Meanwhile, in South America, the English rose topped her sister splendidly, producing triplets shortly after arrival, a feat that still, twenty-five years later, yields whispers and chants from the locals as the three daughters, Anastasia, Sofia, and Maria, work to bridge the two worlds of English nobility and South American society. With their father a viceroy, Spain in turmoil as creoles fight for independence, and the Spanish army working on two fronts – at home and in the colonies – to maintain the peace, alliances old and new are stretched to the brink.
Andrew Wessington, Earl of Framingshire in England, offers a convenient solution to Vargas’ need to marry off two of his three daughters, but the price – both in pride and coin – may be too high.
Read on to learn more about Lady Claire Hanscombe’s South American cousins...
A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE TO SAVE HIS EARLDOM
Andrew Wessington, the Earl of Framingshire, has a most vexing problem: no woman will marry him. Strong, rugged, with sensual good looks and a proclivity for sexual escapades that make the fathers of the most eligible young women on the continent blanch (while turning the women’s heads), the earldom’s financial ruin pushes Framingshire to seek the hand of a wealthy woman.
With the earl blacklisted for matrimony in Europe, his steward, John Stoneham, suggests an intriguing solution: his estate in Venezuela, currently bleeding money, might help save the earldom if he marries the daughter of his neighbor, the Viceroy of New Granada. The question: which daughter? Though Andrew is known for his very public liaisons with three women at once, triplets aren’t exactly his idea of a proper marriage. Stoneham explains he must pick just one. But which?
The answer: Sofia, the daughter who will inherit the land that gives Framingshire’s estate port access, to make money once more from his orange groves. Trapped, Framingshire agrees to marry, and the month-long journey proves as tiring as the demons from his troubled past. When he arrives, he finds himself in yet another mess, as he appears at his own engagement party and falls in love at first sight.
With the wrong sister.
A HEADSTRONG REVOLUTIONARY WITH EVERYTHING TO LOSE
Anastasia Vargas, daughter of the Viceroy of New Granada and Lady Katherine Bonham, has known no life other than that lived among the orange groves of her father’s estate in Venezuela. One of the famous triplets who rocked colonial society twenty-five years ago, her world has fallen apart in stages, starting seven years ago, with her sister Maria’s banishment, and two years ago when her beloved mother died.
Now clinging to her remaining lifeblood, her sister Sofia, the news that their father made a match with an English earl – and that Ana will be married off to a Spanish noble twice her age – means that everything is about to change. As the world shifts beneath her feet, she must find a way to overcome each hurdle and persist even as Sofia is about to leave for England and to join the ton of their mother’s youth.
For Ana carries a treasonous secret, one that would ruin the family, a disgrace far greater than the one that led to Maria’s removal. And when she meets Sofia’s fiancee, a deeper betrayal brews – this one, of the heart....
An Inconvenient Fortune is a Regency romance novel that takes place in England and in South America in 1810, as Spain’s king is deposed, Napoleon controls much of Europe, and the Spanish colonies in South American threaten revolt. Here’s a sample:
An Inconvenient Fortune (The Viceroy’s Daughters, Book 1):
London, England
January 4, 1810
The satchel held all the papers Stoneham could think to use to explain the situation. He laid them out in neat piles on a rickety table, then settled a weight on top of each tidy stack. The room’s windows were open now, a strong breeze floating the sheers into the room as if spirits entered on the wind. The last thing he wanted was a mess that might further infuriate his old friend, now an unstable noble who could, at a whim, have him hanged.
“This stack,” he placed an open palm over the top, “represents your mother’s invoices for the London house. And this,” he pointed to a much larger stack, with ragged, torn pages, many smeared with what appeared to be dirt and, in one instance, dried blood, “is the stack of...requests for payment from your activities.”
“My activities?”
Stoneham bit the corner of his upper lip, contemplating. “Yes, sir. The cost of bedding as many as three women at once, four to five times per week, over the course of years, along with the inn expenses and alcohol consumed at pubs and such is...” His voice trailed off and he gestured to the unseemly pile.
Rolling his tongue in cheek, Wessington appeared to hold back his words, then said, “But my activities can’t have depleted the Wessington fortune! What is that larger group of invoices?”
“Those are for the late earl’s activities.”
Wessington’s eyebrows shot up. The elder earl’s stack was twice the size of his.
“And that one?”
“Fees from Don Vargas, Viceroy of New Granada, for port access for shipments from your family’s estate in that land.”
“What is the sum we are bleeding?”
“As of this month, the Wessington income from all lands and rents comes to less than the expenses created.”
“How much!” The Earl slammed his fist on the desk, toppling the largest stack.
“The Wessington accounts are more than two thousand pounds in debt.”
A stray, torn sheet of paper with scribbling caught the Earl’s eye. He reached down and plucked it from the floor, then puzzled over it. “I wasn’t at Martin’s last year. Never set foot in the place until a few months ago. What’s this invoice about?” The accusation was clear. Stoneham held back his outrage at the Earl’s suspicion. He was the least likely source of any theft or fraud.
“That, Your Grace, was your father’s expense.”
Eyebrows shot up. “My father?”
“Yes.” Stoneham had been trying to avoid the topic, but to clear himself, he must comment. “Your father was rather fond of the women at that establishment.”
“My father was...” A groan echoed through the room, reaching the roof and nearly etching itself in written form.
“And my mother’s spending?”
“Her recent journey to Paris involved four new gowns and an elaborate ruby necklace.” Tapping her stack, Stoneham let out a small sigh. “That was her least expensive shopping excursion.”
“So within a year of my father’s death, his final bills, my mother’s spending, my,” he chuckled without mirth, “activities, and an unethical Spanish colonist threaten the fortune.”
“Yes.”
“And what is your solution?” A wolfish grin spread across his old friend’s face. Stoneham knew that grin; it was the same look Andrew had given him when he put him in check on the chessboard. He assumed there was no remaining legal move.
“Well, there is the estate in New Granada.”
“You think I should sell it?”
“No, Your Grace, there is no market for it right now. The revolutionaries in the Spanish colonies make all merchants nervous, and no one wishes to buy in the region until the issue of the Spanish throne is resolved. There is strong fear that soon the Spanish colonies will go the way of her northern neighbors.”
The Earl shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips. “So I am stuck.”
“No, sir. About the estate....”
“What about the graftings! Our orange groves are among the best in the New World. We ship out oranges that are favored around the world. We could strike a deal with the port owner –”
“Sir, your seed is far too precious to be planted in that woman’s fertile valley.”
Wessington went still. He turned his head slowly, with eyes like a hawk, head swiveling with the practiced movement of one accustomed to surveying prey. “Pardon?”
Undeterred, Stoneham continued. “Your family’s estate in South America is less profitable by the day. When your father was alive he made provi
sions for your products to have cheap port access.” Spreading a large map on the bed, the only surface large enough to manage the scroll, Stoneham pointed to the Wessington land. “As you see, your holdings are landlocked, entirely trapped to the north by land held by Vargas, the Viceroy. For years your father maintained a delicate business arrangement with Vargas, gaining land access to the port for shipping. During the past year, since your father’s death, that arrangement has disintegrated, and Vargas’s new price for access is destroying profits.”
The earl sized up the map, studying the broad lines that separated his family’s land from Vargas’s. He cared nothing for business. His mind was suddenly occupied by the three women he’d enjoyed the night before, their attentions imprinted on his ears, collarbone, belly, and in places farther south on his body. Places that now began to rise north as he remembered the evening. Discussing his father, and family business in a Spanish colony he’d not set foot, on made matters turn south.
“And what, pray tell, does any of this have to do with my seed and a woman’s valley?”
“Years ago the elder Earl discussed the prospect of selling your family’s orange seed and tree graftings to Vargas for one of his daughter’s orange groves, but decided against it. I do not think it wise. Vargas will simply take the seed and use it for future plantings without providing fair compensation.”
“He is that ruthless?”
“Yes – that, and more. We suspect now that some of the ’pirate attacks’ on our export ships were farces. Vargas may have been behind them.”
“And your solution?”
“Marriage.”
“Marriage!” Outrage rang through the room. “You want me to make this man my father-in-law?”
Stoneham paused, contemplating his words carefully. “Your Grace, may I speak freely?”
Wessington arched one eyebrow. “I thought you were! You wish to approach me as an equal? When I’m still not certain you aren’t the source of my family’s ruin?” A smile twitched along his lips, the effect remarkably exotic and beautiful. The elder earl had often poked fun at Andrew’s lush mouth, the top lip curling up like a woman’s, though on him the full impression was less coquette and more satyr.
Stoneham bit back a retort, and instead gave a more prudent answer. “One of Vargas’ daughters stands to inherit the very land that connects your family’s estate to the port. She receives her lands upon marriage.”
Wessington arched an eyebrow. “That is a unique arrangement.”
Stoneham shrugged. “Spanish law gives women of the age of five and twenty and beyond the right to own land if they are not married. Upon marriage the land would revert to you.” This did not seem to impress the earl, so he added,“Her mother was Lady Katherine Bonham, from Northumberland. His daughters are half English.”
That caught Framingshire’s attention. “He married the daughter of a marquess and moved her to the savage New World?” His voice dripped mockery, though Stoneham was not certain who, exactly, was the target. “That is quite a feat for any man.” He frowned. “So you wish to marry me off to a Spaniard’s half-English daughter, whose lands will save my earldom?” Bitter laughter replaced his outrage.
“You have little choice. The Wessington fortune hangs in the balance. If you cannot find a way to make the estate in the colony of Venezuela profitable again, you will need to sell the London house and move your mother to Whitemore.”
“Sell property!” Andrew shouted. “You are mad! Peers do not sell property like bankers and merchants!”
“Yes, I agree it is a rash move. However, given that the New World estate is bleeding money, your mother’s spending, and your father’s...choices with funds, you have few options.” He paused. “But a timely marriage could solve everything.”
“An expedient marriage will fix my inconvenient fortune?” Andrew’s friendly grin startled Stoneham, relaxing him in spite of the heated tension, reminding him once again of the earl’s well-buried good nature and power. An impulse to smile back plagued him, the need for connection clear in Andrew’s smile.
Not now.
“What about marrying the daughter of some man in commerce here in England or on the continent? Surely one of them has a suitable woman that does not involve traveling halfway across the world?”
Treading carefully, Stoneham replied, “I’ve made subtle inquiries, Your Grace.” He sighed and bit his lip, unsure how to explain that Andrew’ reputation as a consumer of women of ill repute had traveled farther than anyone could imagine. No wealthy merchant father wanted to marry a daughter off to him – not even for the tremendous connection to an earldom.
“Your sigh tells me everything I need to know,” Andrew responded with a rueful laugh. He seemed to want to say more, but Stoneham did not pry. Not now.
Instead, he let silence do his work for him, shuffling papers and sliding them into his carrying case.
Andrew threw himself onto the three-legged stool, nearly toppling over before finding his balance. His thickly-muscled hands ran through his hair, ruining the smooth queue and releasing waves of auburn hair onto the chair’s back. He looked like a twelve-year-old boy again, but a foot taller and with the resigned carriage of a man being handed the world to carry on his shoulders.
“What do you know of his daughter?” he asked, the words quiet and distant, as if spoken through silk.
“Daughters, Your Grace. He has more than one.”
Colony of Venezuela, New Granada
Estate of Don Manuel de Vargas, Viceroy
March 5, 1810
“Ana! Stop it!” Sofia shouted, her infectious laughter sending Ana into a fit of giggles.
Thwack. The orange hit Sofia’s round cheekbone and slid to the ground, leaving a trail of juice that the bees would soon devour.
“My dress! You’ve stained it now. Father will insist I change,” she sighed. Ana’s stomach clenched as Sofia wiped the juice from her face and checked her green muslin dress. Yet another way she displeased Father.
A flash of red and blue, then skirts whipping around bare feet. “Miss Anastasia! Miss Sofia!” a young girl’s voice called, breathless and anxious. The girl was new, having been acquired by the purchase of her mother last year, part of Don Vargas’ plan to improve the estate’s profits. Mother never allowed slaves, but since her death, Father insisted that they improved the household. Ana knew that money was tight, though Don Vargas would never admit it. Instead, he blamed his daughters for his fiduciary issues.
“Miss Anastasia!” Maya bent over double, her red skirt billowing in the breeze, part of the standard slave’s uniform for household help.
“Yes?”
Maya’s breathing came in long, painful drags. “Your father. The Viceroy. He wants you. Now.”
“Now?”
“He said it like this.” Maya scowled and wagged her finger at Ana and Sofia, mimicking him. “Now!” The slave girl managed to perfect their father’s dark, smoldering look of intemperance, brow furrowed, eyes bright with impatience, jaw clenched and lips pursed like a nun chiding a novitiate.
Sofia giggled; Ana merely shook her head. At twenty-five, she and her sisters were too old to be treated like impertinent children. No one could tell that to Don Vargas, though; for the past few years, since their mother’s death, he treated everyone like children. Everyone except the King of Spain, and if he could have, he likely would.
No one pleased him. Least of all Ana.
Rebels threatened to declare independence from Spain. Ana knew that her father spent each sleepless night reading correspondence and receiving courier reports from the Spanish army and other government officials detailing rebel activities. If the South American colonies achieved independence, he feared, he would lose his fortune. He would lose his home.
Perhaps, even, his head.
But she secretly cheered on leaders like Simon Bolivar. He was a creole, born in the colonies to Spanish parents. Most considered Ana—indeed, she considered herself—a creole, in spit
e of her mother’s English background.
And wealthy creoles, especially men, were tired of being blocked from power by the Spanish king and by men like her father, a Spanish-born immigrant. Peninsulars like Don Vargas viewed creoles with contempt. She understood the impulse to rise up and challenge authority.
If Ana were a man, she’d be on the front lines right now, fighting.
Instead, her father tightly controlled their lives. Sometimes she envied the slave women, who went to market and shopped, attended Mass freely, and who could walk down country roads and chat easily in groups. Going to Mass was her only social outlet outside of the few balls during the season. The Don’s thousand-hectare estate gave her plenty of land to roam, but like any penned animal, she felt the boundaries tighter all the time.
Like a noose.
But there were other ways to support the cause. Silent ways. Ways that only underrated women could assist.
“Tell him we’ll be there shortly. We need to make ourselves presentable,” Ana answered. Maya nodded and made her way back to the main house slowly, clearly unhappy with her message.
For the past few days the servants had whispered rumors. When the Viceroy of New Granada, the highest noble official in the Spanish colonies, received a letter from an English earl, everyone knew. Ana had bitten her tongue many times, wanting to ask Father about the delivery yet afraid to know the answer.
“My seamstress told my maid that Father received an offer of marriage,” Sofia said. Her brown eyes cast down, long lashes framing the sadness. “Which of us did the Earl choose?”
Sofia’s naiveté amused Ana. She’d heard the whispered rumors as well, as the coachmen carried her to Mass at church last Sunday. “You, of course. You’re the great beauty.” Sunlight reflected off Sofia’s long waves, hair made of obsidian in soft form. Effortless waves that framed her creamy skin, her almond-shaped eyes, her perfectly-centered nose. Unlike Ana’s unruly, untamed curls that gave her the appearance of a frazzled milkmaid, Sofia’s hair reflected her internal grace and calm.
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