Heartbreak and Honor (7 page)

Wells grinned, her chins folding like a well-used fan. “Perchance, that’s dessert.”

She winked and pulled the door closed.

Lucan sat upon the mattress’s edge. He bent to kiss Mother’s forehead then took her hand. So frail and cold. He gave her thin fingers a gentle squeeze. “What mischief are you embroiled in now, young lady?”

“It seems my heart has been damaged from my spasms and will weaken as time passes.” She opened her light slate eyes, so like his, and tipped her mouth into a wan smile. “Doctor Death and Gloom says I might only have a few months to live.”

Alarm knotted Lucan’s stomach, and he curled his toes in his boots to keep his distress from showing.

Genny came to stand beside the bed. She placed a comforting hand on Lucan’s shoulder. She’d had days to digest this news. He’d had but minutes.

“He also said with proper care and attention to your health, you might very well live much longer.” She gave Lucan’s shoulder a brief squeeze. “Many years, in fact.”

Always the optimist, thank God. If Genny disintegrated into a blubbering mess, he’d be hard-pressed to retain his composure, male stoicism be damned.

Lucan rubbed his thumb across the back of Mother’s blue-veined hand. Not yet fifty. Too soon. “I shall consult with Europe’s finest physicians. We’ll not let one antiquated country doctor determine your future.”

“Your eye is bruised. Later you must tell me why.” She patted his cheek before letting her hand flop across her middle. Her eyes drifted shut again. “You need a shave, dear, and you smell of cabbage and corned beef.” Her delicate nostrils quivered. “And onions.”

His midday meal.

Her breathing shallow, Mother winced and covered her heart.

Lucan exchanged a worried look with his sister. Did Genny’s eyes glisten? What exactly had the doctor said? First thing tomorrow he would discover for himself.

“Lucan?” Mother’s hand twitched within his.

He turned his attention back to her. “Yes, Mama?”

“Promise me you’ll find a wife before I die.” She gripped his hand with surprising strength, determination replacing the resigned look in her weary gaze.

“Mama, I—”

“Genevieve has Montgomery and the girls, and they’ve already said they want Jeremy to live with them.” She drew in a shallow breath. “I want to know you have someone, too. That when I die, you’re not alone.”

“Let’s not talk of this now.”
Or ever
.

Lucan sent Genny a desperate glance.

Turning her head, she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye with her bent forefinger.

He patted his mother’s hand. “We can discuss my future when you are stronger.”

Egad, he couldn’t promise to seek a wife. Not now. No eligible women lived nearby, and only the need to find a knowledgeable physician would force him from Chattsworth Park House. Besides, rushing into—

“Mama?” Alarm sharpened Genny’s voice.

Mother went deathly still and just as ashen, except for a bluish tinge edging her lips.

“Promise me, Lucan.” Her pain-glazed eyes fluttered open. “Promise me. By Christmastide.”

Genny gasped when their mother’s eyes rolled back in her head. “Mama!”

Hell
.

Lucan closed his eyes. “I promise.”

Chapter 8

Wedderford Abbey, Scotland

Late September, 1818

Tasara—no—Alexandra Bridget Clarisse Atterberry,
The Right Honorable Lady Atterberry
, settled against the claret-colored squabs of the Needhams’ plush carriage. That title business still flummoxed her. For God’s sake, why did a female baroness hold a Laird,
Lord,
of Parliament title?

What nincompoop came up with that?

She shifted, unused to the stays practically thrusting her breasts to her chin. More on point, what pea-wit decided a woman needed all the trappings she now wore?

Aunt Bridget had insisted upon a frenetic shopping excursion in Edinburgh to outfit Alexandra with clothing befitting her new station. Unaccustomed to the smooth fabric of her primrose pelisse or the fine kid gloves encasing her fingers, Alexandra idly brushed a hand across her lap.

I shall always be Tasara Faas, a simple gypsy lass.

She veered a glance out the window, finding the quiet within the carriage taxing.

Her gypsy family sang as they traveled, the tinkers laughing and joking, calling to one another along the caravan’s length. Such a simple life she’d lived till now. Nonetheless, Edeena’s words to Father echoed worryingly in her mind.

Ye must consider Lala and György, and the rest of the clan too.

A bruised heart and heavy spirit weighed heavily upon Alexandra. Father hadn’t even remained at Craiglocky Keep long enough to meet her aunt and uncle. When Aunt Bridget at last released her from an exuberant hug, he had already slipped from the study.

Before journeying to Wedderford Abbey, Alexandra had wanted to stop by the encampment one last time, but Laird McTavish dashed that hope.

“The travellers have moved on, Alexandra.” He kindly broke the unpleasant news to her. “Balcomb thought it best. To give you a fresh start.”

The excuse didn’t satisfy in the least. The tinkers hadn’t wanted to say farewell. Precious Lala and György wouldn’t know what to think, wouldn’t understand why Alexandra had left them.

Betrayal lanced her, creating a wound that wouldn’t soon heal. Still, she couldn’t bear the guilt if the folk or Father suffered for helping her, and deep inside, she understood their reasons for fleeing.

“Laird Sethwick assured me no one would think to bring charges against my father.” She searched her new uncle’s face. “Do you think he’s right? I’m concerned my disappearance as a toddler might be blamed on him.”

Across from her, Uncle Hugo adjusted his position, no doubt as stiff as she from days of traveling. “I see no reason for anyone to do anything of the kind. After all, Mr. Faas didn’t abduct you, and he likely saved your life.”

“All these years he cared for you, my dear.” Aunt Bridget’s eyes grew glassy. “And he went to his lordship straightaway when he suspected who you might be.”

The latter wasn’t altogether true, but Alexandra and
Dat
thought it prudent to keep silent regarding what Balcomb had overheard in Edinburgh.

And about her thumping a duke in his handsome face.

Laird Sethwick had swiftly reassured Alexandra the Duke of Harcourt held no grievance against her, and she’d nothing to fear from him.

Easy for his lordship to say. He was rich and powerful.

Her heart gave a curious wobble.

So am I now
.

“I must say, however, I am a trifle surprised at Mr. Faas’s eagerness to claim the reward for your return.” Aunt Bridget fiddled with a loose thread in her cuff’s lace.

Uncle Hugo turned from watching the passing scenery and smiled at Alexandra. “Yes, took me aback a mite as well.”

“But I imagine the life of a Highland traveller is fraught with hardship and a sizable sum will go far to ease their discomfort.” Katrina, Alexandra’s cousin, offered the sensible reassurance.

“Reward?” Alexandra licked her lips, suddenly feeling sick. “You paid it?”

“Of course, dear.” Aunt Bridget cast her a fleeting glance before resuming her perusal of the delicate tatting. “We didn’t hesitate, did we, Hugo?”

“Indeed, not.” He gave Aunt Bridget an indulgent smile. “I would have gladly paid more.”

At another time, their devotion to one another would have charmed Alexandra. However, at present, she fought not to be ill about what she’d just learned. She swallowed. “How much?”

No wonder the clan,
Dat,
and Edeena eagerly toddled her off to Craiglocky.

“One thousand pounds.” Uncle Hugo nodded sagely. “That should tide them over nicely for a long while.”

A veritable fortune to a humble traveller.

The crack in her heart grew wider. She’d been betrayed and deceived for profit by those she trusted the most. What was it about money that caused people to throw aside common decency as easily as hearth ash?

A crazed Scot mistook Isobel Ferguson for another woman, and to gain valuable lands, had intended to force her into marriage. To coerce the travellers into helping the Blackhalls with their land-grabbing scheme, she, Lala, and György were captured. Angus Blackhall planned on selling Tasara’s virginity to some debauched knave, and now, her clan and family had deserted her.

All for wealth.

Integrity and honesty disintegrated in the face of a bulging purse, it seemed.

Shutting her eyes against the pain of the travellers’ perfidy, she found the carriage swaying strangely lulling. The rocking reminded her of her gypsy family’s wagon.

When would she see them again? Did she want to after the nasty revelation of a moment ago?

Of course.

György and Lala had played no part in the deception.

The duke’s noble features pushed their way into her mawkish musings. The bothersome man continued to plague her conscience and dreams. How could one unfortunate encounter leave such a lasting impact? An unnerving thought smacked Alexandra.

Would she see his grace in London?

Undoubtedly.

Her aunt intended to present her long-lost niece to Society. The next few weeks would be spent preparing Alexandra for that awfulness. She hunched further into the carriage corner.

Perfectly wonderful. Something else unpleasant to anticipate. Paraded before the
ton’s
elite, as awkward as a donkey in a poke bonnet at a ball.

She might just do something outlandish to see their responses. It could prove amusing.

A welcome as warm as Napoleon might expect from the Prince Regent seemed probable. In her experience, the British didn’t trust Scots, and truth to tell, except for her uncle, Alexa held the same opinion of
Sassenachs
.

Alexandra cracked an eyelid open. Wedderford Abbey sat majestic and imposing in the distance.

She’d never imagined such splendor, let alone that she would ever own something of this magnitude. The mansion more closely resembled a smallish castle than a grand manor. A great sprawling gray-brown building boasting turrets, numerous chimneys, and three enormous wings lay encompassed by a vine-covered wall on all but one side.

Craiglocky Keep epitomized medieval magnificence, but Wedderford Abbey . . . Well, an ancestor—or two or three—must have claimed a flair for lavishness. The place exemplified garish wealth and station.

And she, the late Baron, Steafan Atterberry’s, eldest daughter owned the estate and everything that accompanied the title including—according to Uncle Hugo—a sizable fortune.

She fingered the locket at her collarbone.

One day a poor Highland traveller, and the next, a well-heeled, titled heiress. Unbelievable. The stuff which birthed fairytales and fantasies.

She shook her head then promptly ceased, fearing the elaborate bonnet she wore would lose a feather or flower.

The monstrosity wouldn’t be worse for it. Heavy and cumbersome, the hat obstructed her vision, but Aunt Bridget had insisted, as she applied lemon juice to Alexandra’s freckled nose, “All proper ladies wear bonnets.”

Alexandra suspected this proper lady falderal would be a profound annoyance. The rigmarole required to dress daily—often thrice or more—strained her composure and the bounds of her patience.

“Is this real?” She pinched her thigh, not confident she wasn’t dreaming. “
That’s
where I was born?”

“Yes, Alexandra,” Aunt Bridget said, “very real, and yes, you were born at Wedderford.” Melancholy darkened her eyes and laced her voice. “Steafan was proud of his estate, proud of everything Scottish, for that matter. If the man possessed a fault, it was that he loved his country and his land too much. I’ve always wondered if he would have married Lyette if she hadn’t been Scots.”

“There’s something to be said for marrying a Scottish lass.” Uncle Hugo teased his wife. “Life is never mundane.”

Aunt Bridget beamed.

She’d retained a constant smile on her lovely face since the moment she’d tearfully enfolded Alexandra in a suffocating, lilac-scented embrace.

If ever Alexandra doubted this woman was her relative, the uncertainty vanished the minute she looked into her aunt’s violet eyes and saw an older version of herself mirrored there. No wonder Laird Sethwick noticed the likeness. Only a blind man would deny the relation.

“Quite so.” Uncle Hugo tapped his wife’s hand, giving her a doting smile. “We were both present. Naturally Bridget insisted on being with her twin when Lyette gave birth.”

Aunt Bridget chuckled, a husky, musical sound while she rummaged in her reticule. “That’s how I knew about your birthmark. I was the first to hold you after your mother and father. You’d wet Steafan’s shirt, and I helped change you.”

Alexandra’s face heated. A strawberry-sized, tulip-shaped birthmark marred her left buttock.

“But even without the mother’s mark to confirm your identity, anyone who ever laid eyes on Lyette would know you are her daughter.” Melancholy weighted her aunt’s words. “I wish she’d lived to see you grown into a beautiful woman.”

Few children claimed the blessing of four mothers, two of whom Alexandra couldn’t remember except fleeting, dreamlike glimpses. “What happened to my mother?”

After a pregnant pause, during which Aunt Bridget struggled for composure, Uncle Hugo answered.

“A fever took her when you were eighteen months old. Your father didn’t want you raised motherless, so six months later, he married a young Scots widow. Wholly unexpected, given his devotion to your mother.”

“
Humph
. I’ll say. Took us aback.” Aunt Bridget’s astringent tone and sour expression spoke volumes. “Minerva bore a daughter
soon
thereafter. In a wretchedly, cruel scheme of providence, two months later, Steafan died—tragic riding accident—leaving you in the care of Minerva. And then . . . then you went missing days later. Some at Wedderford suggested you’d wandered off searching for your papa.”

Disapproval cinched Aunt Bridget’s mouth, and she wrenched her reticule closed a mite harder than necessary.

Perhaps she didn’t like her father marrying soon after her sister’s death, or maybe, she didn’t approve of his choice of a wife. Or . . . did she think it too coincidental—Alexandra vanishing on the heels of her father’s death?

The unsettling thought crawled to a corner of Alexandra’s mind and wedged itself there—a constant, uncomfortable reminder—like an annoying pebble in her slipper.

“Now, my love, don’t get flustered. Steafan saw to all that business in his will. He was no fool. Let’s see your pretty smile.” Uncle cajoled one, albeit weak, from Aunt Bridget.

“So, I have a sister?” Peculiar. Alexandra had almost ceased thinking of Lala and György as her brother and sister, and yet, still thought of herself as a traveller.

“Oh dear.” Katrina suddenly became intent on the scenery outside.

Her aunt and uncle regarded one another for a tense moment.

Finally, Aunt Bridget shrugged. “She might as well know. The truth will come out soon enough. She’ll be better prepared this way.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Uncle Hugo’s countenance became contemplative as he eyed Alexandra. He seemed to choose his words with care. “Shona came into this world five months after Steafan married Minerva. She couldn’t be his daughter.”

“Oh. Does she know?” How horrid if she didn’t. Alexa knew the awfulness of discovering you weren’t who you thought you were.

Aunt Bridget sighed and slumped against the seat. “We have no idea what Minerva has told Shona. We shall have to tread carefully until we know what they are about. The letter of the law is on your side, however.”

“You were declared legally dead after seven years. I believe it’s called death in absentia.” Uncle straightened his hat then crossed his long legs. “Per your father’s instructions, his attorney put the estate into abeyance and your inheritance share in trust. However, I don’t know the particulars.”

“Abeyance?” Alexa scratched her nose. The dratted gloves prevented her from doing the job properly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what that is.”

Uncle Hugo folded his arms. “Simply put, abeyance is when there isn’t a direct male heir. Daughters inherit equally until one submits a petition asking the title be granted to them. There must be no doubt as to their pedigree.”

“Wise on Steafan’s part, that.” Satisfaction shone in Aunt Bridget’s eyes. “Until she is of age, Shona cannot petition to claim the title herself, and with your return, Minerva would be most imprudent to attempt that deception and petition on Shona’s behalf.”

Seriousness sharpened the planes of Uncle Hugo’s face. “Besides, upon your return, there’s a rebuttal presumption at common law—”