“Of course you are right,” Mr. Sinclair replied genially. “Then, too, you are next in line, are you not? Who knows what card fate will turn, after all.”
“You are a gamester, then, too?” Sir James asked.
Mr. Sinclair shuddered. “No, indeed I am not. I don’t care to take risks with games of chance.”
Sir James smiled slightly, and if his expression held a little contempt, Diana could not blame him. Mr. Sinclair was clearly a fashionable fribble, slothful to the point of not even caring to put anything to the risk. Slothful at best—perhaps even afraid, although she would not hand out such a judgment as to call him coward unless she saw clear evidence of it.
But if Mr. Sinclair noticed Sir James’s contempt, he showed no sign of it. He merely sank further into the chair cushions, and his expression became more sleepy than ever as Mr. Bennett finished the reading of the will.
***
The door to Mrs. Carlyle’s dressing room burst open, and Diana hurried in. “Mama, you must tell me—did you know that Mr. Sinclair is Uncle Charles’s heir?”
Mrs. Carlyle sat on a chair near the window, her workbasket of tatting threads open beside her. She gazed at her daughter and raised an eyebrow disapprovingly. “I don’t think I said you could enter, my dear.”
Diana gave her mother a mischievous glance and sat on a chair near her. “I know, but you would have let me regardless, because you did see how curious I was, and I know you know something about the bequests, so of course you must have expected I would hound you until I found out.”
“Terrible girl! Where you learned your manners, I do not know.” But Mrs. Carlyle did not hide her smile when she looked down at the lace she was tatting on her lap. “Oh, very well, then! I knew there was a possibility that Sir James was not.”
“Did Uncle Charles tell you?”
Sorrow passed over her mother’s face, then she shook her head and made another loop with the tatting bobbin. “Not precisely. I knew there was a possibility that Elizabeth Sinclair’s grandson was alive, but Charles did not know for certain. It was only in the last year or so that your uncle thought he had located him.”
“Thought?”
Mrs. Carlyle frowned slightly. “I had always believed your uncle should have investigated further a long time ago—I told him he should, ever since his wife died many years ago. I suppose he felt too . . . lost to have thought of it.” She pressed her hand upon Diana’s. “Charles did love Emily very dearly, and never, never blamed her for their lack of children. Not like—” Her voice faded and tears formed in her eyes. She brushed them away with the back of her hand, then gratefully took the handkerchief Diana gave her. Diana bit her lip—she well knew that had she been male, she would have been Uncle Charles’s heir, and it was something she remembered her father saying to her before he died. But she was not, and so the line would continue through the descendants of her great-aunt, Elizabeth Sinclair.
“He was a good man, love,” her mother continued. “He should have married again, but I think he did not have the . . . the heart to do so.” She bent her head to her tatting again, concentrating on a number of stitches and loops before she looked up again. “But I suppose my urging made him try to find his heir at last.”
Diana gazed at her mother, uneasiness filling her. Her mother looked at her calmly, tired and worn with grief, but there was nothing else in Mrs. Carlyle’s expression to explain the uneasiness. Diana gave herself a mental shake. Well, life had been uneasy and unsettling altogether—what else could she expect when someone so well liked as her uncle had just passed away?
“I am surprised Mr. Southworthy did not know of it,” Diana remarked.
Mrs. Carlyle smiled slightly. “You know how your uncle did not care to discuss his matters until they were dealt with. For all anyone knew, Mr. Sinclair was dead. Your great-aunt did not get along with the rest of our family, for she made a love-match with a gentleman far below her in rank, and your great-great-grandfather would not speak to her. There had been some mention of her son—or was it the current Mr. Sinclair himself?—being lost at sea. It clearly must have been the elder Mr. Sinclair.” She looked out the window for a moment. “I suppose no one thought to follow the course of their lives, since there had always been a direct male heir until now.”
“Poor Sir James! I think he must have been sorely disappointed to find he had not inherited,” Diana said. “But he comported himself well, I believe, considering the surprise.”
Mrs. Carlyle gave her a sharp look. “He is to be commended on his behavior, I suppose, for I am sure he was quite dismayed—he has been living on the expectation for years.”
“I do not see how he could have been,” Diana said. “He is a very good gamester and he has won wagers hand over fist for ages. They say he cannot lose.”
“Is that so?” Her mother raised her brows. “And where did you hear this? In the stables?”
“You must know that I could never have heard it from Aunt Matchett.” Diana grinned.
“Hmph. However, I am sure you listened to all the gossip in London when you were there, for I have commanded McKinney not to tell you stable gossip.”
“Yes, and the stableboys are more forthcoming than McKinney.”
Mrs. Carlyle burst out laughing. “Odious girl!”
“Well, Mama, I had nothing to do but listen to gossip in London, I assure you! It is the most tedious place in the world aside from the plays and the music.”
Her mother shook her head, smiling wryly, clearly not about to argue the point, and continued her tatting. Diana gave her a sidewise look, frowning.
“Mama, did you also know that Uncle Charles wished me to marry Mr. Sinclair?” she asked abruptly.
Mrs. Carlyle sighed before looking up from her lacework. “I did know he considered you as close as a daughter, and had told me many times he wished you had been his son, so you could inherit the title. I suppose this was the closest he could come to do just that.”
“But Mr. Sinclair, a stranger . . .”
The corners of her mother’s lips turned upward for a moment. “Nothing says he must remain a stranger, and for all we know he might not be averse to the idea.”
“Oh, Mama, do be serious! You must see how utterly impossible this is!”
“Your uncle did not think so.”
“With all due respect to Uncle Charles, I have recently determined he was either not in his right mind, or he was surely far more fallible than either of us gave him credit for.”
“Diana!” Mrs. Carlyle said reprovingly.
“Very well, he was in his right mind, but very fallible in that he did not foresee my justifiable consternation at finding he had arranged a marriage for me without even consulting me.”
Her mother glanced at her and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I did tell him that you might object—”
“Ha! So he did tell you!” Diana leaned forward in her chair. “Why did you not—”
Mrs. Carlyle held up her hand. “I wanted to tell you, but he pledged me to silence. I felt I had to keep his confidence, my dear. You know your uncle always had his reasons—very good ones—for his decisions. I trusted he had a good reason this time, as well.”
“Perhaps he did, but would it have been too much for him to reveal it to either of us?” Diana said bitterly. “I tell you, I shall not marry Mr. Sinclair—he is nothing but a fribble!”
“You say that as if it were some grave sin, Diana,” her mother said reprovingly. “It is not. You do not know the man at all, so you cannot know what virtues he has—”
“Or has not,” Diana said swiftly.
“Pshaw!” Mrs. Carlyle said, her voice impatient. “You have only just met the man; you judge too quickly.”
Diana gazed at her mother for a long moment, while the older woman bent her head over her lacework. “Why do you wish me to marry this man, Mama?”
Mrs. Carlyle raised her eyes to her daughter’s, gazing at her earnestly. “You will be safe, my love.
”
“Safe? What do I have to fear?”
“Poverty. The chance that you will no longer be welcome at Brisbane House at some time, should the next Earl of Brisbane marry another. The chance that you will marry an irresponsible man, a wastrel.”
Diana stared at her mother. It had briefly occurred to her they might have their own place to stay, but now the idea had been spoken, it shook her to her bones to think she might no longer live in this house. “But . . . but how do I know this Mr. Sinclair is not a wastrel as well?”
“Your uncle would not have put him in his will if he thought he was,” Mrs. Carlyle said confidently. “He thought it best you marry the next earl, which is why the stipend he bequeathed you is so small, and the dowry such a fortune.”
Diana swallowed down the tight feeling in her throat, but it did no good: she felt as if her life were slowly being squeezed from her, or at least the freedom to which she was so accustomed. She did not wish to wed a stranger. But there was one hope, however, and she smiled grimly.
“What my uncle did not foresee was Mr. Sinclair could easily refuse to marry me. He seems to be well off and may not need my dowry to run the estate, despite the pittance bequeathed to him.”
Mrs. Carlyle’s expression was for a moment uncertain, but she shook her head. “I am sure your uncle has accounted for it.”
***
Diana gazed at her mother, wondering how she could be so certain . . . perhaps her mother had always relied this heavily on Uncle Charles’s opinions and decisions, and Diana had not, until now, seen it. Certainly, she had had absolute trust in her uncle’s decisions—until now, now that it was so contrary to her wishes. She watched her mother set yet another loop in her tatting, a quick and sure movement, her head bent over her work. She could not see her mother’s face or the expression on it. Diana felt suddenly that perhaps her mother did not want her to see. Anger rose in her—it was no use talking to her mother, for it was clear that she would tell her nothing . . . for now.
Diana gazed in silence out the window while she tried to quell her anger. It was still cloudy, but had not rained for a few hours. Perhaps she could go out on her horse again, or in a carriage. . . .
Her thoughts came immediately to the curricle she had inherited, and she shuddered. It was hers now. She had driven it before . . . before her uncle died, and he had told her that she was the best whip he had ever seen. He had been proud of her, and she had wished then that he had been her father. It could not be, however, but there was one thing she could do: have the curricle repaired and drive it as he had taught her. It mattered not that it was unusual for a woman to drive such a vehicle. Her uncle had given it to her, and he had meant her to drive it.
She stood up abruptly. “Mama, I am going down to the stables to look at the curricle.”
Mrs. Carlyle looked up from her work, her eyes widening.
“Is this wise?”
Diana gazed at her quizzically. “I am not afraid, Mama. There is nothing it can do to me, after all.”
“But it needs repair . . .”
Diana smiled slightly. “Of course I’ll not drive it! I am merely going to look at it. Perhaps I shall talk to McKinney about the repairs it needs.”
Mrs. Carlyle looked worried. “I do not know what seized Charles to bequeath it to you. It is not proper or safe.”
Diana rolled her eyes. “Oh, Mama! How is it you don’t question Uncle’s judgment where my marriage is concerned, but you question this? You know I have driven it any number of times. And what do you think will happen to me in the stables? That the carriage will somehow fall upon me? It can do nothing while it is sitting there in the stables, I assure you!”
Her mother still looked worried, and Diana took her hands and pressed them. “What, do you think Uncle Charles might be haunting it in some way? I would welcome seeing him again, I believe.”
Mrs. Carlyle smiled slightly. “As would I, for I am sure if he were a ghost he would be caring for us still. No . . .I am a silly woman to be sure. It must be as you say. Do go, then, and see what you can find out from McKinney.”
Diana turned to leave, but her mother’s hand stayed her. “Did you see where Mr. Sinclair went before we left the library?”
“No, why?”
“We cannot be sure he will let us stay here at Brisbane House, you know, and I think it best to find out whether he means for us to stay or go.”
“So soon?” Diana asked. Her mother merely looked at her gravely and said nothing, and Diana knew it was necessary. “I . . .I don’t remember. I suppose he might be in his room—certainly he looked as if he might fall asleep where he sat during the reading of the will.”
Her mother nodded. “I will find him and ask.”
“Will you need me, do you think?”
Mrs. Carlyle smiled. “No, it is not necessary. Do go to see the curricle. Mr. Sinclair seems a kind gentleman, perhaps enough to house us while we find a place to settle, at least.”
Diana nodded slowly, and with a kiss on her mother’s cheek, proceeded down to the stables.
When Diana reached the stables, she saw that they had a new stablehand. She smiled at him briefly before saying, “Where is Bob Staples?”
The thin, awkward youth smiled shyly and took off his hat, ducking his head. “‘E got ill, miss, did Bob. Started squeaking about ‘is blinkers, and McKinney sent ‘im ‘ome, and Bob sent me to take ‘is place—I’m ‘is cousin, miss, beggin’ yer pardon.”
“His eyes?” Diana frowned. “I am sorry to hear it—is a doctor seeing to him? I hope it is not serious.”
The stablehand rubbed his forehead in thought. “I dunno, miss. But me aunt ‘as got summat to fix it.”
Diana fished in her pocket for some coins and pressed them into the youth’s hand. “Here—please give this to your aunt, in case Bob needs to see a doctor. Bob’s a good young man, and I would like to have him return.” The youth’s face fell, and she continued hastily: “Though I’m sure you’ll do good work and prove yourself capable—” She paused, for she realized she did not know his name.
“Nate, miss, Nate Staples,” he said.
“Nate, then. I am sure the new Lord Brisbane will need more servants, and if you show yourself to be a hard worker, I can recommend you,” she said, recklessly committing Mr. Sinclair’s—she bit her lip—the new earl’s resources to the upkeep of the stables. But she had continued supervising them as she had when her uncle was alive, and the earl must know of it by now. However, he had said nothing to stop her.
Nate’s face brightened and he bobbed his head in a respectful bow. “I’d be grateful if you could, thank you, miss.”
Diana smiled, then proceeded into the carriage house just behind the stables.
The curricle sat propped up and leaning to the side, a little like a boat that had been tossed ashore against rocks after a storm. The fine wood of the carriage body was marred from the overturning that day of the accident; she could see the clawlike scars where it had been dragged for a short distance after it fell.
Fell . . . She closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of the damage, but it only brought horror-tinged images of how the horse had gone wild, and how the carriage had overturned—slowly, it seemed in her memory, though she knew it must have been too quick to let her uncle jump free.
Tentatively, she put her hand out as if the curricle were a wild creature with fur and teeth. Silly, of course. She pressed her hand firmly on it. The wood was smooth and cool to the touch, rough where it had been scored by the rocks in the road. It is just a curricle, Diana thought, a carriage. Not a deadly monster ready with gaping jaws to tear and destroy. Her mother clearly felt as if it were, and for that reason would not go near the carriage house, at least for now.
Diana could understand her mother’s feelings; the accident had torn a hole in the fabric of their lives and it was not a thing so easily stitched up. But she had other memories: memories of her uncle handing her the reins, and how nervous she had been, ye
t happy and proud that he had such confidence in her; the first tentative lurch of the carriage; and finally after several practice drives, the thrill of increasing speed over the newly macadamcd road.
She could not look upon the curricle with horror when she also remembered so much joy. Her uncle had felt confident enough in her abilities to bequeath it to her. She would have it repaired immediately, perhaps try it out a few times to make sure it drove as well as it used to, and out of respect for her mother’s grief, sell it. Perhaps, if she and her mother could still stay at Brisbane House, she could use the money to buy a less expensive and more sedate carriage. A gig, for example. She grimaced at the thought of “sedate” then grinned. A high-perch phaeton, perhaps. Not as sporting as a curricle, but certainly not sedate, and certainly quite fashionable. There! That should keep her family from criticizing, and she could turn her thoughts to other matters.
Such as the very annoying and embarrassing stipulation in the will regarding her possible marriage to Mr. Sinclair—or rather, Lord Brisbane. She thought of the man who wore the title, and it sat ill on her tongue. Such a frivolous man could not be worthy of it, or at least not as worthy of it as her uncle had been.
“Miss Carlyle—”
Diana jumped, then gasped as she quickly turned, for her hand caught hard on a large splinter of broken wood. It hurt, even with the strong kid riding glove she wore, and she cradled it in her other hand.
It was Mr. Sinclair—Lord Brisbane. He raised his brows. “You have injured yourself . . . because I have startled you, I am sure.” He took her hand and bowed over it, but did not release it. “May I look at it?”
“You are not a physician,” Diana said, then gasped again at the pain as she tried to pull away.
“True, but I know something of injuries and of healing.” A grim look settled about his mouth for a moment, and Diana wondered how he had come to know of such things. She relaxed and allowed her hand to remain in his.
He took off his gloves, then slowly, carefully, her glove, his head bent a little, his eyes concentrating on her hand. Diana glanced at him, glad he was not looking at her, for she felt . . . a strange unease, a shiver that should have made her want to pull away from him, but did not. If he had looked at her she did not know what he would have seen on her face—embarrassment, perhaps, but not exactly that. She pressed her lips together firmly—how silly she was!
Miss Carlyle's Curricle: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix) Page 4
