Feeling suddenly drained, she sank back into the chair. “I suppose it is utterly hopeless, then,” she whispered across the way. “I cannot believe he would leave his own children without means of support. We were not overtly wealthy, but certainly we prospered more than most. Dear Lord! There is so much I don’t understand.”
Her dejected tone drew John Kingsley’s attention. “Miss Dalton, your father hadn’t intended on any of this happening. Your mother’s sudden illness, his horrible accident as he rode breakneck from the south of England—” He swallowed the rest, Leah’s gaze having shot to his face. “I apologize for my choice of words. Terence’s death was indeed a tragedy. It is all a tragedy. I am extremely sorry for everything you’ve suffered.”
Leah studied the man. So many unanswered questions, she thought, her suspicions escalating. “Why is it, Mr. Kingsley, on the few occasions we needed to hastily contact my father, our messages were always relayed to him through you? Likewise, sir, why have you refused to respond to my written queries, requesting to know where he is buried?” The man remained silent. “I am certain you know far more about my father than his family ever did,” she remarked, “including my mother.”
“Terence Dalton was a good man. I both knew and liked him. We were old friends.”
Leah noted how he’d hedged her questions and dismissed her statement. “Yes, he was a good man, but he absented himself from his family far too much.”
“His business was in London. For it to function effectively, he had to remain there.”
“While his family remained in Leeds. Strange, don’t you think, that he’d prefer to keep us all so far north?”
“It was my understanding, Miss Dalton, he wanted to protect you from the rot and decadence that is London. It is not the ideal place to rear a family.”
“Perhaps you are right, Mr. Kingsley. London may not be the ideal place to rear a family. But I am certain there are areas close by that are quite acceptable.”
“Did your mother ever complain about these arrangements … about Terence spending so much time in London?”
“No, but—”
“If your mother didn’t object, I’d say you have little reason to question your father’s motives.”
Elizabeth Dalton had been a gentle soul, unassuming, sweet, given to an easy smile. Leah resembled her physically: flaxen hair, tilted green eyes, and full pouting lips. But that was where the resemblance ended, for Leah was far more independent than her mother could ever have hoped to be. It was not fully by choice that Leah had become so selfsufficient. Given her father’s long absences from Balfour and her mother’s lack of disciplinary skills—the ever youthful Elizabeth seemed no more than a child herself—Leah had taken it on her own shoulders to be the stabilizing factor in her siblings’ lives. That her mother hadn’t objected to these arrangements didn’t mean they were acceptable to the rest of the family, especially to Leah. She remained distrustful.
“Mr. Kingsley,” she began just as he pulled a clean sheet of paper from inside his desk drawer.
“Miss Dalton,” he countered, taking hold of his pen. “You say you cannot find suitable employment, correct?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“I assume it is because you lack a proper reference.”
“That, and the fact that I don’t have any experience.”
“You helped rear your brothers and sisters, did you not.”
“I did.”
“And you helped them with their lessons, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent,” he said, scrawling the salutation To whom it may concern: across the top of page. “There is a family I know just outside York who is in need of a governess. This letter of introduction should allow you the opportunity of securing an interview. I hope it will afford you that which you seek.”
As his pen continued across the paper, Leah realized his sudden desire to assist her was nothing more than an evasive maneuver. He hadn’t answered any of her questions. “What I seek, Mr. Kingsley, is the truth. Why was my father buried elsewhere than the churchyard at Leeds?”
The bell over the outer door jangled stridently; the solicitor’s attention fired toward the sound, as did Leah’s. A portly little man rushed into the room, a letter in hand. By the look of him, Leah thought he appeared distressed.
“Fields,” the solicitor sharply admonished his coachman by name, “have the courtesy to enter without making such a commotion.” He peered around the man. “Where is Miss Kingsley? The two of you were to be here some time ago.”
“Sir, your niece—she’s disappeared,” the harried man responded. “The house staff searched everywhere. This letter is all we found.”
A dark frown settled across Kingsley’s forehead as he quickly scanned the contents of the note. “Damnation!” he erupted. “The ungrateful chit has eloped!”
Startled, Leah watched as he sprang from his chair, his gaze casting about the desk’s surface. Shoving aside the unfinished letter of introduction meant for her, he grabbed hold of the paper he’d set his signature to, crumpled it, and tossed it down. The thing skittered across the desk, dropped to the floor, and settled at Leah’s feet.
“She is much like her father,” he snarled between his teeth. “A bad seed.” The wall clock began striking the hour. “We’re late,” he said. “Farnsworthy, we must leave at once. Help Fields load your luggage in the coach.”
“Yes, sir,” his assistant replied, locking the last of the folio cabinets lining the rear wall. “What about Miss Kingsley’s luggage, sir?” Farnsworthy asked. “The private conveyance is past due. When the driver arrives, there won’t be anyone here to tell him your niece won’t be needing passage to London.”
The bankdraft was snatched from the desk and quickly locked away in the top drawer. “Damn the girl for the problems she’s caused me,” the solicitor ranted, the key disappearing into his pocket. “I should have had the sense to decline guardianship of her when I had the opportunity to do so. But no! Like a cork-brained fool, I took her in.”
Red-faced, he strode from behind his desk. Leah realized he intended to desert her. “Mr. Kingsley!” she cried, leaping from her seat. “The letter of intro—”
“I have no time to waste, Miss Dalton,” he said, eyeing her from across the room. He walked into the waiting area; Leah sped after him. “If Mr. Farnsworthy and I are to make any progress, we must leave this instant. We have a ship to board in Hull at eight o’clock this very night. I shan’t chance its sailing without us.” Slipping his wallet from his pocket, he pulled several bank notes from inside. “Here, I shall employ you to take charge. When the hired coach shows up, you are to instruct its driver to load this gaggle of trunks and hatboxes, then have him disburse with them.”
“But are they not your niece’s?” Leah asked, confused.
“They are, Miss Dalton, but she is no longer in need of their contents. She has made her choice, and I have made mine. The coachman is to take her possessions to the nearest charitable institution where they are to be distributed to the poor.” He placed the bank notes in her hand. “The man has already been paid his fee to London. Don’t allow him to convince you otherwise. You may tip him for his trouble. The remainder of the money should help alleviate some of your financial difficulties. I trust, Miss Dalton, you will make certain what I’ve asked is thus executed.”
The outside door opened, the bell clanging loudly, then the panel slammed to. Through the etched glass pane, Leah watched as Mr. Kingsley climbed into his coach—what she assumed was his own luggage lashed atop its roof—to seat himself next to his assistant. With a snap of the whip and a shout from the driver, the vehicle rolled away.
Leah’s fingers curled around the bank notes, her shoulders slumping. She briefly viewed the mound of luggage, then made her way back into the inner office. Again beside the chair, she stooped to retrieve the ball of paper that had skipped across the desk, landing at her feet. A feeling of hopelessness enveloped her
as she sank into her seat. Her impromptu visit to Mr. Kingsley had produced none of the results she’d desired. The solicitor had been purposely evasive, not once responding fully to her questions.
Leah loved her father, but she resented him as well. Elizabeth Dalton’s last breath had passed through her lips while calling for her beloved Terence. It was his failure to be at his dying wife’s side, when he was needed most, that angered Leah so. True, it was said, his own life had ended as he rode north to Leeds, his horse stumbling on a pitch-black road between London and Balfour, the tumble he’d taken breaking his neck. Yet, why had his family not been informed of his accident until over a week after its occurrence? And why did his resting place remain secreted from his children?
Too many mysteries, she thought, her attention centered on the line of folio cabinets against the far wall, each marked by a letter of the alphabet. Her gaze caught the D. Placing the money and crumpled paper on the desk, she rose from her chair and made her way to the cabinet where she jiggled the latch only to discover it was locked.
A letter opener lay on the desk, and Leah quickly retrieved it. The thin blade slid between the abutting doors, slipping the lock. Shuffling through the folders, she finally hit on the one she sought. Inside, she found a single sheet of paper, a solitary line written across it.
“Eighteen Hanover Square, London,” Leah whispered, committing the inscription to memory.
The address was unfamiliar to her, the letters posted to her father from his family being directed to a point on St. James’s Street. Another mystery in a string of many, she thought, for Terence Dalton’s past appeared to be riddled with secrets. Leah was suddenly certain the missing pieces to his life lay in London at this address. It was there she’d find her answers.
She hadn’t accepted Mr. Kingsley’s statement, insisting that she and her siblings were impoverished. Not when a few short weeks ago, they had wanted for naught. To learn the truth Leah realized she had to somehow get to London, an impossibility, she knew.
Dejectedly, she placed the file back with the others, then sealed the cabinet doors. Seated again, she stared at the crumpled ball of paper resting atop the desk. Curious as to its contents, she seized the thing and smoothed it out over her lap. A tiny frown marred her brow as she scanned the letter.
… If the young woman standing before you has properly introduced herself, you are already aware she is my niece. Miss Anne Kingsley. I am in a fix, dearest Madeline, and must ask the greatest of favors from you. The girl is my ward. Her guardianship is a responsibility I took on to myself two months past. A mistake, I fear, for she has been a thorn in my side ever since. She is much like her father—headstrong and impudent. I am unable to take her with me to India, yet I fear leaving her alone, especially when she fancies herself in love with an Irish bounder who followed her to York from Ulster.
My late brother and I had been estranged for over a quarter century, therefore you heard me speak not at all about Giles or his family—mainly because there was nothing good to say about any of them. (I shall explain everything about Giles and myself upon my return.) As it is, considering my niece’s lowly upbringing, she is in need of a firm, yet charitable individual to guide and watch over her. I could think of no one except you, dearest Madeline. Your patience is renowned, as is your ability to tame the most brutish of creatures who have managed to stumble into your path. I must warn you: The girl has a beastly temperament and lacks even the simplest of manners. I am certain you will be able to instill in her the proper social behavior. A touch of refinement will do the girl a world of good.
I know I am causing an imposition, Madeline, but I could think of no one else who would be willing to take her under wing. A bankdraft has been issued in your name for Anne’s care. From the remainder, you may issue her a weekly allowance… .
Her curiosity piqued, Leah came to her feet and searched through the papers littering the desk’s top. Finally she unearthed an envelope. Turning it over in her hand, she eyed the inscription: The Right Honorable, The Countess of Huntsford; 7 Berkley Square; London.
As Leah stared at the address, an idea formulated. She realized her intentions were risky; she could fail miserably, and at great cost. Before she lost her courage, she rounded the desk, retrieved the letter opener, and forced the drawer’s lock. The bankdraft in her possession, she gasped upon seeing the amount. A king’s ransom, she thought, knowing it would take her an eternity to earn even a pittance of the sum meant for Anne Kingsley’s care.
Inside her soul, wickedness wrestled with virtue. She thought of Hope, Kate, Peter and little Emily, languishing away in that dismal orphanage, each robbed of the joys of childhood. And Terence, who was given to scholarly pursuits—he was now reduced to manual labor in order to survive. What choice did she have but to pursue the course she’d already decided upon?
The faint sound of wheels lumbering along the roadway snapped Leah from any indecisiveness she might have felt. Quickly she snatched her reticule from the chair and dashed into the reception area.
Thou shalt not steal.
… he that speaketh lies shall perish.
The Biblical passages boomed inside her head just as the bell jingled over the outer door, Leah drew a deep breath, attempting to steady herself.
“Missy,” the coachman said, doffing his worn hat, “did someone here hire a coach to the south?”
“Mr. Kingsley did,” she answered truthfully, the excerpt from Proverbs still ringing in her mind.
“Sorry I’m late, but one of the horses threw a shoe. These here things yours?” he asked, motioning toward the luggage.
“Everything is to be loaded.”
As the man began shuffling cases, hatboxes, and trunks through the doorway, Leah again fought with her conscience.
Beware the loss of your immortal soul, the dogged voice needled within her, and her resolve wavered.
The last of the collection stowed in the boot and atop the coach roof, the man came inside. In the dim light, he eyed her closely; Leah swallowed hard, her guilt and trepidation nearly choking her.
“You look a might peaked, Missy. Are you sure you’re up to traveling such a long way? The road ahead is difficult, if not downright hazardous.”
Her siblings forlorn faces, as she last remembered seeing each of them, leapt to mind. Leah felt her determination renew itself. She’d readily walk through the fires of hell if it meant putting an end to their misery and suffering. “Hazardous—yes,” she replied, sweeping through the opening out onto the step, knowing her course was set. “Since I have no other choice, this is the avenue I must take.”
The door to Mr. Kingsley’s office closed behind them. “Where to, Missy?” the driver asked, assisting Leah into the coach.
“Seven Berkley Square, London.”
Berkley Square
London, England
“You are charitable to a fault, Madeline Sinclair,” the ninth Earl of Huntsford said, then shook his head. Sighing, he ran his fingers through his thick auburn hair. In the other hand, he held John Kingsley’s letter. “I suppose if a cat dropped one of her litter on our stoop, you’d snatch it up in a trice.”
“Doubtlessly I would,” the countess responded from the same settee she and Leah had sat upon earlier in the day. “Since I’ve been deemed the champion of the downtrodden, what else would you expect?”
“If you remember, I am the one who termed you such. And I would expect a bit more prudence from you, madam. You cannot forever be taking in every stray that lands on our doorstep.”
“I’d hardly call the girl a stray. Heavens, Ian! She is John Kingsley’s niece. What was I to do? Slam the door in her face?”
“From what I’ve gathered from Kingsley’s letter, it might have been far wiser if you had. Apparently his niece has nearly run him ragged since he took guardianship of her. And this young man whom she fancies herself in love with—if he is truly that eager to wed and bed her, don’t you think he’ll find her? I cannot be forever poking
about the gardens after dark watching for a ladder to swing against the house.”
“She has agreed neither to communicate with nor to see him while she’s in my care.” The countess smiled pleasantly. “Besides, she’s in the front bedroom, two doors from yours.”
The earl rolled his eyes. “You are most thoughtful,” he said, envisioning himself continuously leaping from his bed at the least little sound, to stare from his window at the street below, searching for the girl’s swain. After several nights with no sleep, he’d gladly set the ladder to her sill himself. “I assume you will expect me to introduce her into London society by escorting her to the round of balls and social events scheduled these next few months. If so, I doubt Veronica will be too pleased with a third party tagging along.”
“Veronica would survive,” Madeline insisted. “But absolutely not. I had planned to escort her myself. Were she on your arm, none of the young gentlemen would dare approach her.”
Ian Sinclair chuckled. “It is a match that you’re after, isn’t it?”
“Possibly. At the very least I hope to present her with a choice. She can make up her own mind who it is she loves.”
“How old is she?” Ian asked, finding himself curious, for the letter never mentioned such.
“Eighteen, nineteen—no more than twenty, I’d say. She’s far too young for you.”
Blue eyes netted blue. “Did I say I was interested?”
“No, you didn’t. But the girl needs someone closer to her own age. Definitely not a father-figure.”
That stung; Ian came away from his position near the fireplace. “I wouldn’t exactly describe myself as an old codger.”
“Nor would I,” Madeline said.
“I’m still in my prime.”
“Agreed. But time is slipping by.”
“When is it not?” he queried, then focused on the issue needling him. “Why do think the girl wouldn’t be interested in a man my age?”
“I didn’t say she wouldn’t be. I simply mentioned that a man closer in years to her own might suit her needs better. I didn’t mean to give insult, so calm yourself. Leah should be joining us shortly. I’d like very much for your first meeting with her to go well.”
Lord of Legend Page 31