Miss Daventry and her aunt took up the two seats directly behind Stratford, and the urge was strong to turn and see what Miss Daventry’s face revealed. What was she anticipating from the bequests? Stratford couldn’t shake the disquieting feeling he would end up with her as his charge. What impoverished female wouldn’t call upon any connection she might have to gain introduction to the ton? He could hardly turn her away since she had been a guest in his home.
At the same time, he couldn’t help but be intrigued by the secret glimpses into what he thought was her true nature. A girl who was not afraid to wander a strange house in search of headache powder and tea. As to that, his staff’s lapse in seeing to Miss Daventry’s needs did not do him any credit, and he had been obliged to take Mrs. Bilks to task.
Miss Daventry had also accepted to dine with him, a strange man, with only the footmen in attendance and had not shown any discomfiture over his lack of warmth. Stratford was determined, when they next spoke, to pay her every courtesy to make up for that evening. And just this morning, she had agreed to ride with only a groom in attendance, where Jesse said she had acquitted herself well on horseback—no small compliment coming from him. Overall, Miss Daventry was showing herself to be quite intrepid.
Just as the solicitor called the meeting to order, the door opened and a young man in a pink-and-teal-striped waistcoat entered. “You’ll have to pardon my tardiness,” he announced. “I had a near run with a cow-handed stagecoach driver and had to pull over to calm my leaders …”
“Come in, come in,” Sir Ambrose fretted. “Let’s not waste any more of this good man’s time.”
The solicitor looked up from his documents and gestured the gentleman to the remaining seat. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will now commence with the reading of the Last Will and Testament of Everard Miles Sherborne Gerard Tunstall, Fourth Earl of Worthing. We begin with the entailed property left to the Fifth Earl of Worthing, detailed with precision, as you see here in this map.”
The solicitor traced his finger along the document until he found the coordinates he was looking for and began the demarcation. “This is the border of the southeastern part of the estate, situated near Amesbury. The entailed portion does not include this stream here or these acres touching it. The eastern portion of the territory includes this section of forest and the hunting box within it.”
Mr. Harrison continued to demonstrate the extent of the entailed property that would fall into the hands of the fifth earl before ending the foreseen details of entailment and beginning the list of bequests. A general stir in the room accompanied this change, with Sir Ambrose leaning over to whisper to his wife, and Gertrude’s husband patting her hand.
Hester Tunstall, widow of the fourth earl’s brother, received the apartment in Bath the former earl had purchased independently of the estate. Lady Keyes, sister of the deceased, was given that portion of the library she had requested for her husband’s use, and his nephew Philip, a gold fob left by the third earl.
Gertrude Halsey, second sister of the deceased, received the grandfather clock and extra set of chinaware in Cavendish Square, since, “as the earl stipulated”—the solicitor peering above his spectacles to quote—“you were forever pestering me about them.”
The young gentleman in the pink coat—Stratford discovered—was Sir Richard Crenshaw, another of the earl’s wards. In addition to his small independence of 500£ per annum, he was to receive the prized mare in the stables, but, “he must stable her himself now that he is of age.”
At last, the solicitor came to Miss Daventry. Stratford’s heartbeat sped a notch, and he leaned forward. “For Miss Eleanor Camilla Daventry, the Fourth Earl of Worthing has left a sum of three hundred pounds for her London Season, which should be enough to secure a trousseau, a court presentation, her hand, etcetera.” Good, thought the earl. That should launch her. I wonder where her aunt has lodgings …
“The earl has also bequeathed Miss Daventry a dowry of fifty acres of unentailed land on the southeastern edge of the property, bordering the stream to Amesbury, known as Munroe hamlet and its surrounding …”
The rest of the words were lost as Stratford spun around in his chair. Miss Daventry was so still she looked to be barely breathing. He turned back in time to hear the solicitor give the crowning touch. “… of which the income—apart from the sum set aside for the London Season—will be bestowed on her upon marriage.”
Stratford’s mind raced furiously. He’d lost the most lucrative part of his estate—to a girl who wouldn’t benefit from it. At least not until she married, and then the land would pass straight into her husband’s hands. So then Miss Daventry was no better off than before, except that she would be hounded by every fortune hunter on this side of London. He ground his teeth. Of all the fool things.
The solicitor stacked his papers neatly and slid them into the stiff leather bag. He removed his spectacles and gave a nod to the earl. Stratford, rooted to his chair, felt all eyes on Miss Daventry as the buzz of conversation in the room increased. Crenshaw, in particular, leered at her in the most repulsive way. Finally, the earl stood and turned as Mrs. Daventry, a gloating smile in place, pulled Miss Daventry’s arm. Of course she would be smug, he thought angrily. What a coup she has made. Then one glance at Miss Daventry’s stricken face gave Stratford pause.
The Daventrys had not yet exited the room when Sir Ambrose put his hand on Stratford’s arm. “It’s utterly preposterous. A young girl of that stock inheriting such a large share of the estate. Can’t you do something?”
Stratford looked from the hand on his arm to the florid face of his distant relative, his voice icy. “I will do what needs to be done, of course.”
At this, Sir Ambrose pulled his arm back. “Well, well,” he muttered.
Stratford turned away. Honestly, what could he do? He would inquire, but these testaments could not, in general, be overturned. He’d have to make the best of it and hope for no more spurious remarks from greedy or overly sympathetic relatives. These people may be relations, but they’d had nothing to say to him before he inherited. How he hated such affectation. Now he’d have to endure dinner and an evening’s insipid entertainment. What I need, thought the earl, is a stiff drink.
He didn’t get it. In the short interval before dinner, a delegation of sympathizers came to bemoan his uncle’s stupidity. And if he thought Miss Daventry and her aunt might not appear at dinner, he was wrong. Mrs. Daventry showed either good breeding or an utter lack of sensibility by appearing as if nothing were wrong. He suspected the latter.
The same couldn’t be said for Miss Daventry, who was pale and quiet. At least she wasn’t flaunting her success. He wanted to know what she was thinking, what she planned to do now that she had this inheritance. Did she have any designs on him? He should just steer clear, but the less she spoke the more curious he became.
It was not until after dinner in the drawing room that he was able to get a word alone with her. Her aunt, the Keyeses, and Gertrude’s husband were engaged in whist, and he suspected only a play for points could resign the baronet to mingling with Mrs. Daventry. Crenshaw took off after mumbling about a prizefight not three miles distant, and both Gertrude and Hester had pleaded a headache.
Poised on the edge of the settee was Miss Daventry, book in hand.
Stratford approached, and when Miss Daventry lifted her face to his, he was again struck by the look of intelligence in her eyes, which he now saw were light brown in color with specks of gold. He reached across her to turn the cover of her book, baring the title.
“Romance of the Forest,” he said. “A fan of the gothic novels, are you?”
“I cannot say. It’s my first one. I found it in your library.” Miss Daventry put her finger in the place where she’d been reading and gave him her full attention.
“Hopefully from the section of the library that will go to my aunt. May I sit?”
Once beside her, it was harder to find something to say. He rested his hand on one
knee and faced her. “Your mother is on the Continent.”
Miss Daventry nodded. “I understand it to be so. I’ve not had word from her since she left, and I was but seven when that occurred.”
“Likely communication was interrupted by the war.” Stratford gave her a searching glance.
“Perhaps.” She returned his gaze, and he caught the flicker of a rueful smile. “But I would not wager on it. She has not once shown, to my recollection, a single display of maternal affection.” Miss Daventry did not appear disconcerted by the admission.
“So your aunt raised you then?” He looked ahead to the lady in question but could not find in her the author of such quiet character as Miss Daventry appeared to possess.
“My aunt has been most attentive, but it was my former nurse who deserves the credit. Or the blame.” She laughed, and the musical sound lifted the corners of his mouth, rusty from disuse. “Prisca was not intimidated by the late earl, and she persuaded him to allow me to attend Miss Spencer’s Academy, which was highly recommended by the rector. And so I was given the benefit of a real education.”
This was the longest speech from her yet, and he wanted more. “You were fortunate in your protectors,” he said. “Not many nurses would be willing to brave conversation with an earl to gain an advantage for their charge.”
“I was most fortunate,” she agreed. “And Prisca was not an ordinary nurse. Her consideration for others was equally given, be it to a duke or a chimney sweep.” Miss Daventry’s lips twitched in humor. “However, I’ve sometimes wondered if, in speaking to the earl, she was merely attempting to relieve herself of my charge.”
“Oh, yes. A burdensome one, to be sure,” he teased. Her answering smile deepened the perfect dimples on each cheek and transformed her demure look to one of mischief.
Stratford’s own smile lingered. “Where does your aunt reside when she’s in London?”
“My aunt rents a lodging in Bedford Square when she’s in town.” The words sat between them before silence reigned over both. Stratford fixed his eyes on the party of four playing cards on the other end of the room, a sense of foreboding lodged in his chest. A rented lodging in Bedford Square did not bode well for Miss Daventry’s London Season. Surely she would expect something from him, and more than he was capable of offering. What am I doing getting mixed up in affairs that are not my own?
Too uncomfortable to pursue the matter further and conscious that he was ending the conversation in haste, Stratford bid her good night. He felt her eyes on him as he made the rounds, speaking to each of the guests, all the while reasoning to himself that she would likely launch into society just fine under her aunt’s chaperonage now that she had something of an inheritance.
Still, he cursed his uncle’s folly. This piece of land would be of little worth to anyone but himself or—now he thought of it—Amesbury, who also bordered the property. Left in the charge of her silly aunt, Miss Daventry would probably end up marrying some fool content with the land’s income when it had the potential for so much more. Whoever it is will have a blasted piece of luck. They’ll get income from a parcel of land that means nothing to them. And, Stratford admitted to himself begrudgingly, they’ll get a snug little armful as well. Ah, I’ve been away too long.
Late that night at Amesbury’s house, and far from the prying eyes of his relatives, Stratford finally had the drink he had been waiting for. It did not take long for the excellent brandy to have an effect. I’ve grown soft, Stratford thought as he accepted two more fingers of the spirit … or four. The flickering fire had the most amazing, mellowing effect after his brisk ride in the cold, and were it not for the irritation that the best part of his unentailed property had been willed to someone else, he would have felt quite content. He didn’t need the income, he reminded himself. I just hate to see an innocent like that snapped up by fortune-hunters.
“Come, ole man; drink up. You’re positively blue-deviled,” said Amesbury. “Although why is anyone’s guess. You’ve just become heir to the largest estate in Wiltshire with a title to boot! Were I in your shoes, there’s not a thing that could keep me from celebrating.”
Stratford frowned, his eyes fixed on the fire. “The land bordering Bailey Stream from the Munroe hamlet to the turnpike road has been bequeathed to Miss Daventry.”
“What?” Amesbury stood, knocking the decanter on the floor, where it smashed. “That’s impossible!”
“Careful,” Stratford said in a listless voice. “The brandy is leaking toward the fire.”
“Blast!” Amesbury jumped and dropped his handkerchief to block the stream of liquid. “I only have four of these bottles left.” He rang the bell, and the door to the library sprang open. “Get someone in here to clean this, and bring me another bottle.”
When a second footman had made away with the broken pieces of glass, and the new bottle of brandy had been uncorked, Amesbury sat down. “Start from the beginning,” he said.
“My uncle, the Fourth Earl of Worthing,” Stratford enunciated, jaw clenched, “was moved to bequeath the most prosperous portion of the unentailed property to a penniless maiden, wholly unrelated to our family.” He took a long draught. When the fire had slid down his throat and he could speak, he added, “I don’t know why, but I intend to find out. Perhaps she is not a Daventry.” As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted them. This was not worthy of her. Or him.
“There must be a loophole. This is madness. How long has that property been tied to your estate?” Amesbury so forgot himself as to fill his friend’s glass to the brim with the precious liquid.
“There is never a loophole. And this is tied up in her dowry. The man who marries her will get it.” Worthing drank the entire glass in one shot. “Ah,” he said, when he had blinked away the tears. “If I’m not careful, I might find myself on the go.”
“Nonsense,” Amesbury replied, absently. He stood again and went over to the fire, then paced back to his seat, took the glass and swirled its contents thoughtfully. “Tied up in her dowry, you say? Marry her! And get the land back. She’s not a bad-looking chit, and with her family past, she’ll throw herself at your feet.”
Stratford shook his head, trying to clear the fumes that must be interfering with his hearing. “You’re telling me to marry her. You, who wanted me to send her away as soon as the will was read because of her questionable past. A girl out of the schoolroom?”
“Well this inheritance puts everything in a new light, of course. It appears she is not without a portion, and that makes her a more palatable choice.” Amesbury mumbled, “I’d marry her …”
“What?” snapped Worthing.
“I said, ‘I’d marry her.’ Why let someone else walk off with the inheritance when it only serves those connected to the land. Unless you wanted her …”
“I will not offer for a young lady who is under my protection, even temporarily, for such mercenary reasons as this. She will have to find some other suitor.”
“Oh, she will.” Amesbury walked over to the billiard table and spilled the weighted ivory balls onto the felt cloth. “I wager her dance card will be full, the wastrels will vie with the sharks, and she’ll have a proposal from some fellow punting on the River Tick before summer. No reason we shouldn’t try our luck first. Come. I’ll give you the first shot.”
Stratford stood and felt the world spin. If he could spend some time focusing on the game, it would clear his head and he would be none the worse for wear in the morning. However, his friend poured more brandy in his glass, and he was obliged to take a swallow. He looked at it strangely, the liquid spinning in the most beautiful shades of amber. Not … unlike Miss Daventry’s eyes.
He took another sip, caught by the superior taste, the recollection that many years had passed since he had no battles to fight and nothing to do but seek his own pleasure, and the niggling irritation that Miss Daventry would indeed be hounded by every gentleman, young and old, who had run through his fortune. Stratford leaned against the
billiard table, cue in hand, forgetting for an instant what he was meant to do with it.
Her pale face and soft amber eyes wavered before him, and he had an odd notion that those intelligent eyes were pleading with him to do something to protect her. He shook his head.
I have enough worries without adding the burden of a woman I barely know. But as he rubbed chalk on the end of his cue and took aim, the thought persisted.
Chapter Five
Sleep would not come. Eleanor lit a candle on her bedside table and carried it to the clock on the wall. Five o’clock. Well, she could continue to toss and turn and worry, or she could take a walk and see if it cleared her head.
Donning woolen stockings and a heavy day dress, she quickly brushed her teeth and tied up her hair. With a pelisse over one arm, she crept into the hallway where all was quiet and dark. Trailing her fingers on the wall to guide her, she tiptoed past shadowed frames of indistinguishable ancestors marking her progress, reminding herself they were long deceased. She was alone.
The black forms of trees loomed in the distance beyond the tall glass patio doors, and she hesitated at the entrance to the library before setting out to reach them. At least the curtains weren’t closed, and she could see what was outdoors before she turned the handle. She almost turned back, though. Who knew what those trees could be hiding, what dangers might be lurking. No. I’m not so hen-hearted, she thought, impatient with herself. There’s nothing there. The pink sky heralding dawn would not be long in appearing.
In a few short steps she had left the house behind her, its façade cold and unwelcoming, and she moved across the meadow, swinging her arms to stave off fear and cold. The trek to the edge of the woods was farther than it appeared—farther than it had seemed when racing over the meadow on horseback. By the time she neared the other side, the sky had started to lighten, revealing a stone wall and a bench tucked on its edge. The perfect place to think.
A Regrettable Proposal Page 4