A Dangerous Legacy

by Elizabeth Camden

  Jacob had leaned forward in his chair, pointing a finger directly in Nick’s face. “If I did those things, there’s no law against it. Collecting publicly observable information is anyone’s right.”

  “That man was inside our apartment!” Nick had fired back. “He stank the place up with cigarette smoke and rummaged through our belongings, and you don’t think that’s a crime?”

  Jacob’s sneer was contemptuous. “If I hired such a spy, and if I’ve been paying him for the past eighteen months to gather information, I am disappointed it took you so long to notice him. Sadly disappointed.”

  “You’re disappointed in me, old man? I’m embarrassed that we even share the same blood. You stabbed your own brother in the back! No amount of money would ever tear Lucy and me apart like that. I’d live under a bridge before I’d be like you or the snakes living at Oakmonte.”

  Apparently, the conversation had deteriorated after that. Nick told Lucy how they’d slung insults at each other so vigorously that passersby on the street stopped to gawk.

  Nick sat on the sofa, his forearms braced on his legs as he stared at the carpet between his feet. “He didn’t seem happy, Luce. All that money, and he lives in a house swarming with bodyguards but no family.”

  “So how did you get the black eye?”

  Nick sighed. “I guess Jacob isn’t used to dealing with anyone who’s not interested in kissing his ring. He snapped his fingers, and the butler with the brass knuckles threw me out.” At her sympathetic wince, he straightened. “Hey, it took two of them to wrestle me down the steps, and I planted a few bruises of my own.”

  “But why has Jacob been spying on us all this time?”

  Nick glanced toward their dining table, where weak light from the street glinted off half-built plumbing valves. They were evidence that Nick was a worthy heir of their grandfather’s talents. They had installed those valves in dozens of buildings, and since Jacob had been spying on them for a considerable amount of time, he knew about their activities and had done nothing to stop it. So what was his goal?

  Nick shrugged. “Maybe as he gets closer to the end, he’s worried about his legacy. I’d be more worried about the state of my soul, but frankly . . . I don’t think he has one.”

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  Colin sat at his desk, a contract for hiring a team of Portuguese translators untouched before him. His biggest professional coup since coming to America would be finalizing this deal to bring thirty Brazilian newspapers into the Reuters family, but his attention kept straying out the open window overlooking Broadway.

  Strange—his homing pigeons were dead, but he still felt compelled to leave the window open for them, as though Beatrice and Bianca might fly in at any moment. It had been a week since his return from Oakmonte, but he couldn’t bring himself to close that window.

  He missed Lucy. He hadn’t seen her since he walked her home, for which he was grateful. In a perfect world he would have the freedom to court whoever he pleased. He could find a wife whose curiosity and sense of humor matched his own. He wouldn’t need to worry about what kind of dowry or continuing streams of revenue she’d bring to prop up a failing estate and keep ninety loyal tenants gainfully employed.

  But it wasn’t a perfect world, and he did have to worry about those things.

  A knock sounded, and Denby entered. Colin was in no mood for tea, which was the only responsibility his butler was trusted with after the debacle with the AP wires, but the grim expression on Denby’s face made it apparent that he wasn’t here to deliver tea.

  “The morning newspaper, sir.” Denby extended the paper, folded open and doubled over to display the gossip column.

  Colin’s heart plummeted. The moment he’d been fearing had just arrived, and it was far worse than anticipated.

  The erratic foibles of visiting British aristocrat Sir C. B. continue to perplex New Yorkers. Last month, in a drunken episode, he collapsed on the floor and sloshed wine on Miss A. W., a woman to whom he is rumored to be engaged. His inexplicable behavior continues to baffle at a fine estate in Saratoga County. This time, Sir C. B. hurled abuse at his hostess, threatened to murder her son, and needed to be placed into the care of a specialist in mental disorders. He stormed off in the middle of a dinner where he was the guest of honor, and some guests speculate incarceration in an asylum is warranted.

  Heat gathered inside Colin, causing a sheen of perspiration to break out. This was bad. A glance at the byline showed that the story came through an AP wire, meaning it had already been distributed to over four hundred newspapers across America, and a few hundred in Europe as well. Lucy had saved him from the first story, but there was no way to stop this latest scandal from breaking across the world as fast as electrical currents could carry it.

  “Is there anything I can do to assist?” Denby asked in his eternally professional voice. Smooth manners and a fancy title wouldn’t be able to stem the tide of this one. He could only hope that Amelia would not believe this claptrap.

  “Thank you, Denby. I’ll handle this,” Colin said in an offhand tone, but he left the office immediately and went straight to the Wooten mansion. There was a chance Amelia hadn’t seen the story yet. It would be best if he could prepare her, although how did one put a positive spin on being a candidate for a mental institution?

  “Miss Amelia is not at home,” the butler said upon answering the door.

  “Not at home, or not at home to me?” Colin pressed.

  The butler was spared an answer when Frank Wooten came striding down the foyer, a grim expression on his face. Amelia’s father was a tough man of business, but during their long hours fishing together, Colin liked to imagine they had become genuine friends. Frank’s cordial demeanor was absent, a good sign that he’d already seen the gossip column.

  “Sir Beckwith, if you would follow me to my office.” It was a command, not a request.

  Colin nodded and followed, hating the way he felt like a truant child beckoned to a scolding. Frank held open the office door, then tossed Colin the newspaper the instant the doors closed.

  “Well?” Frank demanded.

  Colin set the paper down on the desk and strolled to the far corner of the book-lined room. “You were there the night I had the accident. You know I wasn’t drunk.”

  Frank gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “I know exactly what happened that night, which only confirmed the information I’ve gathered about your experience in the Boer War. Do you think I’d let any man get close to my daughter without an in-depth investigation on his character and his background? I don’t look down upon a man who suffers aftershocks from having seen service. The world would be a better place if more of our leaders sweat it out on the same battlefields they send our young men to die upon. What I don’t understand is the second half of the story. Is that an exaggeration as well?”

  The tension in Colin’s spine uncoiled a fraction as he strolled to the cold fireplace, braced his hand on the mantelpiece, and told his prospective father-in-law how Tom Jr. had shot his trained homing pigeons, sparing himself nothing in recounting his fury after the event.

  “It was a senseless act by a spoiled brat, and I declined his mother’s suggestion that I let it roll off my back.”

  There was a hint of understanding in Frank’s expression. He demanded to know more, and Colin felt no embarrassment as he admitted to brooding in his room most of the afternoon. Although Dr. Schroeder had been in attendance, there had been no discussion of committing Colin to Ridgemoor or any other asylum. He knew his story had the ring of authenticity, and soon Frank was nodding in grudging acceptance.

  “Here’s the thing,” the older man said as he twirled his cigar. “My wife wants Amelia to marry someone with a title, and Amelia does, too. I don’t give a flying fig about a title. All I want for my daughter is a man who knows what an honest day of labor is like, and so far, you are the only man with a title who has demonstrated that quality. I also like a man who can stand up
to bullies. But your title comes with 1.3 million dollars of debt and no viable prospect of bailing it out.”

  Colin’s mouth went dry. He hadn’t expected Frank to know quite so much about the situation at Whitefriars. As he scrambled for something to say, Frank continued to reveal an impressive knowledge of Whitefriars’ history and condition.

  “Two-thirds of the estate’s four thousand acres are waterlogged and useless for crops or grazing. The roof is failing and will cost $200,000 to restore. You have ninety tenants, half of whom live in poverty because the land can no longer support crops, and what little comes in from sheep wool has plummeted in value in the face of competition from Australian ranching.”

  Colin squeezed the mantelpiece so hard his hand hurt. He was done for. It was one thing for a man to be a bit strapped for cash, but quite another to be saddled with generations of crippling debt. For a man as hard-nosed as Frank Wooten, it was surely unforgiveable.

  “Do you think I blame you for failing to work a miracle in the eight years since your father’s death? I’m not worried about a few million to spiff up a moldering estate. I live in terror that my daughter will marry an effete aristocrat who will produce children in his image. I want my grandchildren to understand work. Accomplishment. I want them to know the satisfaction that comes from challenging giants and winning. I think you can be that man.”

  A day that had begun with such disaster was beginning to brighten. Colin needed to demonstrate that he had a plan for changing Whitefriars’ fortunes. “There was a time when the back thousand acres supported barley. If I drain the land and plant—”

  “Stop,” Frank interrupted. “You’re thinking like an aristocrat who only follows the model of the past. Think like an American.”

  Colin blinked. No one had ever asked that of him before. He reframed his plans with American attention to the bottom-line profit. “I could drain the land for cattle—”

  An annoyed sigh from Frank cut him off. “Those sodden acres aren’t what will make Whitefriars valuable in the coming century. You need to figure out how to capitalize on its real value.”

  Colin was baffled. If not cattle or crops . . . a horrible thought struck. The entail at Whitefriars could be broken, and it wouldn’t be hard to start selling off pieces of the estate, but he cringed. The pittance to be had from selling plots of waterlogged land couldn’t even pay to strip the roof, let alone purchase a new one. “If you’re thinking of selling off parcels, I cannot approve of cannibalizing the estate.”

  “I agree. It would be a terrible decision and undermine the long-term stability of the property. I have better plans in mind. But first we have to talk my daughter around. She’s in a fit over that newspaper article. Sit down, and let’s start strategizing how we can make this work to our advantage.”

  The eagerness in Frank’s eyes was reassuring, and Colin began to feel hope again. It was obvious Frank would be willing to provide the financial leverage to make Whitefriars sound again, but it would come at a cost. Colin had always known this and accepted it . . . so why did it suddenly seem so hard?

  And after he listened to the older man outline his vision for Whitefriars, it got even harder. Frank was right—Colin wasn’t thinking like an American, for never in a million years could he have envisioned such an audacious plan to rescue the estate and make it grander than it had been since its founding three centuries ago. Not only would Frank’s plan restore the mansion, it would allow unheard-of opportunities for his sister and all the other tenants on the estate. The discussion lasted for hours and included everything from how to commence the renovations to starting production on an industry that would capitalize on the estate’s strengths.

  Men had been marrying for political and economic reasons for centuries, and this would be no different. It wasn’t as if marriage to Amelia would be a burden. Whitefriars would become a thriving estate, and over time, Colin’s feelings for Lucy would fade. Over time his tenants would have a way out of poverty.

  Frank walked him to the door. “None of this will come to pass unless you can convince my daughter to overlook that newspaper article. She and my wife have gone for a ride in the park. Smooth over her ruffled feathers, then invite her to the piano recital at Carnegie Hall tonight. My wife and I will gladly host the two of you in our private box. There can be no better way to show we think the story is nonsense.”

  Frank’s handshake was firm, lending Colin the confidence he needed to go out and start winning Amelia as the first step toward Whitefriars’ future.

  Amelia and her mother were still out for their ride when Colin arrived at the park’s livery stable. Sweet-smelling hay filled the air as he paced, pausing only to stroke the mane of a quarter horse who poked his head outside his stall. Colin lacked the zealous love for riding shared by most of the British aristocracy, but the scent of the stable reminded him of Whitefriars and what he was fighting for.

  Only about half the stalls were filled. Colin glanced at the young groom cleaning the hooves of a newly returned horse.

  “Has it been a busy day?” he asked. Anything to get his mind off the exquisitely awkward conversation awaiting him the moment Amelia and her mother returned.

  “Slow,” the groom responded. “It was raining this morning, so I didn’t get any tips at all. I’m hoping the afternoon stays clear.”

  Colin nodded. It seemed everyone had money worries, from those living in castles down to the groom in the stables.

  Everyone except Frank Wooten. Colin idly stroked the quarter horse, wondering if the American millionaire’s audacious plans for Whitefriars could ever come to pass. The prospect had been appalling at first, but the more Colin thought on it, the better it sounded.

  A clatter of hooves heralded the arrival of riders. Amelia was in the forefront, perched in a sidesaddle and wearing a smartly tailored riding habit of cobalt blue. A transparent veil draped from her hat and protected her face from the elements. The vivacity in her flushed cheeks froze the moment she saw him.

  Riding behind her came Mrs. Wooten, and disturbingly, Count Ostrowski brought up the rear of the group. The count smirked when he saw Colin.

  Colin raised a hand to assist Amelia from her mount, but she ignored it and dismounted on her own. “I’m surprised to see you here,” she said coolly.

  Two stable boys emerged to lead the horses back to the stalls. Colin would have preferred not to have an audience for this, but both Mrs. Wooten and the count showed no interest in granting them any privacy.

  “Your father let me know you’d be here. Can I impose on you for a short walk?”

  Amelia tossed a riding crop to one of the stable boys. “I don’t think there’d be any point. I will be taking tea with Count Ostrowski as soon as I have the chance to freshen up.”

  Count Ostrowski was precisely the sort of effete aristocrat Frank Wooten loathed. The fine tailoring of his riding clothes gave him an impressive figure, but already signs of dissipation softened the lines of his jaw, testament to too much fine dining and endless rounds of weekend parties.

  “Perhaps we can take a quick stroll down to the fountain and back,” Colin pressed. “I need to speak to you in private.”

  “If it’s about the story in the newspaper, there is no need.”

  He swallowed hard, sensing his worst fear was hurtling straight toward him.

  Amelia still had not looked at him. She pinched the fingertips of her riding gloves to wiggle them off. “This morning was the first time I have ever seen myself alluded to in print, and it was associated with a man who appears to be a candidate for a lunatic asylum. I’m sure you can understand that I had hoped for more.”

  The count covered his laughter with a handkerchief in a poor attempt to pretend it was a cough. The stable boys listened with fascination, but at least they weren’t laughing.

  “You know I wasn’t drunk that night,” Colin whispered in an urgent tone.

  “Does the rest of New York know that?” Amelia lifted her chin and met his gaze. S
he was furious.

  “The rest of New York knows I have been holding down a demanding position at the most respected news agency in the world.”

  The count pressed his handkerchief closer to his nose. “Indeed. I thought I sensed the stink of newspaper ink spoiling the air.”

  To Colin’s annoyance, Amelia flashed the count a quick smile. Apparently her father’s work ethic had failed to make an impression on her.

  “Yes, I carry the scent of newspaper ink,” he said. “I love that smell. I love the smell of glue on a bookbinding and the sound it makes when I open a new book for the first time. I love walking into a library filled with a millennia of literature and inspiration and unanswered questions. And nothing makes me prouder than walking into the Reuters office where dozens of people work to spread insight about the world to anyone curious enough to open a newspaper.”

  The count rolled his eyes. “Buy him a bookstore and put the poor sot out of his misery.”

  Colin ignored him and glanced at Mrs. Wooten, who seemed to be in lockstep with her daughter. Amelia finally looked at him.

  “Colin, I’m sure you can see that this situation has become untenable.”

  “Even though the insinuations in the articles aren’t true?”

  Her face softened, but her chin remained high. “Even so. I’m sure you understand that a woman’s reputation hinges on her husband. This is the most important decision of my life, and I simply don’t see a way forward for us.”

  He stood as still as if he’d been carved from stone as she passed her gloves to a groom and headed toward a carriage. Everything he’d hoped for was slipping away. Frank Wooten would not be interested in funding the grand renovation of Whitefriars if his daughter decided to be a Polish countess. Would Count Ostrowski make her happy? His title was older and grander than Colin’s, but would he make her a good husband? Amelia had a spark of curiosity and intelligence that would wither if she had nothing to nourish it other than a title.