by Brenda Hiatt
“What does it matter that I become flustered in his presence, Milly?” she finally asked almost crossly. “You know that I have been around few gentlemen, so it is scarcely wonderful that I should be unsettled by my first close association with one.”
“So you are now willing to allow that Lord Seabrooke is a gentleman?”
Frederica let out an exasperated sigh. “You are doing it again, Milly! My sentiments about the man have no bearing on the case. I refuse to be forced to marry anyone, even if he is an angel is disguise. I thought you agreed that Thomas had no right to expect it of me.”
Miss Milliken regarded her onetime charge somberly. “Your brother has a perfect legal right to do so, Frederica. I did not dispute that. I merely agreed that it was poorly done of him not to discover your wishes in the matter first. Of course, I would do anything in my power to prevent your marriage to a man who seemed likely to mistreat you, but from what you tell me of Lord Seabrooke, I doubt that would be the case. At worst, he might cause you occasional embarrassment, but there are few wives who do not suffer that at the hands of their husbands.”
Frederica clenched her jaw. She had come half prepared to defend Lord Seabrooke to Milly, but the more her old governess took his part, the more determined she became to do just the opposite. “What of the other matter?” she asked, ignoring Milly’s oblique reference to the earl’s indiscretions. After all, she had no direct proof of those whatsoever. “He is undoubtedly a fortune-hunter, from what the housekeeper told me. Why, he was nearly destitute before my dowry came so conveniently to his rescue.”
“It does sound as though he may have misled your brother on that score,” Miss Milliken admitted. “Still, being without funds scarcely makes the man a scoundrel—and that is what you must prove, is it not?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Frederica stared at the toes of her serviceable brown shoes. “And now I suspect his first consideration may well have been Christabel’s welfare, and I cannot condemn him for that. Still—” she met her friend’s steady gaze again “—if I can find proof that he deceived Thomas about his lack of fortune, perhaps it will be enough. I believe my brother is already feeling a bit guilty over what he has done, so I doubt he will require a charge of murder.”
“And if Sir Thomas does agree to the call the match off? What then?” asked Miss Milliken softly.
Frederica shot her a startled look. “Why, I—I suppose I shall simply go back to Maple Hill and pick up where I left off.” Somehow the prospect did not much appeal to her now. She stood abruptly. “I must be getting back. I promised Christabel that I would bring my pet mice for her to play with, and I had better fetch them.”
If anything, unburdening herself to Milly had left her more confused than she had been when she arrived.
When the hackney drew up to Seabrooke House, Frederica saw with surprise that an unfamiliar carriage was waiting in the street. The light, elegant cabriolet somehow struck her as being a lady’s vehicle, and though the earl occasionally had visitors to the house, none she had seen had been women. With liveliest curiosity, Frederica let herself into the house through the back door and proceeded quietly toward the parlor.
“I have been waiting nearly half an hour!” exclaimed a breathy, feminine voice from within. “Are you certain you don’t know where I might find him? I am quite put out that he should have forgotten.”
“I shall ask one of the grooms, if you wish, madam.” Frederica recognized the voice as that of Coombes, the butler. “They might know.”
“Why did you not do so in the first place?” demanded the lady. “Pray go at once!”
The harassed Coombes fairly shot from the parlor, nearly running Frederica down before he perceived her. “Oh, excuse me, Miss Cherry,” he whispered, grasping her arm familiarly to steady himself for a moment. “I’m on my way to the stables—or anywhere else to get away from that harpy in there.” He cocked his head towards the parlor door. “Don’t know what the master will say about her kind visiting the house.” He straightened disapprovingly then gave a suggestive wink. “Care to come with me?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Coombes,” replied Frederica frostily. “I take it his lordship is not in?”
The butler shook his head. “And demmed lucky, if you ask me, though she is a taking piece.” With another wink in parting, he disappeared through a doorway at the rear of the house.
Frederica bit her lip in indecision for a moment, then, holding the covered cage she carried behind her back, she pushed open the parlor door.
A vision of loveliness with sky-blue eyes and clouds of black hair sat at ease on the divan. One glance at the scandalously low cut of her vivid blue gown and the crimson on her lips told Frederica that this was no lady of Quality.
“Did you—?” the woman began, but on seeing Frederica she stopped, raking those perfectly shaped eyes over the drab brown figure before her. “Oh. I don’t suppose you know where Gavin is?” she asked petulantly, with just a hint of a lisp. “Are you the housekeeper?”
“Assistant housekeeper,” replied Frederica demurely, surreptitiously taking in every detail of the woman’s appearance. So this was what a woman of easy virtue looked like. She was dazzlingly beautiful; a life of sin seemed to have left no outward mark as yet. Moving to the far corner of the room, Frederica set down her cage of mice behind a chair and pretended to dust a table so that she could further examine her.
“Maybe you can be of more help than that dolt of a butler,” said the black-haired beauty after a moment. “Gavin was to have met me this afternoon at my rooms for tea, and then we were to go for a drive. He promised last night, after my performance. Have you any idea where he might be?”
Frederica shook her head. Why, this woman was an actress! The fascination she felt at seeing such a creature mingled with an unpleasant sinking feeling at the thought of her spending time privately with Lord Seabrooke—her own fiancé! For a moment, as a wave of anger washed over her, Frederica forgot completely that she wanted no part of that betrothal. How dared he?
“Perhaps his appointment with Miss Dominique has run late,” she suggested with sudden inspiration, pulling a name from a novel she had once read. “He seemed most eager to see her when he left the house.”
“Dominique?” shrieked the black-haired lady, somewhat marring the china-doll effect as her features contorted with rage. “Do you mean Dominique Gaspard? That little snake! She knows full well Gavin is mine!”
Frederica merely shrugged, delighted that she had happened onto a name that produced such an effect. His lordship would doubtless have a difficult time explaining his way out of this coil.
“Well, I’m not budging an inch until he gets back,” the visitor declared, to Frederica’s secret dismay. “He’ll see that Ariel Sheehan can’t be cast off so easily! I suppose he means to stop payment on my carriage, as well?”
To this Frederica dared not answer. Somehow she had to persuade the woman to leave before the earl returned or he would learn that she had fabricated the story about another mistress—and would doubtless want to know why. Turning her back, she straightened a few ornaments on the mantel, working her way toward the chair where she had left her pet mice. Miss Sheehan, whose angry monologue grew more shrill by the second, scarcely noticed.
Reaching her objective, Frederica quickly leaned down and flipped open the door of the cage. Whipping off the cloth that covered it, she shooed the six mice toward the furious actress.
“All his fine promises!” she was saying. “And all the while he was… oh! Oh! Get them away! Where did they come from?” Amazingly, her voice rose another full octave as she scrambled up to stand on the divan.
“I fear the house is sadly overrun by the creatures, Miss Sheehan,” said Frederica mildly. “I am surprised you did not see any before this. Shoo!” She waved the cloth at the confused mice, causing them to scurry closer to the woman.
“Oh, I detest mice!” she wailed. “They are everywhere, you say? I’ll not stay another instant!�
�� She leapt gracefully from the divan to the parlor door, making Frederica wonder if she were a dancer as well as an actress. “Tell Gavin to come see me when he gets in!” she commanded from the doorway. “I am not finished with him yet!” With that, she turned and fled for the front door, looking nervously along the floorboards as she went.
“Oh, I think you are,” replied Frederica under her breath as the front door slammed behind her. “Quite finished, Miss Sheehan.” Turning back into the parlor, she began to coax the mice back into their cage, a satisfied smile on her face.
The next afternoon, after ascertaining that Lord Seabrooke had again gone out, Frederica hurried down to the library the moment Christabel was asleep. Yesterday’s events had strengthened her resolve to find some tangible proof of the earl’s duplicity to show her brother. She had happened, from the top of the stairs, to see Lord Seabrooke when he came in last night, and it had been apparent that he was the worse for drink. Doubtless he had gone to Miss Sheehan, been dismissed, and had set out to drown his sorrows, she thought scornfully. No, she could never be happy married to such a man!
Why she had chosen to wait up, peering down the winding staircase, she did not consider—nor did it occur to her that injured feelings played a large part in her anger towards the earl. She only knew that she wanted out of the betrothal more than ever.
Afternoon was generally a quiet time in Seabrooke House, the staff either busy below in the kitchens or retired to their rooms to rest. Frederica reached the library without encountering anyone. She took the precaution of pushing a chair against the door, to give her warning should anyone attempt to enter, before crossing to the desk.
Pulling open one drawer after another, she discovered quickly that Lord Seabrooke had not nearly her penchant for organization. Receipts, letters and even pound notes were jumbled together with writing paper and bills in no discernible arrangement. Her search was going to be more difficult than she had anticipated. Finally, in a bottom drawer, she found a heavy ledger. Opening it, she saw that it did, indeed, contain the accounts for the earl’s estate.
Scanning it quickly with a practiced eye, she realized that here was the information she needed. The book detailed the income and expenditures of Brookeside Manor and its surrounding lands for the past several years, presumably since well before the present Lord Seabrooke had come into possession of it. She shook her head at the tale it told: it appeared that the Seabrooke holdings had never been particularly profitable. If anything, matters had improved in recent months, since Gavin had taken control. Frederica frowned. There were certain discrepancies here… but no, she had no time to puzzle them out now.
Since she could hardly take the entire ledger as evidence, she pulled open the top drawer again to remove a few sheets of writing paper. Copies of some of the key entries would have to suffice for Thomas. As she riffled through the papers, a smaller sheet fluttered to the floor. Frederica picked it up to return it to its place, glancing briefly at it as she did so.
It was a letter, dated less than a year ago, from Lord Seabrooke’s sister. Skimming its brief contents, Frederica’s gaze fell on the signature: Your devoted sister, Amity Browning. She blinked at it, then remembered what Lord Seabrooke had said about his sister’s fancy that she and Christabel’s father had married.
A sudden thought seized her, making her temporarily forget her original purpose in searching the earl’s desk. What if Amity hadn’t been imagining things? Suppose she and her officer really had married, without her brother’s knowledge? It could mean everything to Christabel—a real future, possibly even an inheritance from her father.
Quickly, Frederica replaced everything she had removed from the desk exactly as she had found it. Her proof of Lord Seabrooke’s duplicity could wait. It mattered far more to discover whether Christabel was indeed the legitimate daughter of Amity and Peter Browning.
Chapter Seven
Lord Seabrooke left his solicitor’s office in a thoughtful frame of mind. Two days before, when he had discovered that his new resources would make possible a more thorough search of the previous earl’s business affairs, he had seen it as that much more proof of his dependency on the unknown Miss Chesterton’s wealth. He had left that same office feeling inadequate, even ashamed.
A man should be able to conduct essential business dealings without relying on an unsuspecting chit’s dowry, he told himself. It mattered little that his attorney hoped to find holdings that might make her money unnecessary to him. The betrothal was accomplished, and he had achieved it by less than honorable means. Odd that his conscience had not pricked him so before.
His conversation with Miss Cherrystone after Christabel’s near accident on his return had gone a long way toward restoring his spirits. Though she had infuriated him more than once, there was something about Cherry that always left him feeling… slightly exhilarated.
Suddenly, he recalled what Mrs. Abbott had told him just that morning. He had left the checking of Miss Cherrystone’s references to her, as he did with any new servant he hired. Normally he heard no more about it. This time, however, Mrs. Abbott had found discrepancies disturbing enough that she felt it necessary to inform him of them. Most of Miss Cherrystone’s supposed previous employers resided in the country, she had discovered. The only ones in Town were the Launtons, and the housekeeper there had never heard of her.
Mrs. Abbott had not gone so far as to suggest the nanny’s immediate dismissal, admitting that the young woman had been of great use both to Christabel and herself. Gavin himself was inclined to shrug the matter off. After all, Cherry had proved more than competent at her post—she might even have saved Christabel’s life! And it was patently obvious that she came from a genteel background. No doubt she had good reason to keep her past a secret, if that was what she was doing.
As he strolled along Bond Street, Gavin found himself hoping that she might be moved to confide in him about it. He enjoyed sparring with Cherry and felt, after their last encounter, that something of a tenuous friendship had sprung up between them. He would not jeopardize that by questioning her. Besides, he merited reproach far more than she, and she did not appear to condemn him.
Of course, if he were to tell her the complete story of his betrothal, he doubted that he would continue to enjoy the spirited nanny’s approbation. Drab she might be on the outside, but Cherry held very decided opinions and was not afraid to share them. He smiled to himself, remembering again her outrage when she had thought he was attempting to hire her as a mistress instead of a nanny.
That thought led him to recall the bizarre scene with Ariel last night. He had gone to see her after her performance, prepared with apologies and a small gift to atone for missing their assignation earlier in the day. Before he could so much as explain the matters of business that had kept him from her, however, she began to hurl accusations, as well as more substantial objects, at his head, angry out of all proportion to the cause.
At first he had thought that she had somehow heard of his impending marriage, the announcement of which he had delayed putting into the papers until Sir Thomas returned to London with word from his sister. However, her diatribe had included references to another actress, to his housekeeper, and to mice, of all things, but not a word about his fiancée. He had not stayed to hear all of it. Growing perturbed in turn, for he had been exceptionally generous with her, he had told Ariel that he was withdrawing his patronage.
“You may seek another, more patient, protector, or you may go to the devil, for all I care,” he had said coolly as he left.
She had scarcely paused in her vitriolic recital of his shortcomings, and he had closed the door behind him barely in time to avoid a flying powder box which, being made of heavy alabaster, might well have done him an injury. From the theatre, he had gone to one of his more disreputable clubs to dampen with strong spirits his confusion over the vagaries of the female sex.
That was the trouble in associating with women of Ariel’s stamp, he thought now. However
polished a veneer of elegance and breeding they managed to develop, a veneer it remained, allowing occasional glimpses of the coarser stuff beneath. Considering his upcoming marriage, it was probably high time he had done with mistresses altogether, at least until he discovered how he and Miss Chesterton dealt together, he thought gloomily.
And now there was this other matter. Mr. Culpepper, his man of business, had just informed him that there was reason to suspect that Uncle Edmund had been diverting money out of the estate for some years, for purposes unknown. What he could possibly do about it, or how it could even be proved, Gavin had no idea. Nor did he see how the knowledge could benefit him. If the money was gone, it was gone, so it mattered little how his uncle had lost it.
Shrugging, the earl turned back toward the corner where his groom was waiting for him. As he climbed to the driver’s seat of his new high-perch phaeton, he was assailed by another attack of conscience at the thought of where the money to purchase it had come from. He suddenly wondered if he would feel better if he were to confess the whole to Cherry and submit to her judgment of his actions. The mere thought made him feel better, though of course he could do no such thing.
Chuckling to himself at the absurd idea, he whipped up his pair and headed for home.
Christabel was already awake upon Frederica’s return to the nursery, so she had perforce to delay further thought on the possibility of somehow proving her charge’s legitimacy. As she had most of the morning, Christabel wanted to do nothing but play with the mice Cherry had brought her yesterday. It warmed Frederica’s heart to see the child so happy and involved with them, and she was glad she had thought to bring them for her.
“What are their names again, Cherry?” Christabel asked as she reached into the cage to stroke each lightly on the back with one finger, as Frederica had shown her. She was proving herself remarkably gentle for a child of her age.