Lord Avery's Legacy

by Allison Lane

  “She will make her bows next spring,” he stated as if it had already been decided.

  “Hardly. Your mother will still be in mourning.”

  “Alice can chaperon her, and I’m sure Penny will help. She knows everything.”

  Where should he even start objecting to that statement? Every word was absurd. The subsequent argument had resolved nothing. Terrence obstinately clung to his fantasies, refusing to admit that he had no idea how to launch his sister and knew little of town manners. And he still insisted that Alice was the ideal mother for his children.

  Richard shook his head as the path entered a patch of woods. Eventually it would emerge near a folly overlooking the lake. As with the rest of the grounds, the woods were in dire need of attention. Rustling sounds marked the passage of a small animal through the overgrown shrubbery. Damaged tree limbs endangered passersby.

  How could he separate Terrence and Alice? It must be done, of course. Even if she were not as bad as her sister, he could never give Penelope a connection to his family. In retrospect, he had badly mishandled his ward. If he had not been so tired – and so furious – when Terrence announced that he had offered for the girl, he would not have put the lad’s back up. He should have known that a newly elevated peer of such tender years would not respond to orders. A title rarely failed to go to a young man’s head.

  Richard would have done better to welcome a courtship and use the contact to manipulate Alice into revealing her true purpose so that Terrence would abandon the relationship and be thankful to escape her clutches. But he had not. And both he and his ward had now taken stands that would be difficult to repudiate. The fact that Terrence was a tenacious greenling meant that the battle would last longer than necessary.

  But the game was not yet lost. Instead of another head-on confrontation, he would try a flanking maneuver. Terrence would never renounce what he considered a betrothal – what gentleman could? Penelope would never abandon her determination to attach the Avery title and wealth. But Alice might be the weak link. She must be biddable to have agreed to her guardian’s scheme. Her heart could not be involved, so she might balk at a future of unrelieved agony and call off the supposed betrothal. Even if she had initiated the scheme herself, she was young enough to crack under pressure.

  He was turning over ways and means when voices sounded up ahead.

  “I must go, my love,” murmured a man. “I am already late, but I could not pass a day without seeing you. My heart would surely fail me if I tried.”

  He frowned. Who was using the folly for an assignation? Not Terrence, for this man sounded nothing like his ward. The accent was wrong for a servant. But perhaps someone was meeting one of the maids. Mrs. Gudge exerted little control over the girls. A strong sense of danger raised his hackles, though the voice was unfamiliar. Should he intrude? The girl’s response dispelled all doubts and sent him striding toward the folly.

  “Good luck, dearest,” Millicent murmured breathlessly. “I will count the hours until we meet again.” Fabric rustled, followed by rapidly retreating footsteps.

  He rounded the last corner to find a blushing Millicent drifting down the steps. No one else was in sight.

  Steady, he reminded himself. No more mistakes. Mishandling one ward is bad enough. You’ll never live down two. “Enjoying the view?” he asked.

  She paled, glancing fearfully toward the path that skirted the lake, but it was so overgrown that her paramour was out of sight. “Yes, this is a most enchanting location.”

  She was not yet adept at prevarication, he noted in relief. Her face disclosed every thought. He could only pray that her liaison had not moved beyond indiscretion. Perhaps that was why he had sensed trouble at her companion’s voice but not at hers.

  His own face revealed nothing. “Walk back to the house with me,” he suggested. “We need to discuss your future. You have just reached your sixteenth year, have you not?”

  “Seven months ago,” she replied in exasperation.

  “So you will stage your come-out the Season after next.”

  “I will be out long before then,” she countered.

  “Hardly. You will have no chaperon next Season, for your mother will still be in mourning.”

  “That is the most idiotic custom!” she snapped. “Why must we squander our lives weeping over a man who cared not a whit for any of us? It is positively barbaric – punishing the living whose lives are better off without the dead.”

  “If you wish to be accepted by the society into which you were born, you must learn to control yourself,” he said coldly. “Such sentiments will not be well received. No man wants a wife who promises to embarrass him at every turn. Surely your governess taught you better manners.”

  “She was such a hen-wit, she hardly knew up from down,” said Millicent scathingly. “Even Mother derided her. It was a relief when she eloped with Sir Francis’s bailiff.”

  “And no one replaced her?” He put amazement into the words, though he felt only disgust. Both his uncle and his aunt had inherited a full measure of the Avery shortcomings. Gareth should have called him in years ago instead of bequeathing him the mess in his will.

  “I am too old for a governess,” she snorted.

  “Not if you wish to join the polite world. Even the gentry expect proper behavior. And don’t think a gentleman will fall so madly in love with you that he will overlook glaring deficiencies in your training. Gentlemen tease and flatter while flirting, but they are hard-nosed pragmatists when it comes to choosing a wife.”

  She frowned, and he could sense her sudden uncertainty. “You have made your point, my lord. When I reach London, I will be careful. But surely a wealthy beauty can afford a few mistakes.”

  “Do you know how large your dowry is?”

  “Papa’s will specified two thousand pounds. That is a fortune.”

  “Compared to what your tenants must exist on. But to qualify as an heiress, it would have to be ten. And excusing gauche behavior would require twenty. But even the most fabulous fortune would attract only impoverished wastrels unless your manners matched your breeding.”

  Millicent gasped as his words sank in. He walked in silence, allowing her to digest the harsh reality of the world in which they lived. Rank and privilege guaranteed a congenial life only to those who followed the rules. Ostracism awaited any who refused. There were plenty of eccentrics, of course – England prided herself on them – but eccentricity was accepted only in the old or in those who cared nothing for society.

  They reached the house and settled into the library. Despite her bravado, Millicent appeared ill at ease.

  “Are you telling me that we are not wealthy?” she asked at last.

  “You are comfortably well off. You will not need to pinch pennies, but neither can you waste them. What made you believe otherwise?”

  “Mother always described Father as a wealthy lord.”

  “Is her judgment sound?”

  “Heavens, no!” she exclaimed, then flushed. “I have been a fool, I see. Knowing that she is deplorably ignorant, incapable of grasping numbers, and prone to flights of fancy, how could I have accepted her word for our financial standing? Especially since Papa complained so often of prices.” She shook her head and fell into contemplation.

  He said nothing. Both of his wards had now disparaged their mother. His heart sank to his toes.

  “Who was the gentleman by the lake?” he asked abruptly.

  “What gentleman?”

  “Do not deny it, for I heard you speaking to him. He left via the lake path. Who was he?”

  She bit her lip before answering. “Mr. Darksmith. He is staying at the King’s Arms in the village.”

  “How long has he been here?”

  “A fortnight.”

  “And how did you meet this gentleman?” He put enough dubiousness into the last word that she bristled.

  “Of course he is a gentleman! How dare you impugn someone you do not even know?”

&nbs
p; “Regardless of breeding, a gentleman does not speak to a lady of quality unless he has been properly introduced. A gentleman does not make assignations with innocents,” he stated coldly. “Nor does he hide his presence from their families.”

  “Fustian! How can he call when we are still in deep mourning?”

  “How could you have met him since you are still in deep mourning?” he countered. “Who introduced you?”

  “We met quite accidentally shortly after he arrived. I was returning home from the village, and he was enjoying a short walk.”

  “Where was your maid?”

  “I never take a maid to the village,” she scoffed.

  “If you wish to maintain your reputation, you will never leave the grounds unaccompanied,” he reminded her. “You are too old to get away with hoydenish tricks. Are you trying to blacken your name before you even make your bows to society?”

  “Of course not—”

  “Then never appear in public without a chaperon,” he interrupted firmly. “And never strike up a conversation with a strange man!”

  “It wasn’t like that!” she swore, tears gleaming in her eyes. “He said, ‘Good day,’ and I nodded. Then he asked if the lane I had just passed led to Squire Jacobson’s residence. It did not, so I gave him directions. He thanked me quite prettily and introduced himself, so I was obliged to do the same. Then we parted. It was an unexceptionable meeting, I assure you. Since then, I have occasionally seen him about the countryside, for he is researching his mother’s family – some point concerning an inheritance.”

  “Then what was he doing in the folly?”

  Her eyes shifted. “He was cutting across the estate to return to the village and happened upon me.”

  “Do not take me for a flat. You will ruin yourself by keeping assignations,” he said. “How old is he?”

  “Seven-and-twenty as of last week,” she replied promptly, her precision revealing more than she would have wished of her relationship.

  “Old enough to know better. Where is his home?”

  “Yorkshire.”

  “Does he have an estate there?”

  “I believe so,” but uncertainty put a tremor in her voice.

  “You mentioned that his mother had connections here. To whom?”

  “Mortimer did not say. After all, business is not a subject gentlemen discuss with ladies,” she parroted smugly.

  “Don’t be pert, Millicent,” he admonished. “What do you talk about if not business?”

  She blushed, confirming his worst fears. “My father’s death, the weather, the beauties of the day.” Her color deepened.

  His thoughts churned furiously. Mortimer Darksmith sounded like a practiced seducer bent on securing an heiress. Millicent had probably claimed great wealth – not to make herself interesting, but because a man of his ilk would be certain to ask. And she would have believed every word he said up to and including those false protestations of undying love. She was even more naïve than Terrence. But it would be a mistake to condemn Darksmith out of hand. The last thing he needed was to precipitate an elopement.

  “This friendship is not at all the thing,” he said gently. “At the very least, Mr. Darksmith’s actions call his breeding into question, for no true gentleman would countenance secrecy – and do not again claim the exigencies of mourning, Millicent. Your own deepest mourning will be over in two days. If he truly wished to cultivate the acquaintance, he could have waited and called upon you in the usual manner.”

  “You understand nothing!” she interrupted him, storming to her feet. “You are the coldest, most supercilious man I have ever met. Have you any idea what I have suffered in recent months? How can you expect me to sit idly by twiddling my thumbs and staring at the walls? There is nothing as boring as this house, what with Mother carrying on in endless scenes and Terry off on his own business. Why don’t you chastise him for ignoring mourning? Why don’t you call him on the carpet for arranging assignations? Or is it acceptable for men to gallivant about the countryside while I must wither away without a reasonable soul to talk to?”

  “Sit down and behave like the lady you pretend to be,” he ordered. “I suspect you have a fair amount of intelligence, so perhaps you would care to use it. I don’t make society’s rules, Millicent. I merely enforce them. Your brother’s behavior or lack of it is not your concern. We are discussing your own at the moment.”

  She dropped back into the chair but kept her lips compressed in a tight line.

  “Thank you.” He deliberately relaxed, leaning back in the desk chair while one hand toyed with a letter opener. “If you had refrained from this childish outburst, you would know that I do not wish to condemn Mr. Darksmith out of hand. He may be a perfectly acceptable gentleman who succumbed to temptation. Or he may be a scheming rogue or an unscrupulous fortune hunter. I cannot say until I know him. Nor can you, for his behavior would be identical in any case, and you cannot claim sufficient experience to distinguish his motives. That is one of the benefits you derive from following the rules. Chaperons and proper introductions help weed out fortune hunters and seducers.”

  “Mortimer is neither!”

  “In that case you will not mind introducing me. Send him an invitation to call the day after tomorrow. Your mother cannot receive him, of course, but I will stand in her place.”

  Her face lit with excitement. “Oh, thank you, thank you! You will adore him, I know. He is a most handsome man. And so personable.”

  “I am sure he is. In the meantime you must conduct yourself in a more acceptable manner. Even a minor faux pas can tarnish your reputation. If the polite world discovers these assignations, you will be cut. Word that kisses passed between you will be grounds for ostracism.”

  “That is absurd!” She was so caught up in horror that she forgot to protest the mention of kisses.

  “It is the way of the world,” he continued ruthlessly. “If you wish to remain in it, you have no choice but to conform. We will see what sort of gentleman Mr. Darksmith is. Though his actions to date make his intentions suspect, I will accord him the benefit of the doubt. But do not press my good nature, Millicent. If you continue behavior that you now know is unacceptable, then I must conclude that neither of you is well-bred.”

  Millicent had tears in her eyes as she left the library. He pondered her tale, fingers drumming absently on the desktop. The girl had no friends with whom she could talk openly – the same problem he had suffered in his own youth. Even Mark, whom he had met at school, was not the sort to share confidences. And duty created barriers between Richard and his schoolmates. By the time they had started experimenting with sensual delights, he had been too engrossed in the marquessate to join them. Ignorance had left him susceptible to Penelope Rissen’s scheming. Millicent would be equally vulnerable.

  Lady Avery was too concerned with her own megrims to bother controlling her daughter. The liaison with Darksmith might be nothing beyond a need for admiration and attention. After all, she was bored, naïve, trusting, and unsupervised – ripe for getting into mischief. Or Darksmith might have tapped a more troubling tendency toward loose behavior. The girl was an untrained hoyden who would instantly draw the wrath of the ton upon her head if she appeared in London. It was a deficiency he must address.

  He summoned his secretary, ordering him to look into Darksmith’s background, financial position, and reason for visiting Devon. Then he went in search of his aunt.

  Lady Avery presented a portrait of Frail Tragedy. She reclined in the drawing room, desultorily waving a vinaigrette beneath her nose as she dabbed at her eyes with a scrap of black-edged cambric, her widow’s weeds stark against the crimson upholstery. She sniffed loudly.

  “What has overset you now?” he asked, suppressing an unsympathetic surge of annoyance.

  “Terrence, of course. He is hard-hearted, undutiful, and refuses to consider my sensibilities, insisting that he will wed that ill-bred hoyden. Why have you not shown him the error of his ways?” />
  “I am working on it,” he replied with a grimace. “But other problems also need our attention.”

  “Not now,” she begged, waving the salts faster. “I cannot think when I am distressed.”

  “Pull yourself together, madam,” he ordered sharply. “I have no tolerance for megrims and no patience with incompetence. Your tricks do not affect me, so put them aside.”

  “Cruel!” her fading voice charged.

  “But true. Your household is in deplorable condition. How can a lady of your breeding accept such a state?”

  “How dare you blame me, my lord?” Shock energized her enough that she actually sat up. “I try to order the staff, but they ignore everything I say. Why only yesterday Mrs. Gudge refused to change the dinner menu as I requested!”

  “And you accepted such impertinence? You should have turned her off without a reference.”

  “Cruel and cold! Gareth would be appalled to learn your true nature.”

  “I leave to differ, but it is of no matter. Since you refuse to run the household and appear incapable of performing even the least of your duties, I must assume the job myself. Barton has the makings of an adequate butler, but without supervision, he has grown lazy. I will give him the chance to improve his performance. Mrs. Gudge is venal as well as lazy. The household accounts disclose pilfering to even the most casual perusal. The reported breakage is many times the usual amount, and the wax candles used each month would light every room as bright as daylight around the clock. I have located an excellent housekeeper who can start immediately. She will answer to me.”

  “How dare you bypass my authority?” she demanded weakly.

  “You exercise no authority. By your own admission you cannot do sums, command no respect, and do not wish to be bothered by household problems. I will not allow the manor to deteriorate under my charge. Having abdicated your responsibilities, you have no say in the matter.”

  “My palpitations!” she sobbed, clutching her chest.