by Beverly Adam
Purposefully, he picked up a document from the mantle. He looked about the room at the assembled family, the glum housekeeper, and the elderly members of the staff who had served Dovehill Hall for years.
“Ah, I see everyone is present. You may close the doors,” he informed an elderly footman standing nearby.
“Now, dear lady, if you will but seat yourself,” he said leading her solicitously to a chair. “I shall begin to read your late husband’s will.”
She sat quietly and listened as he read the document aloud. Her husband had left the usual legacies to the elderly servants of long service, including pensions and promised tenant cottages. The legacies were within the norm, with the exception of Mrs. O’Grady’s, who was deeded an entire house and land.
The remainder of the legacies for the servants of long service occasioned no comments. Pleased faces and nods were given as the staff recognized their names and were told what they had been bequeathed.
When he had finished with this portion, Beau turned the paper over and said pointedly, “Those in service may retire. I shall begin reading the part of the will that concerns only the immediate family.”
After the servants had left, the housekeeper still stood by the door. Her formidable presence was tangibly felt. She sullenly crossed her arms and scowled. She waited for him to continue reading.
He noticed and remarked calmly, “You may go as well, Mrs. O’Grady. Your presence is no longer required.”
“But as head of the servants in service here, I have a right to know what is to happen to the hall,” she said with a small sniff.
She looked pointedly over at Kathleen and Lord Langtry’s relatives.
“I ought to be told who will be the next master or mistress here. So I may inform the others as to who we will owe our living.”
This comment included Squire Lynch, Lord Langtry’s sister, the Countess Deuville, and Henry. The countess, who until now wore a bored expression, transformed into someone keenly interested as to what was about to take place. This was also true of Henry, who had been quietly snoring in a corner. His hands clasped over his protruding middle.
They may rightly assume Lord Langtry has put them in charge over me and Dovehill Hall, decided Kathleen, inwardly sighing.
She did not trust any of them. They were all cut from the same cloth. As an underage widow not yet one and twenty, she knew one of them might be named her legal guardian. Her life, it would appear, was fated never to be her own.
Looking at the greed-filled faces, she could not decide who would make the better protector. To her knowledge they were all equally dreadful. And from past experiences, she knew they would enjoy controlling her.
Another thought entered her mind . . . Henry might be given the entire estate as the sole surviving male relation. She would then be banished to the dowager house to live out the remainder of her days in genteel poverty.
She felt almost gleeful . . . the possibility of being left completely alone, without someone spying on her, caused a tiny smile to appear on her lips.
Privacy and freedom . . . two liberties she had been deprived of, would be hers. To regain them now would indeed create a blissful existence.
“Very well, Mrs. O’Grady,” Beau said, conceding to the housekeeper’s wish, “as it is in the interest of the new master of Dovehill Hall that the servants keep it running smoothly, you may stay and observe the proceedings.”
He picked up the document again. “Ah yes,” he said slowly, looking the testament over.
He did not look up. He gave no indication as to who would be put in charge of her and Dovehill Hall. She sensed, however, that he knew.
Master Powers had undoubtedly read over the will several times. He was, she could tell by his severe professional manner, putting on a show. It was to give extra weight to the papers he held.
None of them, she knew, would be able to dispute the validity of Bangford’s will. It had been drawn up by one of the most noted law firms in Ireland. There would be no loopholes. It was unquestionably perfect.
He looked up and said with firm authority, “Here we are . . . hmm . . . let me sum up what it says . . . according to the last will and testament of Lord Bangford Langtry, it is his wife, Lady Kathleen, who will be mistress of Dovehill Hall.”
Gasps of surprise went round the room.
He went on to explain, “Apparently, his lordship believed he was about to sire an heir, and therefore he decided to leave the entire estate in her ladyship’s capable hands.”
“That’s preposterous!” the countess loudly protested from her chair.
Her white powdered face frowned with indignant disbelief. “She is but a child and quite clearly underage. As for offspring . . . my brother was too old to possibly beget any. This is entirely unthinkable!”
Noticing the housekeeper standing by the door, she added angrily, “To think I counted on you, O’Grady, to keep him from making such a terrible mistake! I told you to find him a nice elderly widow to marry. But instead he found this . . . this golden haired sorceress to tempt him.”
The housekeeper did not defend herself. Instead the woman turned to Kathleen and with narrowed eyes said glumly, “I will turn my resignation in on the morrow, ma’am.” She then faced the countess and added, “I thought he wanted to simply copulate with the bit—”
“Mrs. O’Grady,” Beau broke in forcefully, not permitting her to continue. He firmly took the dour woman by the elbow and led her to the door.
“A grand shame you won’t be staying on and all that . . . the house Lord Langtry deeded you is more than adequate compensation for your years of service. No need to worry about your notice. I am quite certain Lady Langtry will somehow manage without you. There appears to be at least a half dozen or more capable staff members who can take your place.”
Looking down, he espied the heavy set of household keys hanging from the frowning woman’s belt. They were the symbol of power she wielded over the entire hall and Kathleen.
“Oh, and by the by, it’s very good of you to have the keys on hand. It will save her ladyship the effort of having to ask you to fetch them. Here, let me relieve you of the burden, since you will no longer have any use for them. I’ll take them from you now, shall I?”
Before the housekeeper could protest, he unhooked the heavy chain from the glowering woman’s waist. Keys clanked together as he held the large ring aloft.
“Why, I never in my entire life,” muttered the offended lady, infuriated at his interference. “How dare you.”
She tried to take them back.
He wagged a finger in front of her.
“But I do dare. And I am certain you never thought the day would come when the meek would inherit a bit of the earth,” he said, firmly pushing her through the door. “Don’t worry. I will make certain to have your position filled within the hour. There is no need for you to trouble yourself and stay on a minute longer, Mrs. O’Grady. Again, I am quite certain her ladyship will do perfectly well without you.”
Mouth agape at his effrontery, the housekeeper watched him firmly shut the door in her face. He walked over and gently laid the keys in Kathleen’s hands.
“They’re yours to do with as you will, Lady Langtry,” he said. “You are mistress here at Dovehill Hall.” He added meaningfully to the others present, “No one else.”
“Thank you, Master Powers,” she said and felt a large lump develop in the back of her throat. Not since her parents’ deaths had anyone defended her. This was the first time. She would never forget it.
“The pleasure, dear lady, is all mine,” he said, bowing. “Now back to the business at hand.”
He looked about the room at the remaining occupants. They all sat glumly observing him. They acted as if a prized golden egg had been stolen away by a conniving fox, not a dead man.
“Lord Langtry did not forget you,” he said and lifting the will again, he began to read. “To my sister, the Countess Henrietta Deuville and my nephew, Henry, I leave
an annuity of two thousand pounds each.”
He looked at the document more closely.
“Lord Langtry has also bequeathed some rather unusual oddities. Including a rather naughty book of Indian block prints for you, Henry, and an exotic plant has been left for you, Countess. An insectivorous, a rare, fly-eating plant, I believe. Apparently, you had admired it once. Well, um, wasn’t that thoughtful of his lordship?”
He beamed a grin at the white-powdered face before him.
The countess in turn glared at him.
Kathleen could not help but smile. Beau was clearly enjoying the moment. The sparkle of amusement in his clear blue eyes told her he was not taking any pains to hide that fact.
She understood why the countess was upset. A few thousand pounds and some queer oddities were nothing compared to what Dovehill Hall’s estates generated annually. There was also the mysterious source of gems and valuable antiques that magically appeared from time to time to be auctioned off. They had paid for her late husband’s costly imported eccentricities of exotic plants and rare oriental oddities.
But now Dovehill Hall’s wealth would remain in her hands or that of her children, that is if she should decide to remarry. And as she was quite young, it was not an unrealistic expectation. Aye, her dead husband’s family had good reason to be upset.
“Ahem.” Her uncle, Squire Lynch, coughed delicately. “Did his lordship bequeath anything to me? I did after all introduce Kathleen to him. Surely that m-merited some sort of remembrance?”
Beau’s eyebrows rose.
He peered down at the parchment before him, fingering it, line after line, to the very bottom. He stopped and gave the squire an affirmative nod. Lord Langtry apparently had not forgotten him.
The squire smiled back, a yellow-toothed, lopsided grin.
His choleric pale face was full of expectancy. A gleam brightened his droopy brown eyes. It was a familiar, greedy look that she recalled from the day he had given her to Lord Langtry. It made her insides queasy. This Judas would sell his own soul for a few pieces of gold.
Putting a hand into his right breast pocket, Beau withdrew a coin.
“Here,” he said, putting it into Lynch’s outstretched palm. “One farthing”
He read from the paper before him, speaking aloud the dead man’s words. “To Squire Lynch, who gave me his niece for twenty-five bags of gold and then one month later asked for more . . . one farthing . . . the rascal doesn’t merit two.”
He stopped his reading and regarded the downcast face of the jackanapes before him. Lynch had obviously been hoping for substantially more.
“And on a personal note, Squire,” he said, “I quite agree with his lordship. You are getting more than you deserve. I must say, a gentleman that sells his fifteen-year-old niece and only living relation to an old man almost five times her age deserves nothing but derision and sneering contempt.”
The squire, dumbfounded, stared at the coin in his hand. He was stunned. He had just been given the cut direct from a dead man lying in his grave.
“Oh, and since we are talking about bad taste,” Beau continued, his sharp blue eyes appraising the macaroon. “That puce colored waistcoat you are wearing is quite ghastly. Whoever your tailor is, he must be lacking in the upper stories to put that fabric on a choleric scarecrow such as yourself. To be blunt, sir, in my books you are nothing but a badly dressed cad.”
He chose that moment to give Kathleen an unexpected wink.
She stared at him, hardly daring to believe what she had just seen and heard. The solicitor had put her uncle in his place. It was an unexpected victory. He was clearly taking her side.
Stunned, she looked towards her uncle, wondering what his reaction would be. Would he take offense? Would he rise up and give the cheeky solicitor a good facer?
But her uncle did nothing. He did not budge.
Nodding again, Lynch silently sank deeper into his chair. There was nothing he could do. The will was impenetrable. He would have to face the debt collectors empty-handed.
There was a reason why being in “dun territory” could have been easily known as being in “dung territory”, for her uncle was once again deep in it. All the gold he’d been given by her late husband had been spent long ago.
“That is all,” Beau said, straightening the sheath of papers in his hands. “Except for one minor bit of business that I must discuss with Lady Langtry in private, the reading of the last will and testament of Lord Bangford Langtry is concluded. If you have any questions, you may contact me at my Dublin chambers. I therefore bid you ladies and um, gentlemen, a pleasant good-day.”
Thus dismissing them, he walked out of the room.
* * *
“Your husband, with good reason, trusted none of his relations to take care of your ladyship,” Beau said, sipping a cup of jasmine tea as they sat in a small parlor on a brocade sofa. They now partook in a late afternoon repast of tea, sandwiches, pastries, and scones.
Her stomach audibly growled. He’d observed that she hadn’t eaten all day. He glanced at her lovely face, red and embarrassed that he’d heard her growling stomach. He hid a smile. Poor woman, she had gone through a lot over the past few years. Beau stood up, and taking a plate of sandwiches, quietly offered them.
“I see that your ladyship was too occupied during your husband’s wake to eat anything. May this help revive you,” he said gently and handed it to her.
Unable to look him in the eye, she nodded and whispered her thanks. She turned and took a few bites before asking optimistically, “Then no one is to have charge over me?”
He could see the glimmer of hope in her eyes and was glad that he was in a position to assist her. She seemed so demure, but he knew she had spirit. He’d seen it before—that day when she’d disguised herself as a lad to help them rescue Lady Beatrice.
“Not quite,” he answered, looking directly at her. As he did so he was taken aback by her porcelain beauty—her pale skin, large blue eyes, and gold hair made her resemble one of the china dolls his sister used to own—delicate and fine.
She sat primly before him now, on her red velvet chair, a composed young woman dressed in black crepe. She appeared to be strong. But he feared something inside of her might snap and she would fall apart. He had a strong urge to protect her.
He remembered how he’d wanted to wrap his arms around her at the funeral but protocol had made it impossible. He was there representing her dead husband and the law. It would have been scandalous.
She’d looked so fragile and forlorn, standing alone by the graveside. No friends had stood by her. And he’d not seen her shed a single tear during the funeral. Her demeanor had been placid. It was as if she’d cut herself off from all emotion.
What had her life been like with old Lord Langtry and that domineering housekeeper? Had it been so terrible that she felt absolutely no grief for her husband? But then Lord Langtry had been an old man and an invalid. His death may have been anticipated. She may have already emotionally prepared for it. Still, he’d wondered at her relationship with her late husband. Had she grown to care for the old man? Had he treated her well? He wanted to know. For some reason it was important to him to know everything about her.
The corners of his eyes wrinkled a little in thought. She was far too young to be dressed in widow’s weeds. With such lovely features, she would be desired by many men. They would want to attach themselves to her. She had both beauty and wealth to entice them. He pictured her being surrounded by ne’er-do-well vultures like her greedy uncle, men who would consider the young widow easy prey.
He frowned at the thought of the suave jackanapes she would soon encounter in Dublin ballrooms and salons—the type of gentlemen who thought nothing of charming a young widow into bed, merely for sport. Unconsciously, his fists tightened at his sides at the mere idea of her coming up against such deceiving charmers. He wanted to protect her against such cunning snakes.
“Are you well, Master Powers?” she asked, lif
ting an inquiring eyebrow at his clenched fists.
“Indigestion, I’m afraid,” he lied with a tight smile. “Custard and I do not always get along. It’s nothing to trouble your ladyship over.”
Her mouth tightened a little, as though she was trying to hold back a smile at his comment. Well, at least she’d retained her sense of humor. But he silently berated himself for letting her see his inner turmoil concerning her well-being. He had to act in an impartial manner. He had to behave as if she were merely another client, not someone he would willingly fight off scheming rakes and fortune hunters for.
There was an untamed passion beneath her calm exterior. He’d glimpsed it a year ago when she’d aided Lady Beatrice. Defying her dominating husband, she’d disguised herself and helped the lady escape a forced marriage.
Despite having been controlled by others for most of her young life, she still had a spark in her eyes, a bright light that said she was strong-willed and could be a handful. Aye, watching over her would be quite a lively undertaking.
“It appears that I’m to have the honor of acting as your guardian. If you desire, I will act in that capacity for a time,” he said in a casual manner, testing her reaction to the news.
She turned two astonished eyes upon him.
“You?” she asked.
He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Your husband had entrusted my predecessor to watch over you. Now, acting in the place of your husband’s deceased solicitor, you and your estates have been placed entirely in my care.”
She frowned. She couldn’t help herself, but she did mind. She wanted her freedom, not another man ruling her life.
He noticed the flash of discontent in her eyes, but he could not find fault with it. If it had been him, he would have reacted in the same manner. For who would want another to rule over his life? No one, unless one was feeble-willed.
“There is no getting around it, your ladyship. You are under age and Irish law clearly states that someone older must act as your guardian until either you remarry or come of age. In this case, the guardian chosen by your husband’s will is me.”
“Are you to have absolute control over my life?” she asked with an edge in her voice. “Am I to have no say in the matter?”
