The Impoverished Viscount

by Allison Lane

  “Hmph,” snorted her ladyship. “Nothing to prevent the announcement earlier.”

  “I could not so dishonor my father’s memory, my lady,” declared Harriet. “And there is no need to rush. I am only seventeen.”

  “I must rest,” announced Lady Lanyard suddenly. “This cursed chill saps all my energy. Charles, you will attend me for tea when I awaken. I will speak with Miss Sharpe following dinner.”

  They left, Harriet marveling at how well Rathbone had managed when he must be dropping from weakness and pain. Not that she admired him, she insisted the moment the thought surfaced. She could never admire a man who stooped to deceit.

  * * * *

  Lady Lanyard summoned her son from the next room.

  “What do you think?”

  “She is certainly no high-flyer,” he replied in a ponderous voice. “Nor is she an actress. Your fears on that score would seem unfounded. I wonder where he found her. She barely looks old enough to be out of the schoolroom.”

  “You do not believe the tale of his winter accident, then?”

  “The tale is true, for I have heard it before. And it is possible that she was the one who rescued him. But I cannot believe that he could develop a tendre for so drab a chit.”

  “My thoughts exactly. I am disappointed in the boy, for I thought he had more strength of character. I’ll not leave my fortune to be dissipated on frivolity. But it is early days yet. Keep an eye on them when they are not in my august presence. And see what you can discover about that accident. Where did it occur?”

  “Lincolnshire, I believe, Mama.”

  “Good. I will see if Miss Sharpe knows anything of the country thereabouts.”

  * * * *

  Sweat again coated Charles’s forehead by the time they reached the brighter light of the family wing. “You had best lie down, my lord,” Harriet murmured softly. "I can find my way back alone."

  He nodded wordlessly, desperation flaring in his eyes. No servants saw him bolt for his room.

  Harriet checked on Bea. As she was feeling better, Harriet described the scene in Lady Lanyard’s suite.

  “I would swear she was furious,” she finished. “You were right to suspect her motives. There is more going on than even Lord Rathbone believes.”

  “We need to understand his lordship’s character before we can begin to guess what is happening,” mused Beatrice.

  “It would serve him right if she cut him off,” snapped Harriet.

  “Watch yourself, Missy,” warned Bea. “I have warned you before about judging people harshly. No one is perfect, including you. Stop fretting about Lord Rathbone’s motives and pay attention to your own charade. If this plans fail, you must give him no cause to blame you.”

  Harriet gasped, for that possibility had never occurred to her. “I will speak with Lady Lanyard after dinner tonight. I expect it will be a private chat, but I can manage that.”

  “Mind your tongue, and not just with her. Rathbone could prove dangerous if you rile his temper.”

  “We had best warn Betsy again,” decided Harriet. “She must not give any hint of our real identities.”

  “I will take care of that now,” promised Bea. “It is time I changed anyway.”

  Harriet had barely returned to her room when a footman summoned her to meet Charles, leaving her no time to relax.

  He was waiting for her in the drawing room. “Allow me to show you the house, my dear. You will feel more at home when you know your way about.”

  “Thank you, Charles. You are always so thoughtful.” She smiled for the benefit of the butler, who was positioned just outside the door, then took his arm and let him lead her away. “Shouldn’t you rest before meeting your grandmother?” she murmured when they were alone.

  “Later. This is more important. Besides, I believe the problem is waning. I swear I’ll never overindulge again.”

  “But this has nothing to do with last night’s excesses. Breakfast was tainted,” she said, raising surprise on his face. “Did you not know? Bea is also ill.”

  “Devil take it,” he grumbled.

  “You should be right as rain in two or three days,” she said cheerfully.

  That earned her a glare.

  The hour that followed was very pleasant, she admitted. The house was magnificent, offering a delightful feast for the eyes. And Charles’s behavior was impeccable. Not until they reached the conservatory did he relax into a frown.

  “She will see you alone tonight, Harriet,” he reminded her.

  “That is no surprise, my lord.”

  “Damnation!” he exploded, pulling her into the shadows cast by several orange trees. His voice lowered to a hiss. “Will you cease this constant my lording? Have you no sense at all?”

  “Stubble it,” she snapped. “I will not slip when anyone is around, but you hardly deserve such kindness.”

  “I don’t deserve…” He sputtered, fingers clutching as though he wished to strangle her. “I rescued you from the gutter and provided a roof over your head. Don’t you dare tell me what I deserve.”

  “What arrogance! I’m doing you a favor that will mean the difference between poverty and affluence for the rest of your life. You need me far more than I need you.”

  “Without me you would be sleeping in a ditch.”

  “Only for a fortnight.”

  Anger blazed in his eyes, reminding her of Bea’s warning.

  “Enough of this brangling, Charles,” she said in a calmer voice. “It is too late for either of us to debate who owes the greater debt. The servants will report any argument. They will hardly allow us to remain alone for long.”

  He drew in a deep breath, letting it escape with exquisite slowness as he visibly fought to control himself. “You are right, Harriet. But I am worried about you spending so much time alone with my grandmother. She is unnaturally canny. You must watch your step.”

  “I know she is canny. Her eyes reveal a great deal. She already suspects something havey-cavey between us. You were noticeably strained earlier. You must tell her of your illness or she will draw the wrong conclusions. Eating at tea will do you no good, anyway. And can you blame her for suspecting our tale? You would never choose a bride as unprepossessing as myself.”

  “Not for a marriage of convenience, certainly. But I am madly in love with you, my dear. Don’t forget that. It is your inner beauty that attracts me.” He nearly choked on the words.

  “If you repeat such a taradiddle in that tone of voice, no one will believe you,” she commented wryly. “You sound as though you are taking a purge.”

  He laughed suddenly, his natural charm surfacing. “That bad, is it? I must practice.”

  She giggled at the vision of a Corinthian standing in front of his mirror, practicing words of love as he painstakingly examined his face. But his charm frightened her. She must never forget that he was a deceitful, selfish lord, with no more concern for others than Toby or Lord Heflin.

  “Perhaps it is your horsemanship that caught my admiring eye,” he continued.

  “That seems plausible. I do ride well. I wonder why I consented to marry you. Arrogance has never appealed to me, and I have yet to meet any lord who does not harbor odious traits I would never consider living with.”

  “My looks, perhaps? Women seem to like them.”

  “Hardly. I deplore handsome gentlemen. They are always so self-centered. Though perhaps I can pretend. Shall I become the sort of giddy chit who would fall for looks and a title?” She shook her head decisively. “It won’t work. Such girls demand a fortune as well.”

  “Few people realize my financial woes.” His voice grated as his temper again threatened to explode.

  “Really? I should have realized that deceit is a way of life for you. You manage it so well. There must be something about you I can admire. You say you are fond of art?”

  “Yes.”

  “I take it you have examined the paintings at the Royal Academy?”

  “Of co
urse.”

  “Perhaps it was your descriptions of those that first attracted my attention. A person who loves beauty cannot be all bad.”

  “Very well. Let me escort you to the stairs. It is nearly time for tea.” He shuddered.

  Harriet plied him with questions about the current Royal Academy exhibit at Somerset House. His descriptions demonstrated a genuine interest.

  But dinner proved to be another hurdle. The entire family had gathered to spend these final days with Lady Lanyard. In deference to her illness, they assembled in the more intimate green salon preparatory to eating in the family dining room, for which Harriet was grateful. She did not have a gown suitable for a formal dinner, and even her best was woefully inadequate to the occasion.

  Charles rushed to her side her when she arrived in the doorway, touching her hand to his lips as he held her eyes with his own. He must have been practicing. He actually looked smitten.

  “At last, my love.” He smiled. “Come and meet my family.” Placing her hand on his arm, he led her to Lord Lanyard’s side. Beatrice trailed behind.

  “You already know Uncle Andrew. This is his wife, Lady Lanyard, my Aunt Agnes. My betrothed, Miss Harriet Sharpe, and her aunt, Mrs. Beatrice Sharpe.”

  They exchanged suitable greetings. Lady Lanyard was approaching fifty, her salt-and-pepper hair adding a touch of iron to an already austere expression. Harriet could not imagine two more dour-looking individuals than the Lanyards. No trace of warmth lit their eyes, so she was grateful when Charles led her toward another group by the fireplace.

  “My oldest cousin, Edward, his wife, Josephine, and my cousin, Lucas,” said Charles.

  Edward was a younger version of his father, complete with dour face and frosty wife. But Lucas offered more promise. Dressed in the high shirt points, elaborate cravat, and brightly colored jacket of a fop, he quizzed her with his glass before breaking into a grin.

  “Where have you been hiding Miss Sharpe, cousin? I swear she’s not been near London.”

  “Naturally not,” rejoined Charles. “Can’t you see she’s in mourning?”

  “As we all will be soon,” intoned Edward, his glare erasing the smile from Lucas’s face.

  Another couple joined them.

  “This is my cousin, Charlotte, and her husband, Sir Harry Ruskin,” said Charles. “They arrived even later than we did and have barely had time to remove the dust of travel – or mud, in this case.”

  Harriet smiled, though Charlotte looked nearly as cold as Edward. She hoped it was not a family trait, but perhaps their grandmother’s illness accounted for it. Her ladyship had not seemed at death’s door, but Harriet was no doctor.

  Her initial impression softened as the group dissolved into general conversation. Charlotte was an unexceptionable lady whose daughter shared the nursery with Edward’s son. Once she embarked on descriptions of dear Mary, animation drove all hint of toploftiness from her face. Bea fell into a lively discussion of America with Lord Lanyard that made the man seem approachable. And Charles was enduring good-natured teasing from his cousin Lucas.

  “Does this mean the ladies of London are finally safe?” asked Lucas with a chuckle.

  “Watch your tongue, cuz,” warned a noticeably irritated Charles. “But yes. Harriet will have my head if I look at another female. Not that I want to.”

  Lucas stared. “Are you serious?”

  Charles’s eyes turned slaty with anger. “Are you implying something you shouldn’t?”

  “Never, Charles,” denied Lucas, speculation lighting his face.

  Harriet continued her conversation with Charlotte while admiring Rathbone’s performance. He was quite an actor, his anger over the sideways jab at her drab appearance sounding genuine.

  “Excuse us, please,” interrupted Beatrice. “Missy, Lord Lanyard wants to hear the details of Lord Rathbone’s mishap last spring.” Harriet sighed, even as she set a smile on her lips and turned to comply. If he had heard tales of the accident, had he also heard rumors of why Charles had left Willingford House so precipitously?

  * * * *

  Charles had dreaded introducing Harriet to the family. Having everyone gathered around a deathbed made it worse. It wasn’t just her unknown social background that worried him. She was barely sixteen! Could she carry off an evening with his toplofty cousins without stumbling?

  But she did. He grimaced to find her seated between his uncle and Edward, while he was at the far end between his aunt and Josephine. His nervousness over fielding his aunt’s pointed questions while straining to hear Harriet’s conversation made him forget to accept only the blandest dishes. By the time the ladies left, his stomach was again queasy.

  Yet Harriet carried off the meal with aplomb, even drawing a smile from Edward and a chuckle from Uncle Andrew over some tale she was telling.

  The formalities of after-dinner port seemed to take forever – he desperately needed to speak with Harriet about her upcoming interview. When he finally reached the drawing room to find her gone, dinner turned to lead in his stomach, giving him no choice but to retire ignominiously to his room.

  Devil take the chit for not warning them that breakfast was bad!

  * * * *

  Harriet’s interview with Lady Lanyard was not nearly the ordeal she had feared. Whatever had prompted that earlier flash of anger had vanished.

  Her ladyship had often visited friends in Lincolnshire. Fortunately, they lived at the other end of the county, so Harriet hoped that her descriptions would not pinpoint Drayton Manor. It was bad enough to admit living near Willingford House.

  She had given considerable thought to her charade. It would not do to paint a false picture of obsessive adoration. Aside from the impossibility of looking the part, she could never play so alien a role. She would admit to loving her supposed betrothed, but she would also admit to his faults. Wherever possible, she would stick to the truth of her own life, including the problem that her brother was not the sort of man she could live with in peace, even for the remainder of her mourning. That would explain why Charles was escorting her to her grandmother’s house, where she would remain until her marriage. It would also explain why she had jumped at his proposal despite knowing little about him.

  So Harriet spoke of her home and of her brother’s disreputable friends. She admitted second thoughts about putting herself in the care of a man whose own past contained some rather unsavory incidents – Betsy had heard of several already – but she accepted his assurances that such behavior was part of his youth and no longer relevant to his life.

  And so the first day passed. Harriet went directly to bed after being dismissed from Lady Lanyard’s room. Her only new fear was the impression that her ladyship was not as ill as her doctors feared. If she recovered, Lord Rathbone was in a pickle.

  But that was none of her concern.

  Chapter Four

  Harriet woke at her usual early hour. The morning sun was so enticing that she took a turn around the gardens before breakfast.

  It was a more formal setting than she preferred, but it offered sorely needed relaxation. Rows of Italian cypresses separated a series of reflecting pools, their shapes repeated by box hedges and regimented flower beds. After circling an eight-pointed star with plots laid out like a compass, she encountered another young lady.

  “Who are you?” asked the girl, astonishment flickering in her eyes as Harriet appeared around the corner of a hedge.

  “Miss Harriet Sharpe, betrothed of Lord Rathbone. And you?”

  “Edith Lanyard, Lord Lanyard’s youngest daughter. You hardly look old enough to be betrothed.”

  “I am seventeen.”

  “Really? I am only fifteen.” She sighed.

  Harriet could understand the question. Edith was already well endowed, her curvaceous figure the envy of one who remained flat and straight.

  “Do you not like bonnets, either?” Edith asked in a conspiratorial whisper. “I despise them, though Mama will have twenty fits if she see
s me.”

  “Normally I wear one,” lied Harriet. “But I only slipped out for a moment to enjoy the sunshine, and did not anticipate meeting anyone.”

  “You know, my maid has a marvelous concoction that can add shine to even the dullest hair,” the girl continued brightly.

  “Th-thank you,” stammered Harriet, her mind racing. That was another problem she had not anticipated. Darkening her hair and using a bonnet that shaded her face was an adequate disguise for escaping on the stage, but it would never do in bright light. The dye left her hair dull and lifeless, and there was danger that sharp eyes might note the stratagem. The color was not as even as she would have liked. She was too young for caps, and wearing hats in the house was so eccentric it would draw comment. But for her own peace of mind, she must avoid brightly lit rooms. The dining room had been somber, though whether from clutchfistedness or in deference to Lady Lanyard’s illness she could not say. With luck, that would continue.

  “Forgive my impudence,” Edith said, misunderstanding Harriet’s chagrin. “My governess chides me for my unbecomingly forward tongue. A lady must never disparage another’s appearance,” she quoted with a grin.

  “Forgiven. Does your governess allow you to roam unaccompanied?”

  “Actually, no. But she was called away, and I could not resist such a beautiful day.” She giggled.

  “Or the opportunity to read something forbidden?” guessed Harriet as she spotted the corner of a hastily hidden book.

  Edith laughed. “So knowing. Yes, I do love a good book, though Miss Bekins and I disagree on just what fits that description.”

  Gothic novels, Harriet decided. “I take it that she is the improving sort?”

  “Alas. Maria Edgeworth’s Moral Tales for Young People is as exciting as she gets. But are you really betrothed to my dashing cousin?” demanded Edith, eyes shining with excitement. “You are the luckiest girl in the world.”

  “Yes, we are betrothed, and yes, I consider myself lucky. He is a wonderful man who shares many of my interests.”

  “You like sporting? But you must. He is a well-known Corinthian who delights in mills and races. And he is the best rider I have ever seen. Oh, how I wish he would take me to Newmarket! Perhaps you could ask?” Pleading blue eyes turned toward Harriet.