by Jo Beverley
“Fail to keep to the terms of my will and the pact is void. Then the manor can go to anyone I choose. Had my legal people go over that. If you don’t dance to my tune, your lot loses Perriam Manor forever.”
Perry did his best to conceal his reaction, which was mostly exasperation. He doubted Cousin Giles was lying—he was enjoying the truth too much—which meant that generations ago there’d been some very sloppy legal work. The will itself could be contested, but that too would be a feast for legal vultures.
Giles grinned, enjoying himself now. “Put some other conditions in too.”
“If they’re outrageous, they can be struck down.”
“Not outrageous. But you’ll see for yourself when I’m gone. Now, about the curse . . .”
“There are no such things as curses.”
“Believe as you wish, but it passes along with the inheritance. Clarrie made it so. Harpy Mallow affirmed it. Perhaps I should let the curse pass to your side of the family. Justice would finally be served.”
Mad, bad, and vile.
Perry had had enough.
When he rose, Giles said, “Running away? Don’t want to know how to avert the curse?”
“There are no such things as curses.”
“Through marriage. Harpy Mallow laid it out. If I married Clarrie’s niece, her shade would be appeased.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Dance to Nora Mallow’s tune? Anyway, girl too young. Took a new wife, one who could bear sons . . .” Perhaps his silence came from the memory of how futile that had been, but then he spoke again. “Now you’ll do it. End the curse. Save us both, or we’ll both burn in hell.”
“Marry some odd offspring of this insanity?” A laugh escaped. “You must face your fate, Cousin, for I’ll have no part of this.”
“You don’t fear hell?”
“Not as the result of a curse, that’s for sure.”
“I do.”
“Probably with cause.”
“I’ve done some things. . . . But you’ll save me.”
“I regret, but I must decline the honor.”
Giles was weakening, his chest heaving with each breath, but he focused on Perry again. He might even have smirked. “You’ll dance to my tune, Cousin, because it’s in the will. To inherit this place, you must marry Clarrie’s niece. Save us both.” He rolled his head. “My will . . . Where’s my will?”
A servant began to search drawers.
Giles muttered about their stupidity.
Then the man hurried over with some folded papers.
“Give ’em to him,” Giles said, and the man offered them to Perry.
Perry regarded them much as he might regard a bouquet of nettles, but he took them. Marry? He had no intention of marrying anyone.
“It’s all there,” Giles whispered. “Had time to plan. Might have failed my line, but yours will eat bitter fruit.” He began to laugh.
Enough was enough. Perry turned and headed for the door.
A choking sound made him whirl back.
The man in the bed was fixed midcackle, the staring eyes blank of life. The doctor leaned forward to confirm it, but it was a formality. Giles Perriam, forty-seven years old, had gone on to eternal rest or eternal fires, but Perry didn’t doubt his last words.
He had done his best to make this victory bitter fruit, and he’d chosen Perry to serve it up.
Chapter 2
Perry wanted to escape—to ride away, back to London—but duty said otherwise. If he’d inherited this place, he must take care of it, for now at least. He spoke to the principal people present, thanking them for their attendance and making the first arrangements. Then he escaped the ghastly room.
When he stepped into the corridor and inhaled fresher air, he was startled by daylight. Why did people draw the curtains on death?
The corridor wasn’t bright, for it was lined with the dark paneling that seemed to be everywhere here, and the one window was obscured by ivy. When riding up to the house he’d noted the dark ivy shrouding the walls and windows. It was enough to depress a court jester, but he’d have to stay for at least one night to put some sort of management in place. For decency, he should stay until Giles was buried, so he’d make that soon.
The main order of business, however, was to read the will, identify the poisons, and find antidotes. Perriam Manor must pass into his father’s eager hands, and he wasn’t marrying the Mallow girl, whoever she might be.
He walked briskly along a paneled corridor to the massive dark oak staircase and descended to the oak-paneled hall. Even the floor was the same—oak planks darkened by the centuries.
Oh for pale tiling and light-colored walls.
And windows that weren’t overhung by ivy.
A footman stood on duty.
“Where’s Lord Raymore?” Perry asked him.
“In the library, sir.” After a moment the man realized this meant nothing and led the way across the hall.
“Thank you. Have bedchambers prepared for both of us, and something to eat. And bring some drink in here immediately.” Considering the will in his hand, Perry added, “Brandy.”
He entered a modest room with scantily filled shelves and a musty smell. Unsurprisingly, Giles had not been a book lover. There were two good-sized windows of small lozenge-shaped panes, but they too were curtained with ivy. Perry’s friend Lord Raymore, seated at the long oaken table, had had to light a branch of candles in order to read a slim tome.
His friend’s name in full was Major Lord Raymore, but also Lord Cynric Malloren. To his friends he was Cyn.
Their friendship was recent and had come about when they’d been harnessed into a task by Cyn’s brother the Marquess of Rothgar. In many ways they were different, for Cyn had lived a military life and Perry’s field of action had been court and politics, but they’d liked each other from the first, and enjoyed each other’s company.
Despite his success as a soldier, Cyn was deceptively slight of build and pleasant of feature. As he also had curling russet hair, he could almost be called pretty, but men paid dearly if they said it to his face. Perry was not of much larger build, but his looks were more clearly masculine and his hair dark, so he didn’t have to deal with that problem.
Cyn had been with Perry when he’d received Giles’s letter and insisted on accompanying him. Now he put aside the book.
“How is he, and has he explained his whimsy?”
Perry tossed the papers on the table. “He’s dead and it’s not whimsy. It’s a thicket of spite.”
The footman returned with a tray holding a decanter of brandy and two glasses.
“Requiring strong drink, I see.” Cyn took charge of pouring. Once the footman had closed the door, he said, “Tell me all. That’s why I’m here.”
Perry took the brandy and wandered the room as he gave an account of the deathbed conversation.
“Curses, conditions, and conundrums,” Cyn said. “The will must clarify all.”
Perry glared at it. “I cling to the illogical feeling that until read, any problems it contains don’t yet exist.”
Cyn merely raised a brow, so Perry sat and untied the black ribbon that held all together. It loosed two sets of folded papers, and he glanced at the contents of each.
“The will and a document in Giles’s scrawl. Which to read first?”
“The will.”
“Direct and to the point.” Perry smoothed the three sheets flat but looked first at the end of the last one. “Signed only two days ago. I wonder what any previous one contained.”
“Irrelevant. Stop delaying.”
Perry shot Cyn a look, but he scanned the first page. “The usual preamble . . . Ah. ‘Lacking a son to inherit, I am compelled to fulfill an old family pact and pass Perriam Manor along with all its contents and lands to the senior branch of the Perriam family, that of the Earl of Hernescroft. Thus I name as heir Peregrine Charles Perriam, youngest son of the said earl.’ I hope the devil’s toasting h
im.”
“Why? An estate like this is hardly a burden.”
“No? The restoration of Perriam Manor to the earldom has been a holy quest for two centuries, passed along with a Perriam’s first milk.”
“So now all is right.”
“Don’t be dense. My owning it is merely a new schism.”
“My apologies for my denseness, but I don’t understand any of this.”
Perry ran a hand through his hair. “No, I apologize. Of course you don’t. Let me try to make it simple. Back in the reign of Henry the Eighth, the Lord Perriam of the time had no sons, so his two daughters were set to inherit.”
“Ah, I know something of that. I was reading A History of Perriam Manor, which was prominently displayed in the center of the table.”
“The Beatrician side of the story.”
“Beatrician?”
“The two sisters. Cecily the older, and Beatrice the younger. The Cecilian line and the Beatrician.”
“Can the two accounts be different?” Cyn asked.
“Immeasurably so, I suspect. Beatrice wanted the Perriam properties to be equally divided, but Cecily objected, insisting that the future Lord Perriam’s estates should not be diminished. Their father had already petitioned the king and gained agreement that the title of Lord Perriam could pass through one or the other of his daughters, going in order of age. Cecily was the older and already had a son.”
“Who would be the next baron. Demanding all was somewhat greedy.”
“So Beatrice thought. The fighting went on until the king intervened. Beatrice could have only one of the four estates involved, but she could choose which.”
“Almost Solomon-like,” Cyn said. “I assume she chose this one. Why should it create such bitterness? It was the richest?”
“No. The Worcestershire property was already larger and more productive, but this is the oldest. It was built in the late fifteenth century, but on the site of one dating to the thirteenth. This is the Perriam birthplace.”
Cyn whistled. “Clever Beatrice.”
“If that’s how you choose to see it. Cecily was furious, but all she and her advisers could do was try to limit the damage. A pact was agreed that if Beatrice’s line failed to provide a direct male heir, the estate would return to the whole. I presume the document is among these papers. I’ve never read it. At that point, Beatrice had three daughters and was close to the end of her childbearing years, so Cecily must have hoped for a rapid correction. However, the needed son arrived, and the line has continued to provide a direct male heir for two hundred and forty-one years. Until now.”
“So the moment of restoration is at hand, but your inheriting won’t be considered complete restoration?”
“It won’t be considered any restoration at all. Consider, a Perriam has owned the place for centuries, but not the right Perriam. My father will have an apoplexy when he finds out. It certainly won’t increase his fondness for me. Not that I care,” Perry said quickly, “but we’re an ill-humored family at the best of times.”
“Then give him this place,” Cyn said.
“Apparently it won’t be so easy. Giles said he’d provided for that.”
Perry picked up the will to seek the clause, aware that he hadn’t yet told Cyn about the marriage threat. He skimmed over the words until he found the part. “‘If Peregrine Perriam sells or passes on the estate before death, any such sale or gift will be negated and the whole will pass to Viscount Nethercote.’ Damn him to Hades!”
“Explain why Nethercote is a particular problem. Bear in mind that I’ve spent most of my adult life out of the country, and certainly out of the beau monde.”
“Nethercote and my father have been at odds for years over some property that’s rich in coal, and recently my father won. Nethercote wouldn’t sell Perriam Manor to my father for a king’s ransom.”
“What a family you are for quarrels.”
“I can’t deny it, and Giles has exploited that.” He tapped the will. “This, my friend, is a carefully planned dagger, and he’s had time to hone it to perfection.”
“Surely you’ll be able to will Perriam Manor to whom you wish?”
“I assume so, but may I hope that won’t come into force for many decades?”
“Your father won’t be willing to wait? Ah, of course. Not in his lifetime.”
“Quite. And he’s expecting to celebrate soon. In fact, within weeks.”
“He can’t shoot you.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure.” Perry tossed aside the will and picked up the other set of folded papers. “Let’s read the venom in Giles’s own words.”
My dear Peregrine,
If you are reading this I am dead and discovering the hereafter. I do hope it allows for satisfaction with work done on earth, for I am quite pleased with myself. You are reputed to be clever and adroit in social intricacies, but I believe even your talents will not allow you to evade my traps.
You may question whether I may leave the manor to you rather than to your father, but the pact was carelessly phrased and merely required the return to the senior line. I enclose a copy so you can verify that.
You will have instantly thought of giving the manor to your father, but the will forbids it, and I am advised I may lay such conditions. You must hold the estate till your own death.
I am sweetly anticipating the torture that will cause Hernescroft just as he has tortured me with his gloating over his upcoming triumph.
“Trust Father to make a situation worse,” Perry said.
Another requirement is that you must spend a total of thirty days and nights each year in residence. Alas, my legal advisers felt that more would be onerous, and I’ll leave no room for escape. As you are fond of Town life and kept busy there in many interesting ways, I hope every one of those thirty days will cast you into despair.
What happens if you refuse to comply with my conditions?
The estate then goes to Viscount Nethercote to be entailed to his heirs male. Thus, you see, lost to the Perriam family forever.
In anticipation of your impotent rage,
Giles Perriam
“May he already be roasting in Hades,” Perry said, putting the letter down.
“Drooling anticipation on his side too.”
“As I said, we’re an unpleasant family.”
“Not you.”
“No? I truly do hope Giles is roasting. Thirty days.”
“Not an intolerable burden.”
“I don’t enjoy bucolic pursuits.”
“You like to ride.”
“London has parks and open land nearby.”
“Have sense, Perry. Everyone leaves London in the summer heat. Spend August here.”
“I spend the hot season visiting friends,” Perry said, but he heard how petulant that sounded. “I grant you, that condition falls short of torture. However, he mentioned one more matter.”
He picked up the will. “Ah, here it is. ‘To secure this inheritance, Peregrine Charles Perriam is required, within a month of my death, to marry Claris Mallow, daughter of my old friend Henry Mallow, and niece of a woman I mistreated in my careless younger days. By this I am assured that I will avoid the worst effect of a curse laid on me by my victim, Clarrie Dunsworth: a curse which has slaughtered my wives and children and broken my health. If my heir, that is, Peregrine Perriam, fails in this, he and his line will inherit the curse along with Perriam Manor. Thus Clarrie wrote it. Thus shall it be.’”
“Now, that is insane,” Cyn said, “and could surely be contested.”
Perry tossed down the papers. “It all could, but the case could drag on for years and do nothing but stuff lawyers’ pockets, especially with another heir in the wings.”
“You’re not going to marry this woman, are you? You’ve said you’ve no wish to marry.”
“I’m too busy to marry, and my way of life doesn’t allow for a wife, still less for children.”
“Your extremely comfortable gentleman�
�s rooms off St. James’s, the clubs, the coffeehouses, court and the beau monde . . .”
“Quite.”
“Then don’t do it.”
“I have no choice!” Perry snapped. “Giles’s snare has me tight. If I don’t dance to his tune, Perriam Manor is lost forever.”
“Then let it be lost.”
“I can’t do that.”
Perry drank some brandy, his mind racing like a rat in a trap. Damn Giles and the whole family saga.
“Marriage is not such a dire fate,” Cyn said. “I like it a great deal.”
“You’re not alone. My sisters seem content, each in her own way, but my oldest brother’s union is a battlefield. A clear warning not to marry to oblige the family. Millicent brought a fortune, but he’s earning every guinea.”
“Perhaps Claris Mallow will suit you. If not, there’s many a couple live separate lives.”
“My only glimmer of hope.” Perry drained his glass and put it down. “Let’s seek out any other poisoned points.” Perry quickly read through the rest of the will. “Merely minor bequests to trusty servants and such.” He refolded the will, picked up Giles’s letter, and read to the end. “Ah. He says I should consult the book in the library for further insight.”
Cyn picked up the book. “This one?”
“The only one that matters.”
“You’re supposed to read it?” Cyn flicked through it.
A paper fell out. Cyn pushed it across to Perry. It was older than the will and letter and worn along the folds as if opened and refolded many times.
Perry smoothed it out. “’Struth. It’s the curse.” The small writing was strangely neat for such words, but both dark and tight, suggesting powerful emotion.
You have betrayed me, Giles Perriam. You have made me a whore and my unborn child a bastard and your money cannot wash that clean. You’ll hear no more from me, but now and with my last breath I wish on you the sufferings that your black heart deserves. May you suffer as I must suffer. May any wife you take die young as I must die, and any children die young as mine must die. May you yourself die young and suffering. May your guilt oppress you every day until Satan comes to carry you to burn in hell, and may this curse pass to your heirs as long as time may be.