Miss Westlake's Windfall (2 page)

Ada had to lock her own emotions away, her own dreams unexamined. She also had to bite her lip to keep from weeping. Charity, that’s all his offer was, wrapped in the clean linen of friendship, with a scrap of ensuring his succession thrown in. Ada could not accept his largesse.

She liked Chas far too much to burden him with her problems, to tie him for life to a ramshackle family, to accept him for what he could do, not just for what he was. He deserved so much better, like a lady he could love. What if he found her someday, the woman of
his
dreams, but he was already wed to Ada, with her flighty—to be polite—sister, and grasping sister-in-law, her neglectful brother and rundown estate? Ada would never forgive herself for blighting her dear friend’s chances for happiness, and so she would never marry him.

Perhaps when Chas did find his perfect bride, his soul mate, his heart’s companion, perhaps then his pride could forgive Ada and they could be friends again.

And perhaps it was starting to drizzle, for Ada brushed away a drop of moisture from her cheek, leaving a trail of dirt through the freckles.

Chapter Two

The vultures were waiting. “Did he accept your apology?” Jane pounced on Ada as soon as she walked through the drawing room door. “Is everything settled?”

Ada had put down her bundled scarf but hadn’t yet handed her shawl to the butler, Cobble, who was waiting just as avidly for her answer. “Apology? Settled?”

“And not above time, my girl.” Since there was no way on earth, by blood or by bond of matrimony, that Ada considered herself Filbert Johnstone’s “girl,” she ignored him as best she could, considering he was wearing a purple waistcoat with red cabbage roses embroidered on it. Mr. Johnstone was overfed, overdressed, and too frequently underfoot, when he ran out of his own funds, likely gambling winnings. He considered himself a man of the world, just as his son Algernon considered himself a sportsman when he blasted away at every bird, beast, and innocent passerby, and Jane put on the airs of a
grande dame.

Most days, Ada considered them all a flock of pesky pigeons, puffing themselves up, nattering on, roosting where they were least wanted. Today they were flesh-eating Harpies. At least Algernon was back at school. Heaven alone knew how Chas had managed to convince the university to rematriculate the moron.

Chas. Oh. “No, nothing is settled. That is, we settled everything yesterday. I have not seen Viscount Ashmead today.”

Cobble turned and left the room, his shoulders stooped, his footsteps dragging, Ada’s shawl forgotten.

Filbert went to pour himself another brandy, while Jane resettled her skirts on the striped sofa with a grumbled oath. “Dash it, I made sure you’d come to your senses at last. We supposed you’d gone to the Meadows to apologize.”

“No, I was picking apples, as I told you all I was going to do last evening. Besides, I have done nothing for which I need apologize.”

Mr. Johnstone had brightened momentarily at the thought of fresh apple turnovers, but Ada’s fierce scowl sent him back for the bottle.

Jane inspected her fingernails. “Nothing to apologize for? I suppose calling a distinguished gentleman a jobbernowl, a jackanapes, and a jackass is a polite way of refusing his suit?”

Had she really used those words in the heat of their argument? She must have, or Cobble would not have repeated them to Jane from his position outside the drawing room, his car pressed against the wood. Ada felt her cheeks flushing. “Yes, well, Chas knows I meant nothing by those terms. We’ve known each other much too long to be offended by a little friendly name-calling. Why, he always calls me Addled Ada, you know.”

Uncle Filbert choked on a large swallow and muttered, “If he calls this one addled, I wonder what he calls t’other one?”

They could all hear Tess in the next door music room. The villagers in Lillington could likely hear Tess in the music room. They’d be complaining to Ada of soured milk again tomorrow, but she found Tess’s latest composition ... interesting. She raised her chin. “He calls her Miss Westlake, of course, since she is the elder daughter of the house.”

Jane sipped at a cup of tea, without offering any to Ada. After three hours in the orchards, and three minutes in the drawing room, Ada needed refreshment. She briefly debated the merits of Mr. Johnstone’s spirits before crossing to the tea cart and pouring out a cup of lukewarm, bitter tea, just the way Jane liked it. Ada added two lumps of sugar. Noting that nothing remained on the cake platter but one dry slice of toast, she added another lump before taking a seat. She did not bother ringing for a fresh pot or another plate of biscuits, not when she was in Cobble’s black books.

Just when Ada was about to reach for the toast, Jane murmured, “I hear that Ashmead spent the night in an alehouse.” Jane had an intricate network of informants, with her personal maid on intimate terms with every footman in the neighborhood, it seemed.

“I am sure it is no concern of ours where Lord Ashmead spends his nights, or days, for that matter. He is a grown man of seven and twenty. Surely he is entitled to his privacy.”

Her repressive tones did not faze Jane one whit, who had seen her third birthday with a zero in it some few years ago. Lady Westlake did not intend to see her fourth decade celebrated in the country, in reduced circumstances, especially not when some stubborn, willful chit of one and twenty could rescue them all with two words. Since “I do” were the only words she wished to hear from Ada’s lips, Jane continued as if her sister-in-law had not spoken at all. “An alehouse where he got as drunk as a, well, as a lord, in low company.”

Ada’s cup clattered on its saucer. She put the bread back, having lost her appetite. “Chas is not a drunkard.”

“He never used to be, before you drove the poor man to drink.”

“I say, Ashmead’s a rich man. what? That’s the whole point, ain’t it?”

Jane ignored her uncle, too. “In fact, you ought to be sorely ashamed, Miss Too-Good-for-a-Viscount, breaking the poor man’s heart that way.”

“Oh, pooh. Chas’s heart is as hard as his head. It was only his pride that was injured.”

“Oh, and I suppose you didn’t toss his heirloom engagement ring at his head?” It had been a huge ruby, surrounded by diamonds. Jane could have lived in London for a year on its worth. She pursed her lips.

“I might have, but it only left a tiny scratch.”

Jane dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Besides, a gentleman’s pride is no small thing. Why, having his suit rejected so adamantly might lead a man to any number of indiscretions, such as a barroom brawl.”

Uncle Filbert nodded his agreement. “Steals his manhood, by George. Makes a chap want to prove himself. Young bucks butting heads, don’t you know.”

“Chas was in a fight? Is he ... ? That is, was anyone injured?”

“I’d say your concern for Ashmead comes a little late, wouldn’t you, Miss Holding-Out-for-a-Hero?”

“Was he hurt, by Heaven?”

Jane raised her perfect nose in the air. “How should I know? I do not gossip with servants.”

At Ada’s “Hah!” Jane did admit to making sure that his lordship was well enough for visitors. “Which is why we assumed you’d gone to call this afternoon, to see for yourself, to bring a restorative or some such.”

What they’d wished was that Ada’s senses were restored. Her hopes dashed once more, Jane asked her uncle to pour her a wee sip of his own brew, for her nerves.

Ada was certain she was the last person Chas would wish to see today, especially if he was feeling below par. Of course servants’ gossip always made mountains out of molehills, especially when it concerned the gentry acting beneath their dignity. Likely Chas had shared a drink or two with some of his tenants, then took part in a friendly bout of arm-wrestling or some such physical proof of prowess men were so prone toward. Charles Harrison Ashford, Viscount Ashmead, was not a sot, nor did he need to prove his worth to anyone. For certain, his heart was not broken. Ada doubted if that organ was even slightly bruised.

The sight of the bottle in Mr. Johnstone’s hands, however, a bottle that held no excise label, reminded Ada of her own news. “Although I did not have converse with Viscount Ashmead this afternoon,” she began, “I did accomplish something better. I gathered a decent quantity of apples. Mrs. Cobble is paring some now, so we should have a lovely pie for dinner.”

“An apple pie is better than a
parti?”
Jane snapped. “Better than a peer with deep pockets? Is this whole family dicked in the nob?” She took a swallow of brandy. Perhaps it was not her first of the afternoon after all, for she went on: “One brother thought he could ride a wild horse, while the other one believes his presence on the Peninsula is the only thing keeping the Corsican from overrunning the Empire. This chit turns her back on the best offer she is ever likely to have, and the other... ? It’s a madhouse, that’s what this is. Bedlam at Westlake.”

Now Ada might silently agree that her elder brother Rodney had been cork-brained, getting on an unbroken stallion and wagering the already mortgaged town house on his ability to stay aboard, besides. She would never have spoken such sentiments aloud, though, since Rodney had paid the ultimate price for his folly, but if his own widow wished to label him lunatic, Ada could not argue the point. She would not even debate the wisdom of Emery’s insistence that his duty lay with the Army, when his inheritance was going to hell in a handcart. For herself, she’d been teased with Addled Ada so many times she took it as a pet name, a sign of affection for her independent ways. No one, however, no one at all, was permitted to question Tess’s sanity, not while Ada had breath in her body.

“This is my family’s home,” she said, “Tess’s home, and she will not be insulted here,
sister.
If you are so disappointed in your relatives by marriage, I am sure we will be pleased to help you pack.”

“You forget yourself, miss. I am Lady Westlake, and until your rattle-pate of a brother returns from playing soldier, I am mistress of this establishment. I have let you deal with the servants and the estate, since dear Rodney seemed to think you could manage, but I shall not be pushed aside, not without my annuity, I won’t.”

“Rodney used the marriage settlements to buy you furs and gems. You know there is no money in the account or, by heaven, I would have given it to you long ago.”

“Hmph. Well, I would have remained in the London house if you had not sold it from under my feet.”

“I didn’t sell it, Lady Westlake. May I remind you that the bank reclaimed it to pay the mortgage. Everything else, including the blasted unbroken stallion, went to pay gambling debts. If you and Rodney had managed to live within your means, we would not be in this fix now, and no one would care if I married the linen-draper, much less Lord Ashmead.”

“Now, now, girls, no need to be pulling caps. We’ll come about, see if we don’t.” Uncle Filbert brought the bottle, to tip some brandy into Ada’s cold tea. She put her hand over the cup with a gruff “No, thank you.” He shrugged and poured it into his own glass instead. “Aye, we’ll manage. We’re not doing so badly, what with an apple pie, a fine bottle of brandy
—
”

“That never saw the customs collector.” Ada got up and retrieved her red scarf from the corner table. She untied the knot and dumped the contents onto a hard-backed chair no one ever sat in. “I found this in the orchard, too.”

Jane moved faster than the time Tess brought her herpetology collection to the breakfast room. “Oh, my!” She started counting: “One new fan, two bonnets, three pairs of gloves...”

“No, Jane. We will not be spending the money.”

“What, not spend all of this lovely brass? You mean to pay off more of those tiresome debts with this windfall? I won’t have it, I tell you, Ada. I’ll go speak to the trustees myself. I’ll
—”

“No, I mean the money is not ours to keep. I will be returning it to its rightful owners as soon as possible.”

Uncle Filbert was leaning over Jane’s shoulder, nearly licking his lips. “I say, finders keepers and all that, what?”

“No, I do not believe the money was accidentally misplaced. I believe it was left there in our orchard as payment for the use of our land by smugglers.” She pointed at the bottle in Filbert Johnstone’s hand. “And I believe I know who made the arrangement.”

“Nonsense. You cannot think that we would traffic with such ruffians.” Jane grew indignant, but her uncle was sputtering, dribbling brandy down his floral waistcoat. Now he looked more than ever like a bed throw in a bordello.

“How could you, sirrah?”

Filbert was trying to find a place out of Ada’s sight to hide the telltale bottle. “It’s just the one bottle, I swear. I don’t know a thing about the brass.”

“You don’t know about sympathizing with the French? About aiding and abetting the enemy?”

Now he went pale. “I didn’t... You can’t...”

“Oh la, Ada, you are making too big a thing out of this. What’s it to you if someone crosses our boundaries, when they pay so handsomely?”

“Rather ask my brother Emery what it is to him when the French have more cannons and more ammunition, warmer uniforms and better rations.” She started to gather the coins into the kerchief again, prying Jane’s fingers away from the ripped leather pouch. “The money goes back, and that is final.”

Jane managed a smile without taking her eyes off the disappearing coins. “Well, I am sure you may try, Ada, but it is not as if smugglers place signs over their doorways like bootmakers or booksellers, advertising their trades. Nor will they step forward if you place a notice in the daily
Journal.
So do try to return the purse, if that’s what it takes to satisfy your so-sincere scruples. Then we can spend the money.”

Ada snatched the scarf away. “We will never spend it. It is soiled money; don’t you see? Besides, everyone knows smugglers kill people who interfere with their business. Do you want us all to be murdered in our beds? I will donate it to charity before spending one shilling
.
”