by Cheryl Holt
It was very quiet, and as the driver calmed the horses, she peeked out the curtain. A footman emerged from the house to lower the step.
Finally, the door was opened, and Robert rushed out to running feet and boyish whoops of welcome. Then he leaned in and extended his arm to her.
"Come, Anne," he said, "and meet my sons. Come and meet your family."
Ready for anything, she climbed out to begin her new life.
“How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“When will you return?”
"I don't know that, either."
Jordan peered into the worried faces of Johnny and Tim, a still-silent Mary loitering discreetly behind them, and he wished he could provide them with more satisfying answers. He was aware—better than anyone—how awful it was to have the Earl of Kettering as a father. After suffering through so many upheavals in their young lives, they viewed Jordan as a safe port in their personal storm, and it had to be terrifying to watch him prepare to depart, but he had to go.
If it took the rest of his days, he would find Margaret Gray and see her established in the style her fortune mandated. It was his fault that she was missing, that she could be in any dire situation. If it was the last thing he ever did, he would ensure that she was apprised of the peculiar twist of fate that had propelled her from an anonymous, penniless woman to one of great wealth and position.
As Attorney Thumberton worked in the London courts to have the mess with the trust resolved, Jordan had teams of men scouring the countryside, looking for her, but they'd had no luck. She had vanished, leaving no trace as to where she might be.
"When you locate Miss Gray," Tim asked, "will you marry her?"
"Me?" Jordan adjusted the strap on his saddle and smiled. "Marry Miss Gray? Why would you think I would?"
"Mr. Mason says that she's an heiress. If you married her, you'd have plenty of money, so we could stay with you forever."
At the boy's hopeful tone Jordan chuckled, but he shook his head. "No matter what happens, you can stay with me, but no, I would never wed Miss Gray."
"But why?" Johnny pressed. "I heard she's quite pretty."
"She's very pretty," Jordan agreed, "but we would never suit."
The children regarded him as some sort of hero, and he wouldn't diminish their esteem by confessing how he'd actually treated Margaret. He could imagine nothing more wonderful than to have her as his bride, but a marriage between them could never be.
He'd refused her when she was poor, so he could never have her when she was rich. It would be the height of hypocrisy, the pinnacle of pretension, to dream of such an absurd ending. Should he so much as suggest a union to her, she'd laugh herself silly, and he'd never embarrass her—or himself—in such a despicable and pathetic fashion.
He assumed full responsibility for her plight, so duty and honor demanded that he find her for Thumberton, that he guarantee she was informed of her surprising circumstance, that he assist in having her brought to London so she could revel in her elevated condition. But after seeing her arranged in her new life, he'd tactfully disappear.
If he secretly yearned for a different result, his recent actions had proven that he neither deserved nor had he earned a happy resolution.
Struggling to seem calm and unmoved, which was difficult, he turned to the children. Against his will, he'd grown too attached to the three of them, and it was agony tearing himself away.
'Take care of Mary for me," he said, "and behave yourselves for Mr. and Mrs. Mason." Anne and Robert had volunteered to let the children remain with them until Jordan was settled.
"We will," both boys replied.
Jordan knew there was little need to discuss their conduct. They'd been through so much, yet they were extremely reserved and respectful. "Keep yourselves out of trouble."
"We will," they repeated.
There was an awkward hesitation; then Tim tentatively probed “When you’re finished with your search, you will come for us, won't you, sir?"
"I promise I will." They were so dubious, Mary's gaze sharp and distressing, and he added, "I swear it."
He mounted his horse and, with a curt wave, he trotted off, three tiny pairs of eyes boring into his back.
“You have a caller." "A caller?" Margaret frowned at her landlady.
"A gentleman!" the surly woman announced. "Rode up—bold as brass—on a fancy horse that would have cost a normal person a lifetime's wages."
In the eight months Margaret had resided in the boardinghouse, the woman's mood hadn't improved.
"Did he say who he is or what he wants?"
"No, but you know you're not allowed to have male visitors. Learn his purpose, then get rid of him. He's awaiting you down in the parlor."
She stomped out, leaving Margaret to fuss in the quiet. Since she'd left Gray's Manor, it was the first instance where someone had sought her out, and she had no idea who the man could be. The only adults she ever saw were the other female tenants in the house and the parents of her students.
She'd started a small school, where she earned enough money to pay her rent and buy a bit of food, but the fathers of her pupils were laborers and farmers, and none of them would ever be described as a gentleman.
Trudging to the stairs, she felt exposed and notorious in a way she hadn't in a very long while. Her sordid history had been successfully buried, her humiliating affair with Lord Romsey naught but a faint memory. Luckily, there'd been no child as a result of the liaison, so no hint of scandal had trailed after her.
She'd never been questioned about her status as a widow, had never felt uncomfortable with the lie or required to explain herself. As she'd quickly discovered after departing Sussex, there were many poverty-stricken females in the country, all of them attempting to eke out a spot in a world where being alone and adrift was almost viewed as a sin.
In the foyer, she paused. There was a cracked mirror on the wall, and she took stock of her appearance, which she tried not to do too often.
With bathing a luxury that was rarely indulged, she'd cut her beautiful hair. The auburn locks now curled around her shoulders, but they were listless and dull, the sheen having vanished. Her eyes weren't green, but had faded to hazel, as if the emerald shade they'd once been was too vibrant for her reduced situation.
As food was an extravagance, she was much thinner, too, but she refused to feel sorry for herself. Many others were in dire straits much worse than her own. In comparison, she lived like a queen.
At least I have a roof over my head, she mused, even as she realized it was a miserable standard by which to measure her condition.
Sighing, she walked on. It was futile to rue or regret, foolish to gaze into the mirror and yearn to glimpse the woman she used to be.
Ready for anything, she stepped into the parlor, and she nearly collapsed in astonishment. Lord Romsey was standing over by the window, peering out the torn curtain at the muddy street, and at seeing him she couldn't believe the ridiculous spurt of delight she suffered.
Suddenly, she was so happy. She felt as if the sun had popped out from behind a cloud, or that a rain shower had moved on and there was a rainbow in its place.
He was still the tall, dynamic individual he'd been, but he seemed to have lost weight, too, as if the past few months had been hard on him as well, though she couldn't imagine why they would have been. With his garnering Penelope's fortune, he should have beta? ecstatic. Then again, marrying Penelope would make any man wretched.
At remembering how money had swayed him, at how he'd coveted it above all else, her spurt of elation was easy to tamp down. She was reminded of how little she'd meant to him, how little he'd cared.
She couldn't figure out why he'd come, and she wanted him gone before his male company got her evicted.
"Hello, Lord Romsey," she murmured.
He spun slowly, and his expression was so strange. She couldn't decide if it was relief, or surprise, or consternation at how she look
ed—which was vastly changed and much more unkempt than when he'd known her prior.
Although she'd never been wealthy when she was at Gray's Manor, she recollected that earlier period as a time of enormous leisure and affluence. She'd always been washed, groomed, and meticulously attired, even if her clothes hadn't been the highest state of fashion. Now, she just had to make do, and the alterations were blatant and discouraging, but her current predicament couldn't be helped, and if he didn't like it, he could leave.
She wouldn't be ashamed or embarrassed.
"Hello, Margaret." Then, "You've cut your hair."
"Yes."
"You're so ... different."
He faltered, the moment awkward, as he struggled with whether he should cross to her or stay where he was Ultimately, he stayed away, and she knew she should have been thankful for the imposed distance, but an idiotic part of her wished he'd come closer and at least pretended to be glad to see her.
"I was wondering if I'd finally found you," he said.
It was a peculiar comment, one that indicated he'd been searching, when she couldn't conjure a single reason why he might have been.
"You've been looking for me?"
"For months now. Ever since you left."
"I can't fathom why you were."
"I have some news."
"From Sussex?"
"Yes."
The only topic he could have to discuss was Lavinia or Penelope, and the very idea of talking about either of them was so distressing that she wouldn't consider it.
"I don't need to hear any." She gestured toward the door. "So if that's all you came to say, you might as well go."
She hated how the remark sounded. It seemed to imply that she'd been hoping he had a personal motive for the meeting, that he had something special and intimate to communicate, which hadn't been her intent.
He could fall to his knees and pledge his undying devotion, and she wouldn't believe a word he said.
"It's important," he insisted, so he'd probably badger her until she agreed to listen.
"Won't you sit?"
She motioned to the filthy, rickety sofa, and he hesitated, his aversion plain, but he possessed a modicum of courtesy and wouldn't insult her by declining. He perched on the edge of the cushion, while she sat in the chair opposite.
They were silent, and he studied her oddly, unable to tell her what had brought him, and she was frantic for him to get on with it.
Each second in his presence was torture. She had many precious memories, but they'd been doused with doses of cruel reality, and she wouldn't have any of them bubbling to the surface.
She was tired of waiting for him to begin, so she probed, "How is married life treating you?"
"Married life?" He was confused. "Oh, you mean to your cousin."
"Yes." Her smile was so cold that she was amazed her face didn't crack. "I didn't marry her." "You didn't?" "No."
A thousand questions swarmed into her head. Why hadn't he? What had transpired? What had become of Penelope? What was he doing instead? Had he landed himself another heiress?
She crammed the questions—and any possible answers—into a vault in her mind and locked the lid.
She would not ask any of them, for she was truly disinterested as to his replies.
"She married my father," he explained.
"Your father? She chose him over you?"
"Yes. She was eager to be a countess immediately, rather than a mere viscountess."
"I'm not surprised. She was such an impatient child."
She bit down on the urge to giggle, finding it incredibly satisfying that he hadn't gotten what he'd craved, after all.
"What happened to all her money?" she queried. "Is your father spending it as fast as he can?" "She didn't have any money." "Of course, she did. She bragged about it constantly." "Lavinia frittered it away." "Really?"
"Yes, and that's why I must confer with you."
She could barely keep from scoffing aloud. She wouldn't chat about Lavinia and Penelope, didn't want to be apprised of how Lavinia was a squanderer or Penelope a financial drain. Margaret had severed her ties so completely that it was like reading about strangers in the gossip columns.
She didn't care!
"None of this is any of my concern, Lord Romsey." "You used to call me Jordan." "That was a long time ago."
She stared into those blue eyes that had once held her so rapt, and she was astonished to note that he seemed hurt, as if she'd slighted him, and his dismay baffled her.
Had he anticipated a warm welcome? Had he presumed she still had fond feelings? In light of all that had occurred, after how he'd spurned her, how could he assume any affection remained?
He sighed and nodded, accepting the detachment she was determined to maintain.
"Yes," he concurred, "it was a long time ago."
She couldn't abide how he was focused on her, and she was desperate to hurry him along. She rose and went to the window where he'd been when she'd initially entered.
"Why are you here?"
"As I was untangling the farce between my father and Penelope, I learned something that you should have been told."
"What is that?" She glanced over her shoulder. "Your uncle Horatio provided for you in his Will." "How nice. I never knew." "I know you didn't."
Her expectations were so lowered that she couldn't conceive of anyone thinking of her, and at the realization that her uncle had remembered her in his last hours, her eyes flooded with tears. She hoped it was an amount sufficient to buy a new dress or perhaps some books for her school.
"In fact," Romsey kept on, "I've had people traveling the countryside, making inquiries, so that I could be sure you were informed."
"Well, it seems you've found me. You may leave my stipend and go. Thank you for bringing it."
There was a portfolio on the table, and he reached into it, but rather than pulling out the few pound notes she'd foreseen, he retrieved a thick stack of papers.
"Come here." He patted the spot next to him on the sofa. "Let me show you what's happened."
The couch wasn't very large, and he simply took up too much of it. She didn't want to be so close to him. Though she hated to admit it, she was disturbed by him, and apparently—despite his disavowal, his treachery, his proven lack of regard—she wasn't immune to his significant charm.
She could scarcely keep from rushing over, from ' .-owing herself at his feet and weeping with joy that he'd finally arrived.
In those first terrible days after she'd fled Sussex, she'd been positive he would follow her. She'd prayed and fantasized, persuading herself that he hadn't meant the awful things he'd said, that he would relent and track her down.
She'd created dozens of scenarios where he'd been repentant, where he'd pleaded for forgiveness and had instantly received it. She'd visualized them together and deliriously happy, but as days had turned to weeks, then weeks to months, the dreams had faded, replaced by the stark reality of her predicament, the certainty that he wasn't coming and she would always be alone.
His appearance had shaken loose those hungry thoughts and it was growing harder and harder to keep them at bay.
"Just tell me what it is," she said, refusing to move nearer to him.
"All right." He was obviously disappointed by her response, but he forged on, making the best of a difficult situation. "Your uncle left the bulk of his estate in three trust funds: one for Lavinia, one for Penelope, and one for you." "For me?"
"Yes, they were equal shares." "That can't be correct."
"It is, Margaret. After Horatio died, Lavinia spent her share very quickly. Then she spent Penelope's, too. The one remaining—that was supposedly Penelope's dowry—was yours, and I've managed to reclaim it before they could spend it, as well." He gestured to *' documents. "It's all here. I merely need your signature to finalize everything."
"Finalize it how?"
"I've had an acquaintance of mine, a Mr. Thumberton, go into court and have the
entire debacle rearranged. He's an honorable and reliable London solicitor, and he's your new trustee. He's written you a letter of introduction and explanation."
He held it out so she could cross over and read it, but still, she didn't budge.
"Do you know what it says?" she inquired.
"Yes. He's sent money with me—in case I located you—and he begs that you use it to hire a companion and travel to London to meet with him. He has employees who will help you get settled in the style to which you're due. They'll assist you in buying a house and hiring servants, and they'll purchase whatever else you need."
"Buy a ... a ... house? Are you mad?"
"You're very wealthy now, Margaret. You'll never have to struggle again." His voice cracked, charged with emotion he could barely contain. "For the rest of your life, you'll live in ease and harmony."
There was a chair next to her, and she sank into it. She must have looked as if she was about to swoon, and she definitely felt like it, for he grew alarmed and hurried over.
He reached out to take her hand, but in the end, he didn't, and she was relieved. She was anxious for solace and empathy, for guidance and counsel, but the time when she might have turned to him for support had vanished in the fog of their bitter past.
"What can I get you?" he asked. "What do you need?"
There were so many things she needed that she couldn't begin to list them all. First and foremost, she had to review the papers he'd brought, while she decided what to do next.
"I'm fine," she insisted. "Just surprised—and a tad overwhelmed."
"Understandable."
When he was hovering, she couldn't concentrate, and she pushed herself to her feet and walked across the room so that the sofa was between them. He was assessing her intently, as if he was about to reveal something she couldn't bear to hear, and a hideous notion dawned on her: If what he asserted was true, that she really had inherited a fortune, then she'd suddenly become an heiress.
Is that why he'd sought her out? Is that why he'd volunteered to chase around the country, picking through every village and hovel till he stumbled on her? Why else would he have been so determined to find her?