by Lisa Kleypas
Desperate for escape, Amelia ascended to the carriage step. Before she could climb in, however, she felt Rohan’s hands at her waist. He held her from behind, trapping her long enough to whisper near her ear, “Latcho drom.”
The Romany farewell. Amelia recognized it from the handful of words Merripen had taught the Hathaways. An intimate shock went through her as the heat of his breath collected in her ear. She didn’t, couldn’t, reply, only climbed into the carriage and awkwardly pulled the mass of her skirts away from the open doorway.
The door was closed firmly, and the vehicle started forward as the horse obeyed Merripen’s guidance. The two Hathaways occupied their respective corners of the seat, one of them drunk, the other dazed. After a moment Amelia reached to untie her bonnet with trembling hands, and discovered the ribbons were hanging loose.
One ribbon, actually. The other …
Removing her bonnet, Amelia regarded it with a perplexed frown. One of the red silk ribbons was gone except for the tiny remnant at the inside edge.
It had been neatly cut.
He had taken it.
Chapter Four
One week later, all five Hathaway siblings and their belongings had removed from London to their new home in Hampshire. Despite the challenges that awaited them, Amelia was strongly hopeful their new situation would benefit them all.
The house in Primrose Place held too many memories. Things had never been the same since both Hathaway parents had died, her father of a heart ailment, her mother of grief a few months afterward. It seemed the walls had absorbed the family’s sorrow until it had become part of the paint and paper and wood. Amelia couldn’t look at the hearth of the main room without remembering her mother sitting there with her sewing basket, or visit the garden without thinking of her father pruning his prized Apothecary’s Roses.
Amelia had recently sold the house without compunction, not for lack of sentimentality but rather an excess. Too much feeling, too much sadness. And it was impossible to look forward when one was constantly being reminded of painful loss.
Her siblings hadn’t offered a word of objection to selling their home. Nothing mattered to Leo—one could tell him the family intended to live in the streets, and he would have greeted the news with an indifferent shrug. Win, the next oldest sister, was too weak from prolonged illness to protest any of Amelia’s decisions. And Poppy and Beatrix, both still in their teens, were eager for change.
As far as Amelia was concerned, the inheritance couldn’t have come at a better time. Although she had to admit, there was some question as to how long the Hathaways would manage to retain the title.
The fact was, no one wanted to be Lord Ramsay. For the previous three Lord Ramsays, the title had been accompanied by a streak of singular ill fortune capped by untimely death. Which explained, in part, why the Hathaways’ distant relatives had been quite happy to see the viscountcy go to Leo.
“Do I get any money?” had been Leo’s first question upon being informed of his ascendancy to the peerage.
The answer had been a qualified yes. Leo would inherit a Hampshire estate of limited acreage and a modest annual sum that wouldn’t begin to account for the cost of refurbishing it.
“We’re still poor,” Amelia had told her brother after poring over the solicitor’s letter describing the estate and its affairs. “The estate is small, the servants and most of the tenants have left, the house is shabby, and the title is apparently cursed. Which makes the inheritance a white elephant, to say the least. However, we have a distant cousin who may arguably be in line before you—we can try to throw it all off on him. There is a possibility that our great-great-great-grandfather may not have been legitimate issue, which would allow us to apply for forfeiture of the title on the grounds of—”
“I’ll take the title,” Leo had said decisively.
“Because you don’t believe in curses any more than I do?”
“Because I’m already so damned cursed, another one won’t matter.”
Having never been to the southern county of Hampshire before, all the Hathaway siblings—with the exception of Leo—craned their necks to view the scenery.
Amelia smiled at her sisters’ excitement. Poppy and Beatrix, both dark-haired and blue-eyed like herself, were filled with high spirits. Her gaze alighted on Win and stayed for a moment, taking careful measure of her condition.
Win was different from the rest of the Hathaway brood, the only one who had inherited their father’s pale blond hair and introspective nature. She was shy and quiet, enduring every hardship without complaint. When scarlet fever had swept through the village a year earlier, Leo and Win had fallen gravely ill. Leo had made a complete recovery, but Win had been frail and colorless ever since. The doctor had diagnosed her with a weakness of the lungs, caused by the fever, that he said might never improve.
Amelia refused to accept that Win would be an invalid forever. No matter what it took, she would make Win well again.
It was difficult to imagine a better place for Win and the rest of the Hathaways than Hampshire. It was one of the most beautiful counties in England, with intersecting rivers, great forests, meadows, and wet heath lands. The Ramsay estate was situated close to Stony Cross, one of the largest market towns in the county. Stony Cross exported cattle, sheep, timber, corn, a plenitude of local cheeses, and wild-flower honey … rich territory, indeed.
“I wonder why the Ramsay estate is so unproductive?” Amelia mused as the carriage traveled alongside lush pastures. “The land in Hampshire is so fertile, one almost has to try not to grow something here.”
“But our land is cursed, isn’t it?” Poppy asked with mild concern.
“No,” Amelia replied, “not the estate itself. Just the titleholder. Which would be Leo.”
“Oh.” Poppy relaxed. “That’s fine, then.”
Leo didn’t bother responding, only huddled in the seat corner looking surly. Although a week of enforced sobriety had left him clear-eyed and clear-headed, it had done nothing to improve his temper. With Merripen and the Hathaways watching over him like hawks, he’d had no opportunity to drink anything other than water or tea.
For the first few days Leo had been given to uncontrollable shaking, agitation, and profuse sweating. Now that the worst of it was over, he looked more like his old self. But few people would believe Leo was a man of eight and twenty. The past year had aged him immeasurably.
The closer they came to Stony Cross, the lovelier the scenery was until it seemed nearly every view was worth painting. The carriage road passed tidy black-and-white cottages with thatched roofs, millhouses and ponds shrouded with weeping willows, old stone churches dating back to the Middle Ages. Thrushes busily stripped ripe berries from hedgerows, while stonechats perched on blossoming hawthorns. Meadows were dense with autumn crocus and meadow saffron, and the trees were dressed in gold and red. Plump white sheep grazed in the fields.
Poppy took a deep, appreciative breath. “How bracing,” she said. “I wonder what makes the country air smell so different?”
“It could be the pig farm we just passed,” Leo muttered.
Beatrix, who had been reading from a pamphlet describing the south of England, said cheerfully, “Hampshire is known for its exceptional pigs. They’re fed on acorns and beechnut mast from the forest, and it makes the bacon quite lovely. And there’s an annual sausage competition!”
He gave her a sour look. “Splendid. I certainly hope we haven’t missed it.”
Win, who had been reading from a thick tome about Hampshire and its environs, volunteered, “The history of Ramsay House is impressive.”
“Our house is in a history book?” Beatrix asked in delight.
“It’s only a small paragraph,” Win said from behind the book, “but yes, Ramsay House is mentioned. Of course, it’s nothing compared to our neighbor, the Earl of Westcliff, whose estate features one of the finest country homes in England. It dwarfs ours by comparison. And the earl’s family has been in resi
dence for nearly five hundred years.”
“He must be awfully old, then,” Poppy commented, straight-faced.
Beatrix snickered. “Go on, Win.”
“‘Ramsay House,’” Win read aloud, “‘stands in a small park populated with stately oaks and beeches, coverts of bracken, and surrounds of deer-cropped turf. Originally an Elizabethan manor house completed in 1594, the building boasts of many long galleries representative of the period. Alterations and additions to the house have resulted in the grafting of a Jacobean ballroom and a Georgian wing.’”
“We have a ballroom!” Poppy exclaimed.
“We have deer!” Beatrix said gleefully.
Leo settled deeper into his corner. “God, I hope we have a privy.”
It was early evening by the time the hired driver turned the carriage onto the private beech-lined drive that led to Ramsay House. Weary from the long journey, the Hathaways exclaimed in relief at the sight of the house, with its high roofline and brick chimney stacks.
“I wonder how Merripen is faring,” Win said, her blue eyes soft with concern. Merripen, the cook-maid, and the footman had gone to the house two days earlier to prepare for the Hathaways’ arrival.
“No doubt he’s been working ceaselessly day and night,” Amelia replied, “taking inventory, rearranging everything in sight, and issuing commands to people who don’t dare disobey him. I’m sure he’s quite happy.”
Win smiled. Even pale and drained as she was, her beauty was incandescent, her silvery-gold hair shining in the waning light, her complexion like porcelain. The line of her profile would have sent poets and painters into raptures. One was almost tempted to touch her to make certain she was a living, breathing being instead of a sculpture.
The carriage stopped at a much larger house than Amelia had expected. It was bordered by overgrown hedges and weed-clotted flower beds. With some gardening and considerable pruning, she thought, it would be lovely. The building was charmingly asymmetrical with a brick and stone exterior, a slate roof, and abundant leaded-glass windows.
The hired driver came to set out a movable step and assist the passengers from the vehicle.
Descending to the crushed-rock surface of the drive, Amelia watched as her siblings emerged from the carriage. “The house and grounds are a bit unkempt,” she warned. “No one has lived here in a very long time.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Leo said.
“It’s very picturesque,” Win commented brightly. The journey from London had exhausted her. Judging from the slump of her narrow shoulders and the way her skin seemed stretched too tightly over her cheekbones, Win had little strength left.
As her sister reached for a small valise that had been set by the carriage step, Amelia rushed forward and picked it up. “I’ll carry this,” she said. “You are not to lift a finger. Let’s go inside, and we’ll find a place for you to rest.”
“I’m perfectly well,” Win protested as they all went up the front stairs into the house.
The entrance hall was lined with paneling that had once been painted white but now was brown with age. The floor was scarred and filthy. A magnificent curved stone staircase occupied the back of the hall, its wrought-iron balustrade clotted with dust and spiderwebs. Amelia noticed that an attempt had already been made to clean a section of the balustrade, but it was obvious the process would be painstaking.
Merripen emerged from a hallway leading away from the entrance room. He was in his shirtsleeves with no collar or cravat, the neck of the garment hanging open to reveal tanned skin gleaming with perspiration. With his black hair falling over his forehead, and his dark eyes smiling at the sight of them, Merripen cut a dashing figure. “You’re three hours behind schedule,” he said.
Laughing, Amelia pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and gave it to him. “In a family of four sisters, there is no schedule.”
Wiping at the dust and sweat on his face, Merripen glanced at all the Hathaways. His gaze lingered on Win for an extra moment.
Returning his attention to Amelia, Merripen gave her a concise report. He had found two women and a boy at the village to help clean the house. Three bedrooms had been made habitable so far. They had spent a great deal of time scrubbing the kitchen and stove, and the cook-maid was preparing a meal—
Merripen broke off as he glanced over Amelia’s shoulder. Unceremoniously he brushed by her and reached Win in three strides.
Amelia saw Win’s slight form swaying, her lashes lowering as she half collapsed against Merripen. He caught her easily and lifted her in his arms, murmuring for her to put her head on his shoulder. Although his manner was as calm and unemotional as ever, Amelia was struck by the possessive way he held her sister.
“The journey was too much for her,” Amelia said in concern. “She needs rest.”
Merripen’s face was expressionless. “I’ll take her upstairs.”
Win stirred and blinked. “Bother,” she said breathlessly. “I was standing still, feeling fine, and then the floor seemed to rush up toward me. I’m sorry. I despise swooning.”
“It’s all right.” Amelia gave her a reassuring smile. “Merripen will take you to bed. That is—” She paused uncomfortably. “He will convey you to your bedroom.”
“I can manage by myself,” Win said. “I was just dizzy for a moment. Merripen, do put me down.”
“You wouldn’t make it past the first step,” he said, ignoring her protests as he carried her to the stone staircase. And as he walked with her, Win’s pale hand lifted slowly around his neck.
“Beatrix, will you go with them?” Amelia asked briskly, handing her the valise. “Win’s nightgown is in here—you can help her change clothes.”
“Yes, of course.” Beatrix scampered toward the stairs.
Left in the entrance hall with Leo and Poppy, Amelia turned in a slow circle to view all of it. “The solicitor said the estate was in disrepair,” she said. “I think a more accurate word would have been ‘shambles.’ Can it be restored, Leo?”
Not long ago—though it seemed a lifetime—Leo had spent two years studying art and architecture at the Grand Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris. He had also worked as a draftsman and painter for the renowned London architect Rowland Temple. Leo had been regarded as an exceptionally promising student, and had even considered setting up a practice. Now all that ambition had been extinguished.
Leo glanced around the hall without interest. “Barring any structural repairs, we would need about twenty-five to thirty thousand pounds, at least.”
The figure caused Amelia to blanch. She lowered her gaze to the pockmarked floor at her feet and rubbed her temples. “Well, one thing is obvious. We need the advantage of wealthy in-laws. Which means you should start looking for available heiresses, Leo.” She flicked a playful glance at her sister. “And you, Poppy—you’ll have to catch a viscount, or at the very least a baron.”
Her brother rolled his eyes. “Why not you? I don’t see why you should be exempt from having to marry for the family’s benefit.”
Poppy gave her sister a sly glance. “At Amelia’s age, women are far beyond thoughts of romance and passion.”
“One never knows,” Leo told Poppy. “She may catch an elderly gentleman who needs a nurse.”
Amelia was tempted to skewer them both with the tart observation that she had already been in love once, and she would not care to repeat the experience. She had been pursued and courted by Leo’s best friend, a charming young architect named Christopher Frost, who, like Leo, had been articled to Rowland Temple. But on the day he had led her to believe a proposal was forthcoming, Frost had ended the relationship with brutal abruptness. He said he had developed feelings for another woman, who conveniently happened to be Rowland Temple’s daughter.
It was only to be expected of an architect, Leo had told her with grim remorse, outraged on behalf of his sister, sorrowful at the loss of a friend. Architects inhabited a world of masters and disciples and the endless pursuit of patrons. Everythi
ng, even love, was sacrificed on the altar of ambition. To be otherwise was to miss the few precious opportunities one might have to practice the art of design. Marrying Temple’s daughter would give Christopher Frost a place at the table. Amelia could never have done that for him.
All she had been able to do was love him.
Swallowing back her bitterness, Amelia glanced up at her brother and managed a rueful smile. “Thank you, but at this advanced stage of life, I have no ambitions to marry.”
Leo surprised her by bending to brush a light kiss on her forehead. His voice was soft and kind. “Be that as it may, I think someday you’ll meet a man worth giving up your independence for.” He grinned before adding, “Despite your encroaching old age.”
For a moment Amelia’s mind chased back to the memory of the kiss in the shadows, the mouth slowly consuming hers, the gentle masculine hands, the whisper at her ear. Latcho drom …
As her brother turned to walk away, she asked with mild exasperation, “Where are you going? Leo, you can’t leave when there’s so much to be done.”
He stopped and glanced back at her with a raised brow. “You’ve been pouring unsweetened tea down my throat for days. If you have no objection, I’d like to go out for a piss.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I can think of at least a dozen polite euphemisms you could have used.”
Leo continued on his way. “I don’t use euphemisms.”
“Or politeness,” she said, making him chuckle.
As Leo left the room, Amelia folded her arms and sighed. “He’s so much more pleasant when he’s sober. A pity it doesn’t happen more often. Come, Poppy, let’s find the kitchen.”
* * *
With the house so stale and dust-riddled, the atmosphere was hard on poor Win’s lungs, causing her to cough incessantly through the night. Having awakened countless times to administer water to her sister, to open the windows, to prop her up until the coughing spasms had eased, Amelia was bleary-eyed when morning came.