Heart's Delight

by Cheryl Holt

  She went over to the door and yanked it open. “Now then, it’s almost time to serve supper downstairs, so I’m very busy. Would you go?”

  He tarried, trying to figure out how to sway her, but he never could. He’d been raised on the streets, in a world filled with the violence and immorality of reckless, negligent men. Clearly he couldn’t understand a woman such as herself who yearned for esteem and respectability and propriety.

  Lady Felicia could have those boons from him, but when Maggie demanded the same he scoffed with derision.

  Eventually he headed toward her, and he halted and stepped in, standing so close that the toes of his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt. She could have backed away, but she suspected he was deliberately intimidating her, reminding her how tough he was, how domineering and dictatorial. But his days of overwhelming and coercing her were over.

  “If you won’t finish out the six months,” he warned, “Pamela and Gaylord will have to move right away. That’s the terms of the deal. Can you do that to your sister?”

  “As I told Gaylord, I have no desire to rescue them.”

  “I could force you to comply. He and I have a written contract.”

  “You could force me?” The sly threat was so insulting, she was surprised she didn’t faint. “How dare you speak to me so despicably!”

  She slapped him as hard as she could, and he could have prevented the blow but he didn’t budge. He let her have her petty outburst, so perhaps he thought he deserved a bit of censure. Her palm stung, and she could see its imprint on his cheek.

  He gazed at her, his eyes very sad, his expression distressing to witness.

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” he murmured.

  “No, you shouldn’t have.”

  “I would never force you into anything.”

  “You couldn’t. Not after this.”

  “I’m sorry,” he claimed. “I’ll be sorry forever.”

  He waited, then waited some more for her to accept his apology, but she refused to accept it. For a painful second it occurred to her that this was the last time she’d ever stare into his handsome face. It was a wrenching realization, but she didn’t know why it would be.

  He appeared as if he might offer a profound parting remark, and she steeled herself to fend off whatever it might be. In the end though, he turned on his heel and left.

  She shut and locked the door, then went into her bedchamber to peer out into the alley again so she wouldn’t hear his boots clomping down the stairs.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “What was it like? I want to hear every detail.”

  Bryce Blair smiled at his sister, Evangeline, and he sighed.

  After they’d chatted with Eugenie Etherton, after she’d filled their heads with her stories about their lost heritage and betrayed parents, Bryce had been excited by the notion that he had an elevated lineage.

  Throughout his life, he’d boasted that his father had been a prince, that he was secretly a prince too. People had always insisted he looked like royalty. Why not claim aristocratic ancestry? Who could disprove it?

  For a brief period, it had been thrilling to suppose his orphan’s fantasies had a basis in truth, and he’d rushed to Scotland to chase after that possibility. On the journey north, he’d chafed with purpose, determined to bluster into Radcliffe, to make himself known and demand explanations. But as he’d ridden south again to return to London, his initial burst of enthusiasm had vanished.

  What precisely could he achieve by coming forward and announcing he was Lord Radcliffe?

  If he believed Miss Etherton’s tale about his parents—and he guessed he did—what could he do about it? His father’s relatives were present at the estate, fully accepted as the lawful occupants.

  If Bryce had blundered in and asserted ownership, he’d have been tarred and feathered and chased off with sticks.

  “It wasn’t that large or grand,” he told Evangeline.

  “Don’t say so!” she protested. “I’ve had a thousand visions painted in my mind of it being the finest place in the world.”

  “It was a castle.”

  “A castle! My goodness.”

  “It was quite ancient, but folks at the tavern in the village said it had been remodeled with modern amenities.”

  “Did you go inside?” Evangeline asked. “Were there public visiting hours?”

  “No. It’s surrounded by a pretty lake though. I studied it from the far shore.”

  “Oh, you coward,” she scolded. “You were afraid to introduce yourself.”

  “I wasn’t…afraid, exactly.”

  She scrutinized him and laughed. “You were. Don’t deny it. I should have gone with you. I’d have barreled through the front gate and bellowed out our names. What’s the entrance called in a castle? A portcullis?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Did you meet any of the family?”

  “No.”

  He sighed again. They were at her London town house. Well, her husband’s town house, having tea in the parlor.

  Bryce had been back for three days and had just mustered the courage to face her. When he’d left for Scotland, he’d been certain they could wrest a fair ending for themselves. But subsequent reflection had quelled his fervor.

  The theft of their heritage—if that’s what it had been—had happened thirty years earlier. How could they establish their identities? Yes, they had a few pieces of paper that showed a marriage, that showed legitimate births for himself and his siblings, but who could verify that the documents weren’t forgeries?

  They had old paperwork and the word of Miss Etherton, but her uncle—who’d kept track of the details—was dead. Who would listen to Bryce’s braying? Who would care? It was too fantastic, and if he was having difficulty accepting the truth, how could he convince others?

  “What wrong?” she asked. “You’ve been to Radcliffe, which should have been exhilarating for you, but you’re not very happy.”

  He shrugged. “The entire trip upset me.”

  “In what way?”

  “The farther I traveled from London, the more it seemed a fool’s errand.”

  “You didn’t think you’d be believed?”

  “I didn’t try to make anyone believe me. I could picture the reaction of the current residents of Radcliffe if I’d blustered in. I’d likely have been taken up as a lunatic. It’s all too implausible.”

  “Not to me,” she staunchly declared. “Look what I found while you were away.”

  She went to her writing desk and returned with a very old newspaper, the pages yellowed with age. She pointed to an advertisement regarding a new theatrical comedy that had opened in London.

  Bryce read the title of the play. “The Widow’s Merry Chase. Should it mean something to me?”

  “Yes. Look toward the bottom, where the actors are listed.”

  “Renowned Thespian, Mrs. Anne Blair. Mother…” Bryce murmured.

  “Yes.”

  It was the first evidence he’d had as an adult that she’d actually existed, and her ghost suddenly seemed to be hovering. A rumble of her merry laughter drifted by, her voice deep and husky, perfect for elocution on the stage.

  A memory intruded. She was seated at a harpsichord, and she patted the empty space next to her on the bench.

  Sit with me, my little lord, she said to him. Sing a song with your mother…

  He gasped, and Evangeline asked, “What is it?”

  “I just had a…vision of her. She wanted me to sing with her.”

  “Did you?”

  He struggled to focus, to bring the memory back again, but it had vanished. “I’m sure I must have.” Feeling stunned, he asked, “How did you find this advertisement?”

  “I’ve been searching while you were away. I told you I would.”

  “I didn’t expect you to have any success.”

  “I’ve been visiting the newspaper offices, snooping in their archives. It’s so easy to garner as
sistance when I have the very public title of Lady attached to my name. Everyone is helpful.”

  “I figured there had to be a benefit in marrying Aaron, Lady Run.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Have you stumbled on any mention of Father or his passing?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How about Mother’s trial or conviction?”

  “Nothing so far, but I’ve learned there are ship manifests of the prisoners who were transported. I’ve hired some clerks to go through the records to see if we can locate her name or the name of the ship upon which she sailed.”

  “It must be nice to have money to waste on clerks and research.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a waste of money, but yes, it’s very nice to be rich. If I have to pick between being rich and being poor—as I was for most of my life—I pick rich.”

  He chuckled, charmed by her as he always was. She’d grown up at a girl’s boarding school, and her flamboyant allure had been tamped down by the stern, stuffy headmistress. Evangeline had had to constantly hide and ignore the natural abilities she’d inherited from their beautiful, gifted mother.

  Luckily her husband, Aaron, reveled in her flare and beguiling personality. She was now free to behave as extravagantly as she liked. Under Aaron’s adoring eye she was blossoming, utilizing her full potential in ways few women were ever allowed.

  “Even if you’re being a grump about it,” she said, “I won’t stop searching.”

  “No, you shouldn’t ever stop.”

  “But you have lost your enthusiasm.”

  “For some of it.”

  “Oh, Bryce…”

  “I can’t imagine how we’d get the property or title restored to us.”

  “You might be surprised what I can accomplish.”

  “No, I wouldn’t, you scamp,” he teased. “I saw how you worked your wiles on Aaron. The bloody man didn’t stand a chance.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  She grinned, appearing wicked and dangerous to a fellow’s equilibrium.

  She was near the same age their mother had been when she’d been shipped off to Australia, and in Bryce’s fleeting recollections of their glamorous, exotic mother, Evangeline was exactly like her. No wonder their father hadn’t been able to resist. No wonder he’d wed their mother despite his family’s insistence that he not.

  “I want to find out about Mother,” he said, “and our two brothers. I want to keep on with that.”

  “So do I. Very much.”

  “But the rest of it, the title and such…”

  His voice trailed off, and she finished the sentence for him. “You don’t think we could succeed, so you can’t bear to try.”

  “No.”

  “What an absolute fusspot you’ve become.”

  He flushed with embarrassment. “It’s humiliating. I admit it.”

  She studied him, her blue eyes digging deep. “What else is this about? You are my daring, dashing big brother. You’d never let a bit of difficulty dissuade you.”

  He shrugged again, vexed by his low mood. “Since I learned about all of this, I’m at loose ends. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

  “You never did. You were an orphan with no past or connections.”

  “I had those…memories though, of our parents. They haunted me.”

  “And now that they’re not just memories? Now that there is some heft behind them?”

  “I’m very sad for all that was lost, but for what might have been too.”

  She reached over and patted his hand. “That’s certainly understandable, Bryce.”

  “I don’t fit in the life I built for myself.”

  He was a gambler and occasional actor who performed when he could, wagered when he assumed he could win, and constantly scrounged for money. Since discovering his true history he was adrift, as if his current activities were too frivolous to pursue.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I feel as if I should do more or be more than what I am.”

  “Too right, my dear brother!” she fumed. “You’re Earl of Radcliffe. You shouldn’t have to sing for your supper.”

  “I’m good at it though.”

  “Yes, you are. We both are—thanks to our magnificent mother.”

  “I won’t sing again,” he announced more abruptly than he’d intended. “I’m through with it—for the foreseeable future.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m leaving London.”

  “Leaving?”

  “Yes. It’s all decided so don’t try to discourage me.”

  “Of course I’ll try. I’ve only just found you. I’m not too eager to have you dash off.”

  “It won’t be a dash,” he claimed. “It will be more of a slow trip into the sunset.”

  “You’re departing the country?”

  “Yes.”

  “To go where?”

  “To follow in my father’s footsteps.”

  She gaped in horror. “Adventuring?”

  “Yes. Down the Nile in Africa.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No. We sail in two weeks.”

  “So soon? You’ve never previously mentioned an interest in such a dangerous endeavor. Who put this insane idea into your head?”

  “Some acquaintances are financing a venture, and when I heard about it my blood raced.”

  “Our father’s blood perhaps?”

  “Perhaps. Chase Hubbard had already signed on. He asked me to join him.”

  “Chase Hubbard! I’ll kill him, and if I can’t get my fingers around his slender throat, I’ll have his sister do it for me.”

  Chase Hubbard was a childhood friend of Bryce’s. His sister, Amelia, had taught school with Evangeline in the years before she was ever Lady Run.

  Chase’s life resembled Bryce’s in nearly every way. His father had been a French count, his mother the man’s mistress. When his father had died, he’d received no monetary settlement, no inheritance, no recognition at all. He was adrift in the world as Bryce had always been adrift—with only his sister, Amelia, at his center.

  As far as a companion on an African adventure, Chase was likely the very best and very worst choice. He was carefree enough to step up and participate, but wild enough to land himself in enormous trouble after he was there.

  “What brought this on?” she ultimately inquired.

  “I have to try something different—for if I remain here I’ll go mad.”

  “I want you to stay.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What about Mother? What about our brothers?”

  “Find them for me while I’m away. Let me come home to learn that you’ve located them and they are all safe and sound.”

  * * * *

  “We agreed to marry.”

  “You agreed. I didn’t. Not exactly.”

  Ramsey glared at Rebecca. Suddenly she was balking over their plans to wed, and if she continued to refuse, what would he do with her? They’d left London in a fast attempt to elope, but she’d gotten cold feet, which he viewed as a hilarious development.

  He was the consummate bachelor, so it seemed that he was the one who should have been fussing. But she was spoiled and foolish and starting to wonder if she couldn’t arrange a better ending. And she probably could have—in the past.

  They were beyond the day when she could have found a wealthy nob for a husband. She was very pretty, but with her dowry squandered she wasn’t much of a catch. He was rich enough for both of them, so it didn’t matter to him that she was poor.

  “What if you’re increasing?” he asked.

  She scowled, perplexed by his query. “Why would I be?”

  “Rebecca, we’ve been fucking like rabbits,” he crudely reminded her.

  “Oh. How would I know if I was?”

  “If you were what? Increasing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I look like a midwife to you? How would I know? That’s information
a woman is supposed to possess, not a man.”

  “I thought there were signs.”

  “There are.” He considered for a minute. “Your monthlies stop.”

  Her cheeks flushed bright red. “I can’t believe I’m in the middle of a conversation where a man voiced the word monthlies to me.”

  “It goes with the carnal territory, sweetheart. If you want to misbehave, you should be able to talk about your bodily parts.”

  They were in a bedchamber in Michael’s country house. They were naked, with him stretched out on the bed and Rebecca pacing. He was waiting for her to calm down so something interesting could happen, but she was more intent on fretting and stewing.

  They’d been passing through the area on their journey north when Rebecca had suffered a fit of nerves. Michael and her sister, Magdalena, were back in the city, so the place was empty, and Ramsey figured they might as well stop and regroup. The added benefit was that Michael wouldn’t expect Ramsey to be at Orphan’s Nest, so his friend would never come there should he feel compelled to mount a search.

  The servants knew Ramsey. He’d previously stayed with Michael, so they hadn’t been overly curious when he’d blustered in with an unidentified female. He hadn’t clarified her presence—or his—but clearly the staff understood Ramsey was engaging in an illicit affair.

  “My monthlies aren’t ever regular,” she said.

  “Then I haven’t a clue what to tell you, but are you willing to risk having a babe without a husband? How would you support yourself? How would you explain it to the neighbors?”

  “I could claim I’m a widow and that my husband was a soldier who was killed in the war.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Are you imagining you’ll be the first person to peddle that malarkey?”

  “Aren’t there ways to prevent a babe from catching? I heard some women whispering. They insisted it was possible.”

  “There are some ways to prevent it, but normally you have to practice them before you spill yourself against a womb on a dozen different occasions.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re being ridiculous about this,” he scolded.

  “Am I? I don’t know you at all, and I’ve realized I’m a tad afraid of you.”

  “It’s a hell of a time for you to discover you’re afraid.”

  “What if you’re not rich? You told me you are, but what if you’re not?”