The Unknown Heir: Book Nine in the Regency Romps Series

by Elizabeth Bramwell

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle,” said Jacques with an incline of his head more suited to a fellow Bourgeoisie rather than a member of the Ton.

  She raised an eyebrow. Christopher coughed before making an unsubtle motion for him to bow. Jacques smiled placidly, pretending that he did not understand what was expected as they all stood in an awkward silence.

  Perfect.

  Lady Cordelia seemed to decide that his rudeness was due to a lack of social status rather than a deliberate slight. She gave him an aloof smile, and her tone became more rarified as she addressed him in much the same way members of the Beaver Club in Montreal addressed their clerks and secretaries.

  “A pleasure, Monsieur Gautereau. How wonderful it must have been to learn you have English relatives. Have you become acquainted with your people?”

  He gave her a bland smile in return. Being the eldest of a family that included five attractive sisters had long ago taught him how to goad young ladies into showing the less refined aspects of their natures, and he suspected that Lady Cordelia would be no less immune to his tricks.

  “Oui, Mademoiselle, I have met ma cousine, and I had never thought that I should be related to such a high-status aristo!” he replied, deliberately thickening his Montreal accent. “It was, how do you say, a grand delight to discover I am at least part Anglais.”

  Christopher frowned at him, but said nothing before turning his attention back to Lady Cordelia.

  “My friend is a cousin of Henrietta,” he explained to the young woman. “We discovered it quite by chance, just after James wrote to tell me he was married.”

  Lady Cordelia’s expression widened in surprise as she turned to study Jacques with greater interest. The expression was extraordinarily frank, and the curiosity in her fine eyes only served to enhance her beauty.

  It was very lucky that expression was turned on him and not on Christopher, Jacques thought to himself. He, at least, was immune to that intelligent beauty, while his friend was far from safe from those eyes.

  “You are related to the Cartwrights? But which one? There were no marriages into a French line that I know of,” said Lady Cordelia, looking thoughtful. “At least I don’t remember hearing of it or seeing it on the Shropshire tree.”

  Christopher gave an incoherent splutter and tugged at his cravat.

  “You wouldn’t have, for the connection is distant! Very distant!” he said in a hurried tone. “A cadet branch at most. So distant, in fact, that we don’t even know how they are related yet! Perhaps not related at all! Lots of Cartwrights out there, after all!”

  Christopher suddenly seemed to think that he had said to much, and clamped his mouth shut. Jacques looked at his friend with interest, but was not able to pursue the matter in front of the young Lady Cordelia.

  For whatever reason – and he guessed that reason was Henrietta – Christopher did not want anyone to know how Jacques was connected to the Marquis of Shropshire.

  How interesting, he thought, a sour taste arising in his mouth. Just like they refused to recognize my mother all those years ago, it seems they intend to refuse to recognize me as well.

  Well, two could play at that game.

  “But you just said that he’s Henrietta’s cousin,” Lady Cordelia was saying loudly to Christopher. “The only family she has are all descended from the old Marquis, so she must believe that Monsieur Gautereau is as well, otherwise you would not think him a cousin.”

  “Precisement,” said Jacques, smiling at Lady Cordelia. “I am indeed a descendant of Monsieur le Marquis du Shropshire; the old one, not the current.”

  Christopher made an odd, choking sound. Jacques ignored him.

  Lady Cordelia cocked her head to the side, making her resemble a bird.

  “Forgive my ignorance then, Monsieur; I thought I was well versed in the families of the aristocracy, but I do not remember seeing your name.”

  Jacques smiled in the way that he knew alarmed his sisters.

  “You can rest assured Mademoiselle that your recollection of the Shropshire descendants is quite accurate. While I am most certainly linked to the Cartwright family, there has never been a marriage between that noble blood and a Gautereau.”

  “Jacques!” exclaimed Christopher. “Cordy was not implying anything of the sort!”

  Lady Cordelia, however, did not seem in the least offended. Instead she caught Jacques completely off guard by throwing her head back and laughing.

  It was quite the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

  “I deserved that, didn’t I? I am odiously curious at the best of times, you know, but truly I am not fishing for gossip. I simply hate to be wrong, for what could be more uncomfortable? Do you forgive me my impertinence, Monsieur Gautereau?”

  Those eyes, wide and beautiful, bored into Jacques. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he’d forgive her anything, but Christopher got there first.

  “Of course he will, Cordy. As though anyone could believe there was a malicious bone in your body!”

  “There are several, actually. I’ve considered doing some rather terrible things in my time, but Trix usually talked me out of them.”

  Jacques, seeing his friend laugh over-enthusiastically at this statement, hardened his heart again to the engaging young woman. He schooled his expression into one of polite boredom, and did not answer her request for forgiveness.

  Not that she seemed aware of his silence.

  “Well I must take my leave, for my poor maid is looking ever so glum. I suspect the coachman said something cutting to her, and now she’ll sulk for a week,” said Lady Cordelia rather cheerfully.

  They made their bows, and the remarkable young woman turned towards her barouche, leaving Jacques rather thoughtful about the whole incident.

  “Save a dance for me at the Loughcroft’s ball, Cordy!” Christopher suddenly shouted after her.

  She threw him a saucy smile as she waited for the coachman to open the door and lower the step for her.

  “I shall have to see if I have any left, Christopher; perhaps a country dance remains free!”

  “A waltz,” he declared in response. “A waltz, or else my heart will crack from disappointment!”

  That laugh again as she made herself comfortable on the seat beside her maid.

  “Very well – if I have one left,” she said, before instructing the coachman, now safely back in his seat, to drive on.

  The two friends watched her leave in silence.

  “Damn, I forgot about Cordy,” said Christopher with a shake of his head. “She’s the daughter of Lord Delby, you know, and probably the greatest catch in London. How she’s not been snapped up already is beyond me.”

  “Perhaps she nags like a fishwife,” suggested Jacques, “or snorts over her soup instead of sipping it.”

  Christopher laughed and slapped him on the back, unaware of his friend’s dark thoughts.

  “Daughters of Earls are not allowed to snort,” he said. “It’s in the rules of conduct, I am certain.”

  Jacques shook his head and heaved a dramatic sigh. “You should have said, mon amis. I know only what it is like to be the son of a black sheep, and the stepson of a simple Metis fur trader, who most assuredly does snort his soup – and so do some of his daughters. I do not think I shall fit into this fine society of yours here in London, and am amazed you did not take my brothers and sisters in dislike.”

  Christopher gave a bark of laughter. “Only the smallest of your siblings lack polish, my friend, and as for Le Grande Bruin – describing him as a simple Metis fur trader is doing it too brown! Now, let’s go in and see Lady Arthur, shall we?”

  “Not to mention Miss Scott, and little Governess,” added Jacques.

  He had not forgotten Christopher’s lies about his ties to the Cartwright family, but he smiled and clapped his friend on the back as they entered the large house, festooned with greenery, on the corner of Fitzroy Square. Despite his cheerful countenance, h
e had every intention of encouraging the resident pug to relieve herself all over Mr Douglas’ shoes.

  Chapter Two

  Frederick Cartwright, Marquis of Shropshire, always knew when his granddaughter was lying to him. Having raised her since she was in leading strings, he was proud of the woman that Henrietta had become, and pleased that her marriage to James Douglas, Viscount Cottingham, had proven to be one of a deep, abiding love. As the two of them had adjusted to their new life as parents, the Marquis had watched the pair develop into the type of people any grandfather could be proud of; kind, intelligent, and honourable.

  But still terrible liars.

  "Why do I need to be plotting something to invite you to my home?" Henrietta said when he'd challenged her moments after his arrival. "Perhaps I simply wish to see you!"

  "You don't need a formal invitation to see us, my dear," he'd replied before kissing her on each cheek. "You look radiant, by the way."

  "She's always radiant," her husband had said, making Henrietta blush adorably.

  "Would you like some refreshments while we wait?" his granddaughter had asked, slipping back into the formality of a society hostess. "I have asked Cook to prepare some of your favourite cakes, and Cottingham sourced some excellent Portuguese wine for you both."

  Shropshire had shared a look with his wife, and the Marchioness had struggled to keep her amusement contained.

  "Excellent," was all he'd said.

  "How thoughtful of you, dear heart," said the Marchioness. "I have missed sharing a glass of wine with you since your marriage. I know you only live one estate over, but it's not the same."

  Henrietta's mask had slipped for a moment as she cast a fond look at her grandmother. "I agree! I suppose the negative of living so close to you is that it makes no sense for us to stay under the same roof."

  "We can ask your cousin Gloucester to arrange for us all to stay with them this summer," said the Marquis as he took a glass of wine from Cottingham. "He'll be here shortly, I believe."

  He had the pleasure of seeing his granddaughter look shocked, then irritated, and then rueful, all within a few moments.

  "How did you know I invited George and Abby?" she demanded. "I was so proud of my subterfuge."

  "An educated guess," he said with a wave of his hand.

  "Emma told us," said his wife. "She and Loughcroft called on us yesterday to see if we knew what this mysterious gathering of yours was all about."

  Henrietta blew out a puff of irritation. "I knew I shouldn't have told my cousin anything."

  "But then your family would not have been gathered here," said Cottingham as he placed a hand on her shoulder. Henrietta looked up into his eyes with a hint of concern, and then gave a firm nod of her head.

  Curious, thought the Marquis, and from the way his wife had knitted her brows together, she was thinking the same thing.

  Henrietta was an awful liar, and nor was she the type to keep secrets. Whatever her reason for summoning all the living descendants of the Cartwright line to her home, it was obviously not a trivial matter if she was waiting for them to gather before sharing her news.

  His eldest granddaughter, Emma Percival, Viscountess Loughcroft, and her sweet-natured husband were the next to arrive, both of them looking windswept and harried as they were shown into the Cottingham's front parlour by the butler.

  "Henry, dearest, I'm so sorry we are late," said Emma by way of greeting. "The little one simply refused to settle, and I know that I should have left her in the care of Nurse, but how could I come here if I knew she was unhappy? Perhaps it’s teething, or the travel to London is still effecting her, or maybe I let her have too many strawberries before we set off.”

  "Or maybe little Elizabeth has you wrapped tight about her little finger, my love," said her husband, before turning his attention back to Cottingham and Henrietta. "We brought her with us, but not to worry – the Dowager insisted on taking her up to the nursery to play with Hart, and I believe she’s planning a tea party for them.”

  Henrietta smiled at the mention of her infant son, but it was her husband who replied.

  “My mother will be in her element, Loughcroft, but please do not refer to her as ‘the dowager’, for it puts her in a terrible mood.”

  “Noted,” said Loughcroft with a slight smile. “I’ll call Henrietta ‘the young Lady Cottingham’ instead, and encourage the Ton to do the same.”

  "Grandmama, I adore that turban," declared Emma, already distracted from the plight of her daughter now that it had been established that Elizabeth and Hart would be well doted on. "I demand to know who made it this instant!"

  Loughcroft gave a long-suffering sigh as he swept his eyes over the grey hat atop his wife’s curls.

  "Another turban, my dear?"

  "I like them," replied Emma as she took the chair beside the Marchioness, "and Grandmama's is a thing of beauty.”

  "And you would not like your wife to appear dowdy beside me," said the Marchioness, subtle amusement dancing in her eyes where only her family knew to look for it.

  "I should know better than to expect support from this family," muttered Loughcroft with theatrical irritation. "Pass me some of that wine, Cottingham. Whatever your reason for calling this family meeting, I fear it will end with Emma spending a great deal of money on suitable new hats."

  "It's not a family meeting," said Henrietta quickly, but flamed up like a beetroot as Loughcroft raised a single eyebrow. "Fine, fine! it's a family meeting! But there will be no need for Emma to buy new hats!"

  "Dearest, there is always need to buy new hats, no matter the occasion," said Emma. "Whatever this is about, I am strongly of the opinion that a satin turban will answer perfectly."

  Loughcroft took a large mouthful of wine before wandering over to the fireplace, and the Marquis watched him with a fond smile. Loughcroft had been best friends with Emma's brother, George Standing, since they were breeched, and he could not have hoped for a better man to marry his eldest living granddaughter.

  The butler opened the door and announced the arrival of the Earl and Countess of Gloucester before Emma and her husband could continue bickering, much to the relief of everyone present. George, while as attractive as his sister was beautiful, wore his usual somber expression, but the Marquis was not fooled. His marriage to the vivacious Abigail had done his grandson a world of good, and even if he rarely smiled, sheer contentment had radiated from the young Lord ever since he’d wed.

  The less said about the wedding itself, the better.

  "Henrietta, my dearest darling girl, please may I borrow the silver champagne trough from the sideboard?" said the Countess by way of greeting. "I find that I'm far less likely to cast up my accounts if I have something to hand, for I’m feeling monstrous queasy."

  "I'll fetch it," said Cottingham quickly, his eyes wide with alarm. "You go and sit down on the sofa, Abby!"

  "Not feeling any better?" said Henrietta with a sympathetic smile.

  "Not in the least, despite everyone promising me faithfully that the sickness would be over by now. You positively glowed when you were in the same condition, and it's enough to make me despise you, darling. Cottingham, set the trough at my feet, if you will, and please let your delightful staff know that my footman will be arriving shortly with some ices from Gunters."

  "You did not need to provide treats," said Henrietta, somewhere between offended and touched.

  George actually smiled. "They aren't for us, my dear. Abby cannot get enough of their lemon shaved ice and would eat it by the barrel if she could."

  "It's one of the few things I can keep down," the Countess said, glaring at her husband, "and if you continue to complain about it, George, I shall aim for your lap rather than the champagne trough."

  "I envy you, Cottingham," sighed George, but no one missed that he went to sit alongside his wife and gently rub her back. "I tried to tell Abby that she need not come, but she insisted."

  "Henrietta said we all had to be here," rep
lied his wife. "Besides, someone has to stop Emma buying another turban.”

  "Did you put her up to saying that, Loughcroft?" demanded Emma as she turned towards her husband. The poor viscount began to splutter something incomprehensible in response until Abby interrupted him.

  “No, my love, but as your very dearest friend in the world, I feel compelled to tell you that grey or bronze silk, especially in the Moorish style, makes you look positively ancient.”

  "Now Abigail, that is too much," said the Marchioness in a commanding voice. "The Moorish style does not make Emma look old in the least. Insipid, yes, and rather haggard, but definitely not ancient."

  "I hate you all," said Emma, and her pronouncement was met with much laughter.

  “Can we stop talking about turbans, please?” said Henrietta, looking tight about the eyes. “We have something much more important to discuss.”

  “Not before someone hands me something to drink,” said George with a pointed look at his young cousin. “If I’ve got to sit through an hour of my wife and sister bickering, I’m going to need fortification.”

  “We don’t bicker,” said Emma, looking shocked at the suggestion.

  “We merely discuss,” added Abigail, and the two women grinned at each other.

  Henrietta muttered under her breath, but then rang the small bell on the side table and waited for her butler to return.

  “Please have the cakes and refreshments brought up now, and a glass of the usual for Lord Gloucester,” she said with a defeated sigh. “We might as well get all the interruptions out of the way.”

  “At once, my lady,” replied her faithful retainer before exiting the room.

  “You are being awfully mysterious, you know,” Emma told Henrietta, but the younger woman pressed her lips shut, which only started a fresh round of teasing and bickering between all those present.

  The Marquis, watching quietly from his chair, smiled to himself as he watched his grandchildren and their spouses engage in familial banter. He had outlived both his sons and his daughter, and now that Henrietta had married, he was the last Cartwright from his family line.