by Norma Darcy
“I am sorry, ma’am, but I cannot be responsible for the actions of a few weak men. I am truly sorry for your predicament, but your brother, and indeed your father, knew what they were about when they sat down to play with me. I have no regrets and I feel no remorse.”
“Then I am sorry for you,” she said.
He looked somewhat taken aback. “Sorry for me? Why should you be indeed?”
She shrugged. “Because it is clear to me that you must be an extremely unhappy man. Lonely too.”
The earl stood abruptly and walked to the window, turning his back on her so that she could not read his face. “Don’t presume to know me, Miss Blakelow,” he said in a completely altered tone that made her flinch.
“I don’t want to know you,” she answered. “All I want is your assistance.”
He turned back toward her in amazement. “My God, you speak your mind true enough, don’t you? Well, go on then. Let’s have it.”
She took a deep breath. “I have never been close to my father. In fact, for many years now I have considered him one of the most foolish men I have ever known. Shocking, is it not, to speak of one’s father in such a way? But he drove his wife to an early grave, and he gambled away practically everything we owned. The money, the silverware, paintings, sculptures . . . everything. The house is an empty shell.” She looked down at her hands. “Much of my mother’s jewelry was sold years ago to pay for his debts, and it is only thanks to her, who hid a little of her own property, that we have anything of hers left. But, that is not getting me to the point, is it? I know that you have issued us instructions to leave within three months, and you will not find us difficult to remove when the time comes; we honor our father’s debt to you even if he did not.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
She looked down at her hands. “W-what do you plan to do with Thorncote once we have gone, sir? Will you sell it?”
“I certainly plan to. I have asked my man of business to set things in motion,” he answered.
“Your man of business, yes . . . I suppose you have . . . other . . . things to think about,” she mused aloud, staring off into the distance.
His lips twitched, coaxed at last out of his ill humor by this blithe comment. “Indeed? And what might those other things be, Miss Blakelow?”
She stared back at him, refusing to rise to his bait. “I—nothing. The Thorncote estate has been mismanaged and deprived of money for years. It is good farming land and used to make a tidy profit when my grandfather was alive. But it has been allowed to go to seed, and I do not think you would get a very good price if you sold it in its present condition.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps, but any money I get from it would still be an addition to my coffers.”
“Yes, but it could be so much more,” she said eagerly. She opened her leather case once more and took from it a sheaf of papers. “See here. This was the income in the last year of my grandfather’s life. It can be made profitable again.”
“This is all very laudable, but I don’t want to bring it back to profitability. I lack the will, you see. Let the man who buys it from me do that. I just want shot of it.”
“Then let me do it.”
He frowned. “What exactly are you asking of me?”
“Don’t take Thorncote from us. Let my brother stay in possession of the estate, and let us repay the debt to you from the profits. We can work out a schedule. Every month we will make a payment to you, with interest, until the debt my father and brother owe you is paid off.”
There was a long pause while he considered her offer. He looked over at her and folded his arms. “My dear Miss Naivety, have you any idea how much money that is?” he asked.
She stared at her hands. “I imagine it would be a sizable amount,” she said in a low voice.
He laughed harshly. “Yes, ma’am, it is a sizable amount,” he said with sarcasm. “You would be paying me back into the next century.”
She swallowed hard. “We could do it. I know we could.”
“I admire your industry, Miss Blakelow, truly I do, and your courage too for coming here to explain your idea to me. But it won’t fly.”
“Why won’t it?” she demanded, a pleading note in her voice. “My father’s man of business, Mr. Healey, is a superb fellow and has a great deal of experience in these matters—if only he had not been hamstrung by my father’s bleeding the estate dry.”
“And there you have hit the nail on the head,” said his lordship. “How do you imagine that these improvements are to be made when you have said yourself that you have no money?”
“Well, I have thought of that. If you could loan us the money . . .”
Lord Marcham smiled. “How did I know you were going to say that? You are already in debt to me up to your eyeballs, and you want me to lend you more money?”
“Yes.”
“And after you have dragged my name through the dirt. Go on then, tell me it all. How much?”
Miss Blakelow pulled another piece of paper from her case and rose to hand it to him.
He looked from the document to her face. “Why so conservative? Why not ask for double that amount?” he asked.
She flushed. “I did think of it,” she confessed. “But I did not think you would give it to me.”
“No,” he replied. “And you were right.”
“But, sir, if you would but look at the figures. I can guarantee you a very good rate of return. It represents a very good investment for your money. And with the added bonus of turning a bad situation to good account.”
“My dear Miss Blakelow, no.”
“But, sir, if you had allowed Mr. Healey to come and explain it all to you—”
He held up a hand. “Spare me from the rigors of farm technology, I beg of you. I cannot think of anything more tedious. Now, is that all?” He moved toward her as he said this.
“Do you wish to keep the paperwork in case you change your mind?” she asked.
“No, ma’am, I do not,” he replied, slowly shepherding her toward the door.
“Why do you not come to Thorncote and see for yourself?” she asked, clutching at his arm. “If you were to see the land, smell the earth, you would know that it is a special place.”
His lordship relinquished the sleeve of his coat from her clutches. “I am very busy, Miss Blakelow. Carousing, you know, takes up all my time.”
“And you have not the slightest interest in helping a family whom you are soon to turn out onto the streets?”
“Don’t lay the blame for your father’s mistakes at my door, young woman—it won’t wash.”
She bit her lip. “My lord, I beg of you . . . We have nothing else.”
He sighed heavily. “I can help find you another place, somewhere that is more within your means . . . if that would help? And I would take that offer if I were you, for I never do anything for anybody if I can help it.”
“I don’t want to live anywhere else. I love Thorncote.”
“You will have to leave there one day when your brother marries . . . or if you marry for that matter,” he pointed out.
She shook her head. “I won’t marry. And Will has told me that I may stay there for as long as I choose.”
“Yes,” he replied dryly. “And I imagine that the future Lady William Blakelow will adore having her husband’s sister running the place. Don’t be such a goose. You will have to leave and that is right and proper.”
She allowed him to guide her into the hallway. “You will not even consider it then?”
“No, I will not.”
Miss Blakelow turned at the door. “And do you think Lady Emily Holt would be pleased to learn that her future husband has all-night orgies?”
He looked amused. “Blackmail, ma’am?”
“No, I just think that your fiancée should be made aware of what goes on in her future home.”
“Be my guest, Miss Blakelow. I know whose reputation would come off worse from such an encounter, and I can assur
e you, it would not be mine. Yes, my girl, how would you explain your presence in my house while such a party was in progress? Neither your widow’s weeds nor your unblemished reputation would be enough to save you.”
“She knows then?”
“I have no idea and, furthermore, neither do I care. But I’m willing to wager that she, along with any other female, is more than prepared to put up with it for the pin money I will give her.”
“It sounds a rather dismal contract, this marriage of yours. I hope you may find happiness in it.”
“Will it do me any good to reiterate once again that I am not engaged to Lady Emily Holt?”
“None at all,” she replied, curtsying. “Good-bye then, my lord.”
He bowed. “Good-bye, Miss Blakelow, and I shall look forward to featuring heavily as the villain of your next pamphlet.”
CHAPTER 4
MISS BLAKELOW PICKED ANOTHER plump blackberry from the briars and tossed it into the basket hanging over her arm. It was late August and they had been enjoying a bout of warm, sunny weather, a welcome epilogue to the summer that softened the impending approach of autumn.
Now that her father’s estate all but belonged to Lord Marcham, this was in all probability the last summer that she would spend here and these the last of the fruit that she would pick at Thorncote. She picked another berry and put it between her teeth, biting into the sweet black flesh as she tossed the hull away.
She looked out across the rolling hills and back toward the house that she had considered her home since she was a young woman. It had been her belief that she would spend the rest of her days there, and that she eventually would be carried out in her coffin. But on the turn of a card, her future had been remade, as if her life had been thrown into the air and had landed in a jumble. How long could they stay at Thorncote? When would Robert Holkham come to claim his property? Where would they go then?
She cursed Sir William Blakelow for putting them in this situation. The Thorncote estate had been in the Blakelow family for generations, but through one weak man and his penchant for gambling, they had lost all to their lordly neighbor, who already had more than enough for his needs. Gone by his own hand, in a final act of cowardly betrayal, Sir William had left them saddled with debts that only a miracle could pay off. He had left his name and his gambling habit to his eldest son, William, who was turning out to be every bit as reckless as his father was. He’d tried to win back all that their father had lost with one desperate gamble at the faro table, only to push them even further into debt. It was intolerable. And it did nothing to dissuade Miss Blakelow from the opinion that men were fools.
Sir William, baronet, was her stepfather, her real father having died many years ago. Perhaps if Sir William had been her blood relative, she might have been able to forgive him more easily. Miss Blakelow’s mother had married the baronet to provide them with a home, but within three years, she had died, leaving Georgiana in her stepfather’s care. Miss Blakelow was only stepsister to the late Sir William’s children, but she felt as much a part of the family as if Sir William had been her natural father. He had been a jovial, good-natured sort of man and had shown Georgiana great kindness when she had first come to live at Thorncote, welcoming her into his family as if she were his own daughter. But he was weak, especially when in his cups. He was liable to gamble that which he could not afford to lose and tell people things that Georgiana would much rather have kept private.
Miss Blakelow winced as she pricked her finger on a thorn and took the cut into her mouth to stem the flow of blood. Ten years in total she had lived here and roamed amongst these hills and trees and briars.
What a long time ago it now seemed since she had decided to make her home at Thorncote! She remembered her first glimpse of the house and how enchanted she had been by its high gargoyles and gables. After her mother had died, she had left Thorncote for a London season and all that it could offer a young woman of limited means. Her season had started so well, but when disaster struck and she was disgraced, she returned to Thorncote once again, seeking refuge. She remembered how safe it had felt compared to the world she had just left behind. She had been a young girl of nineteen, thrust into the glare of London society, without a mother to guide and protect her. And she was soon cast out of that very same society when she had fallen foul of her own temperament and her willingness to love and be loved. She had eventually returned to Thorncote, where she had hidden from the world for the past seven years, and where she had expected to live out her days as aunt to her brother’s children and to find some sort of contentment in being useful.
No longer was she the green girl who had set the ton on its heels. No longer was she the young beauty who’d had men casting themselves at her feet. She was older, a good deal wiser, and well educated to the hypocrisy of men.
Thorncote had been her solace; the big blue skies above had been a balm to her soul, and the trickle of the stream washed her girlish dreams away. She considered herself lucky. She’d had a second chance at life, and she had grasped it with both hands. She was moderately happy with her lot. To be sure, it was a safe, undemanding existence, and if she did crave a little excitement from time to time, it was only confessed in bed at night when entirely alone.
Now, at the ripe old age of nine and twenty, when she had been considered an old maid for the best part of ten years, her future was about to change again. Who knew where she might go next? Who knew what the future held in store? She had little money. She had no connections of note—none that would recognize her anyway. She would have to live on her own wits and make her own future as she had once before.
She wiped her juice-stained fingers on the apron around her waist and sighed. Yes, she loved Thorncote, and yes, she had her aunt to accompany her, but if she was honest with herself, she was lonely. William was younger and spent much of his time in London with his friends, her aunt much older and given over to the demands of her ailments. Her younger brothers and sisters were too young to truly understand why she had never married and too old now to require constant attention. She was beginning to feel superfluous; they no longer needed her. It would not be long before they were married with homes and families of their own. And what then for Miss Blakelow? If Thorncote were lost to Lord Marcham, she would have no home and would have to depend upon the charity of her brothers and sisters for her living. The aging spinster, shunted from one sibling’s home to the next, as unwanted at one as she was at the other. For however much she was assured that she was welcome to live with one family member or another, the likelihood was that their spouses would not be quite so keen at the thought of living with a poor spinsterly relative. She would have no right to arrange things as she saw fit; she would have to bow to the wishes of whomsoever William married. And if that woman weren’t kind, it could be purgatory. She wasn’t sure her pride could take it.
How had it come to this? How had all her youthful charm and beauty led her to this impasse? She was not unintelligent; she was not unattractive. Surely there might have been some man prepared to take her on?
She was not ashamed to admit that she had yearned for what every other young woman yearned for—a home of her own, a man to care for, children to love and nurture. But it had been many years now, and she considered that dream to be beyond her reach. Society had put it there. She was too old now to attract any attention, and indeed, she had gone out of her way to acquire a reputation as a bluestocking, a prude, and the very pinnacle of female respectability, because it had suited her needs. She had made her public face with her own hands, carefully erecting each brick in the wall that she hid behind. But now that she had achieved it and was considered by the neighborhood to be a paragon of Christian virtue, she found herself wanting nothing more than to tear it all down. She found the role oppressive; it stifled her passionate and willful nature. She yearned to be herself, to stop playing the part she had created for herself and live as she wanted to live, the world and their opinions be damned.
She
was tired of her mourning clothes. She was tired of her position as governess and chaperone to her young siblings. She was tired of pretending to be something she wasn’t. She had ritually donned the spectacles and the cap of an old maid whenever she was in company because she wished to be invisible. But now her vanity reared its ugly head and demanded to wear a pretty gown and have men look admiringly at her as they once had.
Why now? she asked herself. Why, when she had been living contentedly enough with her disguise for all those years, did it suddenly irk her so? Was it the smile of a handsome neighbor who made her doubt her own existence? Or was she just a woman, with the same weaknesses, the same need to be desired and loved, as any other? Out here, amongst the briars and the long grass and the oak trees that dipped their branches low to the ground, she could shed her mask and just be herself; the cap and the glasses and the guise of the prim Miss Blakelow stayed in her pocket.
From her position on the rise, she saw a rider approach the house. At first she did not recognize the man, thinking him a visitor to her aunt. But when he swung easily from the saddle and looked about him as if calculating the worth of what he saw, Miss Blakelow recognized the tall, powerful frame of Lord Marcham. He turned and walked languidly into the house as if he already owned every blade of grass on the front lawn.
Miss Blakelow, torn between hope that he had changed his mind and anger at his arrogance, hurried back down the path toward the house. In the hall she handed her basket to the butler, one of the few remaining servants they could afford to keep at Thorncote since her father’s death.
“Lord Marcham is visiting with your aunt in the parlor, miss.”
“Thank you, John.”
The servant discreetly coughed and directed a pointed stare at her blackberry-stained apron. He was a burly man, well into his forties, who had a permanently weather-beaten face and wrists as thick as an anchor chain. He had served in the navy with Miss Blakelow’s natural father all those years ago and had been with her ever since.
