by Regina Scott
Donna Hatch is the award-winning author of the best-selling "Rogue Hearts Series." She discovered her writing passion at the tender age of eight and has been listening to those voices ever since. A sought-after workshop presenter, she juggles her day job, freelance editing, multiple volunteer positions, not to mention her six children (seven, counting her husband), and still manages to make time to write. Yes, writing IS an obsession. A native of Arizona, she and her husband of over twenty years are living proof that there really is a happily ever after.
For sneak peeks, specials, deleted scenes, and more information, visit Donna’s website: www.donnahatch.com.
Twitter: @DonnaHatch
Chapter One
Somerset, England 1811
Edward Downy considered house parties a particularly inhumane method of torture. He enjoyed company, conversation, a bit of sport, and a fortnight or so of finer meals than his meager means supplied, but he’d not yet attended one of these gatherings in which the guests did not, at some point, descend into a comparison, however subtle, of one another’s estates, incomes, and positions in Society. Edward would inherit his father’s estate in all its charming inability to prove profitable, an income which seldom fell on the preferable side of zero, and a place in Society that had slipped with each generation.
House parties were not for the poverty-stricken nor faint of heart.
Yet when an invitation arrived at Downy House requesting the presence of Edward and his younger brother, Tom, at a three weeks’ long gathering hosted by Mr. and Mrs. Warrick in Somerset, Edward found himself unhappily obliged to accept. The brothers had been granted their usual two weeks in London, an indulgence which he knew full well placed a financial burden on his parents. To be relieved of the need to feed them both for nearly a month seemed the least he could offer in acknowledgement of their kindness.
So Edward packed his finest clothes and least-worn pocket handkerchiefs as well as a small stack of his favorite books, and resigned himself to being quite ceaselessly tortured.
Tom was not so low-spirited. He never was. One might be excused for thinking him dim-witted or naïve. Tom was neither; he simply didn’t bother to dwell on the harsh aspects of reality and found enjoyment in whatever he could. Edward had always envied him that a little. He, himself, was too often overly aware of the hopelessness of the family’s situation.
“Do you suppose any beautiful ladies will be included in the numbers?” Tom asked, peering out the window as the carriage rolled up the long, pebbled drive. An afternoon rain had made the journey impossible to complete on horseback—more was the pity.
“Beautiful ladies are always included in the numbers,” Edward said. He couldn’t rightly say whether or not that was a point in favor of these parties. Though his prospects were too dismal to make him a good match in any lady’s eye—let alone her parents’—a light flirtation now and then, a dance or two at a ball, couldn’t help but lift his spirits. He could enjoy the game, as it were, even knowing he would never be the victor.
“I, for one, am fully prepared to spend this fortnight breaking a heart or two,” Tom declared.
“Careful, brother. One of those hearts you injure might be your own.”
Tom gave him a look of dry rebuke. “Younger sons know better than to let their hearts grow attached to anyone or anything. I am in no danger, I assure you.”
“And I assure you,” Edward countered, “that impoverished eldest sons learn the same harsh lesson very quickly.”
“Quite the pair, we two.” Tom returned his attention to the fast-approaching house. “I hate to say it, but I suspect we are here merely to round out the numbers.”
“Why else are the poor but genteel included in such things?”
It stood to reason, really, that he’d lost his taste for house parties. He was always invited as an afterthought, as assurance to the hostess that her table would be evenly set. The only difference between him and the chairs themselves was that he breathed and had a pulse. One generally wished to be valued for more than that.
Edward assumed his best manners as they were ushered into the house and directly to the drawing room. An oddity, that. Guests were always afforded time in their assigned bedchamber to recover from their journey. A quick glance around the room told him that he and Tom were not the only ones to be treated to the same unusual reception.
“Downy,” a familiar voice greeted him.
Turning, Edward discovered a good friend, John Isley, with whom he’d shared the dubious honor of occupying the bottom-most rung of social distinction amongst their peer group at Eton. Finances had not improved much for either of them over the years.
“I didn’t realize you were acquainted with the Warricks,” Isley said.
“Vaguely. Mother required a quick skimming of Debrett’s before she could entirely place them. Her creative ability was put firmly to the test in making any sort of connection between our families.”
Isley chuckled. “My mother didn’t even try. ‘They’re kin to the Earl of Garrismond,’ she said. And that was the end of any arguing.”
“Wasn’t Harold Barton connected to Garrismond in some roundabout way?” Edward asked, a faint recollection from their school days surfacing at the reference to the earl.
“Indeed, which made me even more loath to meet more of His Lordship’s family.”
Edward slapped his friend on the shoulder. “I thought I was to be the only penniless wretch foisted upon the gathering, excepting Tom, of course.”
“That is the truly odd thing.” Isley made a quick, subtle motion toward the rest of the crowd. “I’ve watched the new arrivals this past hour and noticed something unexpected. Eye their cuffs and neckcloths and the elbows of the men’s jackets. Then take a gander at the ladies’ gloves and hems.”
Edward made a quick assessment and knew immediately what his friend had noticed. “Frayed, threadbare, mended.”
“Precisely. I’ve not seen a single guest who does not show the signs of impending insolvency.” He held his hands up, revealing his own frayed cuffs. “I know the symptoms well.”
Edward mimicked the gesture. “As do I.”
Tom arrived on the scene in precisely that moment. He held his hands up the same way they were. “Is this some social custom I’ve not heard of yet?”
Edward eyed the thin elbows of his brother’s jacket, then met Isley’s gaze. “All the symptoms.”
Isley laughed silently.
“Perhaps we’ve all been gathered here to contain the epidemic.” Edward looked over the crowd once more. His gaze, however, remained overly long on one particular guest.
She wore a simple traveling dress. Her dark hair was pulled up in an uncomplicated style that might easily have been created without the help of a maid. Her posture and manner was that of a person accustomed to going unnoticed, though there was nothing truly timid in it. She ought not to have drawn his attention at all, being surrounded by ladies and gentlemen of identical circumstances, but he couldn’t immediately look away.
Whilst most of the gathering stood about in harried conversation, clearly frantic to make some sense of having been herded so unceremoniously into the drawing room, she kept her own company, her patience not appearing the least strained. She was calm in the face of chaos, tranquil despite the crush. She seemed entirely content to simply wait. Her serenity pulled at him, spoke to his own preference for stillness and peace. It was such a rare thing in Society, which thrived on a constant whirl of business, of coming and going, of proving one’s worth by how many people and things required one’s attention.
Isley interrupted his thoughts with a whispered, but pointed, comment. “I don’t know whether you’ve spied a particularly tempting decanter of port hidden somewhere across the room or a particularly pretty face, but either way I would appreciate being enlightened.”
“Simply attempting to sort out this guest list.” Why he felt such reluctance to point out the young lady to his good friend, Edward couldn’t righ
tly say. She was a stranger, after all. He didn’t even know her name. To feel a protective instinct for an utter stranger made little sense—it was entirely possible she didn’t need him shielding her from others’ attention—yet he couldn’t deny that he felt precisely that.
“Sort no more, my friend,” Isley said. “I believe our hosts have made an appearance at last.”
A couple, both likely on the far side of their seventies, glided into the room, bedecked in enough lace and jewels to meet the financial needs of the entirety of southwest England, perhaps beyond. What an immediate contrast they made to their guests.
A hush fell immediately over the assembly. All eyes were on the Warricks, who stood but a single step inside the doorway.
“Welcome, one and all.” Mr. Warrick grandly motioned to the crowd, his eyes seeming to take them all in individually. “We are so pleased you could join us for what we have decided is to be our last house party.”
A few obligatory sounds of regret filled the otherwise silent room. Everyone other than the Warricks looked as confused as Edward felt.
“We have grown old, as you no doubt can see,” Mr. Warrick continued. “Our constitutions are not at all what they once were, and hosting gatherings, traveling to and from, has grown too wearying.”
Mrs. Warrick nodded almost regally.
“We have quite carefully chosen those we wished to take part in these farewell festivities.” Mr. Warrick treated them all to a magnanimous smile. “And here you all are.”
“At last,” Mrs. Warrick added.
Something about the display struck Edward as rather orchestrated, as though the speech and postures and expressions of regret had been thoroughly rehearsed to maximize their impact.
“We hardly know them,” Tom whispered. “Why would they specifically invite strangers to their fête d’adieu?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Edward whispered back.
“We hope you will all make yourselves at home,” Mr. Warrick continued. “Enjoy one another’s company and this, no doubt, welcome respite from the weight of your various circumstances.”
The first hints of unease began niggling at the back of Edward’s mind.
“The servants have been instructed not to accept any tokens of acknowledgement from the guests at this house party, so do not feel as though that is necessary.”
They were being told not to leave the expected coins for the servants? Edward had never heard those instructions at any house party.
“We simply want all of you to enjoy yourselves,” Mr. Warrick explained. “Ours has been a very prosperous existence, and we wish to do some good with it while we still can.”
The Warricks had brought together the destitute, the struggling, and the futureless in order to bestow their graciousness upon them all at once. Edward and Tom were not, then, to serve as extra bodies at this party. They had been brought to Somerset to reside at the Society equivalent of the alms house.
“Now, before you are all shown to your rooms, we have one bit of information to pass along,” Mr. Warrick said. “As we never had children of our own and this estate is not subject to an entailment, we are in a position to choose our own heir. At the end of this party, we will do exactly that, from amongst you.”
The silence upon the Warrick’s arrival had been one of curiosity. The silence that followed that pronouncement was one of complete and utter shock.
“We mean to come to know you, to learn more of who you are and from whence you come. We will learn all we can, and then will decide who among you is most suited for, most in need of, most . . . deserving of the fortune we are offering.” Mr. Warrick emphasized the word deserving in an almost sinister voice, as if warning them that they had best do nothing that might bring down upon them the disapproval of their hosts.
“Take time to settle in,” Mrs. Warrick said, smiling at all of them. “We will see you at dinner, which will be served at precisely six o’clock. Precisely.”
They flitted from the room, jewelry clanking and lace fluttering in their wake.
Isley muttered a word generally not spoken in drawing rooms. Tom stood, mouth slightly agape, staring at the spot the Warricks had occupied only a moment ago. Edward’s heart alternately skipped in anticipation and dropped to his toes with dread. The Warrick estate was large, profitable, and, as it turned out, waiting to be claimed.
This Paupers’ House Party had, in an instant, turned into a Battle Royal.
Chapter Two
Agatha Holmwood would have walked directly to nearby Yeovil, climbed on to the first northward traveling mail coach, and returned home. She would have, if the choice had been hers. But, no matter that she was nearing twenty-one and not a dunderhead by anyone’s estimation, she was female and, therefore, hadn’t the slightest control over her comings and goings.
Thus, rather than take a jaunt to Yeovil and have a gander at their famous gloves before hying herself home, Agatha instead stood in the bedchamber assigned to her father, watching him pace and awaiting his decision.
“Estimates place the Warrick estate’s value considerably higher than that of Birchall.” Father compared every family’s estate, income, and standing to that of Birchall, the finest home in their neighborhood.
Birchall, of course, didn’t come near the stateliness of Chatsworth or Lyme Park or Attingham, but it was the jewel of the western-most corner of the northwestern-most tip of Shropshire, a distinction which meant a great deal to at least a dozen people. How could Agatha fail to recognize the importance of the Birchall measuring standard?
“Do the estimates include the silver, Father? Because I would point out we have not yet seen that.” She lowered her voice and whispered somberly, “It might be plate.”
Father was quick to correct that idea. “Plate? In a house of this size?” No one in her family had ever understood or shared her sense of humor.
Agatha made a vague sound of acknowledgement, knowing that was most likely to convince her father to continue on with whatever he meant to tell her.
Father clasped his hands behind his back as he made yet another circuit of the room. “I’ve been speaking with some of the others, and consensus seems to be that the Warricks are looking for an heir who is young, your generation and not mine.”
Agatha nodded solemnly. “One does not wish for an heir with a foot in the grave.”
“A foot in the grave?” Father’s eyes pulled wide, and his gaze fell on her once more. “How old do you think I am, young lady?”
“Why, you must be very nearly forty.” She emphasized the final word with just the right amount of horrified amazement. She knew perfectly well her father was fast approaching fifty, but teasing her family members, even if they didn’t understand her jests, was far too diverting a pastime to give up.
Father shook his head and pressed forward with the topic at hand. He would wear a path in the rug with all his pacing. “Everyone is convinced the Warricks will choose a young person as heir, but there is no consensus as to whether they will prefer a male or a female.”
Agatha managed not to roll her eyes. How was this part of the Warricks’ puzzle even up for debate? In matters of inheritance, finance, opportunities—in all matters, really—a male was always preferred. It was the way of the world.
“There is only one thing to be done, Father. We will return home and allow the young gentlemen to their sport.”
“Sport?” Father eyed her with confusion once more. “I hadn’t heard there was to be sport today. The season isn’t right for birds or foxes.”
“But the season is ideal for sniffing out an inheritance,” Agatha responded.
“I had hoped you would feel that way.” Not only had he missed the note of sarcasm in her tone, an eagerness entered his eyes that left her immediately wary. “With this bequest, you would have a dowry that could fetch you a very well-heeled husband from the highest ranks of Society.”
“Or a fortune hunter,” she countered.
“Nonsense. We
could afford to be fastidious, Agatha. This estate and the income from it would win you a husband who would open doors for the rest of the family.” Father’s eyes took on an almost desperate glow. “Your sisters could marry. Our home and lands could be put to rights. Your brother would at last have some expectation of an income. You could save us all.”
“So long as you haven’t allowed your hopes to reach inadvisable heights,” Agatha said dryly.
“I am glad we agree. Come sit.” Father pointed to the window seat.
She obeyed. He, however, didn’t stop his pacing for even a moment. She might have to win this inheritance simply so they wouldn’t have to pay to repair the flooring.
“We do not know yet which of the Warricks will have the most say over the final decision.” Father spoke matter-of-factly. Clearly, her participation in the contest the Warricks were hosting was a foregone conclusion in his mind. “Generally, one would assume the husband would have the most influence on financial matters, but I have known enough marriages in which that was not the case to make me wary of simply accepting that assumption. We, therefore, need to decide which of the two you are most likely to influence.”
“Which of them is most likely to be won over by a plum pudding? I make a delicious plum pudding.”
Father waved that suggestion aside. “They have a fine cook, I’m certain. And all the pudding they could wish for.”
“Pie, then?”
“I think we can safely rule out food-based strategies, Agatha.” Father spoke with tried patience. His fingers tapped against each other behind his back. His brow pulled low. “They are looking for an heir, someone to care for the estate after they’ve passed on in the way they would wish for it to be looked after. They want someone who feels like family.”
“In that case,” she assumed her most ponderous tone, “my best approach would be to disagree with them about trivial things, consider it a disproportionately personal slight, and then rehash the argument at inopportune moments.”