by Jane Ashford
Clare turned to survey Bella’s changed appearance instead—her brown hair newly cut and styled in the latest fashion, her pretty sprigged muslin gown. At Bella’s age, Clare had been about to make her entry into society. She had put her hair up and ordered new gowns, full of bright anticipation. And then had come Waterloo, and her beloved brother’s death in battle, and the disintegration of her former life. Instead of stepping into the swirl and glitter of society, Clare was relegated to the background, doomed to watch a succession of younger women bloom and go off to take their places in a larger world.
Stop this, Clare ordered silently. She despised self-pity. It only made things worse, and she couldn’t afford to indulge in it. Her job now was to regain control of the schoolroom. She shuffled her pile of paper labels. “I suppose I shall have to eat all the cream cakes myself then.”
Susan and Charles voiced loud objections. Clare was about to maneuver them back into the geography game when the door opened and Edwina Benson swept in. This was so rare an occurrence that all four of them stared.
Bella jumped up at once and shook out the folds of her new gown. “Were you looking for me, Mama?”
“Not at present. Though why you are here in the schoolroom, Bella, I cannot imagine. I thought you were practicing on the pianoforte. Have you learned the new piece so quickly?”
“Uh…” Eyes gone evasive, Bella sidled out of the room. She left the door open, however, and Clare was sure she was listening from the corridor.
Mrs. Benson pursed narrow lips. “You have a visitor, Miss Greenough.”
This was an even rarer event than her employer’s appearance in the schoolroom. In fact, it was unprecedented.
“I do not recall anything in our arrangement that would suggest you might have callers arriving at my front door,” the older woman added huffily.
Only humility worked with Mrs. Benson. She was impervious to reason. “No, ma’am. I cannot imagine who…”
“So I am at a loss as to why you have invited one.”
“I didn’t. I assure you I have no idea who it is.”
Her employer eyed her suspiciously. Mrs. Benson’s constant dissatisfaction and querulous complaints were beginning to etch themselves on her features, Clare thought. In a few years, the lines would be permanent, and her face would proclaim her character for all to see. “He was most insistent,” Mrs. Benson added. “I would almost say impertinent.”
You did say it, Clare responded silently. “He…?”
Mrs. Benson gave her a sour smile, designed to crush hope. “Some sort of business person, I gather.” Her gaze sharpened again. “You haven’t gotten into debt, have you?”
It was just like the woman to ask this in front of the children, who were listening with all their might. She was prying as well as peevish, and…pompous and proprietary. “Of course not.” When would she have had the time to overspend? Even if she had the money.
Mrs. Benson’s lips tightened further. “I suppose you must see him. But this is not to happen again. Is that quite clear? If you have…appointments, I expect you to fulfill them on your free day.”
Her once-monthly free day? When she was invariably asked to do some errand for her employer or give the children an “outing”? But Clare had learned worlds about holding her tongue in six long years as a governess. “Thank you, Mrs. Benson.” Empty expressions of gratitude no longer stuck in Clare’s throat. Mrs. Benson liked and expected to be thanked. That there was no basis for gratitude was irrelevant. Thanks smoothed Clare’s way in this household, as they had in others before this.
Clare followed her employer downstairs to the front parlor. The formal room was chilly. No fire had been lit there, as no one had been expected to call, and obviously no refreshment would be offered to the man who stood before the cold hearth. Below medium height and slender, he wore the sober dress of a man of business. From his graying hair and well-worn face, Clare judged he was past fifty. He took a step forward when they entered, waited a moment, then said, “I need to speak to Miss Greenough alone.”
Edwina Benson bridled, her pale blue eyes bulging. “I beg your pardon? Do you presume to order me out of my own parlor?”
“It is a confidential legal matter,” the man added, his tone the same quiet, informative baritone. He showed no reaction to Mrs. Benson’s outrage. And something about the way he simply waited for her to go seemed to impel her. She sputtered and glared, but she moved toward the door. She did leave it ajar, no doubt to listen from the entry. But the man followed her and closed it with a definitive click. Clare was impressed; her visitor had a calm solidity that inspired confidence. Of course she would endure days of stinging reproaches and small humiliations because of this visit. But it was almost worth it to have watched him outmaneuver Edwina Benson. “My name is Everett Billingsley,” he said then. “Do you think we dare sit down?”
Clare nearly smiled. He had noticed her employer’s attitude. She took the armchair. He sat on the sofa. Clare waited to hear what this was about.
For his part, Billingsley took a moment to examine the young woman seated so silently across from him. Her hands were folded, her head slightly bowed so that he couldn’t see the color of her eyes. She asked no questions about his unexpected visit. She didn’t move. It was as if she were trying to disappear into the brocade of the chair.
Despite her youth, she actually wore a lace cap, which concealed all but a few strands of hair the color of a fine dry champagne. Her buff gown was loosely cut, designed, seemingly, to conceal rather than flatter a slender frame. A shade too slender, perhaps, just as her oval face and pleasantly regular features were a shade too pale. Here was a female doing everything she could to remain unnoticed, he concluded. She even seemed to breathe carefully. Everett Billingsley certainly understood the precarious position of genteel young women required to work for their bread. He could imagine why she might wish to appear unattractive and uninteresting, to remain unobtrusive. Her attempt to impersonate an ivory figurine made his mission even more gratifying. “I have some good news for you,” he began. “I represent the estate of Sebastian Greenough, your great-uncle.” This won him a tiny frown, but no other reaction.
Clare sorted through her memories. Sebastian Greenough was her grandfather’s brother, the one who had gone out to India years before she was born. She had never met him.
“Mr. Greenough died in September. It has taken some time to receive all the documents, but they are now in place. He left everything he had to you.”
Clare couldn’t suppress a start of surprise. “To me?”
Billingsley nodded. “His last will was made in the year of your brother’s death. In it, he expressed a wish to ‘even things out.’”
Clare sat very still. Mention of her brother still hurt, even after seven years. It evoked a cascade of loss—from the pain of his death, to the callous eviction from the home where she’d lived all her life, to the speedy decline in her mother’s health in their new, straitened circumstances. How did one “even out” a catastrophe?
A bit puzzled by her continuing silence, Billingsley added, “Because the entail gave everything to your cousin. He wished to make up for that.”
After he was dead and could not be inconvenienced in any way, Clare thought but did not say. Sebastian Greenough hadn’t expressed the least interest in her while she was struggling to survive her losses.
“It is quite a substantial estate,” Billingsley went on. “There is some property in India still to be liquidated. But the funds already transferred, and conservatively invested, will yield an income of more than five thousand pounds a year.” At last the girl looked up. Her eyes were a striking pale green. She looked stunned. As well she might; it was a fortune.
“Five thousand a year,” Clare murmured. It was more than fifty times her current salary. It was unbelievable. “Is this some kind of…confidence trick?”
Ever
ett Billingsley smiled. “Indeed not. I have not brought all the documents here. I would ask that you call at my office to look them over. But I did bring this as a token of the change in your circumstances.”
He took an envelope from the inner pocket of his coat and held it out. Clare accepted it and looked inside. The heavy cream paper bulged with banknotes.
“Five hundred pounds. For expenses until all is in place,” Billingsley added. She could leave this oppressive household, purchase some pretty gowns, he thought. He was glad to see more animation in her face when she looked up again. “I should explain the arrangement. The legacy has flowed into a trust. It is to be overseen by me and your cousin Simon Greenough, as trustees, until…” He paused as all the dawning light in her face died.
“Simon.” Her cousin would never let her touch any money he controlled.
Billingsley cleared his throat. “It seems that Mr. Simon Greenough wrote your great-uncle to say that he was watching over you. Making sure you had what you needed in the wake of his inheriting.”
“He has never given me a penny,” Clare responded through gritted teeth. He’d even refused to lend them money to purchase medicine and other necessities for her mother when she was ill. As far as Clare was concerned, he had killed her.
“So I have learned,” responded Billingsley dryly. “I believe he also argued, quite forcefully, in their correspondence that your great-uncle’s money should be left to him.”
“I’m sure he did.” Her cousin—the son of her father’s younger brother, who had married early and unwisely—had been reared to resent Clare and her brother, to want revenge for their very existence. His greed was fathomless.
“But it was not,” finished Everett Billingsley. “And you can be sure that he won’t get his hands on it. I will see to that.”
Clare believed him. Something about this man inspired trust. “But Simon will be in charge of what I can do with the money?”
“Partially. Along with me.”
Clare’s fingers closed around the envelope Billingsley had given her. Simon would move heaven and earth to ensure that she saw no more of the legacy than this.
“Until you are married, of course,” her visitor added.
“What?”
“On the occasion of your marriage, the trust is naturally dissolved. Your cousin will have no further say in any matters pertaining to the estate.”
“Because the control will pass to my husband.” Clare knew that was the law. Married women couldn’t own property; anything they had automatically went to their husbands as soon as the wedding vows were spoken.
“Correct,” replied Billingsley. For the first time, the young woman met and held his gaze. A startling fire blazed in those pale green eyes. Her face seemed altered, too. The visage he had marked down as merely pleasant now shone with a spirited beauty, a patent intelligence. Miss Greenough had arranged to be thoroughly underestimated, he realized, like an actor inhabiting a role wholly unlike himself. There was far more to her than he had been allowed to see at first.
Clare felt as if parts of her were springing back to life after years of dormancy, like unused rooms when the draperies are pushed back and the sun streams in. Her mind raced. Cousin Simon would do anything to thwart her. Everett Billingsley didn’t begin to understand the depth of that man’s enmity. She would have no real control of this amazing windfall, or of her life, until her cousin was removed from the picture. Fleetingly, Clare wondered if one could hire murderers with a great deal of money. Not that she would, of course. The idea was morally repugnant. And unlikely to succeed, for any number of reasons. She would have to explore more conventional paths. But one thing was certain—Simon would not best her this time. He would not beggar her again.
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Author’s Note
During the years after the defeat of Napoleon and the restoration of peace, England’s foreign secretary Lord Castlereagh became extremely unpopular. In order to remain in the cabinet and continue his diplomatic work, he had to support hated measures taken by the home secretary, Lord Sidmouth, to suppress domestic unrest. He was also severely overworked, with the constant diplomacy required to juggle conflicts among the other major powers. In 1822, Castlereagh began to exhibit paranoia in a kind of nervous breakdown. He said, “My mind, is, as it were, gone.” He seemed mentally disturbed during an August audience with King George IV (formerly Prinny). A few days later, although Lady Castlereagh had had his razors taken away, he managed to find a penknife and cut his own throat.
Thus, Mary’s drawing of her ladyship in 1819, showing her growing anxiety, was prescient.
Once Again a Bride
by Jane Ashford
She couldn’t be more alone
Widowhood has freed Charlotte Wylde from a demoralizing and miserable marriage. But when her husband’s intriguing nephew and heir arrives to take over the estate, Charlotte discovers she’s unsafe in her own home…
He could be her only hope…or her next victim
Alec Wylde was shocked by his uncle’s untimely death, and even more shocked to encounter his uncle’s beautiful young widow. Now clouds of suspicion are gathering, and charges of murder hover over Charlotte’s head.
Alec and Charlotte’s initial distrust of each other intensifies as they uncover family secrets, and hovering underneath is a mutual attraction that could lead them to disaster…
“A near-perfect example of everything that makes this genre an escapist joy to read.” —Publishers Weekly
“One of the premier Regency writers return to the published world. Ms. Ashford has written a superbly crafted story.” —Fresh Fiction
For more Jane Ashford, visit:
www.sourcebooks.com
Earls Just Want to Have Fun
Covent Garden Cubs
by Shana Galen
His heart may be the last thing she ever steals…
Marlowe runs with the Covent Garden Cubs, a gang of thieves living in the slums of London’s Seven Dials. It’s a fierce life, but when she’s alone, Marlowe allows herself to think of a time before—a dimly remembered life when she was called Elizabeth.
Maxwell, Lord Dane, is roped into teaching Marlowe how to navigate the social morass of the ton, but she will not escape her past so easily. Instead, Dane is drawn into her dangerous world, where the student becomes the teacher and love is the greatest risk of all.
Praise for Shana Galen:
“Shana Galen has a gift for storytelling that puts her at the top of my list of authors.” —Historical Romance Lover
“Shana Galen is brilliant at making us fall in love with her characters, their stories, their pains, heartaches, and triumphs.” —Unwrapping Romance
For more Shana Galen, visit:
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Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress
by Theresa Romain
One good proposition deserves another…
Heiress Augusta Meredith can’t help herself—she stirs up gossip wherever she goes. A stranger to Bath society, she pretends to be a charming young widow, until sardonic, darkly handsome Joss Everett arrives from London and uncovers her charade.
Now they’ll weave their way through the pitfalls of the polite world only if they’re willing to be true to themselves…and to each other…
Praise for Theresa Romain:
“Theresa Romain writes with a delightfully romantic flair that will set your heart on fire.” —Julianne MacLean, USA Today bestselling author
“Theresa Romain writes witty, gorgeous, and deeply emotional historical romance.
” —Vanessa Kelly, award-winning author
For more Theresa Romain, visit:
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Sinfully Ever After
The Book Club Belles Society
by Jayne Fresina
To Rebecca Sherringham, all men are open books—read quickly and forgotten. Perhaps she’s just too practical for love. The last thing she needs is another bore around—especially one that’s supposed to be dead.
Captain Lucius “Luke” Wainwright turns up a decade after disappearing without a trace. He’s on a mission to claim his birthright and he’s not going away again until he gets it. But Becky and the ladies of the village Book Club Belles Society won’t let this rogue get away with his sins. He’ll soon find that certain young ladies are accustomed to dealing with villains.
Praise for The Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine:
“A unique historical romance…pleasingly edgy.” —Booklist
“A true charmer of a read.” —RT Book Reviews, 4 Stars and KISS nominee (favorite historical heroes of the month)
For more Jayne Fresina, visit:
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About the Author
Jane Ashford discovered Georgette Heyer in junior high school and was captivated by the glittering world and witty language of Regency England. That delight was part of what led her to study English literature and travel widely in Britain and Europe. She has written historical and contemporary romances, and her books have been published in Sweden, Italy, England, Denmark, France, Russia, Latvia, the Czech Republic, Slovenia, and Spain, as well as the U.S. Jane has been nominated for a Career Achievement Award by RT Book Reviews. She lives in Los Angeles.