Gypsy Heiress (7 page)

“Particularly if one’s imagination is susceptible to boggling,” remarked Brockhaven indifferently. “I take it you’ve been informed that there’s no doubt to her identity? Not only does she have the medallion, but we found a Glussy Bible under the floorboards of her wagon that contained a record of her birth and identified her as Compton’s daughter.”

There was an ill feeling inside of me, worse than the day when I’d become seven and accidentally poisoned myself by chewing on a leaf of spurge that I had mistaken for chickweed. I’d always known, though I’d never done more than glance at it once, that my father had written my birth in the Bible, because Grandmother said it was not the gypsy way to value such records; birth papers were for the thick-skulled gorgios who would forget the names of their own children if they did not write them down.

My frightened gypsy soul hammered against my heart, crying its wish to flee from the pain and the prison of my gorgio-tainted blood and escape to the wind and the road and the forest. Such was the battle to stop the devouring fangs of panic that, when at last I won control, there was little left inside me but a wasted emptiness. As if my lips were some great distance from me, I heard them utter, “No, no…”

As through a fog, I saw the man, Vincent, approach me, delivering a gentle smile to my stricken heart. “Forgive me,” he said. “How thoughtless we’ve all been! I’m sure that if I were in your place, I’d be looking twice as lost. My name is Vincent Randolph and I’m married to your cousin, Isabella. That makes us relatives of some sort, don’t you think? Permit me to extend my hand as your friend.”

He lifted my limp hand and pressed it warmly in his.

“Almost,” said Brockhaven from behind him, “one can hear the swell of an angelic chorus.”

Vincent glanced back at the earl before giving me a reassuring grin. “Sentiment embarrasses Alex. You never mind him, and we’ll be as syrupy as we please. Come and shake hands with your cousin, Isabella.” He made as though to draw me toward his wife, but the beauty pulled away.

“You’re out of your mind, Vincent. It’s obvious the girl’s an imposter.”

Vincent said her name softly. “Isabella.”

A quiver coursed through her, and she spun in a circle where she stood. “I don’t care—I hate her. I hate her! I wish she was dead.”

Lord Brockhaven spoke an oath under his breath and said, “Do something about her, Vincent, or I swear I will.”

The lady beat a hasty retreat behind a wide-backed chair, which told me that she was no stranger to Lord Brockhaven’s temper.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that, Alex!” she rapped out explosively. “As though I were a lap dog that’s chewed the drapery fringe. Why should I touch that filthy guttersnipe? My cousin, indeed! Look at her! Our plow horses have better tended hair and her skin’s as sun bitten as a Turk’s. She disgusts me, with her ragged skirt and bare feet. And if you take head lice from her, Vincent, don’t think you can come to my bed with them.”

They were certainly not pretty words, but they were closer to what I had learned to expect from a gorgio, and they did have the virtue of being honest. I admit, however, that her last remark was far from what I had been taught was the correctly respectful way to speak to a husband. Vincent stood very still beside me, and I wondered if he was hiding a great anger or if Grandmother had exaggerated the subservience women offered to their spouses. Or perhaps English women are more outspoken than gypsies.

Brockhaven’s voice cut through the numb, racing pattern of my thoughts.

“No matter how you’d dress the chit, Isabella, the quality of her manners puts yours to shame.”

It was clear that the lady didn’t like his remark one little bit. “And yours!” she said vengefully.

“And mine,” he agreed, looking back at her with maliciously sparkling eyes. With lowered brows, she watched him for a moment, the blue lace that covered her bodice swelling and dropping slowly with her long, deep breaths. She gave Brockhaven a glance of acid mockery, tossed her chin, swept up her skirt, and came to stand within a yard of me. Making a faint curtsy, Isabella inclined her head and in a majestically cold voice, she said, “Cousin.”

Vincent gave a delighted laugh, his face holding a good deal more satisfaction than the occasion seemed to warrant. He put one arm around me and one around his wife. Though the gesture was kindly meant, I felt a stab of anxiety, for it was an ordeal to be claimed as kin by strangers, be they however good-willed.

“There now!” he said. “We’ve cleared the first hurdle. Shall we sit down like the shining examples of civilized folk that we are, and talk through our situation? Will you offer us tea, Alex?”

“By all means,” replied Brockhaven. “A family party taking tea at Edgehill. Let’s play the thing to the hilt.” Instead of pulling the call bell, as I’d seen Robert do when he wanted to summon one of his servants, Brockhaven went into the hallway and gave instructions to a footman.

Vincent took my arm and led me to the chair that his wife had so recently used to shield herself from Brockhaven, and gave me an expectant look that I had come to realize means that a gentleman wants you to sit down so he can do so himself, as it is the English way that ladies must sit down before the men. It is the opposite with gypsies. I sank into the chair, feeling as though I had no more bones than a cloth doll, and Vincent sat with his wife on the short sofa.

Brockhaven came back into the room and ran a sardonic glance over his company. “Cozy,” he observed. He took a seat opposite Vincent. “I suppose you’ll want to look at the Bible.”

Vincent dismissed the Bible with the wave of his pale, large-boned right hand. “Leave that for the courts. Your lawyer is convinced of the document’s authenticity; let it stand like that for the present.” His voice was grim, but perfectly self-possessed. “To proceed! It appears that Liza stands to inherit the lion’s share of what we thought was Isabella’s estate.”

The numbness in my chest grew so heavy that it became an effort to breathe. No wonder Isabella hated me, if she thought that I had come to take away her home. Vincent’s kindness was even greater than I had supposed, for if he had spoken truly, then only the most generous man could greet my arrival with anything touching cordiality. Ellen
had
called me a gypsy heiress, but I had not thought that she meant I was heir to more than a great English name. I’m not sure why my eyes turned with such haste to Lord Brockhaven—for confirmation perhaps? He wasn’t looking at me, but somehow I knew from his expression that Vincent’s words were soundly based. Brockhaven regarded his cousin through half-closed eyes, a strange fire glowing in their depths. If he was enjoying his cousin’s chagrin, he gave no sign. Neither was there an effort to convey sympathy. His lips moved only slightly as he said, “If you thought the estate was Isabella’s, then you’ve been unwise. Her long-lost, though unforgotten uncle, or his offspring, might have appeared at any time to vest their claim.”

“After twenty years,” Vincent said gently, “it seemed—shall we say—unlikely.”

Brockhaven made a thin smile. “Yes. We’ve all suffered, haven’t we, from the unlikely.” He transferred his gaze to Isabella, who had been sitting plucking with unmindful agitation at the armrest of the sofa. “As Bartholemew probably told you, you’ll hardly be starving. Liza gets the land and the income from the portion of it used in agriculture, but your trust fund—enough to keep an Oriental caliph in luxury—is still yours. And should you desire it, you have the use of the house for life.”

Isabella’s eyes were dilated and glistening. “But she gets the land… the land.”

Brockhaven shrugged. “If you manage your income well, you can afford to buy more—and Vincent can still have his empire.”

There could be no doubt that Brockhaven’s words were a baited challenge. They might have been a threat had Brockhaven allowed that much emotion to color his voice. I had learned from Ellen that Brockhaven had no reputation for punctilio, but I could no longer ignore that this was something more. What Lord Brockhaven felt for Vincent was, at the very least, a long-held, if strictly disciplined, animosity. My discovery filled me with an urgent disquiet. Without understanding why, I was filled with the dread of a rabbit trapped in a cow yard, to be trampled without design or malice because she wasn’t fleet or clever enough to avoid getting in the way. I’m not surprised that Vincent looked at me with compassion. I’m sure I bore a stricken expression.

“Poor child,” he said, “you look bewildered. Had this not been explained to you? I didn’t realize! What a shock for you! Permit me to clarify what we’ve been saying. Your paternal grandfather has left fifteen thousand acres of land for you, possibly more. We won’t know the full sum of it until the courts have examined the nuances of the will.”

“Fifteen… thousand? It can’t be!” I heard the hollow whisper of my thoughts. “I don’t want it. Can I give it back?”

Vincent was amused. “That would be impossible, my dear, believe me. And even if it could be done, we could never permit you to do anything so detrimental to your interests. In a day or two, you’ll begin to grow used to the idea…”

“Please, I don’t
want
to grow used to the idea,” I said wretchedly. “People must live on the land. I wouldn’t understand what to do for them, or how to care for the things that are there. I couldn’t! I wasn’t born to that kind of life, and it’s as far from what I know as
my
life would be to you.”

The young man tilted his head back, as though he was beginning to really see me. To my embarrassment, his eyes began to gleam with tender admiration. He said slowly, “You are a woman in a million, do you realize that? That your initial thoughts should be for the families who live on the land!”

“Oh, don’t, Vincent!” snapped his wife. “It’s plain to see that the twit’s stupider than a mule.” She glared at me. “It’s not who lives on the land, you ninny-tinny gypsy, it’s the income from the land. Enough to buy every shabby gypsy wagon in Europe and enough left over for tick soap, which is the first thing that I intend to buy for you as soon as the court appoints me as your guardian.”

Brockhaven leaned back in his chair, the long, sensuously muscled line of his leg stretched before him, one ankle resting on the other. “The court won’t appoint,” he said. “Chadbourne left a codicil to his will naming a trustee, should the estate pass into the hands of a minor child.”

“How like the old man.” Vincent’s eyes narrowed at the corners, curiosity laid naked in his face. “That hadn’t occurred to me, I’ll admit.” He turned to me. “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but in time you’ll learn that your grandfather was something of a tartar—hence your own father’s running away, never to return. Not expecting him to return, I’m afraid that none of us put much attention into the clauses of the will that concern you, and I couldn’t tell you who he might have appointed to have the care of you. Never mind. Mr. Bartholemew, the lawyer, will know, and in the meantime, I want you to make your home with us! Isabella and I are your family now, my dear, and that bond is going to ease us through every difficulty that we meet.” He gave me a quick smile as though we had sealed a bargain. Then he turned to Lord Brockhaven. “Alex, Isabella and I won’t forget what you’ve done for us in discovering Liza! I’m fully sensible of the trouble you’ve taken in this matter, and there’s no reason for you to be burdened further with the child. Liza will accompany us when we leave this afternoon.”

There was a certain quiet authority in Vincent’s bland voice. With each calm word, I felt as though the air was being squeezed slowly from around me, and each breath I took refreshed my lungs less than the one before it. It was insane, this beginning of a feeling that I didn’t want to leave Edgehill. This house had been a prison, and that for scarcely a day. Nor is it the gypsy way to nourish sentimental feelings for any location. As a race, we are well-hated in every country in Europe, and so we are trained from infancy to move on without regret or sorrow. Dread filled me as I waited for Lord Brockhaven to agree with his cousin. No one was more amazed than me when he did not.

“Sweet Vincent, so eager,” Brockhaven said, with the glimmer of a smile. “It grieves me to disappoint you, but I’m afraid, as Liza’s guardian, I can’t allow you to remove her from Edgehill.”

There was a moment of astonished silence before Vincent snapped, “What nonsense is this?”

Brockhaven slowly uncrossed his elegant legs. “Chadbourne left the trusteeship in the hands of his trusted friend, Lord Brockhaven.”

Again the emotional silence, this time broken by Isabella, her skin white with wrath. “He couldn’t stand you! Why, I remember the day he told me he’d rather see me dead on my feet than married to you. When Grandfather wrote his will, there were four men between you and the title of Lord Brockhaven. No one expected you to inherit Brockhaven’s title and fortune—no one! Grandfather would never have wanted you to have the charge of one of his grandchildren.”

“Then it’s a pity,” Brockhaven said, giving her a bright mocking glance, “that he didn’t have more foresight than to list the trusteeship in the name of Lord Brockhaven without bothering to specify which one.”

Vincent, I could see, was watching Lord Brockhaven with the wary appraisal of a man trying to disarm an intruder with a loaded pistol. In a reasoning tone, he said, “Alex, Liza can’t stay here, you know that. Let’s not argue.”

“Why not?” said Brockhaven with a malicious sparkle.

“Because the girl’s suffered enough already. She must be frightened from her wits as is! You have no love for me—all right.” Vincent shrugged. “You never have returned the affection I’ve tried to express for you, but this time… Alex, don’t punish the girl to hurt me.” The man left the couch and paced a circle on the Oriental carpet. “Can we discuss this privately?”

“I don’t think so,” said Brockhaven, the emotion shuttered again from his face. “Say what you think you have to and then get out.”

Vincent paled. “Damn,” he said softly. “Why do you have to make everything so difficult? You don’t mean any of this. You don’t want that girl.”

Brockhaven rose from his chair with lazy grace and strolled to stand behind me. I twisted back to see him, still not able to believe that he could be serious about assuming my guardianship! He looked down at me with a withdrawal as complete as it might have been if I had turned into a vase. Last night, in the attic room, he had seemed like a man—a dangerous man, it was true—but human. Now he had become again like the beautifully made demon god, as careless in kindness as in cruelty. He dropped an idle hand to stroke my hair where it lay on my shoulder, the diamond signet at the base of his finger winking like a firefly against the darkness of my hair.