The Impoverished Viscount

by Allison Lane

  “What do you think of George?” murmured Lady Hartford once the gentlemen were engrossed in discussion.

  “He is a good friend,” admitted Melissa. “Beyond that, it is too early to tell.”

  She smiled. “I find him delightful. He deserves the same love and happiness I’ve found with Thomas.”

  Melissa smiled back. “A lovely thought. My cousin and I often spoke of marriage before she returned home. I cannot imagine so close a relationship without love.”

  “Would I know your cousin?” asked Lady Hartford.

  “I doubt it. She is American.”

  “Is it true that Americans are more candid than we are?”

  “I cannot speak about all Americans, but Beatrice was openly informative.” She blushed.

  “Ah,” said Lady Hartford, understanding that look. “Good luck in finding the right husband, dear. The rewards are infinite.”

  Lord Englewood arrived to lead her into a cotillion, terminating the conversation. Heir to the Marquess of Thorne, Englewood was another who paid her noticeable attention. He was tall and dark, though not handsome, and her only complaint of him so far was that he was rather high in the instep, reminding her of Lord Lanyard.

  That night, her fortnight of deceit teased her mind, holding sleep at bay. Memories of that visit remained surprisingly vivid. Her behavior had been so reprehensible and dishonorable that she shuddered at what must happen if it became public. Perhaps that was why she could not forget. Surely there was no reason to recall the interlude with longing.

  Chapter Seven

  Lord Rathbone sprawled in his study, staring at the glass of brandy in his hand so he couldn’t see his surroundings. He needed no reminder of how bad things were.

  A leak had allowed water into both this room and the adjoining library, damaging a century’s worth of estate records and destroying most of the books. The only saving grace was that the books were old sermons that he had no interest in reading anyway. But this wasn’t the only leak. Without a new roof, the entire house would rot.

  But there was no money.

  The estate was in worse shape than he had ever imagined. The aesthetics were bad enough – formal gardens so overgrown that he could only raze them and start over, a lake so choked with weeds that fish could not survive, outbuildings fallen into ruin after half a century of neglect.

  But aesthetics could be ignored. What had sent him to the brandy decanter was a recital of the more basic problems.

  Of seventeen tenant farms, six had been abandoned years ago, their fields fallow and their buildings destroyed. Four others were on the verge of ruin, the cottages unworthy of human habitation. The rest needed major repairs.

  His steward had been a hidebound incompetent. With inadequate crop rotation, the soil was exhausted. Even the timberland had been overcut, accounting for most of his limited income in recent years, but preventing further production for at least a decade. His flocks were decimated, for inbreeding had created an unusual susceptibility to hoof rot that a wet year had exploited. Specialty crops had never been tried. The orchards were on the decline because aging trees had not been replaced with younger ones. The woolen mills had wiped out most cottage weaving, leaving his remaining villagers on the verge of starvation.

  His grandfather and father had done nothing for their dependents, and Charles was no better.

  Unwillingly, his thoughts returned to the charade he had played out the previous summer. It had seemed so simple in the beginning. Believing that his grandmother’s orders arose from the understandable longings of a lady whose grip on reality was slipping, he’d grasped the chance to comply – at least on the surface – grateful that he could ease her mind in her final days. He would never have considered it had he been sober, but even after his head had cleared, he did not truly regret his actions. Producing a real betrothal on such short notice had been impossible.

  He must have been mad.

  Harriet Sharpe’s image floated before his eyes, as it had so often of late. She had played her part better than he could have hoped, even managing to defuse a potential disaster over the Willingford scandal. And though they had parted on acrimonious terms, she had done nothing to reveal his perfidy.

  Perhaps it would have been better if she had.

  “You have chosen well,” Lady Lanyard had declared the day Harriet left. Charles had just explained the summons that had sent Miss Sharpe to her grandmother’s sickbed. “The girl is sensible and shares many of my ideas. She will see that you cease frittering away your life.”

  “I expect so,” he agreed. “We’ve discussed what must be done to turn Swansea around.”

  “Has she seen it?”

  “Not yet.” He should have stopped there, of course, but the charade had almost become real. “She will visit for a week before the Season so she can arrange for improvements to the house. The worst of the estate problems will have improved by then.”

  “Excellent.” She’d smiled as she’d waved him away so she could rest.

  He was to rue that conversation many times over the following week. Both she and Lord Lanyard pestered him daily for details of his estate, details he could not provide because he had spent little time there since reaching adulthood and had rarely talked with his steward. The only trips to Swansea in four years had been to collect items he could sell to augment his meager income. He was hard-pressed to describe problems, but pride prevented him from admitting ignorance.

  His grandmother had assumed that he would join Harriet once he left Lanyard Manor, pressing a letter on him to deliver to her. Every day found him mouthing new lies and dancing to recall the old ones. The falsehoods piled atop one another until he felt buried under their weight. His fondest dream was to suffer a relapse that would keep him abed for another week.

  And Harriet had been right, devil take her. Lady Lanyard had not succumbed to her chill, surprising her doctor by regaining so much strength that she was able to rise from her bed and join the family at dinner. Talk had touched too often that night on his future plans.

  He had left the next day, ostensibly to see Harriet. Messages and good wishes echoed in his ears. When he promised to deliver them, Lady Lanyard had again smiled that secretive half-smile, and he’d shocked himself by praying she would die soon.

  Prayer was not his reaction four months later. His blasphemy had been rewarded as he deserved. Lady Lanyard had sent a new message, again summoning him to her side, and Harriet too. She wished to celebrate Christmas surrounded by her family, but she was disappointed that Harriet had not replied to her letter.

  His heart plummeting, he’d dug the missive from his desk and read it. It was exactly the sort of letter he would expect to a new member of the family, containing enough questions and suggestions to demand a reply. A string of lurid curses reverberated through the study. His stupidity was appalling. He should have read it at the time and formulated a response, of course. But he could not answer without inviting another letter. And where could he have that sent? Falsehood inevitably bred further falsehood. His head spun.

  Not once had he considered what would happen if his grandmother did not die. Nor did he have any idea where to find Harriet – not that it mattered. She would never consent to repeat her impersonation. It was Christmas, for God’s sake! They had promised to make their betrothal public when her mourning was over. Lady Lanyard was undoubtedly planning a party for the occasion, probably a full-fledged house party and grand ball if past experience could be trusted. He could not produce Harriet unless he was prepared to marry her.

  He shuddered.

  Lies, deceit, pretense. Where did it all stop? But confession had been impossible. If the truth came out, he would forfeit every penny of the inheritance. And after four months at Swansea, he’d known the full extent of his dilemma.

  He’d lived through two weeks of hell, making and discarding plan after plan. He finally decided that Harriet was ill and unable to make the journey. To appease his grandmother, he produced a l
etter in a feminine script that Harriet would send to Lady Lanyard, begging forgiveness both for skipping Christmas and for neglecting to reply earlier. It was yet another layer of dishonesty, but he had no choice. He desperately needed his grandmother’s approval. His financial position was increasingly precarious. He had fired his steward and much of his staff, and had even given up his rooms in London to save money. Swansea demanded a large infusion of cash if he was to have any hope of reaping a profit from it in his lifetime. His only recourse was to ask Lady Lanyard for help, describing his problems and his plans for dealing with them.

  But if she was angry over Harriet’s absence, the chances of getting her agreement were slim. It was bad enough that he could no longer remember what he had told her on his last visit. Nothing remotely correct, he was sure, for he had known next to nothing. His former ignorance was embarrassing.

  He arrived at Lanyard Manor to a scene of grief. Lady Lanyard had passed away in her sleep two days before. Relief overwhelmed him, an emotion he immediately thrust aside in shame. He had genuinely cared for his grandmother, yet even as he observed the rituals of mourning, his mind was busily planning. Building projects. Competent steward. Expanded staff. New roof. Repairs. Decorating...

  Greedy. Echoes of Harriet’s accusation sounded like an epithet.

  But she did not understand. He had obligations to his tenants and employees that could not be met without the inheritance. And relief at the resolution of his problems did not lessen his sorrow over Lady Lanyard’s demise.

  But grief had changed to fury a week later when Mr. Andrews arrived, and shock had trapped Charles in a hell he had still not escaped. The solicitor’s dry voice had droned through Lady Lanyard’s will, not seeming to care that the words affected people’s lives. After leaving various bequests to her faithful servants and other grandchildren, the dowager had willed the remainder of my estate to my loving grandson, Charles Henry Montrose, eleventh Viscount Rathbone, provided he marries his betrothed, known to me as Miss Harriet Sharpe, within twelve months of my death.

  If for any reason the marriage did not take place, the bequest would be divided among the charities listed in a codicil held by her solicitor. She further requested that mourning be terminated within three months.

  Charles had heard nothing else, sitting in shock long after the rest of the family had exited the library.

  Hoist by his own petard.

  Charles had departed in the morning, faced with the impossible task of finding Harriet and convincing her to marry him. He had spent the four months since that day alternating between fury and resignation.

  His first step had been obvious. He’d inquired at the Litton Cheney coaching inn, asking for her destination. Learning that she had gone to Bridport, he had immediately followed, but there he had lost her.

  He produced a sketch of Harriet and her aunt, but he was not very happy with it. Mrs. Sharpe looked all right, but he could not seem to capture Harriet. And it would have done little good if he had. Few people would remember so unprepossessing a pair five months after the fact. The records showed no tickets issued to them and no other parties who resembled them.

  Any hope that her grandmother lived near Bridport was quickly quashed. It was not a large town and no one he met in three days of asking knew of anyone named Sharpe.

  He had next returned to the inn where they met, but though the proprietor recalled the storm, he had no memory of individual travelers, even failing to recognize Lord Rathbone. Backtracking the stagecoach proved fruitless as well. Harriet had boarded it in Bath the day of the storm but no one recalled how she had arrived at the inn.

  Based on his impression that she might have lived or visited near Willingford House, he had scoured that area, but no Sharpes emerged. He discovered that Lord Purvey had lived in Lincolnshire and wondered if they might have been related, but he could discover no connection. When a search of coaching records turned up no parties that could include Harriet, he gave up and returned home.

  Since then Charles had stayed at Swansea, leaving the search to his secretary, though the man had little hope of success. Harriet had been on her way to her maternal grandmother’s home, so the name Sharpe was of limited use. He’d tried locating the aunt, checking passenger manifests for ships at several departure points covering many months, without luck. He’d searched death notices for her father’s obituary, but without knowing where she came from, it was difficult. No nobleman was named Sharpe, nor were any baronets. Charles could only surmise that his initial impression was correct. She was the daughter of a vicar or squire or other low-ranking gentry. Such folk would be unknown outside their immediate community, and without knowing what county she had lived in, the chances of success were nil.

  He briefly toyed with finding some other unfortunate to pass off as Harriet, but the idea rapidly died under scrutiny. He was done with deceit. Besides, it would never work. Andrews had met Harriet. To get the inheritance, Charles would have to marry the chit, but a marriage using an assumed name for the purposes of fraud would be invalid. If it came out, he would lose everything. Even if it didn’t, it would cast a permanent cloud of uncertainty over his heirs. And hiding the truth would be impossible. His family knew Harriet. Given his illness during that fortnight, they probably knew her better than he did.

  And so Charles faced a future different from the one he had been raised to expect. His estate was a wreck, with little chance of change.

  He drained the glass in one long swallow and refilled it. He should not even be drinking. His cellars were nearly empty, and he had not the means to replenish them. But a long day in the fields, fighting to finish the spring planting with fewer than half the men he needed, had left him too blue-deviled to sleep.

  Another memory nagged at the back of his mind, though he tried to stifle it. His grandmother’s last letter had contained more than her order to produce Harriet for a family Christmas.

  I will doubtless succumb before many more weeks have passed, she’d written. He had thought she was making sure he appeared as commanded. Do not continue mourning me into the Season. I must insist that your plans move forward as scheduled.

  He might have known from that what she had done, he groused to himself. But that was not all.

  As you and Harriet will be in town, I will expect one last favor. My cousin, Anne, will be bringing out a granddaughter this year. Not only was Lady Melissa delayed in making her bows by the unfortunate death of her father, but she has the misfortune to be Lord Drayton’s sister, so will need considerable support. Will you introduce the girl around? Anne assures me that she is nothing like her wastrel brother, but his reputation cannot help but tarnish hers.

  Damnation! He had no desire to dance attendance on some chit merely to satisfy his grandmother. And how could he go to town? He had no place to stay. Poverty prevented him from returning to Albany, and living anywhere else would cause speculation. Mourning explained his current absence. Would it excuse lodging elsewhere?

  With a shock, he realized that he was not swearing over the idea of helping Lady Melissa, but was already planning ways to accomplish the deed. Why? He had no duty to an unknown third cousin. He ran his fingers through his hair as he traced the relationship again. Yes, she was a third cousin. And Lady Castleton was one of the starchiest matrons in the ton. She would wonder at his interest. He could hardly claim to be head of the family.

  Yet the reference to Lord Drayton bothered him. Charles had never met the man, but he’d heard of him – a gamester and drunken sot who would sell his own mother if he could gain anything by it. No girl deserved to be tied to so unworthy a brother.

  But nothing could deflect his thoughts from Harriet for long. Where was she? Who was she? He reviewed everything he knew about her.

  Someone named Toby had been mentioned in that overheard argument in the inn. The man might be a brother, an uncle, a cousin, or even a guardian – it had sounded as if he occupied a position of authority. Harriet had also mentioned a brother, th
ough never by name. But for weeks, Charles had feared that Harriet had lied about her background, so he couldn’t even trust to his memories.

  Then there was Lord Heflin, though inquiring about that man’s movements would be ticklish. There was no way to discover whether Harriet had actually stabbed him, for the accompanying low blow would prevent Heflin from ever mentioning the incident. And there was no guarantee that the confrontation was recent. It might have been two, or even three, years before. Heflin was not averse to misusing children.

  Even if Charles actually found Harriet, convincing her to wed him might prove impossible. She had a poor opinion of his character and a tongue like an adder, though if truth were to be told, he found her intriguing if he ignored her looks and unladylike mannerisms. There was something excitingly sensual about her, an aura that raised heat in his loins. If she had looked better, he might have made a serious push to court her.

  He grimaced over that cow-handed proposal. His relief when she refused had been profound. Yet he had been on fire for her.

  Fustian! he snorted into his wine. Such an alliance would have been unthinkable. His wife should be a member of the aristocracy. Of course, now he had no choice. If he did not wed her within the next eight months, he was doomed to poverty.

  And he deserved it. Dishonorable masquerade. He had been mad to conceive the idea. Even if it had worked, it was beneath his dignity. How much had it cost him?

  It was time to start behaving like an honorable gentleman, he decided, heading upstairs to bed. And his first act toward making amends would be to fulfill his grandmother’s last request. He would go to London, sell the rest of the Rathbone paintings, and make a last effort to find Harriet. Perhaps someone in town knew of a family named Sharpe.