The Mysterious Heir (2 page)

“You'll catch cold at that,” Lord Beverly said through a mouthful of gingersnaps, “for Morgan here won't stir stump. Hates London. I practically begged him to come down with me for the season. No, he said, and no.”

“And no again,” the Earl said, leaning his head back against his chair. “I have no intention of remaining in London. As soon as our business is finished, I'm going back to Lyonshall. London is not for me.”

“But, your lordship,” Mr. Tompkins said earnestly, “you have absented yourself from London for so long that there are few here in town that have the honor of your acquaintance. Lord Beverly is perhaps the only man in the ton who knows you well at all. And he alone cannot put down the pretensions of this impostor. And to put Bow Street onto the impersonator's traces will only give rise to more rumors.”

“For ten impostors I will not take up residence here,” the Earl said softly and with finality. Such was his air of command that Mr. Tompkins sat back with a sigh.

“Then you will have to produce an heir who will stay in London,” he said.

“That's simple stuff, Morgan,” Lord Beverly said happily. “Just who is your heir, anyway?”

“I haven't the least idea,” the Earl said wearily. “I gave it some thought when I got your message. I have few living relatives and none male. And since my Aunt Clara is unmarried, and one uncle left no living issue, and one other left only a girl still in the schoolroom, I have no idea of who the lucky chap is. I wrote to that effect, Mr. Tompkins.”

“Yes, and I have been busy these last days,” Mr. Tompkins said with another slight frown, “with both your Aunt Clara, who while bedridden is still sensible, and with your family genealogy. As well as I am able to tell, your rightful heir would have to come from your two granduncles' lines. As it is a direct male succession unless you yourself produce an heir, your estate in Sussex, the one in the North, and Lyonshall itself, as well as a good deal of your funds, will all go to one of three male third cousins now living. None of whom, I venture to say, you have ever met. Really, your lordship, in these circumstances, rather than searching out these far-flung relatives, it would be much simpler for you to simply marry and settle the matter in that time-honored fashion.”

Lord Beverly stopped chewing his gingersnap and glanced hurriedly over to the Earl, who was staring impassively into the fire. It was impossible to see the expression in his hooded eyes. The thin strong face was a study in planes in the leaping firelight. The Earl's face, with its high forehead, long straight
nose, and high cheekbones, remained set and expressionless. He sat with his head back against the chair, his thick dark auburn hair almost black in the shadows.

“No,” the Earl finally drawled softly, “I think not. Not simpler, not feasible, my dear Tompkins. Not for me.”

And then, in a lighter tone, he said, “I do not think I am ready to limp down the aisle with some lucky girl again.”

“Oh, that cursed limp,” Lord Beverly cried, much agitated. “As if that mattered! You make too much of it, Morgan, I vow you do. Why, the right sort of female wouldn't notice you limp in bed at all!”

Mr. Tompkins' face grew rigid with embarrassment and the Earl gave way to a rare peal of true rich laughter; then he drew one slender hand across his eyes to wipe them.

“I hope not, Bev. But just what sort of a wife would such a female make if she didn't notice? No, no don't try to puzzle it out, it was delightful just as it came, unbidden from your lips. But that is not the problem. I don't care to seek out the right sort of girl right now, however observant she may or may not be. I'm sorry, Mr. Tompkins, but I am a widower, and the marriage was without issue. I do not choose to race to the altar with some unlucky female and hasten her to the sheets to produce the eighth Earl of Auden just to discourage this impostor. At some time I may, I may,” the Earl mused, “but not now. I believe, then,” he went on, as though the matter now bored him, but Mr. Tompkins could see him unconsciously begin to knead his leg with his hand, “you will just have to trot out those three chaps and we'll choose one. Third cousins, you said?”

“But you can't just name one without meeting him, without assessing his worth,” Mr. Tompkins said, aghast.

“No, really you can't, Morgan.” Lord Beverly frowned.

“I'm not exactly at my last prayers,” the Earl said with asperity; and then more softly he added, “My left leg may think it is, but the rest of my poor corporal self is in fine fettle.”

“That's true,” Lord Beverly said happily. “You look leagues better than you did a few months ago. Look better every time I see you, as a matter of fact.”

“Unpleasant though it may be,” Mr. Tompkins said sternly, “everyone of us must accept the fact of life's impermanence. Even the youngest of us in the bloom of youth may be struck down. You are yet in both youth and health, but it is both improvident and unwise to leave the fate of your fortune to chance. At the moment, all three men have equal claim as your heir. Would you wish to see the entail broken and Lyonshall sold? Or go to a stranger who would gamble it away?”

“No,” the Earl said thoughtfully, “never that.”

“Ah, well, then, it is perhaps fortunate that this situation, however presently unpleasant it is, has arisen. For I was appalled, your lordship, to discover that you had not designated an heir. A man of your title and substance should have seen to it years ago.”

“No, really, Morgan,” Lord Beverly said sadly, “it wasn't right of you.”

“And who is your heir, Bev?” the Earl asked pleasantly.

“M' sister's boy Randall. A lad with more teeth than wit. I mean it, Morgan, he's got more teeth than a shark. And they're crosswise. It's terrible to sit down to dinner with him. Every time I see him, I resolve to marry on the instant, just to keep him out of the direct line. But fortunately,” Lord Beverly said seriously, “I don't see him often. And you know I've got no concentration. But, Morgan, it's shocking how you never saw to the succession, for you've got more wit than I, and even I have an heir.”

“My family was not large, you know. My brother was the rightful heir and I his,” the Earl said softly. “And then when I married I believed…I believed all sorts of things. And then, I confess, I never gave it another thought. No, you're right as usual, Mr. Tompkins.”

“Then,” the older man said briskly, “might I suggest that you send off an invitation to each of them. Meet with them. And then at leisure make up your mind. Mind, I think it only fair that you should inform them that they are only temporarily to be considered as heir, but that if worse should come to worst, at least you will have provision for the future of your name and your dignities.”

“Have them all here, Morgan,” Lord Beverly said with enthusiasm, “so I can cast an eye over them. I'm no mean judge of character, you know.”

“No,” the Earl said slowly. “I shall have them to Lyonshall and you can come too, Bev. Since it was your idea, you can lighten the load for me. Should you like to accompany us, Mr. Tompkins?”

“It would be a pleasure, your lordship,” the older man said, arranging his papers. “However, the press of business, you know. But I shall come when you have decided as to which of them you choose. And I shall draw up the necessary papers. That will not only stop the impostor in his tracks, but I believe it will make you easier in your own mind.”

“That blasted impostor's done you a good turn, Morgan,” Lord Beverly commented from the table where he was refilling his glass. “See if he hasn't.”

“Doubtless he's my benefactor.” The Earl smiled. “Well, fill us all up again, you selfish lout, Bev, and we'll toast my three kinsmen. What are their names, then, Mr. Tompkins?”

“There's Owen Courtney, Richard Courtney, and Anthony Courtney, in all, your lordship.”

“Well, then,” the Earl said, “let us drink to my new family, my loving hopeful relations. Let us drink to…” He paused and listened to the rain slash against the window. “…Owen, Richard, and Anthony, the eighth Earl, the eighth Earl, and the eighth Earl. And of course to the perfect wife.” He smiled wickedly at Lord Beverly. “An unobservant girl. And to my benefactor, James Everett Courtney…the man who never was.”

“You're a generous fellow.” Lord Beverly grimaced.

“My heart,” the Earl said mockingly, “is as deep as my wine cellar. Drink up, old friend, to the next heir of Auden, a fellow who might like me while I live, but who will doubtless appreciate me more when I am dead. A fellow who will hang upon my every word, but will be most interested in my last breath.”

“Ghoulish Morgan”—Lord Beverly shook his head—“must be the rain's got you in the sullens.”

“The rain…” The Earl smiled, dashing off the brandy. “The interminable rain. Doubtless.”

2

Although the first letter to be delivered was addressed to “Master Owen Courtney,” it lay upon a tray just outside the door to a lady's bedroom. It had the honor of being first delivered only because the house to which it had been addressed was only a few short blocks from the Earl of Auden's London residence. Though the letter shared its space upon the tray with three other missives, it was placed foremost. The butler of the lady's establishment, having an unerring eye to quality, had placed it over what to his way of thinking were inferior correspondence.

It was an advanced hour of the day when the door finally cracked open and two little white hands, with a quantity of white lace frothing over delicate wrists, picked up the tray and bore it into the bedroom. Although the tray also held a silver pot of chocolate, two porcelain cups, napery, a dish of sweet biscuits, and flowery plates to put them on, it was the letter that immediately caught the bearer's eye as surely as it had dazzled her butler's.

“Lud,” the lady breathed, sitting down upon her bed in a whisper of silks, and gazing blankly at the letter. Her blue eyes were opened wider than they usually were at that hour of the morning. She tossed her blond curls back over her white shoulders, took in a deep breath which caused the front of her negligee to gape becomingly, and slowly, reverently slit the envelope open.

She read the letter through once, and once again. But it was after the third reading that she gave out a little crow of
delight. “Owen!” she cried, and then again, wonderingly, “Owen!”

A deep groan came from the other side of the bed and a muffled voice complained, “Again? Snooping little wretch. Get him out of here.”

“No, no,” the lady exclaimed, still gazing raptly at the letter in her hand, “He's not here, he knows not to come in here. He's with his nurse. But only see, only look!”

Another groan came from the gentleman, and slowly he sat up in bed, rising like some great Roman statuary, all undraped muscle and sinew, from beneath the covers. After a gaping yawn he unceremoniously took the letter from the lady's hands and read it. And then, after rubbing his eyes, read it again.

“Auden,” he breathed. “You never mentioned how closely you were related!”

“I did,” the lady protested, “but you never listened. We're not, in fact, closely related. He scarcely knows me. In fact, when he was on the Town, he barely acknowledged my presence. But that must have been because he had his hands full with Kitty,” she amended, preening herself. “But John was his distant cousin, just as it says in the letter. John had something of the look of him, too,” she mused, “although Morgan got the best of everything in that family, money and looks.”

“And now,” the gentleman said, sitting up straighter, “Owen is going to be named his heir.”

“No, no,” the lady said, doing some rapid thinking. “Read it again. It says that Owen is to be considered for the title. There are two others as well. My God, that must mean that Morgan is at death's door,” she gasped.

“Put away your handkerchief.” The gentleman frowned. “It means nothing of the sort. I hear he's in London even now, and apart from his game leg, he's healthy as a horse. What it means,” he said consideringly, “is that he's in no hurry to marry again, but that he has decided to name an heir.”

“I, for one,” the lady said indignantly, “cannot blame
him for not wanting to marry, not after the dance Kitty led him. Shocking stuff.”

The gentleman gave an amused laugh and stretched luxuriously. Then he began to run one large suntanned hand across the lady's silken back.

“So proper, then, Isabel? I suppose you never played dear John false?”

“Don't speak ill of the dead,” the Lady Isabel said, pokering up and hoping he would not sense how her flesh rejoiced in his touch.

“I was speaking ill of the living, vixen, and you know it. So,” he said, making larger circles with his hand, “you are going to dress up little Owen and drill him in manners and trot off to Lyonshall in hopes that Morgan picks him as heir?”

“Of course,” Isabel sniffed. “What better fate for my poor fatherless little boy? What sort of a mother would not make a push to have her son named heir to Morgan's fortune?”

“And what sort of female would not make a push to have herself named Morgan's consort? Don't try to deceive me, Isabel.” He laughed, hauling her down to the bed and gazing into her eyes. “We rub on well together because we are so very much alike. It would make a neat package, wouldn't it? Owen as heir, and dear Isabel as lady-wife. For while Morgan's sworn off marriage, he's not sworn off women. And you are such a compelling little baggage,” he said, placing his lips upon her throat.