Winthrop Trilogy Box Set

by Burnett, May

  “He tried – but did he succeed? How bad is my wound?”

  “It seems to be healing well so far. The physician says your chances of a recovery are better than even at this point. Right after the shot the prognosis was rather worse, I gather. I forbid you to die, North.” She sounded more vehement than he’d ever heard her.

  “I’ll do my best,” he promised. “I don’t want to leave you, now that I have so much to lose.”

  “Oh, North! I feel the same – and I want you back in Ulmsbury where you belong.”

  “I have been shot twice before, and healed fairly fast,” he told her, “you have seen the scars on my battered body. I see no reason why I should succumb this time. What of Milla? Did you bring her with you?”

  “Yes, both she and Abigail are here with me. Milla is even now at a milliner’s shop, for a fitting of her widow’s weeds. She seems almost happy. Abigail and Jeremy both urged her to keep up appearances, and she seems willing enough to dress up in black. Jeremy sent a notice of her marriage, and another of Fenton’s death, to the Morning Post, to appear on subsequent days. Milla herself seems to consider the whole thing as a game. I worry about her, but all that can wait until you recover, love.”

  They looked at each other in silence for a long moment.

  “When you asked me to marry you,” North said, “the money alone would not have decided me, in fact the thought that you imputed such mercenary motives to me nearly made me refuse.”

  “I know – it was your chivalrous impulse to help a lady in distress. I knew it at the time. Thank you, North, for being there for me, then and since. I find I need you for my comfort and happiness. When I heard you were mortally wounded, I bitterly regretted that I had never told you that I love you. I do, with all my heart.”

  “I have been equally reticent, because it would be pathetic indeed to be the only one in love. If this wound made us finally overcome our reluctance to confess our feelings, maybe it was not an altogether bad thing.”

  Susan shook her head, indignant at the very notion. “Nonsense. We would have spoken sooner or later what we had come to feel towards each other.”

  North wondered about that, but did not contradict her. “I believe a kiss from my wife might speed up the healing process. Too bad that I’m not yet in shape for more.”

  “If that is the direction of your thoughts, you put my mind at ease.” Susan pressed a sweet kiss on his pale lips. “I shall remain at your side to make quite sure of your recovery. But this had better be the last time you come so close to death, at least until we are great-grandparents.”

  “I’ll be careful if you promise the same.” The thought of a dangerous childbirth in just a few months’ time already made him nervous. “If you don’t want to lose me, it would be far worse for me to lose you. Without you, I don’t see any prospect of happiness.”

  “Good. I hope you say the same forty years from now.” Susan dispensed another kiss, unprompted, as the door burst open and Jeremy came in.

  “How is he – oh, are you awake, North? And your gaze seems clear and rational. I am glad.”

  “Yes, two widows in the family, from one duel, would be a bit much,” North said. “Fortunately I am hardy, and tend to heal quickly. Fenton did not finish me off, even though he tried his best.”

  “Probably because of the quick turn he had to make,” Jeremy speculated. “Considering he had to shoot without sighting carefully, he came close enough to finishing you.”

  “It depends how much practice he had at this kind of fast shooting,” North said judiciously. “In the army, we had riflemen who routinely combined accuracy with such speed of aiming.”

  “Had Fenton gone into the army, his bloodthirstiness at least would have been put to some use,” Jeremy said.

  “Bloodthirstiness and vindictiveness are not qualities you want in a good officer. He could have created far more damage in a responsible position,” North objected.

  “I suppose you would know.”

  “Where is Abigail?” Susan enquired.

  “With Milla, advising on her mourning clothes. These two get on surprisingly well, when you consider how different they are.”

  “I had noticed,” Susan said. “Abigail is not the intruder who threw Milla off the perch as the chatelaine of Ulmsbury castle. I fear there is nothing I can do to make Milla forget that.”

  “You have already wrought a great transformation in my sister,” North pointed out, “in getting her to dress like a young lady, and attempt to be a member of society. Considering how short a time you have been here, I would call that a success.”

  Susan bit her lips. “Maybe, but it’s all a charade, a disguise for her; like an actress’s part in the theatre. She just plays at being a lady.”

  “If you play a role long enough, it becomes part of your nature,” Jeremy pointed out. “After a year or two of playing at the widowed Lady Fenton, Milla may be much more thoroughly transformed than she now expects, or would be comfortable contemplating. She is already formidable, considering her youth. Once she adds those other skills to her arsenal she’ll be a woman to reckon with. I don’t think you need to worry for her too much.”

  “I hope you are right,” North said. “Susan and I had better keep an eye on her, in any case.”

  The door opened again, and Milla herself entered, with Abigail behind her. Milla was wearing an elegant black dress that brought out her vivid colouring, trimmed with jet beads.

  “You are better – I am glad,” she said, looking at her brother only and ignoring the others. “When will you be able to go back to Ulmsbury?”

  North looked questioningly at Susan, who shrugged. “The physician was noncommittal. At least a week, I suppose, if all goes well.”

  “Oh, good,” Milla said. “The other clothes won’t be ready until Monday.”

  “How many did you order?” North asked suspiciously.

  “A whole wardrobe, of course. I understand I have to wear black for at least a year, and possibly two, and none of my own things are in that colour.”

  “We’d better write to Fenton’s solicitors,” Jeremy said, “so you can support your new wardrobe and lifestyle, my lady.”

  “I already have,” Milla said, to general surprise. “Written to them, with a copy of my marriage lines. I expect to hear back within days.”

  “Fenton may have written a will disinheriting you completely,” Susan warned. “It would be just like him.”

  Milla smiled fleetingly. “If so, nobody will ever find it.” North stared at her and was met with a bland look. What did she mean – had she rifled Fenton’s papers and possessions? Destroyed whatever did not suit her interests? He would not put it past her.

  “Don’t worry about it, Lord Northcote, you need to focus on your recovery,” Abigail advised him in her soft voice. “I think that Fenton’s estate does owe your family some restitution. Milla told me her older brother gambled away her dowry. Now you don’t need to use Susan’s money to replace it. I call it poetic justice.”

  “He owed restitution to others more than to Milla,” Susan said. “The money was never important.”

  “Maybe not to you, who has never lacked it, but it is very important to me,” Milla objected. “What do you mean, Fenton owed restitution to others more? Do you mean North, for getting shot?”

  “He and others,” Susan said evasively. “But some things cannot be atoned for with money.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Milla declared. “I mean to enjoy every penny I can wring out Lord Fenton’s estate.”

  Susan and North exchanged a look of mingled amusement and dismay.

  “And Abigail will help me do so,” Milla went on. “I shall need a respectable female companion. She is not happy with her stepmother. What should be more natural than that she come with me, helping me go on in my new role?”

  “Abigail – did you really consent to this?” Susan asked. “You know you will always have a home with us! And your father may not like your tak
ing what amounts to paid employment. There is no need for you to do this.”

  “Milla needs me more than you do,” Abigail said. “You have already done enough. I don’t plan to live with Milla forever. But a year or two – the first will have to be quiet, under deep morning, and perhaps one season after that – should see her safely afloat in society. My father has no say, as he is not here and left me with a woman who made my life very difficult.”

  “You have an alternative, Miss Trevelyan,” Jeremy said. “Are you quite sure you prefer this?” Could this mean what it sounded like? North had not noticed any particular closeness between Abigail and his brother-in-law.

  Abigail smiled at Jeremy. “I need time to come to terms with all that has happened, before I can look forward to remaking my own life. This interval will suit me very well.”

  “You are tiring North,” Susan told the others. “We can continue this discussion some other time. Out now!”

  North was amused at how meekly they obeyed, even Milla.

  “I am not as exhausted as all that,” he said mildly when they were private again.

  “Good. Then maybe you can kiss me back this time,” Susan said, sitting at the rim of his mattress and tenderly cupping his unshaven cheek in her soft hand. “And I want to hear it again. I shall never tire of hearing it.”

  North smiled. “I love you, Susan.” This time there was no doubt – a tiny tear was sparkling in her eye. “No need to cry over it, darling.”

  “Let’s make a new bargain,” she said, emerging from the kiss, “not dowry for respectability, but love for love. As it should have been from the beginning.”

  “No need to spell it out – that bargain is sealed and concluded, my dear. The terms are forever and a day.”

  “I’m glad you understand that,” she smiled. “So hurry up and get well! There is so much yet to do…”

  The End

  Lord Fenton’s Revenge

  A Regency Romance

  May Burnett

  Prologue

  Against expectation the landlady had kept his shabby valise, tucked away in the attic. He changed into a clean shirt after washing with cold water. The garment hung loosely over his prominent ribs and pale skin. Even so he was glad to have it. When you were hanging on by your fingernails, every little benefit counted. Maybe his luck was changing at last.

  “There’s a letter, it came soon after you were gone,” the landlady said. “Franked with someone’s signature.”

  That was a privilege of M.P.s and peers; he knew none of the former, and the only lord of his acquaintance was dead, shot in a duel nearly two years earlier. Not that it was any surprise Richard had come to a bad end. He had been riding for a fall, and was no great loss to anyone.

  The envelope, thicker than the ordinary single sheet, proved to be from the dead man. The first and last he would ever receive from the Viscount. He broke the seal and found a second, folded document tucked inside.

  Under the landlady’s curious gaze, he felt strangely reluctant to read Richard’s message. Nothing good ever came from that source. But he could not afford such qualms.

  When he had read and re-read both documents he began to laugh, harshly, bitterly. They represented a way out of his grinding poverty, at a price. He might have known. Lord Fenton’s favours always carried a sting in the tail.

  But the man was no longer around to watch that his wishes were carried out to the letter. It would be a pleasure to cross him, even now – was there a way to get the benefit without doing his bidding? Richard had always underestimated those he deemed his inferiors, the vast majority of men and all women. Now he was dead, it should not be too hard to outwit him.

  What would Fenton’s widow be like? He suppressed his first instinct of pity. She must count herself lucky to have survived marriage to that handsome monster. For all he knew she was no better than her late husband.

  “Is it good news?” the landlady asked hopefully. He still owed her two guineas from his previous stay. She had a stake in the outcome too.

  “Possibly.” He folded the papers up carefully, and tucked them back into the valise. “It seems I was left a small legacy, but it may take some time to get my hands on it.”

  “Wonderful.” She looked dubious, however, as well she might – she had known his late mother and was aware that he had no family to leave him any inheritance, not even a true name.

  When she left him at last in his cramped room, he pulled out the unexpected letter, reread it again and thought furiously. All his life he had disliked aristocrats with their heedless arrogance, their unearned wealth and other advantages. Fenton might have been the worst of the lot, but most of his class were only marginally better. This letter offered a chance to take away a small part of that wealth, and deal some well merited punishment in the process.

  No, these lords and ladies deserved no pity or sympathy. Nobody had ever shown any to him, after all.

  Before he could formulate a plan the door opened, without any knock. He might have known that the landlady would blab. He had not been fast enough…curse it.

  “Where is that letter you got? Let me have a look.” The familiar voice was almost urbane, but the threat was implicit.

  He had an impulse to deny the letter’s existence, to flee before he got further entangled, but it would have done no good. Weakened from his long time in prison he was no match for his visitor. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut earlier?

  Too late now.

  Chapter 1

  Dorset, 1819

  The breakfast room in the dower house on Lord Fenton’s estate was quiet. The two ladies residing there were intent on their correspondence and food.

  Abigail eyed the widowed Lady Fenton sideways as she slit open an envelope with a miniature dagger. There was a smug line to Milla’s pretty mouth that roused her worst suspicions. I am not her guardian, she thought, merely her companion. And friend, insofar as the farouche girl allowed it. Abigail had done all in her power to soften Milla’s hardness even as she worked on her manners and fashion sense, but for every success there was some corresponding relapse. Such as now.

  “What have you been up to, Milla? Don’t deny it; I can see in your face that you have done something unladylike.”

  Camilla Molton, Lady Fenton, dabbed butter on her toast with utter unconcern. She had been widowed for almost two full years, and yet was still several months shy of twenty. The dark colours of half-mourning only heightened her dramatic beauty. In the sunrays of early May pouring through the lace curtains, Milla looked deceptively civilised.

  “It wasn’t anything terrible, I merely rode out last night. The full moon was so clear that there was little danger. I even wore a veil. A midnight gallop is invigorating when you have to pretend to be a staid widow all day long.”

  Abigail added half a spoonful of sugar to her cup and stirred. It would do no good to sound upset or reproachful. “Did anybody see you?”

  “Not that I could tell.” A mischievous smile lit Milla’s blue eyes. “But one of the grooms told me that there is a legend about a white lady riding at midnight, looking for her lost lover. Not hard to guess where that came from.”

  “So you are creating ghost legends now? Does that mean you have done this before?”

  “Once or twice,” Milla said airily. “Since you won’t allow me enough exercise in the sunlight, I have to take it where I can find it.”

  It was true that the life of an aristocratic widow was hardly what Milla had been used to. After the early death of her parents in a boating accident, she had grown up more or less abandoned and penniless in her family’s crumbling castle on the Cornwall coast. She had sailed and fished daily, not for sport but to avoid actual hunger. The abundance of physical energy that had served her so well in those days was still in evidence despite her current, more sedentary lifestyle. At least that unfashionable tan was gone at long last.

  “You make me sound like a jailer, Milla. We do ride or walk every day, weather permitting
.”

  “That is all very well, but you scold whenever I race at full speed. What fun is riding like a slug? My mare feels as I do. An Arabian is not made for decorous trotting, and neither am I.”

  “Let’s just hope neither your mare nor you break a leg, or your neck.” Abigail glanced at the letter before her – one of her duties was to act as Milla’s secretary. It contained a lengthy, impassioned plea for a contribution to a new orphanage. She put the missive aside, to answer later. If additional enquiries resulted in a positive report about the venture she would send a large contribution. They had set a part of Milla’s ample income aside for charity, after Abigail had explained that generosity was expected from a rich lady, and could only benefit Lady Fenton’s reputation. Three more letters awaited her attention. She downed a mouthful of her rapidly cooling tea before taking up the next envelope.

  “Only a few more weeks until the second year of my blasted widowhood is over,” Milla said. “I cannot wait. A lifetime of rural isolation is finally going to end. Don’t you feel impatient to go back to London, Abigail? Not that I don’t appreciate your willingness to keep me company here. I don’t know how I would have managed without you.”

  Impatient? Abigail would have put the return to town off forever, were it up to her. London held no happy memories. Moving amongst fashionable society as a chubby wallflower had been crushing to her pride and spirit. That her closest friend had been a celebrated beauty and heiress had driven the contrast home even more painfully. Now that she had given up all thought of marriage, Abigail saw no reason in the world to expose herself to all that bother again.

  “Most women would consider two years of luxurious quiet and reflection a small price for the fortune you inherited,” she told Milla drily. “Soon you can go up to town on your own terms. Unlike the daughters of even the noblest families, you do not need to look for a husband to support you – or marry again unless you actually wish it. In the meantime there are your horses, and various other pursuits. Most of our neighbours will be happy when we leave for London, but not me.” Milla had been encouraging the local tenants to defend their ancient foraging rights against the landlords’ enclosures, and financially supported a lawsuit against the interests of her own class. Abigail was never sure if Milla acted on principle or out of pure mischief. Probably the latter.