The Fall of Lord Drayson (Tanglewood Book 1)

by Rachael Anderson

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Dear Reader

  Other Books by Rachael Anderson

  About Rachael Anderson

  Acknowledgements

  © 2016 Rachael Anderson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real. The opinions and views expressed herein belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions or views of HEA Publishing, LLC. Permission for the use of sources, graphics, and photos is also solely the responsibility of the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-941363-17-1

  Published by HEA Publishing

  Oh, what a tangled web we weave

  When first we practise to deceive!

  —Sir Walter Scott, Marmion

  Miss Lucy Beresford, the late-vicar’s daughter, had been instructed by her loving parents to always tell the truth. It was the good and moral thing to do, and Lucy doted on them, so she had striven to follow the wise counsel. The last time she had fibbed to her parents was at the young age of eleven, when she had returned home quite disheveled after a disheartening grasshopper race.

  Young ladies of good breeding did not catch, race, or wager on grasshoppers with the farmer’s sons. That would be most unseemly, as Lucy well knew, which was why she explained to her mother that she had found a small bird stuck in a marsh and had muddied her skirts in an attempt to free it. The lie worked beautifully until Johnny’s papa had dragged Johnny to the vicarage to force an apology and return the guinea Lucy had wagered and lost when her grasshopper decided it would rather sunbathe than hop.

  The lie thus exposed, Mr. and Mrs. Beresford did not scold or exact any sort of punishment. Mr. Beresford had merely looked upon his daughter with a sad countenance and said, “I am deeply disappointed in you, Lucille.”

  He had used her full name—he never used her full name—and Lucy had never felt more awful. From that moment on, she had determined to refrain from telling another falsehood as long as she lived.

  Eight years later, at the ripe age of nineteen, Lucy prided herself on holding true to that promise, although certain situations did require some creative truth-telling. Such was the case the day Lucy spotted Mrs. Manning emerging from the milliner’s wearing a new bonnet. The creation had an exceptionally large poke that fanned around Mrs. Manning’s thin and angular face, and with the added variegated blue feathers splaying out in all directions, the woman looked a bit like a peacock on display.

  She spotted Lucy and rushed to her side. “What do you think of my new hat, Lucy? It only just arrived from London, where it is all the rage, I hear.”

  Rather than tell Mrs. Manning the thing ought to be sent back to London straightaway, Lucy responded with warmth. “It is quite sensational, Mrs. Manning. I’ll wager you will be the center of attention wherever you go.”

  Beaming, Mrs. Manning patted Lucy’s hand. “You are always such a dear.” She pranced away, wearing a ghastly bonnet and a radiant smile.

  Lucy continued on with a smile of her own, happy in the knowledge that she could still be counted among the truthful. Her father, had he still been alive, would have been proud.

  Not two days later, on a dreary March morning, Miss Lucy Beresford had the misfortune of encountering a gentleman who provoked Lucy into doing something that would greatly distress her mother and cause her father to roll over in his grave.

  For the first time since Lucy had made her vow eight years prior, creative story-telling wouldn’t do, nor a little white lie either. No, what came out of Lucy’s mouth was nothing less than a plunker.

  “Sell?” Erasmus Graham, the long-time bailiff of Tanglewood, abruptly pulled on the reins, bringing his grey to a halt. His bushy eyebrows mashed together over bulging eyes. “You want to sell Tanglewood, my lord?”

  “I believe that is what I said, yes.” Colin Cavendish, the fifth Earl of Drayson, pulled the brim of his beaver hat lower over his forehead to better protect his face against the freezing rain. Even through his heavy riding coat, his body began to chill. Perhaps he should not have sent his valet ahead to London earlier that morning. If the skies had not looked so welcoming only hours before, he would not have done so. Wet clothes were deucedly difficult to remove without assistance.

  Colin sighed and looked out over the vast estate, wondering what his grandfather had first seen in the austere and unwelcoming property. Under the thick smothering of clouds, the massive stone edifice, Tanglewood Manor, glistened in the drizzle between overgrown trees. The picture it created suffocated him, and Colin felt the sudden need to loosen his necktie.

  No wonder his mother had insisted on raising her children in the family’s charming country estate in Danbury, Essex.

  “Sir, this house has been in your family for four generations. Your father once climbed those trees and fished from the streams yonder. And now you wish to sell?” Erasmus continued to gape, even though his hat offered little protection from the rain.

  “It is not entailed, so yes, that is precisely what I intend to do.” The earl gestured to the manor house. “The few servants we have retained are not able to keep it up, the estate is only barely profitable, and Yorkshire is a far cry from Essex. No one in the family has lived here in ages, and the neglect is obvious. We need to sell while we still can.”

  “You could return for a time and renovate,” the bailiff tried.

  “For what purpose? So it can remain vacant for twenty years more?”

  “What of The Honorable James? Or Lady Charlotte or Lady Harriett? Do none of your siblings wish to retain it?”

  The earl smiled grimly at the image of Charlotte ensconced here—a two-day drive from London. She would consider it the worst sort of entrapment. “Charlotte and James prefer the polish and glamour of the city, and Harriett, like our mother, enjoys Danbury.”

  “If Lady Harriett prefers the country, perhaps—”

  “My mother would never hear of it, Erasmus. It is too far from Danbury. And surely you remember Lady Drayson well enough to know how convincing she can be. It was her persistence, after all, that removed my family from Askern in the first place. It is of no use arguing. Like it or not, Tanglewood will soon be sold and off my hands.”

  Erasmus shifted in his saddle and heaved a heavy sigh. “I was certain you had come with happier tidings, my lord. Why make such a long trip only to instruct me t
o sell?”

  The earl’s Arabian danced to the side, no doubt anxious to be out of the rain as well. “I had some business in Lancashire, so it wasn’t too arduous a journey. And, as you stated before, this place meant something to my father and grandfather, so I suppose I wanted to see for myself if it inspired any sympathetic stirrings. Unfortunately, one glance was all it took to convince me that I’m right. Tanglewood has served its purpose in my family history, and it is past time to see that it stays there. For your sake, I truly am sorry, but I’m certain I can convince the buyer to keep you on. You have served our family most faithfully.”

  “If I had done a better job, perhaps you would not be so anxious to be rid of it.”

  The earl was ready to leave the rain behind and move this meeting indoors. “Come now, Erasmus, do not add to the dreariness of the day with such self-pitying thoughts. You could have done nothing more for this place, as you well know.”

  The man swiped a soaked sleeve across his forehead, smearing the rain and sweeping his eyebrows into miniature Brutuses. “It is not myself I’m sorry for, my lord. What of Mrs. and Miss Beresford? What will become of them?”

  The names meant nothing to Colin. “Who?”

  “The late vicar’s wife and daughter. They are currently occupying the dower house.”

  “What?” Colin’s Arabian whinnied, making its impatience known, but the earl no longer cared about the cold. He pulled on the reigns to keep his horse steady. “Who authorized such an arrangement?”

  “Two years past, when the reverend contracted a disease of the lungs and died, your father offered the dower house to his widow and daughter. They have been residing there since.”

  “Why have I not heard of this before?” Colin said.

  “My apologies, my lord. I assumed you already knew. Your father—”

  “Was a sentimental fool,” inserted Colin, more than a little annoyed by this latest development.

  “Sir.” The bailiff’s tone was one of reproof.

  The earl dismissed the rebuke with a wave of his soaked glove. “You know as well as I that everyone was fond of my father, including me. But these six month’s past I have been tidying up a rather large mess he left at my door, and when I begin to think it is finally at an end, I discover he has let out the dower house of a property I wish to sell as soon as humanly possible. Even a saint would be vexed, Erasmus, and I am no saint.”

  “I understand, my lord.”

  The earl sighed as he considered his options. This news certainly complicated matters. The Beresford family would have to take up residence elsewhere before the estate could be sold, but how long would that take? “What sort of agreement did Mrs. Beresford make with my father? Is there a written contract of some sort?”

  “No, my lord. Your father gave only his word as a gentleman. He journeyed from Danbury for the funeral, and I shall never forget the sight of him taking Mrs. Beresford’s hand in his and saying, ‘As long as I’m alive, you will have a home in the dower house at Tanglewood.’” The bailiff stared at a copse of trees that the earl could only assume hid the dower house.

  The earl let out a breath. Finally, some good news. “So nothing in writing then.”

  Erasmus swung his gaze toward the earl, seemingly indifferent to the water dripping in his eyes. “You intend to give them the boot then?”

  “Unless you can find a buyer who is willing to purchase a home with tenants in the dower house, I see no other option.”

  “I shall do my best to find such a buyer, my lord.”

  The earl let out a humorless laugh. “I was only jesting, Erasmus. A buyer like that could take years to find, and I am unwilling to dedicate that sort of time. I have made my decision. The Beresfords will need to make other living arrangements as soon as possible. You may tell them they have a month to vacate the premises.”

  “A month! But, sir—”

  The earl lifted his hand. “Two months then, and there shall be no further argument on that.”

  The bailiff shook his head slowly but forcefully. “I will not do it, my lord. I will not be the one to tell Mrs. Beresford and her daughter they must find somewhere else to live.” The set line of his jaw told the earl that he meant what he said.

  Colin cast him a warning glance. “My father spoke highly of you when he was alive, Erasmus. Do not give me a reason to give you the sack.”

  “I will give myself the sack before I will deliver such news, my lord.”

  The earl blew out a breath as his horse danced anxiously beneath him. “Very well. I am bound for London once we have concluded our business. When I arrive, I will have my barrister draft a letter to—”

  “You are here now, my lord,” said the bailiff. “Why not speed up matters by delivering the news yourself? Your father made the agreement in person. I would think it only right to break it in person.”

  Colin considered the bailiff’s words. It would be a disagreeable conversation to be sure, but not the first he’d experienced. And, as much as the earl hated to admit it, Erasmus was right. The Beresfords deserved to hear the news from him.

  “Very well, Erasmus,” said Colin. “I will deliver the news myself.” Surely, once the earl explained, they would understand why he must sell and why they must move. The matter would be well in hand by nightfall, and he would be that much closer to finally gaining the upper hand on all his newly-acquired holdings.

  On her hands and knees, Lucy scrubbed a particularly stubborn spot on the kitchen floor when the only servant the Beresfords could afford to retain breezed through the back door. Petite and rail-thin, with her blond hair tucked under a worn straw bonnet, Georgina had always been more of a friend than a maid.

  Georgina immediately set down the basket of food she carried and rushed to Lucy’s side. Her skirts were soaked from the rain. “Miss Lucy, ya shouldn’t be doin’ that!”

  Lucy sat back and drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs with air that tasted like it had been stuck inside the kitchen far too long. “What should I be doing, Georgy? Pretending to care about needlepoint or the pianoforte? You know as well as I that I have no drawing room talents, and one person cannot be expected to do everything around here. You work much too hard. It is only right that I should help out once in a while.” Besides, thought Lucy, it was rather interesting to play at being a maid, especially on such a dreary morning as this when she was trapped indoors. With her mother off helping a sister during her confinement, Lucy could do as she pleased, for though Georgy attempted to tell her to behave, she could not insist on it.

  “I work nah ‘arder than anyone else in me position, Miss,” said Georgina, “and ya ‘ave plenty of drawin’ room talents.”

  Lucy raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

  Georgina stood and pulled Lucy to her feet, no doubt attempting to come up with at least one of Lucy’s so-called “talents.”

  “Ya always like a good book, Miss,” came the answer after a time.

  Lucy pressed a finger to her lips in a teasing way. “Shh, Georgy. Do not go spreading that around. I would so hate to be considered a bluestocking.”

  Georgina extracted the scrubbing brush from Lucy’s grip and tossed it on the table. “Better a bluestockin’ than a maid, Miss. And that stain ‘as been there since before I came ’ere. It will not budge, nah matter ’ow ’ard ya scrub. Na take off that apron and cap and try ter be’ave proper-like for once. Word in town is that you’re ter expect a visitor soon. Mr. Graham told me ’isself.”

  Lucy left the apron tied around her waist and rested her palm on the table. “Oh, what fun. Is it a rich, long-lost relative, do you think?”

  “Nah.”

  “A constable on the hunt for an outlaw?”

  Georgina giggled at that. “I think not, Miss.”

  “Perhaps an eligible man who has heard all about my, er . . . talents and delightful personality and is coming to pay court? Yes, I am sure that is it,” Lucy teased as she dusted off her apron. “I think it best to let him see m
e as I really am, don’t you, Georgy?”

  “We can agree on that, Miss,” said the maid as she pulled the cap from Lucy’s head. “Ya always be forgettin’, but you’re the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Beresford.”

  Lucy sighed. “You make me sound very dull indeed.”

  Georgina smiled and patted Lucy’s cheek. “You’re anythin’ but dull, Miss. Na take off that apron. I’m off to fetch some fresh milk from the McCallisters, so mind your manners whilst I’m away, and don’t let anyone in before I get back.”

  “I thought you are to take orders from me and not the other way around,” said Lucy.

  “Not wif your ma away and me the only grown up ’round ’ere.” Georgina’s lips quirked into a grin before she stepped out the door and pulled it closed behind her, leaving Lucy alone in the kitchen.

  Almost instantly, Lucy felt a return of her earlier boredom. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter and her chin in her palms. What now? Perhaps she could walk to the neighboring estate and visit Mr. Shepherd. He was always good for some interesting conversation, although lately he seemed preoccupied with the science of etymology, having recently read a book on the subject, and Lucy had no desire to learn the Latin or Greek origins of words like “candid” and “procure.”

  A loud knock echoed through the house, startling Lucy. Was the mysterious visitor here already? She patted the sides of her hair as she strolled out of the kitchen and down the hall. In the foyer, she drew in a deep breath before pulling open the heavy, wooden door, only to discover a man standing in front of her.

  His eyes caught her attention first. Under the brim of a black beaver, and sandwiched between trimmed side whiskers, they were blue and intelligent, brimming with complexity and mystery.

  He doffed his wet hat, revealing thick and wavy hair the color of molasses. Lucy studied his person, wondering who he was and what business he had with her family.

  “I’m here to see Mrs. Beresford, if you please.” The deep timbre of his voice matched the depth of his eyes, and Lucy was sure she had never beheld such a handsome creature. Tall and broad-shouldered, he was dressed impeccably, from his traveling coat and simple cravat to his perfectly shined riding boots—a sharp contrast to her own untidiness.