She had always felt sorry for him. Now, she wished she could spare him, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to.

  She could feel a mounting intensity in Arabella’s body, now too thin since she had not eaten much of anything since they had been informed of her father’s death. Lady Ann knew that Arabella wouldn’t hold herself in check much longer. She knew, too, that her daughter viewed the reading of her father’s will as the irrevocable recognition of his death. There could be no more questions, no more doubts, no more hope.

  She knew that soon Arabella’s control would crack under the strain of Mr. Brammersley’s delay. She sought for words to whisper to her daughter. Not comforting words, for Arabella would never accept those from anyone. Just words that were commonplace, words that would mayhap distract her, wo
rds that would send her mind for just a brief moment in another direction.

  Lady Ann was too late. Arabella sprang from her seat and strode to the desk. She leaned toward Mr. Brammersley, her hands splayed on the desk, hands covered with black mittens.

  She whispered with ferocious calm, “I do not wish you to delay further, sir. I do not know your reason for tarrying in this ridiculous manner, but I will not have it. My mother grows weary, if you have not sense enough in your head to see it. Read my father’s will now, else I shall relieve you of the responsibility and do it myself.”

  The red veins on Mr. Brammersley’s nose seemed to stand out even more and seemed to grow like a fine-webbed network to his wizened cheeks. He sucked in his breath, outraged, and looked toward Lady Ann. She nodded to him wearily. He assumed a dignified position, thrusting his receding chin out over his shirt points, cleared his throat, and said, “My dear Lady Arabella, if you will please return to your seat, we will begin the reading.”

  “A miracle has visited us,” Arabella said, not masking the contempt in her voice. “Get on with it, sir.” She returned to her chair. Lady Ann didn’t have the energy to reprimand her. She felt a flutter of apprehensive movement at her right, and turned a gentle smile to Elsbeth. Taking a small hand in hers, Lady Ann squeezed it. Shy Elsbeth, as different from her half-sister as was a sword from a pen, not that Elsbeth could write all that well. That made Lady Ann smile behind her black veils. Odd the thoughts one had at the most inappropriate moments.

  George Brammersley grabbed an impressive document, smoothed down the first page and said, “It is an unhappy occasion that brings us together this day. The untimely demise of John Latham Everhard Deverill, sixth Earl of Strafford, has touched us all—his family, his friends, those in his employ, and above all, his country. His courageous sacrifice of his life, so selflessly and gallantly offered to preserve the rights of Englishmen . . .”

  There was a flutter of movement, and Arabella felt a light brush of air on the back of her neck. She realized the library door had opened then closed. She didn’t care. Nothing mattered now. Maybe it was a magistrate come to remove George Brammersley, thank the good Lord. No, not now. Now, at least, Brammersley was getting on with it. There was a sudden new crispness to his voice, but she didn’t care. At last he was doing as she had bade him to.

  Lady Ann shifted gracefully in her chair and gazed from the corner of her eye toward the library door. She turned back, drew a determined breath, and straightened, her face straight forward, now looking neither to her left nor to her right.

  “. . . and to the faithful Deverill butler, Josiah Crupper, I bequeath the sum of five hundred pounds, with the hope that he will remain with the family until such time as . . .”

  He droned on and on, mentioning, it seemed to Arabella, the name of every servant in her father’s employ, both past, present, and future. How she itched for all of it to be over and done with.

  Mr. Brammersley paused in his reading, raised thoughtful eyes to Elsbeth, and allowed a tight smile to crease the corners of his mouth. His voice softened and he read more slowly, speaking very clearly and precisely, “To my daughter Elsbeth Maria, born of my first wife, Magdalaine Henriette de Trécassis, I bequeath the sum of ten thousand pounds for her sole and private use.”

  Well done of you, Father, thought Arabella. She turned at the gasp of surprise from her half-sister and saw her lovely dark almond eyes widen with disbelief, then with barely suppressed excitement. Ah, yes, it was very well done. Arabella had no idea why Elsbeth hadn’t been raised with her. She’d always trusted her father implicitly, and when he’d said simply that Elsbeth didn’t want to be here, that she preferred living with her aunt, she had believed him. And now he had left her a rich young lady. She was pleased.

  Mr. Brammersley chewed furiously at his lower lip, guiltily aware that he had violated a professional trust. But the final statement the earl had written about his gentle eldest daughter had seemed so malevolent, so unnecessarily cruel, that he could not bring himself to say the words. What had the earl meant in any case—“that she, unlike her whore of a mother and the rapacious de Trécassis family, will honestly and freely bestow this promised sum on her future husband.” Yes, what had the earl meant? No, he wouldn’t read that, not here, not now, not ever.

  Arabella pulled her attention back to Mr. Brammersley and waited, impatiently tapping her fingers on the arm of her chair. She assumed that now would come her father’s instructions for holding his estates in trust for her until her twenty-first birthday. She hoped her mother would be named her primary trustee. But she knew a profound sadness. There was no male relative to assume the title.

  George Brammersley looked down resolutely at the finely written script in his hands. Dash it all, he had to get it over and done with. He read, “My final wishes I have weighed with careful deliberation for the past several years. The conditions that I attach to them are binding and absolute. The seventh Earl of Strafford, Justin Everhard Morley Deverill, grandnephew of the fifth Earl of Strafford, through his brother, Timothy Popham Morley, is my heir, and I bequeath to him my entire worldly fortune, whose primary assets include Evesham Abbey, its land and rents . . .”

  The room spun. Arabella stared at Brammersley, his words hanging about her, but yet she couldn’t take them in, couldn’t make sense of them. The seventh Earl of Strafford? Some sort of grandnephew of her grandfather? No one had ever told her that any such grandnephew existed. God, there must be some sort of mistake. This man wasn’t even here. Surely there was no such male. Suddenly there was a stirring in her memory of the opening and closing of the library door. Almost reluctantly she turned in her chair and met the cool gray eyes of the man she had seen only that morning by the fishpond. Her absolute astonishment held her silent and still. He wasn’t a bastard, the wretched bastard wasn’t an actual bastard. He was real. It was all she could think of, all that made any sense to her. He merely nodded to her politely, nothing in his calm expression to betray that he had even met her.

  “Arabella, Arabella.” Lady Ann gently shook her daughter’s sleeve. “Come, my dear, you must listen carefully now. Please, Arabella, you must pay attention. I’m sorry, but you must, dearest.”

  Arabella turned back in her chair, gazed with dumb shock at her mother and then at the solicitor, whose lined cheeks had taken on a sudden purplish hue. He read in a faltering voice, “The following stipulations are binding to both my heir and to my daughter, Arabella Elaine.” He looked like he would have an apoplectic fit, but then he managed to right himself. He drew a deep breath, and said, “It has always been my fondest wish that my daughter, through her body, would continue the proud heritage of the Deverill line. To encourage her in my wishes, I stipulate that she must wed her second cousin, the seventh Earl of Strafford, within two months of my death in order to retain her wealth and position. Should she refuse to follow my wishes within this stated time, she is to forfeit any and all monetary claims to the Deverill estates. If the seventh Earl of Strafford disinclines to wed with his second cousin, Arabella Elaine, he will take claim only to the earldom and Evesham Abbey, as all other lands, rents, residences, etc., are unentailed and mine to bestow as I deem fit. In this event, my daughter Arabella Elaine shall take possession of my entire worldly estates, excepting any entailed property, upon her twenty-first birthday.”

  “NO!”

  Arabella jumped to her feet. Her face was ashen. She shook her head back and forth. “No, no, it must be a mistake. My father would never have done such a thing to me. Never would he consider such a thing, never. You are lying, sir, and it is not well done of you! Damn you, tell me you are lying!”

  “Arabella, be seated.” Lady Ann spoke with unaccustomed authority. Arabella turned stricken eyes to her, then slowly sank back into her chair.

  “Lady Arabella,” Mr. Brammersley said, no smile for her as there had been for Elsbeth, “your esteemed father’s instructions, as I have detailed them, are binding. I wish to add that the
earl left a sealed envelope for you. I assure you that no one save your father is aware of the contents.” He rose as he spoke, and skirted the large desk. Arabella automatically extended her hand to grab the letter. She jumped up from her chair, nearly tripping on her long black skirts, to gaze at the now thankfully blurred sea of faces around the room. Clutching the envelope to her chest, she whirled about, toppling her chair to its side on the carpet, and sped to the door. Long fingers closed about her arm as she wrenched at the bronze knob.

  “Your behavior is that of a spoiled child,” the new earl said to her, his voice colder than a fish on ice. “I will not tolerate such speech, such lack of control from you. It is offensive and shows that your father did not sufficiently discipline you.”

  She looked up at him with blank misery, read the disapproval in his gray eyes—her gray eyes, damn him—and felt as if all the demons in hell were breaking loose within her. This man was disapproving of her? This man had the gall to tell her that she was offensive? She wanted to bite his hand, but she didn’t. “Take your hands off me, you damnable bastard! God, how I hate you. Why are you here and alive and he is gone?”

  She jerked violently away from him, and as his grip did not loosen from her sleeve, she felt the material rip. She looked down stupidly at the gaping tear, nearly howled in fury, for she had no more words, and flung from the library, slamming the door behind her.