Fran Keighley

by The Next Heir (lit)

  It must be especially hard for Judd, so new in town. I gave it some thought, not really sure, myself.

  "I'd say, search quietly. If he's just gone to the city for a little R R and neglected to mention it..."

  But if Frank got wind of this, he wouldn't neglect to mention it. He'd capitalize on it in his campaign to replace Pitt as mayor.

  After a moment, Chief Judd got into his squad car and peeled out of the city hall lot. Anita and I went on inside the red-brick city building. Anita and I separated at the doors of our offices. All of city hall seemed designed for titans, with soaring ceilings, elegantly molded plaster ceilings, and handsome tall windows. The shabbiness of the regulation government-office-type counters and desks were a distinct comedown, but at least they were in scale for ordinary human beings. I was so used to all of it, I hardly noticed it anymore.

  I flipped through the mail, and took Hizzoner's in to his office, which did boast a handsome desk. It was massive, made of walnut with carved detailing and gleaming brass fittings. And a locked bottom drawer.

  Once back at my own desk, I did a good job of convincing myself that I was glad to have another morning without Hizzoner around, able to catch up on my work without him interrupting and countermanding. He wasn't here, smoking, scattering ashes and matchbooks around. I didn't have to empty and wash out his ashtray, air the office, and spritz room deodorant around whenever he left for a while.

  I ignored the fact that between a light workload and natural efficiency, there wasn't any backlog to catch up on. Even the phone was unwontedly silent. In fact, I was down to mere busy- work and considering going in and trying my hand at one of Hizzoner's video games when, midmorning, the scanner erupted into life.

  I jumped - then froze, listening to the words that came over the air.

  Chief Judd's voice was unmistakable, even impassively reciting strings of numbers - and I could tell he wasn't nearly as impassive as he seemed. 10-33 and 10-79 - that was the code for Emergency, and Notify Coroner. 10-51 and 10- 52 and 10-78 - that was Wrecker Needed, Ambulance Needed, Need Assistance.

  The location given was a country road that ran through the woods, along the river, popular for fishing by day, necking by night.

  And even though Judd didn't say, I knew he had found Mayor Pitt - and that the mayor must be dead.

  * * *

  Earl for a Season

  Brenda Dow

  Copyright © 2000 Brenda Dow

  Published in Canada by LTDBooks, 200 North Service Road West, Unit 1, Suite 301, Oakville, ON L6M 2Y1

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Dow, B.M. (Brenda Mary), 1932-

  Earl for a season

  ISBN 1-55316-028-2

  I. Title

  PS8557.08168E27 2000 C813'.6 C00-932007-5

  PR9199.3.D585E27 2000

  PROLOGUE

  Miss Stride brought the news to Mallow.

  A wiry figure even in her shawl-draped pelisse, she jumped hurriedly from her father's old gig, pausing only to throw the travel rug over the steaming horse, and ran up to the rambling, old house. Her impatience was such that after a spirited knock, she thrust open the front door and entered.

  "Charlotte! What ever is the to-do?" A calm, musical voice spoke from the stairs. A tall, elegant young woman paused in her descent, one hand on the banister.

  "Julia! Where is Ivor?"

  "Probably shaving." Julia Valliant looked at the unexpected visitor curiously. The face before her, attractive in a sharp-featured way, was glowing, either with excitement or from her long drive on that crisp February morning.

  "Will he be down soon? I have awful news."

  Julia's humorous gray eyes were wide with astonishment. "Tell me! Your papa has been made bishop and you must move to York - somewhere further?"

  "Julia! This is no time for your jokes." Charlotte Stride brushed a frosting of snow off her half-boots. "I bear the most terrible news! Oh, when will Ivor be down?"

  "I am baffled. You come in here positively dancing with news, but then you call it terrible."

  "No, no!" exclaimed Charlotte in contrition. "You mustn't think I am lacking in proper...respect. The news is truly dreadful. It's just that...well, sometimes good might come out of bad."

  Julia descended the last step. "This confusion is not like you. Oh, my dear, you are all of a tremble. Unwrap and come into the drawing room. There's a good fire in there. You shall have some hot chocolate to warm you up." Taking a moment to convey the appropriate request to the kitchen, she returned to help the visitor with her pelisse.

  From upstairs, they heard a voice bellowing for Eli March to go out and look after Miss Stride's horse. Charlotte Stride glanced up the stairs expectantly. "He knows I'm here, at least."

  Julia tucked her arm into that of the smaller woman and led her into the drawing room. "If my brother is to be first recipient of your news, I will contain my curiosity. How is your papa?"

  "Well enough!" There was a sarcastic smile. "But not well enough for a bishop. His dyspepsia still bothers him."

  "I shall be down directly, Lottie," continued the voice from on high. A few moments later, a heavy tread sounded in the hall and Sir Ivor Valliant's bulk filled the doorway.

  "So the basilisk's dead, eh?"

  Charlotte's eyes glinted. "So you know!"

  "Not till now! Heard he came a cropper, though. The news is all over the countryside. Didn't make it through the night, I trow!" He came forward in bluff concern at seeing her rubbing frozen hands. "Come, sit closer to the fire, pickle! It's a cold day for a ten mile drive."

  "The Earl of Selchurch is dead?" Now serious, Julia looked from one to the other. "An accident? What happened, Charlotte?"

  "It is true, rest the poor man's soul. Sir Basil was putting a hunter at a barrier and the horse fell. It rolled on him. He could get to his feet, I'm told, but had to be carried home. A doctor was there within hours, but could do nothing. My father was ministering to him all night till he died in the small hours."

  "A little late for Basil Selchurch to find religion!"

  His sister remonstrated mildly, "Ivor! For heaven's sake! Consider Charlotte's position!"

  Sir Ivor shrugged. "If Lottie cares a scruple about Selchurch, 'tis the first I heard of it. The Countess - that's a different matter. We all know how devoted Lottie is to her." He put his arm round Charlotte's shoulders and gave her a quick hug. "Besides, she knows what I think of Basil, and wouldn't want me to be a hypocrite, would you, chuck?"

  Charlotte pressed his hand. "I can't spare long. I must get back to the Countess. Oh, to think! I should call her Dowager Countess now." A thought struck her. "Pray heaven her babe will be a boy."

  Julia looked interested. "The Countess of Selchurch is increasing again? Then I add my wishes to yours, for otherwise her home will go to whoever succeeds to the earldom. Then where would she and all those girls of hers go?"

  Charlotte seemed to have no answer for this. She was looking into Ivor's face with some intensity. Sir Ivor wore a thoughtful expression while scratching his hastily brushed poll. Though he was never at his best early in the morning, the news seemed to have had a stimulating effect on him.

  Hiding a smile, Julia hastily made the excuse that she had business in the kitchen and left. This subterfuge lost credibility as she passed the housekeeper bustling in with hot chocolate.

  An uneasy silence fell between the man and woman remaining in the drawing room. Charlotte studiously sipped her chocolate. Sir Ivor partook of a cup, and made a great thing of cooling his drink by blowing on it.

  Eventually, he glanced across at her rather tentatively. "Why don't you stay for the day? Your papa was up all night. He won't be needing the gig. Give the nag a rest! J
ulia has some new sheets of music sent up from London. You might like to give them a try."

  Charlotte rose and stamped her foot. "Why are you talking about music? Can't you see what this means for us? The Countess will never stand in our way."

  Sir Ivor went a little red, but stood up to her manfully. "There's where I'm ahead of you, dumpling." A flash of anguish crossed the sharp little face looking up at him. "I've already decided. I'll be calling on your papa first thing tomorrow."

  His reward was a transforming smile and a face raised to receive his kiss.

  Julia had gone upstairs to her bedroom. She spent some time gazing out the window, not really seeing the bleak wintry scene.

  Her own life must face repercussions from the death of the Earl of Selchurch. Well, life was prone to change, she told herself. She had lived with her brother and run his household since their mother had died, but now there would soon be a new mistress at Mallow. For several years, Sir Ivor had been conducting a semi-despairing, low key courtship of the daughter of the parson who had the living at Selchurch. However, an obstacle had lain between them because of a feud between Sir Ivor Valliant and the Earl of Selchurch. Rival magistrates, they had long differed over certain jurisdictional matters. The dead Earl had been a haughty and vengeful man, and Charlotte had refused to make a commitment for fear that her marriage to the Earl's enemy would prejudice her father's livelihood.

  Julia had no doubt that Charlotte's friendship with the Countess would now remove that obstacle. A wedding would go forward. However, much as she enjoyed the occasional company of her brother's intended, she had a leaden feeling inside when she contemplated life at Mallow when Charlotte became Lady Valliant. She would naturally assume responsibility for running the house and Julia's position would become that of an unnecessary dependant. While she would never be made to feel less than welcome, the prospect did not suit her. Charlotte was honest, fair- minded and imbued with a satirical outlook that melded well with Julia's gentler humor. Julia appreciated Charlotte's many good qualities, but she knew that inevitably they would rub up against one another. Charlotte's straitlaced practicality would be at war with Julia's own preference for the relaxed, unhurried surroundings presently prevailing at Mallow. Charlotte would strip the ivy from the walls for she liked a modern look. The garden would be regimented into formality. Ivor would not mind. He had no great interest in the garden, nor the house, as long as the windows admitted no draughts and the chimneys were swept yearly. However, Julia loved the old place just as it was, and knew that Charlotte's tastes were far different from her own.

  No, she would not stay long at Mallow. She would have her own home; but before that, she would indulge her ambition to travel. There was so much world to see! Her fortune was moderate, but with care would afford her sufficient means to visit a few foreign places. Later she would set up an establishment independent of her brother. Of course, Ivor would say it was out of the question for an unmarried gentlewoman to travel unless under the aegis of some respectable family. She did not know of any available respectable family, but did not despair of making some suitable arrangement. Ivor must realize that she would not stay at Mallow forever.

  When she descended, she discovered not much to her surprise that Charlotte had already left, driven by a sense of duty to the family that had been her father's support.

  "Where did you disappear to?" queried Ivor. "I sent Lottie home with a fresh horse. I can make an exchange when I drive over to the Parsonage tomorrow."

  Julia had no need to enquire what business would take him to visit Mr. Stride on the following day. She put on a cheerful tone. "Has Charlotte named a day?"

  Her brother bent a knowing eye upon her. "Well, as to that, we should let his lordship's bones chill for decency's sake. I'll not wait out a year, though. I've a fancy for a summer wedding trip to the continent now that we've seen the end of Boney."

  "Charlotte will enjoy that. When you get back, she will like to have the running of the house to herself. Then it will be my turn to travel."

  "Not that again, Ju! Dash it! You know my feelings. Papa would never have allowed it."

  "But, Ivor, you are not my papa!"

  Julia gave him a peck on the cheek and left him to scowl in solitude.

  CHAPTER I

  The light gray traveling coach threaded its way through the busy London thoroughfare and eased to a halt in front of a hotel. A servant in maroon and silver livery sprang down and held open the door whilst his fellow started to pull baggage from the roof. Porters came scurrying out.

  Roderick Anhurst cast an astonished eye over the facade of the bow-windowed building. "The Pulteney? What maggot got in your respected papa's head, Cy? Pretty much for a lowly attaché!"

  He grinned. "Better than the reception I expected!"

  His companion spoke with a low sultry voice. "Are you still brooding about a few silly setbacks. You were not even in Montreal. The war is over now. No blame attaches to you, Roddie!"

  "So you say. But they recalled the Governor-General. It has been my observation that when a man goes down, his minions do not prosper."

  "Minions! For shame! I shall tell papa you are a hopeless case."

  "In truth, I enjoy my work. I liked the country. I would rather not be forced to relinquish my career."

  "You are too foolish. Papa has everything well in hand."

  "Even when he uses you as his courier?"

  She chuckled. "You are a prude, my dear. You always were."

  "And you are outrageous, and always will be."

  He gave her one last appreciative look as he thrust his portfolio under one arm and took hat in hand. The twilight served to mystify rather than to shadow her dark blue eyes, and long lashes spiked down over a delicately molded cheek. Smooth lips curved into provocative lines. The fates had been generous to Lady Cytherea FitzWarren, bestowing both wealth and beauty.

  As he alighted from the coach, the new gaslighting, recently installed in Piccadilly caught glints of gold in his fair unruly hair and threw his well-knit figure into relief. Any woman would consider his pleasant, well-bred countenance attractive.

  Lady Cytherea moved across to the near window, putting her hand on his sleeve to detain him. "You will think me a goose. In my vast excitement at seeing you again, I forgot! I am postman as well as courier." She handed him a package. "These letters were at papa's office awaiting your return."

  Roderick took the package, and touched his lips to the tips of her fingers, eyes looking up suspiciously at the innocent expression on her face.

  As he watched the carriage proceed along Piccadilly, he was conscious of a feeling of relief. Why should he feel that way, he wondered?

  It had been a very strange day! She must have boarded the frigate standing in the searoads off Deal from the pilot's galley. She had arrived in his quarters bearing a document urgently requesting his presence at the Colonial Office. However, since he was returning to England following the same orders delivered in Upper Canada, he was puzzled by the need for Lord FitzWarren to send his daughter on a courier's mission, and sans chaperon, at that! He suspected her of running some rig on her father, especially as she had just now 'remembered' to give this new package of correspondence.

  She had flung herself into his arms and kissed him with all the passionate abandon he remembered so well. Three years ago, when he had stayed at Lord FitzWarren's country seat, he had become besotted with his daughter, and events had got out of control. Yet, when passion and a sense of obligation spurred him to apply for permission to marry the fashionable Lady Cytherea FitzWarren, she had, in great despair, warned him that her father would have none of him. Although his career prospects were bright and he was, in addition, possessed of a moderate private income, his wealth would not be considered sufficient to win her hand. It had seemed no coincidence to him that within the week he had peremptorily been dispatched on assignment to Quebec - and that without having an actual interview with Lord FitzWarren. There had been a heart wrenchin
g leave-taking between Lady Cytherea and himself in which neither had laid any obligation upon the other, and he had sailed across the Atlantic feeling that his heart would never be whole again. Thus he had learned the danger of going beyond the mark with an unmarried female of his own class.

  He grieved for a year. Then, a lively widow in Montreal turned the direction of his thoughts. This affair had finished when the widow sailed out of his life to Paris. They had parted friends, this time undisturbed by any feelings of guilt on either part.

  He had thought Lady Cytherea FitzWarren would be wed to some young lord by now. (It had been three years.) This speculation, when occasionally entertained, had given him no pangs at all! He smiled and shrugged as he turned towards the entrance.

  The staff of the Pulteney were extraordinarily accommodating - 'my lord' this and 'your honor' that. He found himself suddenly homesick for the modest pension he had inhabited in Montreal.

  He shrugged off his coat as soon as he was settled in his room, and sat at a desk. After opening the package of letters, he put aside one large, official-looking document and one other screw of paper with no writing on the outside, and slit open the wafer on a familiarly scented missive. His mother's letter, dated in March, dwelt humorously enough with her indifferent health and made spicy observations about the many valetudinarians resident near Harrogate Spa - Anne, his sister, was to marry a gentleman from Surrey in April, all the details to follow - Cousin Alicia wrote that she was expecting another little Basil, God help her if it were a little Alicia again.

  Roderick grinned. The Earl of Selchurch was still intent on getting an heir. For his money he would have preferred Maurice, the brother next in line, in the upper house. There was a line squeezed along one edge of the paper, as a post script, obviously scrawled in haste and tapering into illegibility. He could make out, "Cousin Basil dead after fall from horse. You are new Earl of Selchurch." Then there was something about Alicia that defied interpretation.