A Gamble on Love (5 page)

Hell and damnation but she was an attractive
female! So much more than he had expected. Courageous.
Intelligent.

Vulnerable. So very much in need of a knight
errant.

And Pevensey Park was in the same part of
Kent as the home of Mr. Marcus Yelverton, deceased.

“
I have a number of commitments here in
town which I must meet,” Thomas said carefully, “but I will
rearrange my schedule for the following week. You may expect me the
day after Guy Fawkes . . . if that is convenient?”

For a moment a mist passed before Miss
Trevor’s eyes.
What had she done?
She heard a choking sound from Gussie. Mr. Lanning was still
sitting there, looking politely indifferent, as if they had not
just taken a giant step toward the most momentous decision of their
lives.

“
It is quite convenient,” Aurelia told
him over the near-strangling lump in her throat. “We look forward
to your visit.”

Mr. Thomas Lanning unfolded himself from his
chair, stood up, bowed—most precisely—to both ladies, and strode
out of the room.

Miss Aurelia Trevor dropped her head onto the
conference table and shook.

~ * ~

Miss Trevor gave London not so much as a
glance as their coach made its way out of town, the four horses
gradually picking up speed until they were bowling along the road
toward Kent at a pace that brought a gleam to the coachman’s eye
and a whistle to his lips.

Aurelia knew what her father would have said.
That she’d made a rare mull of it. Blackened the family name.
No—far worse—she was obliterating the family name. Exchanging it
for that of a Cit. A Cit who acted as if he were doing her a favor
even to consider her offer!

And Squire Stanton would go purple with rage.
Harry, as well. That she should stoop so low—choosing a Cit—when
she could have had a fine country gentleman, known to her since the
cradle.

Cit.
She’d
heard the term all her life, and always spoken in a derogatory
manner. Some said Cit indicated a man of the City, the business
heart of London. Others insisted it was a short form of
“
Citoyen
,” a word used by
French revolutionaries for “man of the people.” Whatever the word’s
origin, the gulf between gentlemen who lived on inherited wealth
and those who actually earned their daily bread was vast. The Lady
Aurelias of this world did not mingle with Cits.

Perhaps Lord Hanley was, after all, the
wisest compromise. If she gave him enough to support himself in
London in lavish style, he would seldom trouble her . . . beyond
the requisite heir and a spare.

Heir
. She had
always thought children quite wonderful. As an only child, Aurelia
had dreamed of filling Pevensey Park with the sounds of running
feet and joyous laughter. Children skipping and tumbling across the
expanse of park toward the wondrous world inside the Palladian
rotunda, as eagerly as she once had done. But now . . . the thought
of children threatened to stop her heart. Though necessarily vague,
her concept of how children were made was perhaps a trifle too
influenced by being a country girl for all of her twenty years. Her
only knowledge of marital matters was confined to the violent
mating of barnyard animals and the censorious horror evinced by her
housekeeper when one of the maids strayed into the family way.
Aurelia could, just barely, imagine herself doing her wifely duty
with Harry or Lord Hanley. But with Thomas Lanning . . . ? Her
courage would fail her . . . she’d expire at his feet. Drop dead,
all of a heap.

Leaving the miserable Cit in sole charge of
Pevensey Park.

Never!

“
Relia . . . Aurelia!” said Gussie
Aldershot. “Another mile of that glum face and I swear I shall
scream. How can you have second thoughts? The good Lord has smiled
on you. And the Park as well.”

“
But he’s so—so—”

“
Indeed he is! And you may thank
Providence for it.”

“
But he’ll never allow—”

“
Allow you to rule? Of course he won’t.
Nor would young Harry, for all he’s little more than a nodcock. Nor
can I believe
my
Aurelia
Trevor, whom I have known since you were a tot of five, would be
fool enough to take a witless boy like Lord Hanley when you could
have a man like Thomas Lanning.”

“
I will allow him the visit,” Miss
Trevor conceded, rather grandly. “It would be rude to turn him
away. And then we shall see.”

Miss Aldershot regarded her charge with grave
concern. “Relia, I do not fool myself into thinking Mr. Lanning
will make an easy husband. It will be, I think, much like loosing a
jungle tiger on the unsuspecting Kentish countryside. But that is
not such a bad thing. You know the old saying about ‘fresh blood’.”
Miss Aldershot leaned back against the velvet squabs, a tiny smile
curling her thin lips. “And I believe we can be quite certain Mr.
Lanning’s blood is very fresh indeed.” The only response Gussie
received from Miss Trevor was a swift intake of breath followed by
seething silence.

The ladies were so anxious to be home that
they passed through Maidstone without stopping to take a bite to
eat or stretch their legs. Home. Miss Trevor thought she well might
burst into tears at the sight of Pevensey Park. Was she mad to have
risked so much? In spite of Gussie’s words, should she settle for
the tried and true? For Harry, the solid English countryman. Or
Viscount Hanley, whom she could wind round her little finger . . .
or buy off with judicious applications of coin of the realm?

Should she run far and fast from Thomas
Lanning? Who, when he came to Pevensey Park, would be like a fish
out of water. A man of the City, lost in the rolling green hills of
Kent. Shunned by the landed gentry. While she, Miss Aurelia Trevor
of Pevensey Park, would be pitied for having fallen so low. Married
to a Cit. A man who worked for his living.

As did nearly all the inhabitants of the
county of Kent.

Strange. She had not thought of that before.
In a sense, her father had also worked for his living, closely
supervising his steward, riding his thousands of acres, always
keeping a careful eye on the needs of his land and his tenants.
Until her mother’s death had sent him on a downward spiral from
which he had never recovered.

Was it so simple then? If a man owned land,
he was a gentleman. But if his living was not derived from the
land, then he was a Cit? After her meeting with Thomas Lanning, Sir
Gilbert had confided that Mr. Lanning’s wealth had been made from
“investments.” So what was so heinous about that? Her papa had
investments. Not just in consoles, but in more risky ventures as
well. So why . . . ?

Aurelia sighed. Best not to question the way
of the world. Nor why she was sitting here making excuses for
Thomas Lanning . . . attempting to justify their possible union,
even though the thought quite frightened her out of her wits.

“
At last!” Gussie declared, peering out
the window. “I see the tops of the oast houses. We are nearly
home.”

Relia felt a rush of tears to her eyes.
But by the time they were trotting smartly down the long drive
lined with lime trees, augmented with the occasional colorful
splash of a copper beech or the exotic silhouette of a Cedar of
Lebanon, she had wiped her cheeks, gazing with joy at the splendid
panorama of Pevensey Park. Here, she was cocooned in beauty.
Surrounded by those who loved her.
Safe.

Illusion, all illusion—as Miss Trevor
discovered as soon as Biddeford welcomed her into the house, his
butler’s bland mask unable to hide his distress. As Aurelia and
Gussie stepped into the intricately tiled front entry, their
footsteps slowed, came to a halt.

“
What is happening here?” Miss Trevor
demanded, as two footmen heaved a large wooden crate up onto one of
several stacks of boxes already piled in the entry hall.

“
Lord Hubert, Miss,” Biddeford choked
out. “He’s clearing the bookroom. Says he can’t abide clutter.
Sending them all to the attics, he is. But it’s too much for our
poor lads. He’s storing them here ‘til he can hire extra
help.”

“
Lord Hubert is
here
?”

“
Yes, Miss. Arrived just after you left
for London. And in a rare taking he was to find you gone. Sent for
Lady Hubert. And Mr. Twyford.” The elderly butler, looking even
more woebegone, announced. “They have moved in, Miss. Taken over
the east wing. There was nothing—”

“
Of course not, Biddeford,” Aurelia
interjected, appalled by the butler’s obvious distress. “He is my
guardian. There is nothing you could do. But as for my father’s
books . . .” Miss Trevor, eyes kindling to fury, gazed at the
wooden crates, stacked between two elegant white columns.
“Biddeford, where shall I find my uncle?”

“
I believe you will find him in the
estate room, miss. He said he wished to examine the accounting
ledgers.”

“
James, Peter,” Miss Trevor said to the
two footmen, who were hovering next to the stack of boxes, clearly
waiting for their mistress’s reaction, “You will cease what you are
doing and take our portmanteaus upstairs. Then you may report to
Biddeford for further instructions.”

The footmen could not quite restrain their
grins as they crossed the entry hall and gathered up the ladies’
luggage, waiting respectfully for Miss Aldershot to precede them up
the stairs. Gussie’s gaze, more than a trifle grim, followed
Aurelia’s slight figure as she exited the entry hall on a quest
destined to be as futile as her encounter with Mr. Tubbs. Miss
Augustina Aldershot, with her shoulders slumped and a tear in her
eye, trudged up the stairs to her room.

“
My lord,” said Miss Trevor as she
entered the estate room. Her tone was arctic.

Lord Hubert Trevor, a silkily handsome man of
considerable height, with a fine head of gray hair topping his
still pleasing countenance, had put aside the estate books—if he
had ever opened them, Relia thought—and was leaning back in his
comfortable chair, looking thoroughly pleased with himself, while
the fingers of his left hand toyed with a snifter of brandy. As
always when she saw her uncle, Miss Trevor experienced a nasty
qualm, for his resemblance to her beloved papa was marked. A
resemblance which was, alas, only skin-deep. Lord Hubert rose
slowly to his feet, one hand surreptitiously clutching the desk.
The brandy bottle, Relia noted, was nearly empty. “If I had been
aware you planned to visit me, Uncle, I would have been here to
greet you.” Miss Trevor did not curtsey, nor so much as nod in
greeting.

“
And where have you been, miss?” Lord
Hubert demanded, even as he listed alarmingly toward the
desk.

“
As I am certain Biddeford informed
you, Gussie and I went to London. I have decided to go into
half-mourning and needed to order new gowns.” Aurelia felt only a
slight quiver of conscience as she had, indeed, spent a goodly
portion of her time in town improving her wardrobe.

“
Your aunt and I were most alarmed,
Aurelia. When will you understand you are no longer free to do as
you please?”

“
Since I did not expect your visit,”
Miss Trevor returned in clipped tones, “it never occurred to me my
journey might alarm you.”

“
Sit, sit,” Lord Hubert mumbled,
swaying rather alarmingly as he waved his niece to a chair in front
of the estate desk.

It was hopeless, Aurelia thought as she
clasped her hands tightly in her lap and stared at her uncle. She
would be fortunate to get any sense out of him at all. Much of her
anger dissipated on a sigh of despair. “Uncle, you know Pevensey
Park is mine, to order as I please. Papa made that quite clear in
his will. My majority is nearly upon us. You may be trustee of my
money for another five years, but this is
my
estate. My inheritance. You have no right to
order the packing up of my papa’s books.”

“
Can’t abide a mess,” Lord Hubert
returned, on what sounded suspiciously like a whine. “Nor can Lady
Hubert. Books everywhere, don’t you know? Books on tables and
chairs, on the floor—some of ‘em stacked as high as a man can
reach. Can’t live with that, child. Clutter, my lady wife calls it,
and rightly so. Too much to carry to the attics, so I am having it
packed off to the stables. Practically empty, they are. Plenty of
room for books.”

“
The stables?” Relia echoed faintly.
“They’ll be ruined!”

“
Take an army to get ‘em to the
attics,” Lord Hubert grumbled. “Can’t expect me to
auth—author—agree to such an expense. Wouldn’t be
right.”

Though stunned by her uncle’s high-handed
behavior, Miss Trevor realized she was missing something. Something
possibly even more vital than the fate of her father’s books.

“
Uncle?” she said as the silence grew
heavy. “I fail to see why papa’s books should concern you. You do
not live here.”

Lord Hubert, looking sly and perhaps a trifle
uneasy, took a deep gulp of his brandy. “Did not Biddeford tell
you?” he inquired. “I was so concerned when I found you gone that I
sent for Lady Hubert and Twyford. We have decided we have been
remiss in our care of you. Obviously, a young woman of your tender
years and noble station cannot live alone. We have, therefore,
decided to make Pevensey our home until you are safely
married.”