The Last Surprise

by Blair Bancroft

  While still at sea, he had thought to leave the girls where they were—who better to shelter them than a family of close relatives? But in a matter of minutes he had recognized the meanness behind Greenlaw’s delight at ousting the three young ladies from the only homes they had ever known. And that had sent him to Sir Oliver, who showed him Lady Christine’s letters. The last one, evidently written after she was attacked by her cousin Alymer, had set him on the road to Yorkshire, stopping only long enough at Ashford Park to acquire the earl’s coach and four. As the miles rolled by Harlan retained a slim hope that Lady Christine’s female sensibilities had been overset by nothing or that she had exaggerated in order to force a return to the more salubrious south of England.

  And yet Sir Oliver had called her a “sensible chit” and assured him she did not indulge in flights of fancy. Harlan frowned. Somehow warring fur-traders and angry Indians paled in comparison to solving the problem of the Ashford sisters.

  At the next stop to change the horses Harlan left the coach to ride on the well-bred stallion he had acquired at Tattersall’s during his short stay in London. Perhaps fresh country air would help him decide what to do about the most bothersome of his new responsibilities.

  Unfortunately, he feared he already knew.

  Christine sat at the small writing desk in her room, attempting to find new and stronger words to express the difficulty of their situation at Wetherell Manor. Obviously her previous letters to Sir Oliver had not been effective. They had been in Yorkshire nearly four months now, with no sign of respite.

  Sir Oliver had been told the new earl was somewhere in the Canadas. If so, he’d had time to make the journey to England twice over. Perhaps he had indeed returned and was simply ignoring them. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Mere fancy! Surely Sir Oliver would have told her if Bainbridge were in London.

  Christine stared at the great blot of ink she had just made when she’d dug her quill into the paper. A tear squeezed out, dropping onto the ink blot, spreading it over the few words she had managed to write. She thrust the quill back into its standish, crumpled the paper and tossed it into the small wicker basket at her feet. Plunging her head into her hands, she gave way to the despair she could never show before her sisters or any member of the Wetherell family.

  She spent a good deal of time in her room these days. With the door on the latch. Leaving her room only when one of her sisters accompanied her. It wasn’t that her Uncle and Aunt Wetherell were venal, Christine had to admit. They simply recognized the advantage of their son marrying the well-dowered daughter of an earl. And if their darling boy pushed the matter a trifle vigorously, it was easy enough to look away. Was not “keep the money in the family” an honored tradition among the British upper classes?

  “Miss, oh, miss!” One of the housemaids pounding on her door.

  “Yes?” Christine called, walking to the door but not taking it off the latch.

  “You’re wanted in the drawing room, miss. There’s a visitor.” Excitement tinged the young maid’s voice. “Come in a crested coach, he did.”

  Hope surged. Oh dear Lord, please!

  Even if the new earl were an ogre who ate young maidens for breakfast, surely anything would be better than playing hide and seek on a daily basis with Alymer Wetherell.

  Christine had to swallow hard before she could calm herself enough to ask the maid to assure Lady Wetherell she would be down directly. A quick look in the pier glass. Pale face, hair drawn back into a severe knot on her neck—yet another attempt to discourage her cousin’s attentions. Blue eyes anxious yet sparking with a gleam of hope. The very ugliest of her mourning gowns, a sickly charcoal without an ounce of style. Another Alymer deterrent.

  Christine’s shoulders slumped. Even if she pinched a bit of color into her cheeks, there was no way she could make a good first impression.

  Stoo-pid! What if it’s only the vicar come to call?

  In a crested carriage?

  Lady Christine Ashford squared her shoulders, raised her head proudly and strode to the door. For a moment she paused, fingers on the latch. She drew a deep breath, lifted the strip of black metal and stepped out into the hall.

  This was the moment. Her future, her sisters’ futures depended on her. Whatever she had to do to achieve her goal, they were leaving the Wetherells. Today, if possible.

  Chapter Five

  Torn between anger and amusement, Harlan called on his considerable expertise in awkward situations to maintain some semblance of conversation while they waited for Lady Christine Ashford. Lord Wetherell’s reaction to his arrival could best be described as hearty but a trifle forced. His lady alternated between being overwhelmed at finding an earl in her drawing room and a cool disfavor which was inexplicable until he caught the open hostility on the face of her son.

  Ah! Many a time Harlan had wagered his life on slimmer indications of what others were thinking. Such ephemeral hints were frequently a diplomat’s only clues to the truth, even if his personal venue was more often a wilderness hut than the gilded halls of London, Paris, Vienna or St. Petersburg.

  The Wetherells—undoubtedly influenced by the generous stipend they received for the girls’ care and Lady Christine’s dowry, which had raised Harlan’s shaggy eyebrows when he read the sum of it—were not ready to let the girls go. He shot another glance at the Wetherell heir, slumped in an upholstered chair in the corner and clearly sulking. If Lady Christine agreed to the marriage then his problems were solved. The girls would remain in Yorkshire and, beyond seeing that the stipend was paid and overseeing the money in trust for their futures, he would have no further obligation to his wards.

  Which wasn’t at all the gist of the frantic message in Lady Christine’s letters to Sir Oliver. Harlan stifled a sigh even as he responded to Baron Wetherell’s questions about the unknown territory west of Upper Canada. Whatever happened today, he had a strong suspicion he wasn’t going to like it. The golden-tongued Harlan Ashford, foiled at last.

  The door opened, revealing a drab little blackbird, pausing to gather her courage before stepping into the room. Silently Harlan swore as he rose to his feet. Unaccustomed to ladies in dazzling gowns or women who spent hours laboring over their appearance, he saw not the mourning gown nor the severely restricted hair but a slim young woman with warm brown hair and fine blue eyes, attractive yet defiant. By God, she was prepared to do battle, though he was unsure why. Did she actually want the shallow popinjay in the corner or…?

  “Come here, girl, don’t dawdle!” Lord Wetherell exclaimed. “The earl has traveled a considerable distance to make your acquaintance.”

  “May I present your eldest ward, my lord,” Lady Wetherell said as Christine stepped forward, dropping into a respectful curtsey. “Christine, this is the Earl of Bainbridge.”

  Harlan thought he saw the girl wince at his title. He couldn’t blame her, he often did so himself. It might be months before he was able to accept the reality of it. Her momentary discomfort disappeared behind even stiffer defiance. Shoulders stiff, chin up, she faced him squarely. Her eyes…ah, her eyes said something else altogether. They were pleading with him.

  Hell and the devil confound it! He was going to be stuck with the lot of them.

  “Baron, Lady Wetherell, I wonder if I might speak with Lady Christine alone?”

  “Alone?” Wetherell echoed, clearly shocked.

  “Surely that is not proper,” his spouse concurred, even as Harlan heard sputtering from the nincompoop in the corner.

  “May I remind you that I am her guardian,” Harlan returned easily. “As a member of His Majesty’s diplomatic corps, I assure you, it is perfectly proper. Now leave us,” he added more strongly when the Wetherells remained fixed, as if part of a tableau.

  An affronted bow and a bobbed curtsey from the baron and his wife before they scurried out. No recognition of his rank from young Wetherell, just a long nasty glare as he sauntered toward the door.

  Harlan’s last ho
pe for an easy solution to the problem of three female wards disappeared. No kin of his, no matter how remote, would ever marry such an insolent pup.

  “Please be seated,” Harlan said. Lady Christine chose the sofa and he seated himself across from her, where he could watch every nuance that crossed her face. “Now tell me the substance behind the letters you sent to Sir Oliver Tynsdale.”

  “You have read them?” Her blue eyes sparked cold fire. An odd thought but true. The anger he saw in her wasn’t fiery and uncontrolled but cold and determined. Inexorable. She, not he, was in charge of this conversation.

  “I have, and found them disturbing. Please elaborate.”

  He was large. And stern. His hair too long, his clothing several years out of date. Even seated, the Earl of Bainbridge filled her vision, blotting out the world.

  Yet he held her life, and the lives of her sisters, in his hand. Somehow, some way, she must make him understand.

  Christine clasped her hands in her lap, lest their quivering reveal how very uncertain she was. How could such a great hulk of a man—who without a doubt had never been intimidated by anything or anyone in his entire life—understand the plight of three powerless females?

  “My uncle and aunt have tried to make us comfortable here—I would not speak ill of them but…” She struggled to find the right words. He must understand, he must! “But they are inclined to pinch pennies. Dismissing the previous governess and requiring our dear Miss Applegate to teach Hesper and Geraldine, who are not at all well-behaved, as well as Daphne and Belinda, is just one example. And Alymer…” Christine sighed, dropping her gaze to her lap. How could she speak of such embarrassments to a perfect stranger?

  “The letters were true,” she said at last. “Every word. I fear my cousin fancies himself in love with me, or, more likely, in love with my inheritance. Matters have reached the point where I spend most of the day in my room, leaving it only if accompanied by one of my sisters.”

  Now. She must ask him this very minute. Aunt Wetherell would not leave them alone for long.

  Christine took a deep breath, fixed her gaze on her guardian’s face, meeting his cool gray gaze. “I beg you, my lord, please take us with you. We can live in the dower house with Miss Applegate and be no trouble at all, I promise you. Sir Oliver assures me our trust provides for us, we would be no drain on your purse.” Hands fisted beneath her chin, Lady Christine Ashford gazed at the Earl of Bainbridge, willing every hope for the future into the depths of her clear blue eyes.

  “Have you not finished? This is unseemly.” Lady Wetherell, the picture of outrage, stood in the doorway. Dear Lord, how much did she overhear?

  “Leave us.”

  Startled, Christine stared at the earl, who had dared bark at her aunt. The sight of Lady Wetherell scuttling from the room, closing the door behind her, was one she would cherish for years to come. But she could not determine if the earl was sympathetic to her plea or merely one of those short-tempered gentlemen who did not care to be interrupted by anyone, let alone a woman.

  “You may continue.” His cool voice snapped her back to attention.

  “I-I have said it all, my lord. My sisters and I are most unhappy here. We beg you to make other provision for us.” Christine held her breath. Clearly the earl was not pleased by the burden thrust upon him. But was not that the price of being an earl? He could not simply enjoy the honors thrust on him so unexpectedly and not accept the responsibilities that went with them.

  Not that she would dare say such a thing. Unless he forced her to. At this point she would dare anything to get them out from under the roof of Wetherell Manor.

  The dower house? Harlan was tempted. Such a convenient solution. But he had been raised in English society, if on the fringes, and he knew the rules. Even during their period of mourning the Ashford sisters would require a chaperone of rank, one Sir Oliver had already searched for and failed to find.

  A hired chaperone, some maiden aunt or widow of a peer? Harlan shuddered. Learning the duties of an earl would be difficult enough without some old harridan peeking over his shoulder.

  Lady Christine was waiting for his answer. And he had none.

  Harlan Ashford, the great negotiator. Harlan Ashford, the man who was famous for making decisive decisions, settling the toughest problems…tongue-tied in the presence of a chit who had not yet reached her majority.

  The solution to the problem of the Ashford sisters had been clear for some time, haunting him all the way from London to Yorkshire. He simply hadn’t wanted to accept it.

  Needs must.

  “How much are you willing to sacrifice for your sisters, Lady Christine?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sacrifice, my lady. Will you give up the romantical notions that seem to occupy young ladies’ minds. Are you able to accept the most sensible solution to this dilemma?”

  “I am.”

  No questions, no wariness. Just the cool determination he had noted the moment she entered the room. Good. “Then I am prepared to offer a solution which should benefit both of us. You will return to the world that has been yours for all of your life, and you will undertake to steer me through the pitfalls of becoming an earl. Not an honor I anticipated or want, even now.”

  An intelligent female, she understood what he was saying. He could see it in her eyes. Which made things a trifle less awkward. “Lady Christine, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Her chin firmed. She met his gaze, blue eyes to gray. “I will,” she replied.

  Lady Wetherell shrieked and fell into a fit of the vapors, wailing that dear, sweet Christine would be ruined, traveling the length of England in the company of a single gentleman. The baron, huffing and puffing, agreed, his scowling son and heir standing, hands fisted, at his side.

  The Earl of Bainbridge examined each in turn, as he might view a rare species of animal in a zoo. “Your concern for Lady Christine is admirable,” he offered, “though I suggest it might have come a trifle sooner. But you seem to have forgotten I am her guardian. Although I find the rules of polite society overly nice after so many years beyond the edge of civilization, I am well aware of my legal rights. I may take the Ashford sisters anywhere I wish, do with them anything I please.” His lips turned up in a chilling smile. “Short of murder or dipping into their inheritance, of course. Now that would indeed be illegal.”

  At the mention of the Ashford sisters’ trust, Baron Wetherell’s cheeks blanched. Mr. Alymer Wetherell, however, had the temerity to take a belligerent step forward.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” the earl advised. “I am eager for an excuse to spill your claret.”

  Lord Wetherell barked an order and with one last blast of rage Alymer fled, shoulders hunched, hands still fisted by his sides. Harlan returned his gaze to the baron and made an effort to do what he did best—conciliate. “I did not anticipate this marriage, my lord, and have no special license with me. Nor will I stay in Yorkshire long enough for banns to be read. But I assure you I will treat the young ladies with the utmost respect at all times. Lady Christine and I will be married from Ashford Park as soon as the vicar gives us leave.”

  “Of course, my lord.” For a moment the baron seemed to accept the failure of his grand schemes but he rallied for one last effort. “It is late in the day, my lord. Will you not allow the young ladies time to pack properly and set off in the morning?”

  Harlan met the baron’s gaze, man to man. Time for the truth, with no fine phrases wrapped around it. “Do you truly believe, after all that has been said here today that I would leave Lady Christine unprotected for even one more night? I do not set foot out of this house until the young ladies go with me.”

  “Then you’d best sit down, my lord. No doubt you’ll be here for some time.” Lord Wetherell pursed his pudgy lips, as if deriving some small enjoyment from the earl’s discomfort during a long wait. But the baron was wrong. The Ashford sisters and Miss Applegate were ready within the hour
, standing on the front drive, watching the miracle of their trunks being loaded and strapped down. And then, their cloaks swirling in the stiff Yorkshire breeze, five women, including Sally the maid, squeezed into the coach, the earl’s footman shut the door, the coachman slapped the reins and the wheels began a slow crunch down Wetherell Manor’s pebbled drive. Beside the coach rode the Earl of Bainbridge on his high-stepping Arabian.

  Inside the coach, tears flowed from five pairs of eyes. Tears of joy.

  Chapter Six

  Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation…

  Hands clasped tightly about a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, a stark contrast to her best mourning gown of black silk, Christine shivered. Firmly she fixed her gaze on the patch of sunlight shining through the stained glass window of the village church, dappling the polished wood floor with color and striking colorful sparks off the silver chalice on the altar.

  …and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly…

  Christine’s fingers tightened around her bouquet, only the snap of a stem bringing her back to the vicar’s admonitions. Was any vow taken less lightly, less wantonly than her own? For another vow preceded those being said today. She had vowed to protect her sisters and that is exactly what she was doing.

  First, It was ordained for the procreation of children…

  Calm and deliberate as Christine was determined to be, she feared she might faint. A strong hand gripped her arm, holding her upright. More words from the vicar, swirling through her head, making no sense. A firm voice, almost in her ear, saying, “I will.”