by Louise Allen
THE YOUNGEST DOWAGER
Louise Allen
Copyright © Louise Allen 2018. All rights reserved.
2nd revised edition 2018.
The right of Louise Allen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This novel was originally published by Harlequin Mills & Boon in 2000 as “The Youngest Dowager by Francesca Shaw”. This edition is a heavily revised version.
Cover design by JD Smith Design.
Requests to publish extracts from this book should be made via www.louiseallenregency.com/contact
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
About the Author
Author’s Note
This novel was originally published by Harlequin Mills & Boon in 2000 as The Youngest Dowager by Francesca Shaw, the pen name used when I was writing jointly with a friend.
This edition has now been completely revised. Despite this, Francesca Shaw novels remain rather ‘sweeter’ in tone than Louise Allen original titles.
Eventually all eight Francesca Shaw Regency romances will be re-edited and published as by Louise Allen.
Chapter One
Whiting swung closed the great oak double doors, cutting off the view of the funeral cortege as it began its stately progress down the long drive to the Southwood family chapel.
The late March sun had not yet reached the front of the Hall and the last sound the Dowager Lady Longminster heard as the door closed was the sharp crack of carriage wheels breaking the icy puddles on the gravel.
‘Shall I bring tea to the small parlour, my lady?’ The butler’s voice sounded strange, Marissa thought, then realised it was sympathy she could detect. She gazed around the familiar black and white marble of the great entrance hall, at the towering classical statuary and wondered, rather wildly, if her husband would have approved of the way she matched the colour scheme.
She almost yielded to the temptation to retreat to the cosy sanctuary of her morning room, the little fire, her pile of books, the undemanding affection of Gyp, her King Charles spaniel. Then her sense of duty, as always, reasserted itself. ‘No, Whiting. Please bring my tea to the Long Gallery. I must be there when they return from the chapel.’
Holding her prayer book in her clasped hands, Marissa moved slowly across the hall, up the curving stairs into the Red Salon, then through into the Long Gallery which ran the entire length of the west front of the house.
After two years of marriage she was too used to the chilly splendours of Southwood Hall to look around at the towering columns, the perfect geometry of every room and the exquisite correctness of each detail of decoration and drapery. Restoring his grandfather’s Classical masterpiece to its original impeccable state had been an obsession of the Earl’s but try as she might, although she could admire the Hall she could never love the soulless integrity he had created.
To reach her chair in the Long Gallery Marissa had walked almost a hundred yards. She was nineteen years old, yet today she felt nearer ninety. Every step dragged as if she had a lead weight attached to her black kid slippers and she sank down gratefully on a red satin chair.
She opened the prayer book at the Psalms and composed herself to read, but when the footman brought in her tea she realised that she had not taken in a single word.
‘Thank you, James.’
‘My lady. Will there be anything else?’
‘Not for the moment. Go and see if Mrs Whiting needs any assistance with the refreshments.’
As he left James inadvertently let the heavy panelled door slam. Marissa startled in her chair. How her lord would have hated that. She almost expected to hear his voice issuing a quiet, chilly rebuke. But she would never hear the third Earl of Longminster speak again. She shivered. By now another door – the vault – would have slammed shut with force and finality, leaving him to the silent keeping of his ancestors.
Marissa chided herself for her morbid, almost Gothic, thoughts but her usual self-discipline had deserted her today. Unable to sit quietly for another moment she moved to the window to gaze out over the sweeping view across the trees of the park to the salt marsh and the faint line of the grey sea beyond.
The movement behind the bare trunks of the limes of the Great Avenue marked the return of the cortege of carriages bearing the gentlemen mourners. They would be back soon. As she watched, her hand resting on the fringed brocade of the draperies, another carriage approached from the east. No doubt this would be her husband’s Aunt Augusta, a formidable spinster, coming to pay her respects to a nephew to whom she had hardly spoken a word during the latter part of his forty-five years.
She hardly knew Augusta, but Marissa was grateful to have some female support during the ordeal of the funeral meats and the inevitable reading of the will. The late Earl had opposed the idea of a female companion for his wife as an intrusion upon his privacy and the spinster cousin she had invited to join her in her widowhood had not yet arrived from Cumbria.
Marissa stepped back from her vantage point before anyone saw her staring from the window, not behaviour becoming to the Countess of Longminster. She paced slowly back to the head of the flight of semi-circular steps which led down to the hall and waited for her guests.
As she stood, smoothing her skirts of dull black silk, she was aware of the subdued bustle of the staff all around her. Footmen were carrying trays into the Long Gallery, Whiting was supervising the arrivals and the maidservants were whisking away heavy coats, hats and gloves from the chilled guests.
‘My dear child!’ It was Aunt Augusta, red-faced from the cold and long days in the hunting field, her clothes curiously old-fashioned. But she is so alive, thought Marissa with envy. She was alive, vital, noisy and interfering, a woman who seemed to have spent almost sixty years caring not a fig for convention or anyone else’s opinion.
Marissa smiled at her gratefully as she took her hand.
‘Chin up, girl. You are doing splendidly. And you look perfect.’ Aunt Augusta nodded towards the long glass panel opposite where they stood.
Marissa followed her gaze. She was too tall, of course, but it did mean that the mourning gown fell in perfect folds. Her unruly mane of black hair was still tightly disciplined into its smooth coiffure, and the pale oval of her face showed nothing but the solemn calm suitable to the occasion. She had soon been taught that smiling was unfitting
to her rank, so control came easily now.
Once everyone was assembled in the Long Gallery the footmen began to circulate with trays of sherry, Canary and Madeira. Marissa looked at the chilled, pinched features of some of the older men and wished she had defied convention and ordered mulled wine to be served to warm their blood. But that would have presented far too festive an appearance, and that would never do.
The older Mr Hope, the senior partner of the solicitors who had served the family for generations, was at her elbow, clearing his throat in a meaningful way. She turned and inclined her head, giving permission for him to speak.
‘I think we should progress to the reading of the will, my lady. If those concerned and the staff assemble in the library, ma’am, I will deal with the bequests to the servants first. They can then leave us to the greater matters in privacy.’
The solicitor turned to catch the eye of various people. Whiting was already marshalling the staff to move into the book-lined room, then James came in and hurried to the butler’s side to whisper in his ear.
People fell quiet, wondering at the interruption. Whatever James said had the butler turning on his heel to stare towards the closed double doors, mouth open in surprise. Thirty faces turned as one.
‘Whiting – ’ Marissa stopped as the doors swung open and a tall man stepped into the gallery to pause, composed, on the threshold. It gave her ample opportunity to study him. Dark blue eyes scanned the room from under brows slightly raised at the startled expressions which greeted his arrival – then his gaze met hers.
Marissa felt the blood leach from her face and a high pitched singing start in her head. With an almost physical effort she looked up from the man framed in the doorway to the portrait which hung above. Charles Wystan Henry Southwood, third Earl of Longminster, stared haughtily down, blue eyes chilly, face pale below raven black hair. Beneath, come back from the vault, he watched her with those same eyes, hair bleached by death.
With a little gasp of horror Marissa let the darkness engulf her. She was falling, but she had no strength to save herself.
‘Marissa.’ It was Aunt Augusta, she realised, the strong, horsewoman’s grip painful on her arm
Then, in the midst of the swirling blackness she was aware of being caught up in a strong embrace, of a feeling of warmth and safety and the hot scent of sandalwood. She snuggled closer as the grasp tightened, then she was laid down and the blackness swirled over her again.
‘Where shall I take her, ma’am?’ Marcus Southwood asked.
The older woman seemed to pull herself together. ‘Through here, in the library. There is a sofa. Whiting, send for her ladyship’s maid.’
He backed out of the room, his gaze lingering on the pale features of the woman who lay so still. His body seemed to remember the press of hers against his, of the trusting way she had clung to him. He looked at those parted red lips, almost the only colour in her deathly white face, waiting for movement, a word.
‘I assume I am speaking to a member of the Southwood family?’ enquired a dry voice at his elbow.
‘Yes, I beg your pardon, sir. I am Marcus Southwood, cousin of the late Earl, newly arrived from the West Indies.’ There was no mistaking the other man’s profession. ‘Am I addressing the family's legal representative?’
‘You are, sir. Gabriel Hope at your service. A letter from me is even now on its way to you in Jamaica. We had no idea you were in England.’
The rest of the party had tactfully withdrawn to the far end of the Long Gallery leaving the two alone together. Marcus was aware of the curious glances being cast his way and the low-voiced conversations as the mourners speculated on his identity.
‘I arrived in London three days ago with my sister. I had business to transact, but had no intention of bringing myself to the attention of the Earl. You may be aware, sir, that my father fell out with his family and the two lines have had no contact since he made his own fortune in Jamaica. It was a surprise to open The Times yesterday and see the announcement of my cousin’s death and the notice of today’s funeral. It was too late to send a message, but I felt it my duty to attend.’
He glanced over his shoulder to where a feminine bustle now surrounded the form of Lady Longminster on the sofa. ‘However, I would have stayed away if I’d any idea of the effect my arrival would have.’ Women did not normally faint at the sight of him and certainly had never regarded him with horror in their eyes. ‘Can you tell me why the Countess reacted as she did?’
The solicitor took his elbow, turned him to face the door through which he had entered and pointed upwards to the portrait that hung above it.
‘My God.’ Marcus stared up at the features that might have been his own. Only the colouring was different, one so dark. the other so fair, as though an artist had drawn an exercise in opposites. His own hair was naturally a dark blond, but over the years the unrelenting Caribbean sun had bleached it to the colour of coral sand. The long Springtime voyage had diminished his tan, but even so he made the man in the portrait appear ghostly pale.
‘You have, if I may so observe, sir, the Southwood features, if not the colouring.’ Mr Hope nodded towards the ranks of paintings which hung in the Gallery, clearly depicting generations of Southwoods.
‘I had no idea,’ Marcus said slowly. ‘My father always said I favoured my grandfather, while he himself took after his mother’s family. It is astonishing, especially as my father and the late Earl’s father were only half-brothers. But what an appalling shock for her ladyship, so newly widowed. If I’d had the slightest notion I would never have come.’
Mr Hope was looking at him assessingly. ‘It is perhaps as well you have, sir. You cannot be unaware that you are the heir presumptive.’
What? ‘Surely my late cousin had children?’
‘No, he was not so blessed in his lifetime. However,’ Hope became even drier, ‘we must make no assumptions until several months have passed, if you understand me.’ He coughed in a meaningful manner.
Again Marcus looked at the Countess. He could not see clearly into the other room, but it appeared she was now sitting up. Despite that slender figure, could she be carrying her late husband’s child?
Something was tickling the back of his hand. Marcus brushed his fingertips across the dark superfine cloth and pulled away a long, springing dark hair. As he pulled it curled like something alive into the palm of his hand. Absently, still listening to the solicitor, he wound it around his little finger, trapping it under the band of his signet ring.
Heir presumptive, to this? Why didn’t I pay more attention to the family history, to my living relatives, even if we were estranged? Why the devil didn’t Father warn me?
In the library Marissa pushed gently at the hands that were trying to keep her lying down. ‘No, I must get up. I must go back to the guests. How foolish to faint. I cannot think what came over me.’
‘Well, I can,’ Aunt Augusta declared bluntly. ‘I nearly fainted myself when I saw his face. He must be Richard’s boy – he’s the spitting image of your late father-in-law. No, sit still a minute, you foolish girl, and sip the water Simpson has brought for you.’
Meekly Marissa took the glass and tried to make sense of the last few dizzying minutes. ‘Who is Richard?’
‘My late brother. I last saw him in ’78; he was only eighteen when he left for the West Indies. He and my father never got on, but they had one final, irrevocable row about money and Richard swore never to set foot in Southwood Hall again. And he did not,’ she added reflectively. ‘He was buried in Jamaica, and by all accounts made himself a fine fortune in trade before he died.’
Marissa rubbed her fingers across her aching forehead in a vague attempt to clear her thoughts. ‘So,’ she began slowly, ‘the man out there is my lord’s cousin?’
‘Yes. I think he has a sister as well. I suppose they are half-cousins, if there is such a term, because Richard and I were the children of our father’s second marriage.’
So that explain
ed the almost supernatural likeness. Marissa made a supreme effort and stood up. Her hands went up to her hair, tucking the few wayward strands which had escaped back into the tight chignon. The late Earl had hated to see her with her hair out of place.
The stranger was watching her. She met his direct gaze and for a long moment everyone else in the room ceased to exist. He made a movement towards her, then checked it and Marissa realised he was afraid of alarming her again. She found she was holding her breath and released it with a sigh.
Mr Hope touched the man’s arm and led him forward to be introduced. ‘May as well get it over with,’ she heard him mutter. ‘My lady, may I present the Honourable Marcus Southwood, newly arrived from Jamaica. The late Earl’s cousin,’ he added.
Marissa found her small, cold hand engulfed in a strong, warm, tanned grip. The warmth seemed to spread through her chilled body and the remembrance of being caught up and held in an enfolding embrace made her heart lurch for a moment. It must have been Mr Southwood who had carried her to the sofa.
The colour rose in Lady Longminster’s cheeks, like seeing a marble statue suddenly come to life. Even as Marcus thought it the colour ebbed and she freed her hand. ‘Sir, you are welcome to Southwood Hall. I am only sorry that it should be in such circumstances.’
Marcus bowed, and found himself, along with several others, being ushered back into the library by Mr Hope. The formidable matron, whose name he still hadn’t established, sat firmly beside Marissa and the gentlemen ranged themselves around the desk at which the attorney seated himself.
Mr Hope produced a pair of eyeglasses which he set on his nose after fussily polishing them. He extracted a key from his waistcoat pocket, unlocked a brass-bound box which had been placed before him and gazed impassively over the spectacles at the assembled company.
Marcus suppressed a smile behind his hand. The old boy was milking the situation for all it was worth, no doubt to justify the large fee he would eventually charge the estate.