The Last Surprise
Blair Bancroft
Blush sensuality level: This is a sweet romance (kisses only, no sexual content).
Not all surprises are good ones. In the midst of a glorious second season, Lady Christine Ashford’s life is wholly disrupted by tragedy. The death of her father, the Earl of Bainbridge, leaves herself and her younger sisters summarily exiled from the family estate, sent to distant relatives in Yorkshire to await the return of the elusive heir to her father’s title. There, life quickly becomes untenable.
The new earl’s return from the colonies gives Christine and her sisters a chance to escape their scheming Yorkshire relatives—but only through unexpected marriage to this unknown man who’s taken her father’s title and lands. As the year turns to Christmas, the season of new life and joy, Christine must decide if she can embrace the spirit of the season…and her new husband.
The Last Surprise
Blair Bancroft
Chapter One
London, Spring 1817
Beneath the sparkling glow of a thousand candles, Lady Christine Ashworth waltzed with Jeremy, Lord Farnborough, spinning so fast in a turn at the far end of the Lady Jersey’s glittering ballroom that the gowns around them coalesced into a kaleidoscope of misty colors. Eyes shining, Christine absorbed the wonder of it all. Could this night possibly be more perfect?
The gown swirling about her ankles was her favorite, the peach satin skirt overlaid with a layer of fine netting adorned with myriad tiny white roses. And fixed on the left shoulder of her minuscule bodice was a single, much larger white silk rose, its petals adorned in pearl dewdrops and its leaves beaded in green. A necklace of perfectly matched pearls, a gift from her papa on her eighteenth birthday, warmed her neck. But not as much as Farnborough’s gloved hands, one pressed firmly against her back, the other tightly clasping her gloved fingers.
Christine flushed, mortified that the hot pink in her cheeks must be warring with the color of her gown. Not good ton. But just before the waltz had begun Farnborough had leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I’ll be speaking with your father in the morning.”
During her two seasons in London Papa had rejected six offers, two without consulting her and four suitors she had told him would not suit. Thank the good Lord she was blessed with a kindly father who had no desire to thrust her into the arms of the first man who came along. But Miss Emma Applegate, long-time governess and surrogate mother to the three Ashworth sisters, had informed her only days past that rejecting six offers placed her in jeopardy of being called a jilt. It was high time to consider her future with greater care.
Farnborough, Christine had to admit, was a definite possibility. He was handsome, charming, good-natured…though not as clever as she might have liked. Yet he dressed well, rode well; everyone liked him. And he would one day be Duke of Monkton. Christine did not like to admit that made a difference but…how could one discount the lure of being a duchess?
What to tell Papa? Miss Applegate was right. It was time for her to marry, and every day marriages were made between couples with far less attraction than she felt for Farnborough. Particularly in the ton, where breeding, land and wealth were all-important.
Lady Farnborough—she tested the sound of it. The Duchess of Monkton. Even better.
Years of Miss Applegate’s strict training washed over her. No! She was not a shallow little twit, indeed she wasn’t. Anyone would be bowled over by thought of becoming a duchess.
Jeremy, dear Jeremy, was giving her a most peculiar look, and Christine realized she was scowling. Scowling at this elegant sprig at the very pinnacle of the ton, the young gentleman who was about to offer for her.
“I beg your pardon,” she gasped as the final strains of the waltz slowed to a resounding finale. “I believe I may have torn my hem. Please excuse me.”
He squeezed her hand before letting her go. “Don’t forget I have the supper dance.” Gray eyes solemn, he leaned closer, adding, “And remember what I said about meeting with Bainbridge in the morning.”
Christine summoned her most winsome smile, proffered her best curtsey and fled to the ladies’ withdrawing room. She must think. Her whole future lay before her, with only a few scant hours to make a decision.
Or was the fact she had to think about it a decision in itself? Jeremy, Lord Farnborough was a highly eligible parti. His attentions were flattering but love to the height of distraction as experienced by the heroines in novels she’d read? No, she was not so afflicted.
Her scowl was back. Perched on the edge of a fainting couch in the upstairs room set aside for ladies to refresh themselves, Christine winced at another niggling doubt. Farnborough had not spoken with her first. He had informed her he was about to speak with her father. Almost as if she had no say in the matter at all.
But so few ton marriages were love matches. And there was no one else she’d met in two full seasons who came even close to Jeremy’s appeal or to the qualifications her papa would consider necessary for the eldest daughter of an earl.
Marriage is for life.
Christine sighed. She could not hide in an upstairs bedroom all night. And she had always been of a practical mind. With her mother lost four years earlier in yet another attempt to produce an heir, she had assumed the running of three households at age fifteen. And in spite of her papa’s good nature, she knew what was expected of her. The Earl of Bainbridge was a peer in need of a son. He expected her to marry well and sponsor her sisters into good marriages, leaving him free to marry again and produce the long-sought heir to his estates.
Although Miss Emma Applegate admittedly enjoyed a novel or two now and then, she had cautioned Christine not to be fooled by the romance therein. “Love is elusive,” she had intoned. “Even if caught, love is fleeting. Never forget it, my dear. It is frequently necessary to choose a love that is sensible.”
Fine. Jeremy, Lord Farnborough, was more than a sensible choice. She liked him, she truly did. All would be well. Tonight was still the most perfect evening of her life.
Christine tidied her warm brown curls in the room’s large pier glass, shook out her skirts, adjusted her pearls. She pinched her lips together, hoping to add a bit of color. There. She looked quite composed, not at all as if she’d just made the most important decision of her life.
At the top of the staircase Christine paused, a frisson of warning creeping up her spine. Her best friend Margaret was waiting below, flanked by her parents. With them was Lady Jersey, her husband by her side—each and every one looking far too solemn for a London ball.
Margaret rushed up the stairs to meet her, hugging her about the waist as they descended the last few steps. “My dear,” Lady Jersey said, “if you would come with us into the bookroom. I fear we have some bad news.”
Chapter Two
Ten days later
Lady Christine Ashford regarded Sir Oliver Tynsdale, the family solicitor, from across the expanse of her papa’s mahogany desk in the bookroom. She had wondered at her temerity as she seated herself in the late earl’s leather-upholstered chair but as the eldest remaining Ashford, it had somehow seemed appropriate. The black silk of her long sleeves rustled against the folds of her skirt as she clasped her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. The facts were clear. Her papa, Earl of Bainbridge, was dead. She had not reached her majority and she was female. Therefore she and her sisters could not go on as they had before her papa’s untimely death over nothing more than a losing hand at piquet.
Papa, how could you?
By dying without a male heir the Earl of Bainbridge had ripped away his daughter’s heritage. His three homes and vast estates now belonged to a distant relative none of them had ever met.
Sir Oliver clear
ed his throat, snapping Christine back to the reality of the moment. Until her father’s death she had seen her father’s solicitor only in passing but now necessity forced her to examine him more closely. He had the solid face of a country squire, distinguished by shrewd brown eyes and a mop of unruly gray hair. His knighthood was not inherited but awarded by the crown for meritorious service to the realm. And even if Sir Oliver were not so highly qualified, she would have no choice but to trust him. She had to protect her sisters, and with the Ashford family so diminished over the last few years there was no one else she could depend on.
Christine focused eyes full of hope on Sir Oliver. “Your note said you have news?” If only it was to be granted her dearest wish—to return to the country with Miss Applegate and her sisters and live out the period of their mourning in the dower house on the grounds of Ashford Park.
Her breath caught, fingers grinding together in her lap as Sir Oliver’s expression showed no sign of mellowing. Not good news then?
“Firstly,” the solicitor returned a trifle ponderously, “I am happy to inform you that the late earl has left nearly all his unentailed assets to his daughters. You will all be able to live more than comfortably and have generous dowries.”
Not a surprise. Papa had assured her they would be left to the guardianship of the next Earl of Bainbridge, and well-provided for, but that was before his younger brother Basil succumbed to an inflammation of the lungs, her cousin Ned was lost on the bloody battlefield at Waterloo and word had reached them not a month since that a distant cousin, whose name she did not even recall, had died of a fever in India while working for the John Company. Papa had once enjoyed the certainty of personal acquaintance with the men who might become his daughters’ guardians but now…
After the death of the last heir Papa had mentioned an even more distant cousin but provided few details. His name? Harry?…Hugh?…Harlan? Yes, that was it. Evidently Harlan Ashford was a bit of an adventurer, traveling the world, even during the long years of the war against Bonaparte. Had Papa hinted that his travels were sponsored by the government, making him…what? An international spy?
Once again Christine had to force herself to focus on Sir Oliver, who was now looking less sanguine. “I fear we have a small problem, Lady Christine. It will take some time to contact your guardian, the new Earl of Bainbridge. He is elusive, it seems. A man who must be contacted through the War and Colonial Office, though what that means I can’t—” Sir Oliver broke off, huffing a small sigh. “That’s neither here nor there, I’m sure. The upshot of it is the new earl is not in the country, which means we must find a guardian for you and your sisters during the interim.”
Christine seized the opportunity. “But as I have told you, we can go on quite well as we are. We have Miss Applegate, and we can return to the country and live quietly until the-the new earl returns.”
Sir Oliver studied the gilded edge of the mahogany desk with some interest. “Unfortunately,” he said, drawing the word out enough to send a shiver up Christine’s spine, “I have received a visit from the earl’s solicitor, a Mr. Harvey Greenlaw. Although his client has, as yet, no idea he has become the Earl of Bainbridge, Mr. Greenlaw is anxious to protect his client’s rights.”
Protect his rights? Whatever did that mean? Christine frowned. She could almost swear Sir Oliver squirmed in his comfortable green leather chair.
“Mr. Greenlaw is anxious, possibly overly anxious, to ensure that the Ashford estates are in perfect condition by the time his employer returns. He requests—” Sir Oliver paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed before continuing, “He has made it clear he wishes all the residences to be vacated within thirty days—”
“He is mad!”
The solicitor’s face went from pink to puce. Christine lowered her tone, fearing an apoplexy. Had she not expected a deadline? But a scant month to remove their personal possessions from three different homes… “I had thought we might remove to the dower house at Ashford Park?”
“A sensible thought, my dear.” Sir Oliver heaved a heartfelt sigh. “But the Ashfords have grown so sparse I had to look far afield to find a temporary guardian, and that would be your mother’s brother Benedict, Baron Wetherell, who, I fear, lives in Yorkshire.”
“Yorkshire,” Christine echoed faintly. An uncle she had never met, though she had a vague recollection that her mother had not liked him.
“You cannot expect the baron and his wife to leave their property in Yorkshire to come to you. Therefore, no matter how large the stipend provided, you and your sisters must go to them.”
The knuckles of Christine’s clasped fingers turned white as she tried to cope with this news. She and her sisters were being dispossessed of everything they had ever known except the clothes on their backs. They were being sent to a stranger in the far north of England, with no expectation of when the new earl might return from his adventures in foreign lands.
And she had not heard from Jeremy since his obligatory condolence call. He had simply disappeared from her life. She tried to tell herself she’d had a fortunate escape from a shell of a man but at the moment Lord Farnborough, someone she knew, seemed preferable to Baron Wetherell and Yorkshire.
Christine raised pleading eyes to Sir Oliver. “Are you quite sure there is no possibility of living in the dower house until the earl returns?”
“Miss Applegate is, I am sure, a woman of some esteem, but she is a governess, an employee, and most certainly not qualified to act as chaperone to the daughters of an earl. I was obliged to find a member of your family willing to accept the task or the Court would appoint a guardian for you.”
It was the way of the world, Christine knew. She must accept it. Even if she were a nineteen-year-old male she would have to have a guardian. Foolish to fight Sir Oliver’s solution and yet every instinct rebelled, declaring it wrong, frightfully wrong.
Uncle Wetherell. Yorkshire. The end of the earth.
Nonsense! She was conjuring bogeymen out of nothing. She was Lady Christine Ashford, with two sisters to care for. She would be brave.
The Red River Colony, West of Upper Canada
Harlan Ashford sat across a rough-hewn table from the colony’s new governor, patiently waiting for his response. Belligerence, unreasoning demands or bullheaded determination? All reasonable reactions from the man whose predecessor had been slain in what the North West Companies called the Battle of Seven Oaks and the Hudson Bay Company referred to as a massacre. Twenty-two dead in the clash between the two mighty fur-trading companies—twenty-one of them fighting for Hudson Bay—with the Red River colonists caught in the middle.
Oddly, instead of the response Harlan expected, the governor’s shoulders slumped, his head bowed. “As you know, Ashford, the Earl of Selkirk sent us to found a colony of Scots in a fresh new land. But we find ourselves trapped between warring fur traders and fending off hostile Indians at the same time. We cannot survive in the midst of North West’s war with Hudson Bay. The fur traders must settle their differences or there is no hope for us.” The governor shook his head. “No hope at all.”
“As you know, that is why I am here,” Harlan returned carefully. “London is aware of your problems, I promise you.”
“London, ha! We are Scots. What do the English care what happens to us?”
Harlan, stifling a sigh, leaned across the table and emphasized each word. “We are sitting in the middle of a vast unknown territory Charles II claimed as Rupert’s Land. Do we keep it? Or do we let the Americans gobble it up? Whether you like it or not Scotland is ruled by the same king as England. We must settle our differences or risk losing all this.” He waved his hand in an expansive arc that disturbed the smoke rising from the lantern set on the table between them.
The governor’s lips curled into a near smile. “All this, Ashford? A log cabin in the midst of nowhere?”
“The Canadian West,” Harlan returned steadily. “Not the American West.”
And you would accomp
lish this miracle how, Mr. Ashford?”
Harlan sat upright, the long fingers of his right hand resting on the wooden table. “How fortunate you asked. Shall we get down to business?”
Chapter Three
Ashford Park, two weeks later
Christine stood in the center of the drawing room carpet and tried to memorize its grandeur, from the intricate burgundy, gold and cream pattern of the Aubusson carpet beneath her slippers to the matching gold brocade sofas and upholstered chairs chosen by her mother near the end of the last century. From burgundy brocade draperies bracketing tall floor-to-ceiling windows to the impressive collection of paintings by great masters of the past, all ornately framed in carved and gilded wood.
Christine drew her gaze away from a Goya that was perhaps a bit too strong for a drawing room and looked up at the cherubs dancing on the ceiling. They at least remained happy, unbowed by tragedy. How many earls had they seen come…and go?
No, she would not become maudlin. So far they were managing nicely, no thanks to that beast of a solicitor in London. Only dear Miss Applegate’s stern reminder of propriety had kept her from getting into a highly unladylike altercation with Mr. Greenlaw when he arrived at Ashford House on the day of their departure from London, accompanied by two minions who proceeded to search their trunks to make certain the sisters had packed nothing more than their personal belongings. Christine supposed Greenlaw would send someone to do the same insulting search here.
That the new earl had chosen this weasel of a man as a solicitor did not speak well for his employer.
Christine’s gaze rested on the gilded bracket clock on the mantel above the gold-streaked marble fireplace. Would they never return here then? Would the new earl leave them in Yorkshire? Or perhaps park them in Papa’s estate in Cornwall and forget all about them?
Not Papa’s house. It was hard, so hard to remember.
The Last Surprise Page 1
