It was then that Jonathon had come face to face with the Somerset ghost. Of course, he didn’t really believe in ghosts. Only nodcocks and women did. And he had been out of his mind with fever. Still, he remembered a beautiful figure leaning over him, caressing his forehead with soft fingers. Her skin appeared as snow white as the gown she wore, her hair hanging about her cheeks so long that it almost touched his face.
“Who are you,” he’d croaked through a parched throat, reaching out to her. She felt like satin. He wanted her to whisk him away—away from the fever and from the discomfort of life in the shadow of his father’s strange behaviour.
She smiled, and her eyes softened in a way that would be in his memory forever. But she did not reply, only pressed a slender finger to her lips and then to his own. He had blinked, and she was gone.
Jonathon shook his head and dissolved his musings, and then turned to face his remaining family. He needed to keep his mind on the present and not stuff it with feathery reflections that did no one any good.
“Smythe should arrive shortly and we shall have this nasty legal business over with,” he told them. “Has anyone heard from Marie?”
“My daughter has seen fit to cavort with the likes of a mere landowner. He possesses no title and no breadth of knowledge regarding the proper etiquette of the ton—he tends to his own land, physically, I assure you.” Lady Wescotte’s hefty jowls wrinkled in disgust. “I have no use for that girl now. She has taken my careful training and my advice and tossed it into my face as if I were some common, ignorant fishwife.”
“She married the gentleman, Aunt Harriet. You make it sound as if Marie took leave of her senses and became a fallen woman.”
“Hmfph,” Lady Wescotte replied, as if the grumble was a sufficient answer.
“I take that to mean you have not heard from Marie,” Jonathon surmised. He turned a questioning gaze to Cyril.
Cyril chuckled. “Haven’t set eyes on a respectable woman in more days than I can count. Are you positive the missive reached her?”
Before Jonathon could answer, the library doors opened once more. Chauncy escorted in the Honorable Bentley Smythe, the Rexley family’s solicitor. Smythe’s balding head seemed determined to be a magnet for the room’s dim yellow light, and as he approached, he appeared to be adorned by a golden halo.
Smythe’s lack of hair was a source of great amusement for Cyril, and knowing his brother well, Jonathon flung the younger man a warning glance that only proved to widen the grin on Cyril’s face.
“Evening everyone,” Smythe said, glancing over all the Rexley relatives in the room. He took a moment to bow politely to Lady Wescotte. “My lady, a pleasure to see you again after so many years.”
“The luxury belongs to me, Mr. Smythe, I assure you,” Lady Wescotte replied flatly. She turned slightly, motioning to the young lad beside her. “You remember my son, Geoffry?”
For a moment Mr. Smythe’s face whitened, his entire lanky frame stiffening. Regaining his composure, he smiled kindly at Geoffry. “You were but a babe in your mother’s arms the last time I saw you. You have certainly grown into an admirable specimen.”
As he was inclined to do, Geoffry quavered for a response. His hesitation was rewarded by a commotion intruding the library from the great room.
“La, Chauncy, there is no time for formality. I am ages in arrears as it is.” The library doors flew open and Marie Beauchamps entered the room with the most unladylike haste. Chauncy skipped steps behind her, catching the lady’s pelisse and bonnet as she tossed them at him carelessly. Her golden ringlets bobbed around her face, giving her a girlish mien as she bounced into the room. She immediately approached Jonathon, embracing him warmly. “Dear Cousin, it is so good to see you again.” Her expression sobered, and she showed him a grave look. “Such a tragedy is this that Uncle Peter should be gone aloft.”
He patted his cousin affectionately on the arm and extended her a warm smile. “’Tis but the will of God that this sorrow brings you into this home again, Cousin. You are a fresh breeze in these stagnant halls. You’ve stayed away from us far too long.”
“You are right, indeed, but my country home keeps me quite busy.” A sparkle leapt into her blue eyes. “And my husband as well. He shall be wanting heirs soon, I fear.”
At the sound of Lady Wescotte’s grumble, Marie turned to face her mother. “Apparently absence has not caused your heart to grow fonder of my marriage?”
“You were the belle of the Season during your come-out, Marie. Could’ve had your pick of any number residing in Regent’s Square, yet you chose this…this landowner with no title.” The manner in which Lady Wescotte spat the word, one would have thought ‘landowner’ to be a vile profanity.
“I love him, Mama,” Marie said on a whisper.
“Utter nonsense. Love has addled your brain.” Lady Wescotte shook her head and waved away her daughter with both hands. “You wed the man, and I wash my hands of you. You made your bed and now you must lie in it. You will get no help from me when your fingers bleed from working. Heavens, you don’t even have an abigail. No doubt you actually traveled here unattended.”
“I assure you, I have no regrets.” Marie smiled at Jonathon and bestowed a wink on him. “Save perhaps, that Jonathon here decided upon bachelorhood too long.”
Lady Wescotte shot a scathing look in Cyril’s direction. “Well, you could have chosen worse, I suppose,” she conceded, although, coming from her lips, the words did not sound like much of a concession.
“Unfortunately, the same could not be said of poor Beauchamps. Look at the family he got gummed up with,” Cyril mumbled.
Jonathon dispensed a scathing look to his brother and Bentley Smythe took the opportunity to call the gathering to order.
Lady Wescotte opened her mouth to utter something, but deferred to Smythe’s timely call.
“It is a tragic time for the Rexley family,” the solicitor began.
Jonathon stood with his back as straight as a rail and held a stony expression on his face. It would do him no good to show emotion now.
“But, as you all know, Peter Rexley, Lord Somerset, had not been himself for quite some time,” Smythe went on. “Many had thought his mind to be gone, although I did not share in this belief. He had become a hardened recluse in the decade prior to his calling aloft, but as his body began to fail him, I was called forth as family friend and solicitor to administrate his bidding, and thus I will do so now.”
A blanket of sorrow descended upon the room and silence reigned. Even Lady Wescotte sat in deference to the passing of her brother—although only for a moment. Then she shifted in her chair and the papers in her hand rustled. Jonathon thought the noise distastefully amplified in the joyless calm, and he knew a moment of unease as he watched her face settle into a smug guise.
Marie drew his attention as she took a seat in the armchair nearest her mother. She smiled kindly at her younger brother.
Jonathon remained standing, knowing that if he tried anything as inert as sitting he would probably end up in Bedlam.
His father had been the only person in his family—indeed, in his life—with whom he had ever felt a rapport. After the older man turned out his sons, Jonathon had striven to remove all emotion from his own life, and had succeeded rather well.
As he glanced at the menagerie of people in the room, the new Lord Somerset decided that his lack of family ties was more a blessing than not. Marie was the only one of merit in the lot. He admired her for standing up to her mother’s tirades and marrying the man that she, herself, had chosen. Jonathon had spent much of his salad days waffling between trying to fit in and not caring at all for the approval of the ton. He had finally concluded that there was far too much work involved in pleasing everyone but had gained a respectability that afforded him a little more freedom to do what he chose.
Cyril, on the other hand, had chosen to do his own will without the benefit of gaining respectability. He was a thorn in Jonathon’s side
, brother or not, and it grated on his nerves to know that his brother was such a wastrel. It was an undeniable blessing that Jonathon had been born the elder son, for only God Himself knew what would happen to the estate were Cyril to get his hands on it.
Jonathon turned his attention back to Bentley Smythe with the fleeting thought that the Rexley fortune and titles would someday belong to Marie’s children. Cyril was unlikely to give up his carefree life of gambling and mistresses for the stoic life of Society, and he, Jonathon, definitely had no head for attaching himself to one of the obnoxious, chatty virgins of the ton.
Bentley Smythe looked to Jonathon. “As you know, my lord, you have rights to the estate and all its holding as you will soon officially be named the new Lord Somerset.” He inclined his head in the direction of Cyril. “Master Cyril, you shall be granted a generous allowance.”
As Smythe relayed the sum of Cyril’s portion, Lady Wescotte let out a gasp. Cyril cast her a crooked smile, and when she turned to him, he cocked an eye at her. “Not to worry, Aunt Harriet. Papa was quite plump in the pocket. There is still some left for young Geoffry.”
The boy had the decency to look embarrassed. Lady Wescotte did not. She was a puffed-up adder, Jonathon thought. She wanted something, the selfish dragon, and he was going to have to tolerate her until he could find out what it was.
“As for young Geoffry,” Smythe went on, wisely ignoring the previous exchange, “there is a Sussex property which will be entrusted to me until such time as Geoffry reaches the age of two-and-twenty. Then it is his to do with as he chooses.”
Geoffry seemed pleased enough with the allotted portion, but Lady Wescotte’s chins reddened. Her body went stiff, as if it took all her energy to remain calm and ladylike. Jonathon ignored the harpy, knowing full well she was never satisfied with anything, and turned his attention back to the solicitor’s instructions.
“Mrs. Marie Beauchamps is to receive all of the jewelry acquired by the late Lady Somerset except for those pieces that have been handed down through the generations. Those are to remain in the Rexley vault until such time as Jonathon, Lord Somerset, takes a wife.”
With that announcement, Cyril laughed heartily. “Jonathon, take a wife? Poppycock! I would sooner take the King’s shilling than my brother take a lady.”
Jonathon glared at his outspoken brother, but Cyril ignored the silent rebuke. “We shall be bachelors and cronies until our final breaths. I would be willing to lay certain odds on that.”
Bentley Smythe ignored Cyril’s outburst and spoke directly to Jonathon. “There are certain stipulations of which you and I must have a private audience, besides that, there are no further instructions.”
Lady Wescotte twisted in her seat a little and smiled sweetly—a feat most difficult for the sour woman, and one that put the new lord immediately at daggers-drawn. “Jonathon…L-Lord Somerset…I pray you will also grant me a private audience with you?”
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Jonathon replied. “The hour is late and we are all tired. If you have no objections, I would bid you wait until we have all had some rest.”
“Indeed, my lord,” the lady replied. She pulled herself out of the chair with her son’s aid and started for the door.
“Aunt Harriet?” She turned around. “You have called me Jonathon all my life, why become so formal with me now?”
Lady Wescotte seemed to falter for a moment but regained her dignity without much delay. “You are a grown man with title and responsibility now, not some sapling in shortcoats.”
“Ah. And you thought perhaps I needed to be reminded of that fact?”
“Not at all, my lord.” She glanced at everyone in the room. “But others might need the prompting. After all, with your inheritance comes the ability to make undisputed decisions.”
He drew his brows together and studied her, puzzled by her cryptic rebuttal. “Good night, Aunt Harriet,” he said finally.
“Come along, Geoffry. I don’t want to wander these haunted halls alone. Heaven knows if that awful ghost will abduct me,” she muttered as she left the room with Geoffry in tow.
“Well, can’t say as I understood any of that. She doesn’t really believe in the Somerset Ghost does she? Why, everyone knows the old man invented that to scare off visitors,” said Cyril, popping off the chair with agility. He muttered something about an old goat and then turned to his cousin. “I shall be off to my bedchamber without further ado. Marie, would you like me to escort you to your room, or would you prefer the company of our auspicious Chauncy? Wouldn’t want you pinched into the netherworld, now would we?”
Marie stood and took Cyril’s proffered arm. “You are the wit’s end, Cyril. That my brother had some of your sally.”
“Ah, that my brother did, too, Cousin,” Cyril remarked, opening the door to allow Marie exit, and casting an amused smile to Jonathon.
The new Lord Somerset ignored Cyril and turned his attention to the solicitor. As the door closed, Jonathon, spoke. “So what are these stipulations, Bentley? I don’t have to cut off an arm or anything as ghastly, do I?”
Smythe hesitated, evidently not sharing in Jonathon’s humour.
He let his smile fade as he sank onto the settee recently vacated by his brother. “All right, Smythe, what is it?”
“Well, my lord, it is thus. If you do not marry within the year, the barony will revert to Master Cyril.” The words spewed forth at such a rate they seemed to run together. Jonathon, however, did not miss their interpretation.
Jonathon narrowed his gaze. “You are bamming, right? I mean, this has to be a joke.”
“Of course the title would remain yours. However, all holdings would transfer to your brother.”
Jonathon leaned forward, laying an intense eye on the nervous countenance of the solicitor. “You are quite serious,” he said.
“There is more, my lord. You must wed a certain Miss Lark Blackwell.”
“What!” Jonathon sprang out of his seat, glared at Smythe. “This must be a ruse. You can’t possibly mean to tell me that not only has my father made my marriage a condition of keeping the barony away from my wastrel of a brother, but he has personally named the wife I am supposed to take?” Lord Somerset’s boots abused the rich burgundy rug as he paced the floor. “The man was insane. I never thought it, but he was.” He spun to face the solicitor. “Who is this Lark…Lark…”
“Blackwell,” Smythe supplied with hesitation in his voice.
“Blackwell,” Lord Somerset repeated on a breath of defeated air. He shook his dark head, his eyes probing that of the solicitor’s. “Blackwell was the name of the house in which my mother was killed.”
Smythe nodded. “Yes.”
“There were no survivors of that house.”
Smythe opened his mouth to speak, but Lord Somerset’s biting oath silenced the man.
“This is the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard! Marry someone I know not?”
“It’s not as if that sort of thing isn’t done, my lord,” Smythe ventured, fidgeting with his neckcloth.
“Damnation! What was the man thinking? He was not thinking, obviously. He knew I would never entrust the family reputation and wealth to Cyril. Always defended him, I did, and look what it’s gotten me.” He grunted. “And Lark Blackwell must be as insane as Papa had clearly become.”
It was too much to fathom. He couldn’t believe his father would arrange such a scheme on his own. Surely, this Lark Blackwell had taken advantage of the old man’s addled brain. Lord Somerset spun around and glared daggers at Smythe. “So who is she, Bentley? You might as well tell all.”
Smythe’s voice was no more than a whisper carried on the crackling of the fire. “The Somerset Ghost, my Lord.”
Chapter Two
Lark trembled in the darkened corner. She should have stepped forward long before now, but with so much activity, there had seemed to be no appropriate time. Besides, the menagerie of personalities that crowded the usually quiet library was such an invi
gorating change from her uneventful reality; she had lost herself in the play of events.
But now the new Lord Somerset looked as if he would strangle any chit who happened upon the misfortune of being named Lark, regardless of whether or not her family bore the name Blackwell. He already held her in contempt. Once he realized she’d been in the room the entire time, he would accuse her also of eavesdropping, even though she had been doing no such thing—exactly. Mr. Smythe had asked her to be present. She hadn’t hidden in the corner deliberately—it had just turned out that way. The dim candlelight merely did not illuminate her seat, and she had not remedied that shortcoming. Uncertainty and fear bolted her bottom to the chair.
She needed to come forward now, but as she studied Jonathon Rexley’s changing—ever hardening—expression as he opened the letter sealed with the Somerset crest that Smythe had handed him, her courage wavered, then dissolved.
Her heart pounded against her ribs. Oh, it was not supposed to be this way. She had dreamed of being his wife ever since she’d crept into his sickroom so long ago. Even wet with fever, his face had been compelling and kind—not like it was this minute. Although she could not remember much of her life before coming to live at Somerset Hall, he was one of the fond recollections.
Even at the age of five, she had loved him—a childish infatuation, to be true—but a tender pulling of the heartstrings, nonetheless. Ten years her senior, he had not even given her a glance. But later—when she had sneaked into his sickroom—he had gazed upon her as if she were an angel.
She had never forgotten that night, that look. It was what had made her agree to this addle-pated idea the late Lord Somerset had devised. She had convinced herself that Jonathon returned her affection. Obviously it was not so. The fire in his eye so many years ago had been the result of fever, not infatuation. He did not know she existed; Lord Peter had spun a terrible tale.
Regardless, she had to face the truth of things. No use putting it off. With a breath of resolve, she pulled herself out of the chair. At her movement, both men turned in her direction. She stepped forward into the light.
The Resurrection of Lady Somerset Page 2
