Lord Deverill's Heir (2 page)

Damnation, I selected her because of her youth and her mother’s assurances. I will not tolerate this. You must be wrong.” Her parents had let this man touch their daughter? Let him put his hands on her belly? Jesus, it made him sick. “Unfortunately, my lord, the lady’s years make very little difference, nor do the width of her hips.

She will bear no more children, either boy or girl.” God, how I hate this man. I am the keeper of life, yet I want to kill him. My poor Ann . . .

you are nothing to him, just as Magdalaine was nothing. And now he has another daughter to ignore, perhaps even to send away. At least you will not have to suffer him again.

The earl turned abruptly away from the doctor and cursed long and fluently. He did not hear the doctor leave the library to return to the upstairs bedchamber, to keep vigil over his wife.

LONDON 1810

Sir Ralph Wigston peered over his spectacles as he droned on with his duly practiced, and, hopefully, elegant phrases of condolence. He had painstakingly committed the brief message from the Ministry to memory, believing that he owed the mental effort required not only to the earl’s lovely widow, but also to the Earl of Strafford himself.

The late earl had been a splendid man, renowned for his powerful intelligence, his uncanny ability to read the enemy’s mind and act immediately upon his intuition to his majesty’s advantage. He willingly took risks where other men would have wavered and backed away. He had been bold, dauntless, and had died as befitted such a fine leader of men, in battle, leading, shouting orders and encouragement. Proud he was, very proud and unbending, and a determined autocrat, demanding unswerving obedience, but, of course, that was as it should be. He was a man to trust, a man to revere, a man to follow with unquestioned loyalty. His men had worshiped him. He would be missed sorely.

But now the Earl of Strafford was dead, and Sir Ralph had to continue his passionate performance for his widow, who looked particularly beautiful in her black mourning gown. He did not wish to be accused of according the late Earl of Strafford less than his very best. Nor his beloved widow.

He cleared his throat, for this was more difficult. “We do, however, regret to inform you, my dear Lady Ann, that the earl’s remains have not as yet been recovered from the conflagration that ensued.”

“Are you not then being premature with your visit, Sir Ralph? Is it not very possible that my father still lives?” The words were spoken with a cold flatness, and underlying them, Sir Ralph sensed a flicker of hope, almost a challenge to his authority and position. He carefully stored away his few remaining phrases and bent his myopic gaze upon the Earl of Strafford’s daughter, Lady Arabella. She didn’t resemble her mother at all. She was the very image of her father, with her inky black hair and light gray eyes. He cleared his throat. “My dear young lady, let me hasten to inform you that I would most certainly not be executing this most unhappy mission were your father’s demise not a proven fact.” He had spoken too harshly, and hurried to soften his tone. “I am truly sorry, Lady Ann, Lady Arabella, but there were trustworthy witnesses whose word cannot be gainsaid. Exhaustive searches were done. Countless men were interviewed.” He wouldn’t talk about all the charred remains that had been duly examined. “There is no doubt that the earl died in the fire. It was an overwhelming fire. There was no chance of survival. Please, do not entertain the idea that there is a chance he still lives, for it is quite impossible.”

“I see.” Again that cold, emotionless voice. Sir Ralph disposed of his remaining phrases neatly and quickly. “The Prince Regent wishes me to assure you, Lady Ann, that there is no question of the speedy disposition of the earl’s estate, in view of the reliability of the witnesses. I will, if you wish it, notify your solicitor of this tragic circumstance.”

“No!” the earl’s daughter bounded from her chair, her hands clenched in front of her.

Sir Ralph stiffened, frowning at the earl’s daughter. What was she about?

What was all this nonsense? Did not her mother, this lovely fragile lady, have any control over her?

Lady Ann said, her voice far too gentle for Sir Ralph’s liking, “My dear Arabella, surely it would be best if Sir Ralph did contact your father’s solicitor. After all, there is so very much for us to do already.”

“No, Mother.” Arabella turned cold gray eyes to Sir Ralph’s flushed face.

The earl’s eyes, there was no doubt about that. And that coldness of hers, just like the late earl’s. Yes, this damned impertinent girl probably also had her late father’s arrogance, not that Sir Ralph would ever say that the late earl did not deserve every whit of arrogance he chose to exhibit.

“We appreciate your kindness, Sir Ralph, but it is for us—my mother and me—to make whatever arrangements are now necessary. Please extend our gratitude to the Prince Regent. His words would touch the coldest of hearts.”

Now, what did that mean? Sir Ralph did not appreciate irony. It annoyed him. He disliked having to decipher it, having to puzzle over it only to discover that no irony at all had ever been intended. But what had come to him loud and quite clear was that the damned girl was dismissing him.

Him! To give himself time so he wouldn’t box the girl’s ears, Sir Ralph slowly pulled off his spectacles and raised his ample bulk equally as slowly from the chair.

Arabella rose also, and to Sir Ralph’s chagrin, her cold gray eyes were on a level with his. She had winter eyes, he thought, as cold and harsh as her father’s. He wondered if they ever warmed, as he had once seen her father’s warm when he had touched a very lovely young courtesan’s exquisite white shoulder. He shouldn’t remember something like that, particularly in the widow’s presence. He would forget it, now.

The daughter extended a slender hand. Her voice was clipped, yet even the most ardent of sticklers would have found no fault with her. “Thank you, Sir Ralph. As you can see, the news has been quite a shock to my mother.

If you will forgive us, I really must see to her needs now. I will have Russell show you out.”

He found himself reacting to her just as he would have to her father. He moved quickly. He spoke in his most conciliatory voice. “Yes, yes, of course. My dear Lady Ann, if there is anything I can do, anything to relieve you of the burdens that now afflict you, do not hesitate to call upon me. I will be here instantly to assist you.” And he was thinking, just as long as this bitch of a daughter isn’t with you. He preferred his women gentle, soft-spoken, and obedient. Like Lady Ann. But then, he wondered, why had the earl kept a mistress in London, a mistress in Brussels, and frequented brothels in Portugal, from all Sir Ralph had heard. Ah, but a fragile creature like Lady Ann surely wouldn’t be expected to service such a demanding man, as the late earl surely was. As for the daughter, he would admit that she was beautiful, ah, but so cold, so forthright, so unconciliatory.

The countess had averted her face and did not rise. Only a slight nodding of her fair head acknowledged his words. By all that was holy, she was exquisite. He really didn’t want to leave her, but he had no choice, not with that dragon of a daughter looking at him as if she’d like to chop him into small pieces with a knife she doubtless carried at her waist.

“Good-bye, Sir Ralph,” Arabella said, her voice as wintry as her father’s eyes.

Again, he thought regretfully that he would have liked to clasp the small trembling hands of the countess in his own, to assure her that he would protect her, comfort her, share her grief, not that the late Earl of Strafford had afforded him all that attention, the earl having paid very little attention to anyone he did not deem worthy of killing the French.

He was not, however, in a position to carry out his wishes. He looked unwillingly away from the beautiful countess into the set, unsmiling face of the late earl’s daughter.

As the parlor door closed with a snap behind him, he was again struck with the thought that the earl’s daughter was molded in his very image.

Their physical likeness was striking—the same ink-black hair and dark arched brows set above haughty, arrogant gray eyes. But it was not simply their physical similarities. How very alike in temperament they were.

Proud, autocratic, and most damnably capable. Even though Sir Ralph was displeased at being dismissed by an eighteen-year-old girl, he felt it rather a pity that the girl could not have been born a boy. From what he had just witnessed, she could have most ably filled her father’s position.

The Countess of Strafford raised wide blue eyes to her daughter’s fine-featured face. “Really, my dearest, were you not a bit harsh with poor Sir Ralph? You must know he meant well. He was trying to spare both of us unnecessary pain.”

“My father need not be dead now,” Arabella said in a cold flat voice.

“Such a stupid waste. Stupid, stupid war to appease the ridiculous greed of stupid men. Dear God, could there be anything more unjust?” She flung away her mother’s open arms and pounded her fists against the paneled wall.

My poor foolish child. You will not let me comfort you, for you are too much like him. You grieve for a man whose very existence made mine an endless misery. Is there no part of me in you? Poor Arabella, to shed tears is not to be despicable and weak.

“Arabella, where are you going?” The countess rose quickly and hurried after her daughter.

“To see Brammersley, father’s solicitor. Surely you know who he is, Mother. He has tried to flirt with you every time Father has been out of England, the inept buffoon. Damnation, I detest dealing with him, but Father trusted him, more’s the pity. Speaking of buffoons, I do not believe the Ministry sent Sir Ralph. Goodness, I thought he would try to seduce you right here.”

“Seduce me? Sir Ralph? That paunchy old man?”

“Yes, Mama,” Arabella said with great patience. “Are you blind?”

“I noticed nothing amiss with Sir Ralph’s presentation. He was quite proper. But, dearest, surely you are in no fit condition to go out now.

Surely you would wish a cup of tea? Perhaps a rest in your bedchamber?

Perhaps, although it is a bit far-fetched, you might even like to talk to me, Arabella?”

“I am not tired or weak or lily-livered,” Arabella said over her shoulder. “I always talk to you, Mother. We speak at least three or four times every day.” But she didn’t slow. She was consumed with bitter, raging anger and boundless, helpless energy. She was suddenly pulled from her own pain at the sight of her mother’s pale, pinched face. “Oh, God, I am such a beast.” She dashed a hand across her forehead. She would not cry. She would not. Her father would send a lightning bolt down to dash her to the dirt if she cried. “Mother, you will be all right without me, will you not? Please, it is something I must do. I could not bear that Father not be given a proper service before there is any disposition of his estates. I will make the arrangements to leave London. We must return to Evesham Abbey, I will see to it, I must see to it. You do understand, do you not?”

The countess held the stormy gray eyes in a steady gaze and said slowly, with only a hint of sadness, “Yes, my love, I understand. I shall be quite all right. Go now, Arabella, and do what you must.” The countess felt immeasurably older than her thirty-six years. It was with an effort of will that she dragged herself to the front bow window and sank down into a winged chair. Thick gray fog swirled about the house, twining itself about tree branches and obscuring the green grass in the small park opposite the house.

She saw John Coachman holding the skittish horses. And there was Arabella crossing the flagstone in her long, sure stride, looking dismal in her black gown and cloak. Arabella would arrange everything and no one would know that her determined, implacable energy cloaked a despairing grief.

Perhaps it is better that she will not even seek comfort from me. For then I, too, would have to feign sorrow. She cannot even see that his death means only the end of my imprisonment. Her furious energy will burn out her grief. It is just as well. Dear Elsbeth, innocent elfin child.

Like me, you are now to be freed. I must write you, for now you belong at Evesham Abbey. Now you may return to your home, to Magdalaine’s home.

Such a short time you lived, Magdalaine. But your daughter will know my care. I will take care of her, Magdalaine, I promise you that. Thank you, God. He is gone. Forever.

The countess rose from her chair with such a spurt of activity that her blond curls trembled about her face. She threw back her head and walked purposefully to a small writing desk in the corner of the parlor. It was a curiously odd gesture, one of confidence, reborn as if by instinct after eighteen years. With crisp, almost cheerful movements, she dipped the quill into the ink pot and plied her hand to a sheet of elegant stationery.

EVESHAM ABBEY, 1810

Lucifer’s massive hooves sent loose gravel pitching from the lime tree-bordered drive. The rhythmic, powerful beat brought little comfort to his rider.

Arabella turned in the saddle and looked back toward her home. Evesham Abbey stood proudly in the hazy morning light, its sun-baked red brick walls extending upward to innumerable chimney stacks and gables. There were forty gables in all; she had counted them. As a child of eight she had eagerly announced this arithmetic feat to her father, received a startled look, a hearty laugh, and a powerful hug that had left her small, sturdy ribs bruised until Michaelmas Day.

So many years ago. And now there was nothing. Nothing at all, except those forty gables. And they would remain until well after she was dead.

They had buried an empty coffin in the marbled family vault. After the women, save for Arabella, had left the cemetery, four of her father’s farmers heaved a huge stone slab over the coffin and the local smithy set about his painstaking job of chipping and hewing out fragments of stone, leaving in the indentations the earl’s name and titles and the years that marked his life. The empty coffin rested beside Magdalaine’s, the earl’s first wife. It chilled Arabella to see the empty cavern to the other side of her father’s coffin, destined for her mother.