A Risk Worth Taking

by Laura Landon

  Adam hesitated a second more, then breathed a sigh of resignation. “The younger sister, Lady Rebecca, is sitting on the sofa.” He nodded toward the other side of the room. “Please leave her be. She’s barely fifteen.”

  Griff ignored Adam’s warning and focused his gaze on Freddie’s youngest sister.

  She wasn’t alone. Several guests were gathered around her to comfort her. A plump lady held her hand. Another older woman sat at her other side, and a kindly looking gentleman, perhaps one of the women’s husbands, stood to the side, resting his hand on the back of the sofa.

  The minute Griff saw her he knew he couldn’t face her. He swiped his hand across his damp face. “Where’s the oldest?”

  “Don’t cause a scene, Griff. She’s been through quite enough—”

  Griff ignored the sharp tone of Adam’s voice and looked around the room. “Which one is she?”

  With a second harsh look of warning, Adam turned his gaze to the far corner of the room, to a spot where the light from the windows and from the glowing candles placed throughout the room did not seem to reach—a place of isolation no one in the vast crowd seemed able to breach.

  She stood alone with her back to him, with her deep mahogany hair pulled back in a loose chignon, her narrow shoulders braced in stoic bravery. He couldn’t tear his gaze from her.

  Take care of Annie. Promise me you’ll take care of Annie.

  Griff ordered his feet to move. Ordered his body to go to where she stood and tell her how sorry he was that Freddie was dead. But his feet seemed rooted to the floor. He couldn’t face her. Not when she’d look at him, a stranger she hadn’t seen since she was a young girl, and wonder why he’d allowed Freddie to die.

  He tried to step forward again but failed. Guilt ate away at him until he found it hard to breathe. He shouldn’t have come.

  He shouldn’t even be alive. Freddie should be the one visiting Griff’s family, sharing in their grief. Griff should be the one buried in the ground.

  He kept his gaze focused on the slight figure standing in the shadows and knew his paltry words of regret were inadequate.

  He had to leave. Leave before she turned around and saw him. Leave before she looked into his eyes and saw the guilt.

  As if she realized he was there, her hands dropped to her sides and she slowly turned.

  Her eyes were as black as midnight—big, beautiful, sad. Her gaze went directly to him, focusing on him. A jolt belted him in the gut with the force of a heavy fist.

  She knew.

  She knew the bullet that had killed Freddie had been intended for him. She knew Freddie had given his life to save him.

  She knew he wasn’t worth the sacrifice.

  Griff felt sick. His stomach churned; his shallow breaths came in harsh, ragged gasps. He needed to leave. He needed a drink. He needed to forget.

  Take care of Annie, Griff.

  He couldn’t. He wanted to scream that no one was safe unless they stayed far, far away from him.

  He held her burning gaze as long as he could, then spun on his heels and stormed from the room.

  By the time he reached the nearest inn, he was desperate for a drink. Then another. And another. As many as it took until he could forget. Forget the lives he’d destroyed.

  There’d been so many.

  How the hell did Freddie think he could take care of his sister? Why the bloody hell had he asked? Griff could no more protect her than he’d protected his wife, or his son, or Gerald Fespoint, or Freddie himself.

  A painful stabbing carved a ridge deep in his chest. He would drink until he succeeded in drowning the painful memories he couldn’t live with.

  Just like he’d succeeded in drowning his family.

  Chapter 2

  What is going to happen to us?” Becca asked. Worry clouded her pretty features.

  Anne Carmichael dropped her gaze back to the papers in front of her, trying desperately to appear calm. How could Freddie have left them in such a precarious position? “I’m not sure, Becca, but we’ll know soon enough.”

  “Reverend Talbert said we would have to—”

  “Don’t worry,” Anne interrupted, looking up from the papers she’d been studying. “We’ll be all right.”

  Anne rubbed a hand over her eyes and noticed the confused expression on Becca’s cherub face. Thank heaven she was too young to completely understand their dire straits.

  Anne gave her younger sister a pensive smile. In looks, Rebecca was much like their mother, with her honey-blonde hair, sky-blue eyes, and face of an angel. At fifteen, she already had a hint of beauty that promised to make her one of the most sought after debutantes when she had her coming out. She was not like Anne, who was dark like her father and like Freddie had been.

  Although Anne was not plain, she did have a serious countenance many found unapproachable. It was an attribute for which she was very thankful.

  Anne sighed, then went back to the numbers in Freddie’s ledger and added them again. And again. Nothing changed. No matter how often she calculated the columns of figures, the end result was the same. They were destitute.

  “I overheard Cook tell Mr. Flounders that the new Marquess of Brentwood will come here to live.” Rebecca had resumed the nervous habit of chewing her nails. “Is it true he will get our home?”

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  “Then we will have to find someplace else to live,” Becca said matter-of-factly. “Do you have any idea where we will go?”

  Anne felt the air being sucked from her lungs. “I’m not sure. I will know more after I meet with the new marquess and Freddie’s solicitor. They will be here any moment.”

  “Do you think the marquess will be kind? Perhaps he will let us live in one of the cottages on the estate.” Rebecca voiced some of the same questions that had gone through Anne’s mind during the past month—ever since she had realized their desperate situation, and what Freddie’s death meant for them.

  “Perhaps the one the caretaker used to live in before he left,” Becca added.

  “Perhaps.” Anne tried to hide how concerned she really was. How could she give her sister an answer when she didn’t have one herself? How could she reassure Becca that everything would be all right when she didn’t think anything would ever be right again? Anne started to add the figures again, praying she’d made a mistake and the numbers would come out differently this time.

  “Will I be able to go back to school?”

  Anne glanced up. The wide-eyed anticipation in Becca’s eyes caused her heart to twist in her chest. At least Freddie had taken care of that expense for the next term, and Becca would not have to leave school. Her enrollment in Lady Agnes’s School for Young Ladies was paid for the entire year.

  Anne walked from behind the desk and took Rebecca’s hands in hers. “Of course you’ll be able to finish school. But if you don’t stop biting your nails, Lady Agnes won’t allow you to return, regardless of whether your fees have been paid or not. Lady Agnes said it took her all of two full terms to break you of that awful habit when you first came. She will never forgive me if I send you back with your nails chewed to the quick.”

  Rebecca tucked her hands in the folds of her skirt. “I have time to grow them out before I go back. I won’t have to leave you yet. Will I?”

  Anne gave her sister a quick hug. “Of course not. You will stay with me for at least a few more weeks.”

  The leaden weight in the pit of Anne’s stomach seemed even heavier. With a sense of desperation, she returned to her place behind the desk and closed the cover on the ledger that proved how destitute they were. What on earth was she going to do if things turned out as she feared? What if they were left with nowhere to live and no income to purchase even food?

  A knock at the door stopped her thoughts. Freddie’s solicitor and the new marquess were here. It would not be long before she would know just how bad things really were.

  “The Marquess of Brentwood and Mr. Harold Woolsey to see you,
my lady,” their butler, Ruskins, announced from the doorway.

  “Thank you, Ruskins,” Anne answered, trying desperately to keep her voice steady. “Will you see that tea is served?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Anne shifted her gaze to the two men who’d entered the room.

  She’d met Harold Woolsey once before when he’d come to Brentwood Manor on business. He hadn’t changed since she’d first seen him. He was still…average. Average in height, as well as in looks and in physical build. Average in coloring and dress, and almost nondescript in the way he blended into his surroundings. The total antithesis of the man standing next to him.

  The new Marquess of Brentwood was tall and broad shouldered, almost as large as Freddie had been. And he was as dark. His shadowed features, so prevalent in the Carmichael ancestry, left no doubt as to his parentage.

  She looked into his face, a face she found unusually handsome—handsome in the same way Freddie had been, yet different. Those same distinguishing features that had endeared Freddie to Anne hardened the new marquess’s looks. The sight of him caused her a hint of trepidation.

  “Lady Anne,” Harold Woolsey said, making his way into the room. “I would first like to express my sympathy to you and your sister.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Woolsey.”

  “I would like to present the Marquess of Brentwood.”

  The marquess closed the space between them. With flawless elegance, he bowed formally, then lifted Anne’s hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers.

  “My lord,” she said, resisting the urge to pull her hand from his grasp.

  “Lady Anne, I cannot tell you how distressed I was to learn of your brother’s death. You have my heartfelt sympathy.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Anne stepped back from him. She experienced an innate desire to put an adequate amount of distance between them.

  The new marquess straightened his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back, which made him appear even taller, even larger. “I am deeply honored to bear the title bestowed upon me, but I would gladly give it up if I could change the circumstances that brought about my good fortune. Please believe me when I say I regret your brother’s untimely death more than I can say.”

  Anne heard the sincerity in his voice and reprimanded herself for the unkind thoughts she’d had earlier.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Anne held his gaze for a moment, then turned away from him to where Becca stood before the sofa. “May I present my sister, Lady Rebecca Carmichael.”

  Brentwood executed a perfect bow when he greeted Rebecca, then took her hand and lightly kissed her fingers. When he lifted his gaze to her face, he flashed her a most startling smile.

  The manner in which Rebecca received Brentwood’s greeting would have made Lady Agnes proud. Anne was terrified. She wasn’t sure when Rebecca had grown up on her. She suddenly realized what a threat Brentwood posed and didn’t know how she could protect Rebecca from being taken in by a man’s handsome face and easy charm.

  Anne struggled to regain her composure. “Won’t you please sit down,” she said to both Mr. Woolsey and Lord Brentwood, indicating two chairs opposite the sofa.

  Anne took a seat on the sofa and Rebecca sat beside her. Anne poured tea when it arrived and served it with the small cakes Cook provided. When she finished, she took a sip of her tea, then set the cup and saucer back on the table.

  “If it would not be too unseemly, I would appreciate it if we might dispense with any pleasantries and proceed directly to the reading of Freddie’s will. As I’m sure you can understand, none of us want to prolong this any longer than necessary.”

  “Of course, Lady Anne,” Mr. Woolsey said, setting down his cup of tea and picking up the leather binder that would reveal their futures. “I have the late marquess’s papers right here.”

  Anne tried to conceal her nervousness while Mr. Woolsey removed the papers and held them in his hands. “Are you certain there isn’t someone you would like to have with you while we go through your brother’s will?” he asked before he began. “A friend, a guardian, a—”

  “Someone of the male populace, you mean,” Anne interrupted. “No, Mr. Woolsey. My sister and I will be fine. Although being mere women, we will probably need your guidance on matters.”

  “Of course. Of course,” Mr. Woolsey murmured, oblivious to the cut he had just received. It was not, however, lost on the marquess. The superior expression on his face said as much.

  “Perhaps we should begin,” Brentwood said, “and Lady Anne can stop us if she has any questions.”

  “Very well,” Woolsey agreed, bobbing his head up and down.

  Thus began the reading of the will.

  Anne searched for one thread of hope as Woolsey read through the volume of papers, but each page verified every dreaded fear that had plagued her since Freddie’s death. Each detail negated every fervent prayer she’d made that she would find a way to take care of Rebecca. Her scrutiny was useless. There was no hope.

  The title and Brentwood Manor went to the new marquess, as well as the London town house, the mining and lumber interests, and three other estates, one of which Anne had not even known existed.

  Minutes stretched into what seemed hours as the solicitor read the legal descriptions of each and every property that now belonged to the new Marquess of Brentwood.

  She clenched her hands in her lap, fearful that she would not be able to keep up her brave facade until he finished. Finally, the legal description of each landholding was finished, and Mr. Woolsey began with the actual cash bequeaths. Anticipation mounted. Her heart pounded against her ribs and the tempo of the constant thudding inside her chest raced faster and faster.

  She was relieved when Mr. Woolsey read that each loyal employee would receive an adequate allowance, as well as an amount allotted for a generous donation to the church. When these bequeaths were made, the solicitor revealed the remaining sum of money Freddie had amassed from his personal investments. The amount left wasn’t a staggering sum, but it did give her some room for hope.

  There were, of course, a number of outstanding debts that had to be paid first. Mr. Woolsey began with the tailor, then a bill for a carriage. There was the bill to Tattersall’s for a pair of matching grays and a gambling debt of two hundred pounds, another of four hundred. There was a payment for the last shipment of wine and brandy, and…The list seemed endless, leaving a sum total of…

  Anne’s heart fell to the pit of her stomach. She knew there would not be much, but…Freddie, an angry voice screamed from inside her, didn’t you think to leave us at least enough to get by?

  How did he think she and Becca could survive on so little?

  “I am terribly sorry, Lady Anne,” Mr. Woolsey said softly. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Anne squared her shoulders and gathered all the courage she could find to accept what she’d known would happen all along. “It is what I expected. If you would, Mr. Woolsey, please itemize what we do possess.”

  “Of course, Lady Anne.”

  A whirlpool of fear and unease churned deep in her stomach as Anne watched Mr. Woolsey sift through the documents, stopping when he reached a single sheet of paper at the back of the large stack. Unsightly red splotches covered his neck, either a sign of nervousness or an indication of his pity for her plight. The sympathy she read in his expression instilled within her a renewed determination.

  A stronger sense of resolve bolstered her, strengthening her with a blanket of fierce determination. She could not stand it if what he felt was pity. Anything but that.

  “As I’m sure you realize, Lady Anne, your brother did not anticipate something happening to him at so young an age. If he had, I have no doubt he would have made greater provisions for you and Lady Rebecca.”

  “No doubt,” Anne agreed. “But that was not the case, was it?”

  “No, it was not.” Mr. Woolsey shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then adjusted his spectacles before continuing.
“This is a list of what you and your sister are entitled to. A list of everything that is not entailed.”

  The solicitor cleared his throat, then began. “Your mother, the late Marchioness of Brentwood, brought with her to her marriage the following items of value: one ruby pendant necklace; a diamond-and-emerald necklace with a matching emerald ring; two pearl rings, one black, one pink; a pearl necklace; and a diamond-and-sapphire necklace with earbobs to match. In addition, there are a few items of furniture and mementos not entailed to which you and your sister have ownership, and finally, the sum of one thousand pounds you will each receive upon your marriage.”

  “Upon our marriage?”

  “Yes. It was a provision required by your maternal great-grandmother. She thought it gave a woman a sense of independence to have money of her own.”

  A knot clenched in her stomach. Money of her own did not just give a woman a sense of independence; it was necessary for survival. “Is there a stipulation in the will that prohibits us from receiving the money now?”

  Mr. Woolsey nodded. “I’m afraid there is. You can only receive your inheritance upon your marriage.”

  Anne wanted to laugh. That day would never come for her. A paltry thousand pounds was not worth sacrificing her freedom to endure the hell that constituted a marriage. Even a hundred times that amount would not be worth it. A thousand pounds, however, did mean the difference between survival and starvation.

  “Is there anything else?” Anne asked, feeling the need to escape before it was impossible to keep up the pretense of calm.

  “One more item, Lady Anne. Less than a year ago, your brother added a piece of property to his holdings.”

  “What property?”

  “I’m afraid it is nothing of any real value. It is a stretch of land that used to be a part of Brentwood Estate on the north, reaching as far east as the ocean. I took the liberty of looking at it when I heard of the late marquess’s death.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot imagine why your brother purchased it. It’s nothing but craggy rocks filled with dangerous caves.”