The Impoverished Viscount

by Allison Lane

  To his credit, and despite his seeming indolence, he had never wasted a shilling. He drank in such moderation that people noticed, and he eschewed gaming, even for pennies. Fearful of falling prey to his father’s failings, he refused even promising investments. He had become adept at maintaining his appearance as a modestly well-to-do peer without resorting to debt. His grandmother must know that.

  A run-down inn appeared through the driving rainstorm, letting him turn his weary horses off the road.

  An hour later he was ensconced in a shabby room that the innkeeper claimed contained the last bed in the house. Huddled near the inadequate fireplace, he succumbed to anger and fear. Devil take his grandmother! And devil take his father for leaving him to the whims of a capricious woman! He hoped the man was burning. It would be a change from the icy aloofness he had always employed.

  But cursing the past was a waste. He must decide how to recoup the future.

  Again he perused the letter, praying he had somehow misinterpreted its message. But the words were was crystal clear.

  Pouring a glass from the second bottle of foul-tasting brandy, he scowled. Heat had replaced his earlier chills. His head swirled. The wine might be nearly undrinkable, but it was potent, especially on an empty stomach. He had been unable to choke down the unidentified glop on his dinner tray.

  He must take his grandmother’s words seriously. She had never joked about money.

  He downed another brandy. And another. What did it matter if he drank himself insensible? He stood helpless, on the brink of ruin, with not a thing he could do to avert disaster. If only there were some way to fight back!

  He paced, easily ignoring the murmur of voices from the next room – until they suddenly rose in argument.

  “Of course we cannot go back!” shouted a female. “Oh, why did Grandmama choose this, of all times, to go to Bath?”

  “We could hardly have anticipated that.” The second voice was also female, though its tone belonged to someone older. “But what else are we to do? We haven’t enough money to cover this room for a fortnight. Nor can we beg admittance to an empty house.”

  “I won’t return,” swore the girl. “I will sleep in a ditch first. And our funds won’t stretch to another coach journey, either. We’ve no hope of more. There’s nothing else to sell. Can we not approach her in Bath?”

  “Of course not! Do you expect your grandmother to welcome you when she is staying with a friend you have never seen? Be reasonable, Missy. Toby must stand up for you after this.”

  “I am being reasonable. You know how ruthless he can be. And you know what he wants. Toby bends with every breeze. Even if he promises, he will be powerless against his friends.”

  Charles shook his head, hiccupping loudly into the sudden silence. It sounded like someone was running away from home. Who was her companion? Hardly a maid, for she seemed to be giving the orders. The accents were genteel. How far had they already traveled? What would two ladies do for the fortnight before the grandmother returned?

  An insidious idea suddenly popped into his reeling head. Without giving himself time to think, he staggered to the door.

  * * * *

  Melissa grimaced as she sipped the worst cup of tea she had ever tasted and tried to identify the food on her dinner tray. Nothing had gone right in days.

  She and Beatrice had avoided trouble for nearly two weeks. Arranging a private sitting room meant they saw the gentlemen only at dinner. Lord Heflin had continued his warm remarks, but Bea’s presence discouraged any touches. The judicious use of locks and keys also helped.

  But the atmosphere at the Manor grew tenser every day. Toby carried an ever-deepening frown on his face – as did Mr. Crawford. Melissa assumed that both were losing badly at the incessant gaming. Daily she prayed that Toby would dismiss his friends, but he refused to do so.

  She finally recognized that he could not. When the house party ended, debts of honor must be settled, and he lacked the means.

  The ladies retired to the rose arbor after breakfast one morning. It was their favorite place to do needlework, offering escape from the gloomy house. It was also the most relaxing time of day. The men rarely left their rooms before noon, as their nightly carouses usually lasted until dawn. Thus Melissa was unconcerned when a maid summoned Bea to arbitrate a crisis in the kitchen.

  Five minutes later Lord Heflin slipped into the arbor, his eyes alight with lust.

  “My dear Lady Melissa, you make so charming a picture,” he murmured.

  “Hardly,” she scoffed, clipping her thread and thrusting the needle into her work.

  “So humble.” He sat next to her on the bench.

  She immediately crossed to the other side of the arbor.

  “Avoiding me, my dear?” he asked softly, following behind her.

  “I am not your dear,” she snapped.

  “Of course you are.” He jerked her against him.

  She tried to push him away, but his grip was too strong. “Let go!” she demanded fiercely.

  “I always knew that demure exterior hid a heart of fire,” he gloated, holding her head so she could not escape his wet lips. His mouth was suffocating. But even worse was her own treacherous body. Her budding breast tautened under his stroking hand.

  “See?” he boasted, grinding her lips into her teeth and pulling her closer. “You want me as much as I want you. Enough of your coy teasing. I can’t wait another minute.”

  She squirmed, trying to escape, but the movement only quickened his breathing. Beatrice had spoken truly. He reveled in using his strength against her. She tried to relax, but her body continued to fight.

  “Mine at last,” he rasped hoarsely.

  Screaming, she clawed at his face, but could not break free. At least she no longer enjoyed his touch, a corner of her mind noted. Fury and terror overwhelmed all else. As he dragged her toward the bench, she recalled Bea’s words and twisted, slamming her knee into his swollen manhood and stabbing with the scissors that remained in her hand. A second stab sliced deeply into the back of his thigh.

  He doubled over, swearing.

  She ran for the house.

  Beatrice followed Melissa upstairs, cradling her until the nausea abated and her stormy tears had run their course. Bea wanted to leave immediately, but Melissa refused. She could do nothing until she received a reply from her grandmother. Instead, she decided on one last attempt to force Toby into protecting her. It was his job, both as her guardian and as a lord.

  But she never made her plea. She had been raising her hand to knock on the study door when she’d heard voices inside.

  “I haven’t the ready at the moment,” admitted Toby. “You must wait until the harvest.”

  “Really?” drawled Heflin. “Judging from your fields, ten harvests will not cover what you owe me, Drayton. But I am a reasonable man. Give me your sister, and we’ll call it even. I’ve a bone to pick with the lady.”

  “Are you offering for her?” asked Toby in surprise.

  “I may as well. She’s plain enough that she’ll cause no trouble. I need an heir. Once that is settled, she can stay in the country and out of my hair.”

  Melissa did not wait to hear more. She should have known that lords cared for nothing by themselves.

  “Heflin is demanding my hand,” she sobbed as she burst into Bea’s room. “And Toby will agree. I cannot live with him! I’ll kill myself first.”

  “Calm down, Missy!” ordered Beatrice. “What happened?”

  Melissa took a moment to pull herself together. “Toby admitted that he can’t cover his vowels. Heflin offered to take me instead. Toby’s only condition is that he marry me.”

  Bea frowned. “Can he force you?”

  “He’s my guardian, and no one ever refuses lords. No vicar will listen to my protests.” She broke into renewed sobs. “What can I do?”

  “Stop this! I cannot think if you are in hysterics.”

  By the time Melissa had regained her composure, Bea wa
s pacing the room, muttering about aristocratic stupidity.

  “Do you think he has settled anything?” she asked at last.

  Melissa frowned. “That depends on Heflin. Toby will do nothing on his own, but will agree if pushed.”

  “Then we may have time. Heflin will toy with you, the way a cat teases a mouse before the final feast. Can’t you see his black eyes gleam while he throws out comments about your future life together?”

  “Dear Lord, yes,” said Melissa, mopping at her tears. “And every glance will raise the horror of it all.”

  “Steady, Missy,” murmured Bea again. “Nothing is settled. And Toby will likely postpone any agreement if he cannot produce the goods.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “We must leave tonight.”

  “And go where?” Melissa scoffed.

  “Your grandmother’s house.” A hand stayed the inevitable protest. “After this she can hardly refuse you, but if she does, you can come home with me.”

  “It will never work, Bea. It’s at least a four day trip. They will follow and catch us, and I will be worse off than I am now.”

  Bea joined her on the couch. “Then we must cover our trail. We cannot travel as Lady Melissa and Mrs. Stokes. Nor can we go as gentility. ‘Ow’s this, me pet?” she cackled suddenly in broad cockney.

  Melissa choked. “Where did you learn that?”

  “Off’n a maggoty scapegallows who worked for me ’usband.” She changed back to her normal voice. “We’ll book as Mrs. Sharpe and her niece Harriet, then remain aloof and quiet – I can only carry it off for brief stretches. And if we change your appearance…”

  With renewed hope, Melissa threw herself into the game. “Betsy will know how. She once mentioned a concoction that darkens hair but washes out within weeks.”

  “Good. And we’ll resume full mourning. Wear that horrid gown, the one that looks like a housekeeper’s dress.”

  “It is the housekeeper’s dress.”

  She laughed. “I’ll use that monstrosity I wear for gardening. And I spotted a hideous bag bonnet in the attic that will hide my hair.”

  They continued planning, even while Betsy smeared a dreadful vegetable paste on Melissa’s light brown locks. The girl would accompany them. Even had she been unwilling, they could not have left her behind to bear Toby’s rage.

  That evening, they dined upstairs as they honed their plans. The groom – who was utterly trustworthy, for he’d hated Toby since an unjust beating several years earlier – had agreed to drive them to Lincoln. The guests’ grooms slept at the village inn, for the stables were too derelict to house them. Thus no one locally would see their disguises or suspect how they’d left.

  As soon as the men were engrossed in their evening card game, the ladies slipped away. Melissa left a note condemning Toby’s choice of friends, repudiating any betrothal, and announcing that she was going home with Beatrice.

  They had to travel by stage, for their resources were unable to stretch even to a mail coach. The second day of the trip had been more uncomfortable than the first, with rutted roads and sullen passengers. The third was worse, as the weather turned vilely wet and blustery. The driver finally had to stop at an undistinguished country inn when the road became too mired to proceed. But that wasn’t their worst problem.

  A passenger who had boarded in Bath turned out to be a garrulous groom. Within minutes everyone on the coach knew that he worked for Lady Castleton, who had sent him ahead to inform her staff that she would stop in Bath for a fortnight instead of returning directly home.

  Melissa was horrified. She and Beatrice could not afford two weeks at an inn, even one so unprepossessing as this one. It had occurred to neither of them that a lady of five-and-seventy might amuse herself by visiting friends.

  Their argument on the subject halted only when someone knocked on the door. Beatrice answered.

  A well-dressed gentleman stood in the hall, the cocky smile of advanced inebriation decorating his handsome face, a card clutched in his outstretched hand. “Lord Rathbone at your shervice.” He bowed, then grabbed the doorjamb to keep from falling. “I could not help overhearing your dishcussion. May I offer you housing for a fortnight in return for a shlight favor?”

  Chapter Two

  Charles nearly fled at his first glimpse of the room’s occupants. The lady frowning suspiciously at his card appeared to be in her mid-thirties. She was striking, her tantalizing figure demanding a second glance despite being swathed in mourning. Light brown hair framed a heart-shaped face with luscious waves. But she was too old for his purposes.

  Shock highlighted her companion’s face. And chagrin – the girl had been sprawled vulgarly across the bed when he appeared in the doorway. She hurriedly sat up and tucked her bare feet out of sight. But she looked no more than fourteen, her thin, undeveloped figure lost in an oversized, unbecoming black gown. Black, lifeless hair hung limply down her back. Dull eyes stared from a skeletal face that appeared yellow in the wavering light. She looked like a waif.

  But perhaps he was being unduly harsh. The tiny room was lit only by two tallow candles. Could he pass her off?

  A second piercing look at that flat chest nearly sent him running. He should have waited until he could examine his neighbors over breakfast. But here he was, and here he would stay. Desperation could find hope in even the least promising situation.

  “Lord Rathbone?” echoed the older lady, puzzlement clear in her musical voice.

  “At your service,” he repeated carefully, this time without slurring the words. “And you are…”

  “Mrs. Sharpe. This is my niece, Miss Harriet Sharpe.”

  She glanced at the girl on the bed, who reluctantly curved her lips into the parody of a smile. Hostility glared from her eyes. “Beware of lords seeking favors,” she snapped at her aunt.

  “Don’t judge without facts.” Mrs. Sharpe returned her attention to Charles. “What favor do you seek?”

  “It depends.” Nervousness robbed his voice of composure. The girl’s tone could freeze the haughtiest dowager. Paradoxically, her antagonism hardened his resolve. “How old is Miss Sharpe?”

  “Sixteen.” Belligerence stiffened Mrs. Sharpe’s back.

  “This may work then.” He fought to keep surprise out of his voice. “I occupy the next room. As you can see, the rooms were originally one, and the partition is thin, so I could not help overhearing your exchange. You stand in need of a fortnight’s lodging. I need help for that same period of time. Perhaps we can assist one another.”

  “How?” demanded Harriet.

  “It is a long story,” he admitted, looking pointedly at a chair. He would fall if he did not soon get off his feet. It had been years since he had drunk so much.

  Mrs. Sharpe motioned him to sit even as Harriet opened her mouth, apparently to protest. Mrs. Sharpe stood before the now-closed door, in position to either defend her niece or attack the intruder.

  “My grandmother is Lady Lanyard,” Charles began. “She declared me her heir when I was still in short pants, and has frequently assured me that her considerable fortune would come to me on her death. Through no fault of my own, my financial position is precarious, and Grandmother’s money is essential if I am to rescue my estate from ruin. Now she is ill and not expected to live. She has summoned her solicitor to make revisions to her will, and for the first time in my life, she has stated that I will be her heir only if am I married.”

  He paused for a response but none was forthcoming. The barest hint of polite interest showed on Mrs. Sharpe’s face, and her niece appeared totally bored. He had never had a less attentive audience, but he slogged ahead, trying to force his renowned charm into his words.

  “I know no one whom I would consider for a wife, nor is it likely that I could contract an alliance until next Season. I had thought to point out the impossibility of my grandmother’s request, hoping that she would agree to leave me the inheritance contingent upon marriage. But my argume
nt will carry more weight if I can produce a prospective bride. I would like Miss Sharpe to pose as my betrothed during my grandmother’s final days. Lady Lanyard can die happy, and I will have the necessary time to make a wise choice of spouse.”

  Miss Sharpe was frankly staring. “You belong in Bedlam,” she snapped. “Do you expect me to willingly employ deceit so you can cheat your grandmother out of a fortune? I presume there is no question of continuing the charade beyond a fortnight.”

  “It would only be for a few days,” he hastened to assure her. “I don’t know how Grandmother came by this idiotic idea. She can hardly expect me to jump blindly into a marriage that will remain in effect for the rest of my life. Such a hare-brained scheme would benefit neither party and would contradict one of her own favorite adages. Marry in haste, repent at leisure. I fear her mind may be slipping, though she has remained uncannily prescient until now. But I cannot risk my future by arguing with her. I must produce a candidate for my hand.”

  “How do we know you speak the truth?” asked Mrs. Sharpe. “You might fabricate such an unlikely tale when your real goal is to cut out a rival claimant.”

  Fury sparked in his eyes. “I am a gentleman, madam,” he growled.

  “I have had too many dealings with so-called gentlemen to believe one’s protestations,” stated Harriet firmly. “A more dishonorable collection of animals I cannot imagine. What other family members are in line for this inheritance?”

  “None.”

  “You have no other relations?”

  “Only a cousin, but he is wealthy and has never desired Grandmother’s money. Nor has she ever been partial to him.”

  Absently chewing a fingernail, Harriet stared wordlessly at her aunt. Goose bumps skittered down Charles’s spine. Why did he have to deal with someone who didn’t understand what being a gentleman meant? He despised begging.