Counting on a Countess

by Eva Leigh

  “Thinking about bolting?” he asked quietly. “There’s no cause for it.” He gave her a reassuring smile.

  She returned it, though the corners of her mouth seemed tight with apprehension. He supposed she was just as concerned as he was.

  “When everything is settled,” he said, “I’ll buy you a fine little curricle and a pair of matched white horses so you can jaunt about London as much as you please. It’s not a far ride to Hampstead Heath. Plenty of green and open space there. You’ll like it.”

  The tension eased from her smile. “Never driven a curricle, just a wobbly dog cart.”

  “A countess has no need for a wobbly dog cart,” he proclaimed.

  Mr. Flowers came forward to meet them, all attentiveness as he held out his hands in greeting. “Is this Lady Blakemere?”

  “It is,” Kit said, noting how much less reticent the solicitor was today as opposed to the last time they had met. “Tamsyn Ellingsworth, née Pearce, of Cornwall.”

  “A pleasure, Mr. Flowers,” Tamsyn said, and the solicitor bowed over her hand.

  “I see that Lord Blakemere is indeed a fortunate man,” Mr. Flowers said cordially. “And might I add that Mrs. Flowers and I once spent a fortnight in and around Penzance, and found Cornwall most enchanting.”

  “You must return someday and visit my village of Newcombe,” Tamsyn replied. “The country’s a bit wild in my part of Cornwall.”

  “The most rugged cliffs yield the most beautiful blossoms,” the solicitor answered, and a delighted smile wreathed Tamsyn’s face.

  Kit’s already-quick pulse accelerated at the sight.

  “I say, that’s very good, Flowers,” he exclaimed. “Charming my bride of less than twenty-four hours.”

  The other man chuckled. “Mrs. Flowers would be cross indeed if I started angling for pretty Cornish lasses.” He snapped his fingers, and one of countless clerks appeared. “Bring some refreshment for the earl and countess. Have Keane fetch the Somerby file.”

  The lad scurried off, presumably to find Keane, as well as scare up a tea set and something to nibble on besides paper.

  “This way, if you please.” Mr. Flowers waved for them to enter his office.

  Inside, legal tomes were neatly shelved and stacks of documents were piled in some kind of order over a large rosewood desk. Two chairs were positioned in front of the desk, and Kit held one out for Tamsyn. When she took her seat, Kit sat in the other. Mr. Flowers lowered himself into a wingback leather chair behind the desk.

  “My felicitations on your marriage,” the solicitor said as they waited for refreshment and paperwork. As Tamsyn searched for something in her reticule, Mr. Flowers took the opportunity to send Kit a look rich with meaning. Well done, my lad, he seemed to say.

  Kit raised his brows. Of course, he answered silently. This is me, we’re talking about.

  But he hadn’t been nearly as confident a week ago, when he could not find an eligible, willing miss who seemed suitable. He’d seen too much suffering on the battlefield to believe in anything like providence, but clearly, if there was any goodwill in the universe, he’d received some of it when Tamsyn had crossed his path.

  There was still the matter of consummation, however. He couldn’t be comfortable as a husband and a man until he’d taken her to bed and shown her a good time. His honor as a libertine demanded it. He wanted it, too. Wanted her.

  Focus, damn it.

  A thin lad in his late teens hurried in carrying a substantial leather portfolio. “The Somerby papers, sir.” He deposited the portfolio carefully on Mr. Flowers’s desk before bowing and scampering off.

  Kit leaned forward as Mr. Flowers opened the portfolio and removed several sheets of a document.

  “These are the papers that will require your signature,” the solicitor explained, “which will make binding the transference of your portion of Lord Somerby’s fortune to your name.” He took a large stack of sheets from the document and turned them to face Kit. “I’ve indicated the places where you are to sign.” He offered Kit a sharpened quill.

  Kit got to his feet and took the quill. It surprised him, how unsteady his hand was. After everything he’d faced, the countless brushes with death, including when his shako had been shot off during a march in Belgium, that he should feel any trepidation now struck him as ridiculous. Yet an unmistakable tremor made his hand shake as he bent over the documents.

  Much as Kit wanted the money, it saddened him that it had to come into his possession for the price of Somerby’s life. He’d been a good friend—exacting in his demands, but generous with his praise when those demands had been met. Would Somerby approve of Kit’s plan to build a pleasure garden? Or would he frown and grow silent in that way he did whenever someone made a foolish choice?

  Kit glanced back at Tamsyn, who sent him a small, encouraging smile. The steadiness of her presence acted as a balm, and within moments, he felt himself grow more stable.

  The novelty of signing his name to the transfer papers soon dimmed as he had to provide his signature again and again. He wrote his name so many times, his fingers cramped.

  “As you may surmise,” Mr. Flowers said, dusting sand onto the papers while Kit shook out his hand, “it is a complicated business to transfer this great an amount of money. Be grateful you did not have to draft these papers. They made more than one clerk cry.”

  “You rewarded them for their efforts, surely,” Tamsyn said pointedly.

  “The law is a difficult and sometimes tedious industry,” the solicitor answered. “In law, as in life, there are no rewards for doing your job as it’s supposed to be done.”

  “True,” she said with the air of someone speaking from experience.

  Kit glanced at her and saw a tiny birthmark behind her left ear he’d never noticed before. Damn—he knew barely anything about his wife. He had certain particulars, but there was so much more to her than what he’d grasped. It was like noticing one leaf rather than seeing the entire tree. Would he ever come to truly understand her? If everything went according to the plans they had set out before their marriage, they never would fully know each other.

  She’d been so adamant that she wanted to return to Cornwall, and he had been content to let her go, so long as an heir had been produced. This was the scenario Kit had wanted, and yet now he wasn’t certain whether he liked it or not.

  But this wasn’t the time to contemplate these intricacies. He bent himself back to the task of signing countless papers.

  Finally, the last page was reached. Kit scrawled his name, his handwriting far worse than it had been at the beginning.

  Mr. Flowers sanded and blotted the last sheets, then tucked them back into the portfolio. “It’s done. Congratulations, Lord Blakemere.”

  Kit took his offered hand and shook it. Then he turned to Tamsyn. “Lady Blakemere,” he said with a little bow.

  “Is it real?” she asked, wonderingly.

  “Indeed it is, my lady,” the solicitor answered with a chuckle. “Your husband has inherited a substantial fortune.” He also offered a small bow.

  “Well.” She exhaled. “That doesn’t happen every Monday.”

  Kit held out his hand to help Tamsyn to her feet. “Shall we return home for a celebratory supper?”

  Mr. Flowers cleared his throat. “There’s one more item to attend to, my lord.”

  Turning back to the solicitor, Kit saw something that looked suspiciously like a sealed letter in Mr. Flowers’s hand. “More?”

  “Please sit.” When Kit did so, the solicitor explained, “The late Lord Somerby provided instructions to my firm. After you were married and the documents securing the fortune’s transfer had been signed, I was to read you this.” He held up the missive.

  “What’s in it?” Tamsyn asked.

  “The contents are unknown to me,” Mr. Flowers said.

  Kit frowned, but dismissed his trepidation. It had to be some words of warning from Somerby, or perhaps a stern admonition to be a good ste
ward to the fortune. “Go ahead.”

  Mr. Flowers broke the wax seal, then donned a pair of spectacles. He cleared his throat again, and read aloud.

  “My dearest Ellingsworth—or should I say, Lord Blakemere,

  I offer my blessings on your marriage. You made myself, your family, and country proud with your service abroad. All I ever desired for you was to find a measure of stability and happiness—thus my requirement that you marry in order to inherit a measure of my wealth. The greatest joy I ever experienced was with my beloved Elizabeth. If you might experience a fraction of the contentment I felt with Lizzie, I go to my grave at peace. I die serene, knowing that I am to be reunited with my precious wife once more.”

  Tamsyn made a soft noise, and Kit glanced over to see her dash a knuckle across her eyes. Lord Somerby’s sentiment clearly moved her, the words of a man who had once loved deeply.

  Kit had been blunt with Tamsyn about his own fidelity and expectations for the marriage. He doubted this was what Somerby had in mind. Would his old friend be disappointed?

  The solicitor continued to read.

  “There is one aspect of your life that concerns me, and that is your appalling habits with money. I fear that you will recklessly decimate my fortune in your relentless pursuit of pleasure.

  To that end, the transfer of the money is not complete unless you agree—in writing—to let your new bride control the finances.”

  Mr. Flowers dropped the letter, stunned. But the solicitor was no more aghast than Kit.

  “That cannot be what Somerby said,” Kit choked out.

  “I assure you, Lord Blakemere, I did not fabricate the contents.” Mr. Flowers held out the letter, and Kit snatched it up.

  He scanned the letter. And found that Lord Somerby did, in fact, stipulate that all of the financial control would belong to Kit’s bride. Tamsyn.

  Absently, Kit handed the letter back to the solicitor, but his focus was on Tamsyn. All the color had left her face, leaving her freckles to stand out starkly, like drops of blood. Her chest rose and fell quickly, as if she was running away from something.

  A strained laugh broke from Kit’s lips. “Dearest Lord Somerby is trying to control me from the afterlife.” He forced out another hollow chuckle. “Never knew the old fellow could be so ruthless.”

  “Is there more?” Tamsyn asked, her voice strained. “In the letter?”

  Mr. Flowers picked the sheet of paper up and read aloud.

  “My directives for how the capital will be controlled are as follows:

  The new Lady Blakemere cannot simply settle an amount of money on you. She must approve all financial requests. Further, if you think to bully your wife or in any way forcefully take money from her, you are sorely mistaken. All applications for cash must go through the bank and be reviewed personally by my banker, Mr. George Bradley. Such requests for money must include documentation of what you intend to do with it, as well as Lady Blakemere’s explicit approval of this use.

  Lest you think I am a tyrant, let me assure you that Lady Blakemere will settle a modest quarterly allowance on you. Everything else beyond this nominal figure will be in her control.

  I imagine that you are baffled by me now, Kit. Rest assured that I derive no pleasure from these conditions, but I want nothing more than your happiness, and see your own impulses as the greatest impediment to that. If you curse me, do so because I loved you too well to permit your self-destruction.

  Your friend,

  Prescott Lamb, Lord Somerby”

  Mr. Flowers lowered the letter and tapped his fingertips against the paper, as if trying to nudge away its significance. Silence reigned in the office for several moments.

  Kit sat back in his chair, stunned. “Congratulations, Lady Blakemere,” he said, his voice tight. “You are a wealthy woman.”

  “Is this true?” Tamsyn asked Mr. Flowers. Her voice was raspy. “Kit signed the papers. The fortune rightfully belongs to him.”

  “There is a postscript to the late Lord Somerby’s letter, intended for my eyes.” The solicitor pointed to a few lines at the bottom of the missive. “It declares all other documents relating to the financial holdings to be null and void without Lord Blakemere’s signature here.”

  Kit looked at his wife, the woman he barely knew, and yet who was the key to giving him what he most desired. Either he signed and had her managing his fortune, or he didn’t sign and the money went to someone else.

  “We didn’t quite take this situation into account, did we?” Kit said wryly to Tamsyn.

  Her face was still chalky as she gazed at him. “I didn’t know such a thing was possible.”

  “I imagine there will be some . . . negotiations,” he answered carefully.

  “Will you sign?” she wondered.

  “Better to have my money in your hands than in someone else’s possession.”

  He rose and grabbed the quill from its stand. He scrawled his name along the lower edge of the letter, then returned the quill to the stand, his hand feeling a thousand miles away.

  “There,” he said and exhaled. “It’s done.”

  The solicitor said, “I’m certain the two of you will come to an amicable arrangement.”

  Kit sank down in the chair, rubbing at his temple. “You can buy yourself that curricle now,” he said to Tamsyn. “You don’t need me to approve your purchases. I, however, appear to need you.”

  “I suppose you do,” she said, looking appalled.

  A leaden weight settled in his chest. This marriage was supposed to be convenient for both of them, but now everything had been thrown into chaos.

  Would his dreams of the future come to nothing, now that he had to ask his wife for every penny? The cost of the pleasure garden was considerable and would eat up most of their newfound annual income. Very likely, she’d balk at the expense. Most reasonable people would, or at the very least question why he would want to sink such an amount into a folly.

  She’d come from poverty and she had said only today that she held on to money tightly. Tamsyn would never agree to throwing money into a pleasure garden.

  But she had to agree. She had to.

  Whether she wanted it or not, his happiness was in her hands.

  Chapter 11

  Tamsyn felt as though her stays had been laced too tight. She couldn’t catch her breath, and everything squeezed her, harder and harder.

  The carriage seemed impossibly small as they rode back to their new home. Kit brooded across from her, staring moodily out the window while a steady rain fell, turning the streets muddy and slick, and darkening the buildings.

  “You have to know that I had no foreknowledge of this,” she said to Kit.

  “Of course,” he answered distractedly.

  Before they had left Mr. Flowers’s chambers, the solicitor had informed her that on the morrow, a Mr. George Bradley would visit her at home to review documents relating to the fortune and all its holdings. She’d learn precisely how rich she was, which, given Mr. Flowers’s solemnity and Kit’s distance, meant she must be mistress of a great deal of money.

  After nearly a decade in genteel poverty, economizing and watching every cent, making do without, her circumstances had been completely, radically reversed. She didn’t know how to feel. Happy? Appalled? Managing a fortune was entirely new. She was in charge of the money earned through smuggling, but that was likely a pittance compared to the earnings of the title and its holdings.

  But to review and approve Kit’s purchases? Could she do it?

  She had no choice. They would need to figure out some way to traverse this unknown territory.

  She watched London scroll past, dirty and cold. Clearly, Lord Somerby thought that his actions would yield a positive result. A husband had all the power in a marriage—but that had been inverted. Kit had to be as baffled as she was.

  Somehow, they would need to manage this new paradigm.

  The carriage came to a stop outside the town house on Bruton Street. A foot
man opened the door to the vehicle, and with his help, Tamsyn alighted. Kit followed, but he seemed deeply distracted. Instead of offering her his arm, he drifted up the front steps and into the house.

  Their lives were inexorably intertwined now. Precisely the opposite of what she had wanted going into this marriage. She had hoped for polite disinterest; instead, it could shift into a bitter attachment.

  She hurried from the carriage to the foyer, dodging the rain. Inside, she gave her hat and bonnet to a waiting footman. She briefly considered going in search of Kit before rejecting that notion. He likely wanted to be alone right now, and pursuing him could create tension between them.

  “Send my maid to me,” she said to the footman. “I’ll be in my room.”

  Slowly, she made her way up the stairs. Candles had been lit to combat the cloudy gloom outside, but they barely penetrated the dimness. A surprising wave of homesickness struck her and her heart felt leaden. If only she could roam the seaside cliffs as she longed to do, taking consolation in the ceaseless rhythm of the ocean as it pounded the shore. When the pressures of shouldering the village’s burdens became too much, she often went on daylong rambles, losing herself in the eternal Cornish countryside. She didn’t know her way around London, and the endless, dangerous city would give her no comfort tonight.

  She reached her room, where a low fire burned, and drifted inside to stand at the window to watch the raindrops course down the glass and obscure her view of the garden.

  “I heard the master came wandering in as distracted as a cloud,” Nessa said as she entered, shutting the door behind her. “Didn’t talk to nobody, just went to his chamber and shut the door.”

  Tamsyn turned to face her friend. She planted her hands on her hips. Briefly, she explained what happened at the solicitor’s office.

  Nessa walked to one of the chairs by the fire, then sank down into it. Her expression was opaque, until it cleared.

  She beamed at Tamsyn.

  “But this news is first-rate,” she exclaimed.

  “I cannot see how,” Tamsyn answered grimly. “Kit and I will have to be in each other’s pockets.”