The Impoverished Viscount

by Allison Lane

  “What would such a charade entail?” Miss Sharpe demanded at last.

  “You would pose as my betrothed. We would have to decide how we met, be prepared to relate our plans, and devise a suitable background for you. You would meet with Lady Lanyard once or twice, possibly alone. And we must keep up the pretense of a betrothal at all times. The servants report everything to her. She should not live beyond a few more days, but regardless of her health, you would be free to leave in a fortnight.”

  She frowned, again looking to Mrs. Sharpe for guidance as she resumed nibbling a finger. All her nails were gnawed to the quick. Charles shuddered at the sight, his head swirling so dizzily that he lost track of the conversation.

  * * * *

  “I deplore deceit,” Melissa murmured to Bea.

  “If the facts are as stated, it is not that bad.”

  “How do we know he is truthful? Toby’s friends often lie when they want something.”

  “Do we have a choice?” asked Bea. “Where else can we go?”

  Melissa pressed her hands over her face, blotting out the sight of Lord Rathbone. His looks were disconcerting. Never had she met anyone so well suited for displaying the current fashions – his broad shoulders and slender waist gave his coats the proper nipped-in appearance without the aid of either padding or corsets. Long, muscular legs made the most of his tight pantaloons. His blond curls were arranged negligently around a handsome face dominated by beguiling aqua eyes. Yet there was nothing of the dandy about him. His shirt points did not endanger his eyes, and his cravat was modestly elegant. She pegged him as a Corinthian, and not just for his muscularity. His graceful athleticism remained despite inebriation. And he was tall. His head had brushed the lintel of the door.

  Why must this man beg favors from a stranger? Unless…

  He might not dare approach a friend. If his grandmother recovered, she would mention the supposed betrothal to others, forcing him into marriage. Melissa did not believe he would look for a wife next Season. He obviously hoped that producing a fiancée would remove any conditions from his inheritance. Thus using a stranger would leave him free. If anyone heard of this so-called betrothal, he could always claim his intended had jilted him. He would have no qualms about blackening Miss Sharpe’s reputation.

  But that was a point in her favor. Unbeknownst to him, she was already engaged in a charade. Since she would never see Lord Rathbone again, the fictitious Harriet Sharpe could disappear without a trace. And there was no guarantee that her grandmother would take her in. She might yet go to America with Beatrice.

  The possibility actually appealed to her, for her prospects in England were dim. Toby would never bring her out, nor would Lady Castleton. Although the dowager currently was engaged in an unfortunate round of visits, her lack of funds would prevent her from presenting a granddaughter to society. How many times had her father complained that his wife’s family could not help them financially?

  Rathbone belched, spewing brandy fumes into the room, an unpleasant reminder of the past month. Melissa had hoped to never again set eyes on a dissolute gentleman. Was Rathbone another irresponsible drunkard who needed saving from the consequences of his actions? Hadn’t she put up with enough of this from Toby?

  “Please, Miss Sharpe?” His voice interrupted her thoughts.

  She addressed Bea. “You know how much I despise deceit.”

  “We could at least explore the situation. If he has lied, we will tell his grandmother the truth and depart, leaving us no worse off than we are now. If the situation is as he represents, no one would be hurt by accepting his offer.”

  “You have always been the pragmatic sort.” Melissa scowled. “But this is going too far. Dishonor is intolerable.”

  “I suspect he is truthful,” mused Bea. “He is worsening his own situation if he is not.”

  “You will find that everything is exactly as I stated,” Rathbone interrupted to assure them.

  Melissa continued to frown. Bea was right about one thing – they had no place to go. “All right, Lord Rathbone. I will help you as long as I am convinced that no one will be harmed.”

  He relaxed into an easy smile. “Thank you, Miss Sharpe, Mrs. Sharpe.”

  “You are welcome,” said Bea. “What time will we leave?”

  “It depends on this storm.” He shrugged. “Will you breakfast with me at eight?”

  “Until then, my lord,” Melissa said coldly.

  Rathbone rose to depart, but stopped at the door. “If we are to pretend a betrothal, Harriet, you must call me Charles.”

  She frowned. “Very well. Good night, Charles.”

  Mindful of the thin wall, the argument that followed was waged in whispers.

  Melissa feared the proposed masquerade. If her true identity became known, her reputation would never recover. And Rathbone reminded her too strongly of Lord Heflin, for he exuded the same sense of power, awareness of his own appeal, and arrogant determination to ride roughshod over anyone who thwarted his desires.

  His intelligence was also suspect. Who would choose a conspirator while roaring drunk? He had to have been planning this since he received word of his grandmother’s illness. Choosing her was just plain stupid. No one would believe that a London Corinthian wished to wed a country miss who looked like nothing more than a little girl playing dress-up.

  Beatrice countered Melissa’s arguments with the oft-repeated observation that if anything proved to be amiss, they could call off the deception and leave, though where they would go was never addressed. Bea considered Rathbone’s offer just another example of aristocratic stupidity that they might as well milk for their own benefit.

  Much as she liked Beatrice, Melissa got tired of hearing about American democracy and tolerance. It was easy for Bea to be tolerant, for she had nothing to lose. Whatever happened, she could return home with no one the wiser. But if Melissa’s identity emerged, she faced a scandal she would never live down.

  Yet in the end, she abandoned her argument. She had already agreed. Honor would not let her renege unless she had proof of perfidy.

  * * * *

  “Good morning, Harriet,” said Charles, smiling as the ladies arrived for breakfast. The smile covered a grimace. He had awakened with a pounding head and a prayer that it had all been a nightmare.

  But here she was, wearing a hideous lavender gown that made her look even worse than he remembered. In the wan light that filtered through the single filthy window, her face was even more sallow, almost jaundiced. The tight knot into which she’d pulled her hair accentuated her skeletal appearance. He shuddered. How could he convince his grandmother that he was in love with the chit?

  But it was too late to call off the charade. The stage had already left.

  “Good morning, my lo— Charles,” Harriet replied.

  “I understand you have a maid with you.”

  “Yes.”

  “We must wait here until my baggage coach catches up, then.” He sighed. “My curricle cannot seat four. Even the three of us would be uncomfortable, for it is three hours from here to Lanyard Manor.”

  Escorting the ladies to the table, he again hid a grimace. The top of Harriet’s head was at least two inches below his shoulder. She appeared little more than a child. He had never been attracted to petite females, preferring taller wenches whose bodies molded to his own in bed. And he abhorred the schoolroom set. His eyes refused to remain on her pinched face.

  They ate in silence. If anything, the food was worse than it had been the night before. Harriet gave up after the barest taste, and Mrs. Sharpe managed just one helping. But Charles ate greedily, starved despite his pounding head. He had consumed nothing the previous day except brandy and hoped that food might counter the alcohol’s effects.

  “We will claim that you are seventeen,” he began once he’d pushed his plate away. “Grandmother will not think kindly of someone still in the schoolroom.”

  “That is reasonable,” she agreed.

 
“You are in mourning?”

  “My father died seven months ago.”

  “That explains why you skipped the Season, and it gives us an excuse for not wedding immediately. We will announce our betrothal formally when you are out of black gloves. The wedding will be at the end of next Season, letting you acquire some town bronze before settling down.”

  “How did we meet?” She grimaced, setting her cup back on the table.

  He hoped her expression was for the atrocious coffee and not for his suggestions. “Might I have attended your father’s funeral?”

  “Unlikely. Country funerals in midwinter involve only family and neighbors, even among the aristocracy. Where do you live?”

  “Kent.”

  “Very unlikely then. Perhaps we met at the estate of a mutual friend.”

  “Who?”

  “Pick someone.” She glared. “I doubt I know anyone in your circle, my lord.”

  “Charles,” he reminded.

  “Charles.”

  How stupid of him! She sounded genteel, but she could not hail from the aristocracy. That gown could only belong to a rustic, for it bore no trace of style. Nor did he know in which part of the country she lived. Her voice was undistinguished, while her aunt’s held a subtle accent he could not place. Last night’s eavesdropping had convinced him that the ladies had traveled a considerable distance before fetching up at this inn.

  But at least Harriet seemed sensible. Most girls her age were giddy gigglers.

  “We must invent a suitable background.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair that further disarranged his curls. Fabrications risked exposure. “You are the daughter of Eleanor Harrison, youngest daughter of Lord Beverly.”

  “Is there such a lord?” asked Mrs. Sharpe.

  Charles nodded. “He lives in Yorkshire, where he considered a hermit – no one has seen him in nearly fifty years, and his sons follow in his footsteps. There are daughters in the family, but no one knows how many.” He returned his attention to Harriet. “Your father was the younger son of a vicar. Your mother died when you were born. You know little of Lord Beverly, as he disowned your mother when she married beneath her.”

  “What sort of lord is Beverly?”

  “A baron.”

  “That will do,” Harriet agreed. “My father was Howard Sharpe, who inherited a small estate from his great-uncle, Lord Purvey – the man was a viscount who died with no heir, so the title and entailed estates reverted to the crown. Father could not accede to the title as Lord Purvey was his grandmother’s brother. The estate produces little income, so the Sharpe family has never entered society. How did we meet?"

  “It must have been recently.” He frowned in thought.

  “It must have been before my bereavement,” she countered.

  “No. I would scarcely have come in contact with the schoolroom set. Even if we claim that you are seventeen now, you would have been in the schoolroom when your father died. I can hardly push your age further. No one would believe you to be eighteen.” He rose to pace the floor. Where had he been in recent months that he might have encountered her without anyone knowing they’d met? “I have it. While visiting friends this past February, my horse stepped in a rabbit hole and tossed me into a wall. You were passing, observed the incident, and assisted me to your house, where you nursed me for some hours until my friends could send a carriage. My horse was lamed by the accident.”

  “Did such a thing really occur?” she asked, sounding surprised that a Corinthian would admit such ignominy.

  “Actually, yes. Fortunately, Charger’s injury was not serious. I suffered concussion and a sprained wrist.”

  “And where did this take place?”

  “Lincolnshire. Do you know the area?”

  “I have been there,” she admitted. “It is pretty country.”

  “Good. You can describe your home if necessary.”

  “Where was this party?”

  “Willingford House, near Market Rasen. Is that near where you visited?” He grimaced when she again began gnawing her fingers. It was a deplorable habit.

  She nodded. “I believe I have passed through there. Is it northeast of Lincoln?”

  “Yes.” This was going to work, he exulted silently. What a coincidence to discover a chit who knew Lincolnshire! He thrust down his trepidation at the look on her face. Was there an unfortunate memory attached to that journey through Market Rasen? “I was impressed with your nursing skill and your character, returning several times during my visit to speak with you. I returned to the area a few weeks ago, at which time we agreed to an unofficial betrothal. Should anyone care to check on my movements, I was absent from my usual haunts for a week at the end of June.” He had been combing Swansea’s attics for something to sell that would finance his summer in Brighton. His circumstances were daily becoming more precarious. “We reluctantly parted at the end of a week, not seeing each other again until I fetched you when I learned of Grandmother’s last illness.”

  “Good. Your June visit would coincide with my emergence from deep mourning. Now what should I know of you, my lord?”

  “Charles,” he reminded again. “Please, Harriet, you must remember to call me Charles.”

  “Very well, Charles. What must I know of you?”

  “First tell me of Mrs. Sharpe.”

  “I am her father’s sister-in-law,” lied Beatrice calmly. “I visited them after my husband was killed. When Howard died, I stayed to help Harriet, but must now return home. I am escorting my niece to her grandmother’s house, after which I will depart.”

  “And where are you from, Mrs. Sharpe?”

  “America.”

  “I see.” That explained her accent. He resumed pacing the floor, trying to ignore his headache. Perhaps he should incorporate Harriet’s move into his story. He would hardly have had time to travel to Lincolnshire and back since receiving this summons. He had pressed his team harder than usual just to get this far.

  “Do you have any other family?” he asked.

  “Only a brother,” murmured Harriet.

  “Why, then, are you leaving home?”

  “I need a chaperon until such time as I can seek a husband.”

  “We will use that in our story,” he decided. “You are staying with your grandmother until our marriage – it will have to be the vicar’s wife, now a widow, for Lord Beverly is a widower. I was already escorting you there when this summons arrived.”

  Charles grimaced. That was a lot of people to keep straight. But he had no choice. "We had already left your home and received Grandmother’s summons on the way." Could he expect anyone to have followed him with the news? No. But his grandmother would not know that. He must have a word with Renfrew. And Harper. A dangerous number of people must know of this charade. If only he had thought this through before proposing it.

  But you were drunk…

  He needed to calm his throbbing head.

  “What must I know of you?” asked Harriet for the third time, as he took a long pull from a flask of brandy.

  “My full name is Charles Henry Montrose. I am a viscount, acceding to the title eight years ago when my father died. My estate, Swansea, is in Kent, though it is in poor repair, as I mentioned last night. I have no house in London, but keep rooms there. My mother died when I was three. Father never remarried so I am an only child.”

  “What are your interests, Charles?”

  “Sports of all kinds. And art,” he admitted, almost sheepishly. A love of art had never conformed to his image of the ideal Corinthian.

  “Do you draw?” Her brows lifted in surprise.

  “Some.”

  “You must show me your work. We need to have something in common.”

  “You also enjoy art?”

  “Very much.”

  “Do you ride, Harriet?”

  “Quite well, though it has been a couple of years since I have had access to a quality mount.”

  “How about driving?”

/>   “Equally well, though I’ve driven nothing worthy for some time.”

  Who was this girl? he wondered suddenly. How had an impoverished chit come to be a good driver by age fourteen? Of course she might be exaggerating her skills. He must test her before arriving at Lanyard Manor. It was crucial that he not misstate her expertise, for that was one area in which he was unmatched. He had always rued the lack of funds that prevented him from supporting a coach and four. Membership in the Four-in-Hand Club was his fondest dream.

  Harriet already felt trapped in a web of deceit. It had been foolish to agree to so ignoble a venture. She lived barely three miles from Willingford House and now recalled details of Rathbone’s February accident. Everyone had laughed over the discomfort suffered by one of London’s noted Corinthians.

  But there was more. A number of highborn families had gathered at Willingford House for a celebration of Valentine’s Day. If the Draytons had not been in deep mourning, they would have been included. Lord Willingford had planned a fortnight of activities, hoping his daughter might form an attachment and eliminate the need for a London Season.

  But the only attachment to arise had involved his wife. She had been discovered in an indecent embrace with one of the guests, who precipitously departed.

  His name was Lord Rathbone.

  Harriet watched as he restlessly paced the room. This was going to be even trickier than she had supposed. Many people must contribute to the charade – herself, Rathbone, Bea, and Betsy, as well as Rathbone’s groom, coachman, and valet. Success would be less likely with each new player.

  But that was not her problem. She must concentrate on her own role. Double deceit would make it doubly difficult. While she was convincing Lady Lanyard of her attachment, she must prevent Lord Rathbone from discovering her real identity. And on top of everything, there was no reason to trust the man. He had been drunk the night before and was already imbibing brandy at breakfast.

  Harriet Sharpe was a figment of the imagination and must remain so, for giving Rathbone the means to contact her would place her reputation in jeopardy. In order to keep her stories straight, she must stick to the truth whenever possible. But that was dangerous. If she revealed too clear a picture of her life, someone might tumble to her identity. Her father had been reclusive, from necessity rather than choice, and had not been near London since his marriage. But Rathbone had friends in her neighborhood.