The Lost Heiress

by Roseanna M. White

  As he laughed, Brook looked toward the door at the end of the car. Their companions would be back any moment—his valet, Peters, and her governess-turned-chaperone, Mademoiselle Ragusa. Perhaps Brook should have requested some coffee to warm her.

  She decided to settle for a body to block the chill from the window and so moved to Justin’s side.

  Her book thudded to the floor, and he leaned down to pick it up. Then laughed again. “Dracula?”

  Lifting her chin, she snatched it away and set it beside her. “It has a portion that takes place in the town of Whitby. How was I to pass it up?”

  Though he shook his head, his eyes gleamed. A beautiful sight—for the week they remained in Monaco making arrangements for his father’s funeral, he had been so silent she feared he would turn to marble.

  “Not exactly scientific research on your new hometown, mon amie.”

  “Well, it was the best I could find in the meager ten minutes you afforded me in the book shop yesterday.” And the thought of her “new home” made her every bit as anxious as the red-eyed stranger had made Harker in the first chapter.

  Justin studied her for a long moment, seeming as usual to divine her thoughts from her innocuous words. With a crooked half smile, he took her hand in his. And set the world to rights. “Look.” He nodded toward the window.

  No new rain pattered the pane, though a few stubborn drops still clung and slipped along. Beyond them, sunshine broke through the clouds and painted the landscape with gold.

  Brook drew in a long breath. She had read of the English moors, and Justin had done his best to describe them to her. But nothing had prepared her for the sheer expanse. The land seemed to roll on forever, hardly touched by man. Heather blossomed purple and shone green as far as the eye could see. “It’s beautiful. So … big. You could fit all of Monaco in that one valley.” It made her itch to find a horse and let it have its head, to fly through the countryside until she lost herself in its grandeur.

  A new chill swept up her spine. Perhaps she didn’t want to lose herself quite yet—not until she knew she had been found.

  “Another minute and you’ll be able to see the North Sea. That should help you feel more at home.”

  She kept her gaze fastened on the moors, not arguing when he slid closer to the window and pulled her along with him. She drew in a deep breath. “How do you survive in the Cotswolds without an ocean nearby? I don’t know that I could.”

  “Whenever it becomes unbearable, I simply go to Monaco.” As he said that last word, the mirth faded from his eyes, and his tone went from cheerful to a low throb. His thumb stroked over her knuckle. “I suppose I have no reason to return there now.”

  Her heart twisted at the pain in his voice. “It has only been a week. Give yourself time to take it in.”

  Now he gripped her fingers so tightly they pulsed along with the memories. His face contorted for a fraction of a moment before he battled it back into a smooth, handsome mask over the agony. “I tried to warn him. He’d had too much to drink, he ought not to have—but he wouldn’t listen. He would never listen, not about anything.”

  Covering his hand with her other one, she prayed the gentle pressure she applied would steady him. “His choices were his own.”

  “I know. But I …” He touched his head briefly to hers. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t prattle on about my loss when you’ve a reunion before you.”

  “Please. Prattle.” She tried to grin, though it felt unconvincing.

  For a moment he simply stared at her, the sapphire of his eyes going deeper with contemplation. Then he leaned over and kissed her forehead. “You have nothing to fear, mon amie. They will welcome you.”

  She longed to believe him. But the heather outside stretched on and on, no civilization in sight. Everywhere she looked was green and soft purple instead of white and terra-cotta. Lovely, but not home. What if her family—assuming they were her family—were the same?

  The breath she drew in quavered. “And if not?”

  His fingers squeezed hers again. “Then you pay a visit to the Cotswolds. There is no ocean there, but there will always be a friend.”

  Yes, better to focus on the unchanging. No matter what, Justin would always be there. Even if there was still too far away. Wishing she didn’t feel like a lost child, she clung tight to his hand. “But you will stay in Yorkshire a little while, oui? At least until we are sure that I … that they …”

  “Until you are well and truly settled.” His smile was his own now, not the shadow it had been the last week. “My cousin Cayton has a house an hour’s drive from Whitby. I can stay with him as long as necessary.”

  An hour’s drive—in Monaco, that would take one into France, most of the way to Italy. Odd how it now kept one within the same neighborhood. She nodded and directed her gaze to the window again.

  Just in time. The train crested a little knoll, and there, out in the distance, beckoned the unmistakable sparkle of sun on a placid sea. Slate grey rather than emerald and azure, but that was no matter. It was the ocean, capable of raging and calm, of peace and war, of beauty and destruction.

  Her lips tugged up. Justin was right—wherever there was a sea, she could find her place.

  Mademoiselle Ragusa and Peters returned a moment later, the latter handing a cup of steaming coffee to Justin. The smell brought her to alert—though at the look on Justin’s face when he sipped, she couldn’t help but laugh. “Not to your liking, my lord?”

  “In some things I will always be Monegasque.” Justin took another drink but then shook his head and handed the cup back to Peters. “Coffee, if not strong enough to wake a man from a coma, is not truly coffee.”

  “Hear, hear.” Brook raised an invisible cup of caffe espresso in salute.

  His valet chuckled and settled into his seat across the aisle. “Rest easy, my lord. Soon enough you’ll be back at Ralin, where Mrs. Moore knows exactly how you like it—even though no visitor can stand the stuff.”

  They could be sure at least one visitor would enjoy it, when Brook finally made her way to his home. All her life she had heard his stories of Ralin Castle, of its burgeoning flower gardens and centuries of lore, of the charming Cotswolds region with its thatched-roof stone cottages. A fairy-tale setting—with Justin as the brave prince atop his stately white horse.

  “There is Whitby.” Justin nodded toward the window, where roofs and chimneys came into view abutting the sea. And atop a hill, a striking, crumbling old church. “And Whitby Abbey there. Your father’s home is ten miles farther on. He’ll have sent a carriage or a car, I should think, to meet us at the station.”

  Brook clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. The knots tied themselves tighter in her stomach as the train slowed.

  “We shall call this story ‘The Beginning of the Baroness,’” Justin whispered into her ear as the locomotive screeched to a halt. “And it will be heartwarming—if dull for lack of conflict.”

  Perhaps his jest didn’t make the knots unravel as she stood, but it at least stilled the churning of her thoughts.

  Justin and his valet exited first and then reached around to help her and Mademoiselle Ragusa alight. The wind blustered around her the moment her foot touched the platform.

  Justin chuckled at her shiver. “Too brisk for you?”

  Brisk? It felt as though snow ought to be swirling—not that she’d ever experienced that phenomenon. “Not at all. I’m perfectly warm.”

  “Liar.” His laugh rang out warm and hearty, though. And when his gaze moved beyond the platform, his eyes lit still more. He raised an arm in greeting. “Thate! What are you doing here?”

  Brook followed his gaze toward a man leaning against the hood of a car. Having heard of Justin’s closest English friend for years, she expected the unfashionably long hair, the laissez-faire that his folded arms shouted. And the grin that made him look more the piratical rogue than the respectable earl.

  She’d always thought she’d get on wel
l with the notorious Alexander Thate. Here was a man who knew the benefits of tossing expectation to the wind and embracing one’s dreams, who eschewed society’s gossip. And who no doubt got away with it because of the good humor in his smile and his handsome face.

  Mademoiselle Ragusa leaned close. “If these two are an example of the gentlemen to be found here, you shall have a fine time, yes?” she whispered in Monegasque.

  Brook pressed her lips against a laugh as Thate pushed away from the automobile and jogged forward, hand extended. He and Justin met midway and clasped hands. She came close enough to hear the reply to Justin’s question.

  “I headed this way when I got your wire, and Mother insisted we pay a visit to Lady Ramsey and her daughters at Whitby Park—so naturally when Whit said someone must meet your train, I volunteered.”

  Then the handsome face went taut. “I’m so sorry about your father. Had there been time for me to come—”

  “I know.” Again the leashed pain took hold of Justin’s voice. “And with Grandfather too unwell to travel and my aunts afraid to leave him …” His shoulders coming up, he drew in a deep breath. “But enough of sad things.” He beckoned Brook forward.

  Thate’s eyes went wide as she approached. “Deuces, man, now it all becomes clear.”

  Brook looked from Thate to Justin. Did he see a resemblance to the family at Whitby Park—as Justin had insisted? The roll of Justin’s eyes made her think it something else. And that glower of his when his friend turned to her made her wonder what it might be.

  Thate executed a graceful bow and held out his hand to receive her fingers. Amusement winked in his eyes as he kissed them. “Enchanté, mademoiselle. Lord Thate at your service.”

  “It is a pleasure, my lord. Justin has told me much about you.” She curtsied in return and gave him a warm smile.

  Thate released her fingers, though the light in his eyes grew only more mischievous. “Likewise. And might I say, you have all the beauty for which the Eden family is famous.”

  Yet, if she weren’t mistaken, the interest gleaming wasn’t in her so much as in making Justin’s brow furrow still more. No doubt he knew how protective their friend could be and enjoyed seeing him riled. A grin stole over her lips. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Justin all but stomped to her side and took her elbow, guiding her past his friend. “Thate, you promised.”

  The earl tossed his head back in laughter, though Brook couldn’t think what broken promise would be so funny. Then he hurried ahead of them and opened the rear door of the car. “And you, Bing, said she was ‘pretty.’”

  Me? Brook tilted her head to look up at Justin.

  He halted a step away from the door, amusement now battling the temper in his eyes, brightening them from indigo back to sapphire. “Did you just call me Bing?”

  “Well I can hardly keep calling you Harry now, O illustrious Marquess of Abingdon.”

  Brook gathered up the fabric of her skirt, ready to climb into the car. “Why did he ever call you Harry? I thought that a nickname for Henry.”

  “It was his variation on Harlow. Thate has a remarkable knack for coming up with the most ridiculous nicknames for his friends. And,” Justin added, pointing a finger at the makeshift chauffeur, “she is pretty.”

  Thate lifted a single brow. “And fire is a bit warm.” Again she got the impression he said it more to irritate Justin than to compliment her, which again made her grin.

  For a long moment, Justin made no reaction. Then he shook his head and gave in to a smile. “I ought to have known that having the two of you in the same country would give me nothing but headaches.”

  “Your own fault for choosing us as friends.” Thate offered Brook a hand to help her into the car.

  She settled upon the cushion that faced backward, directly behind the driver’s seat, and slid over so that Justin might take the spot beside her. Mademoiselle Ragusa settled opposite, while Peters and their trunks moved to a separate carriage.

  “Are we ready, then?” Thate slid into the front, behind the wheel.

  Justin ran a hand over the trim. “This isn’t one of yours, is it?”

  “Whitby’s.”

  “I thought so. Far too sensible for you.”

  As Thate navigated out of the town, conversation lulled. But once countryside surrounded them, Justin angled himself on the seat. His smile was warm and clear. “One introduction made already. I daresay you’ll meet Cayton soon, Brooklet. I have a feeling he will come with me often to visit—at least so long as your cousins are there.”

  The engine begged for a shift and then protested when Thate ground the gears. Brook winced.

  Justin arched his brows—and grinned. “Yes indeed, you ought to have seen the look in his eyes when he met your cousin. He has probably been haunting Whitby this past month.”

  Though she couldn’t make out much of Thate’s face, she saw the muscle tic in his jaw just before he said, “I daresay if he has tried it, Lady Regan sent the braggart packing.”

  “I didn’t say Lady Regan was the one who caught his eye.” Justin’s grin grew, teasing out creases in his cheeks that couldn’t quite be called dimples. “Though I find it fascinating you would assume so.”

  “Lady Melissa, then?” The edge left Thate’s voice, and his next shift was smooth. “Hmm. Perhaps she could mold him into a more palatable human being.”

  Justin’s chuckle wove through the wind. “Do you hear that, Brooklet? For your younger cousin Cayton is worth saving, but for your elder he ought to be sent packing. Methinks Thate is smitten with Lady Regan.”

  “Poppycock.” Thate turned a bit too sharply around a corner, sending Brook sliding into Justin. “And even if I were, it would hardly matter. Everyone knows Lord Worthing will propose soon, and no young lady in her right mind would turn down a future duke.”

  Justin made an impressed noise. “I shall keep that in mind, Alex old friend.”

  “Except for you, of course. Ladies will turn you down by the dozen, what with that ugly mug of yours.” He sent them bouncing over a rut in the road.

  Brook slapped a hand to her hat to keep it from flying off in search of a new mistress. “Will you stop teasing him before he jars us from the car?”

  With a laugh, Justin relented and turned the topic to automobiles. The ride smoother now, Brook settled in and let her gaze wander.

  The purple-sprigged countryside surrounded them, the North Sea in sight again with every crest of a knoll. Fingers at her necklace, she twisted the two dangling pearls together, apart, together the opposite way.

  The sun broke through the clouds more fully, and though its warmth was minimal, its gilding was unsurpassed. Brook drew in a long breath and watched the gold play over the heath, chasing the clouds’ shadows.

  So beautiful. But could it ever be home?

  As the car overcame another small hill, the sea sparkled in the spreading sunshine. Justin leaned close. “There it is.”

  Her breath fisted in her chest, her pulse hammered. She shifted, twisted, let her fingers fall from her necklace and grip Justin’s hand. And looked.

  Whitby Park sprawled across the land, its central building a proud edifice of red-brown brick that seemed nearly as large as her home, the Palais Princier, in Monaco. The gardens were more expansive than anything Monaco-Ville could boast.

  The grandeur she had expected. The beauty she had anticipated. But this tugging in her chest … Of that she didn’t know what to make. She couldn’t possibly remember anything from her first months of life. Yet when Thate turned the car onto the long drive, she could have sworn something clicked inside her, like a piece of a puzzle finding its place. One part of the picture that might someday reveal who she really was.

  One small hint that made her wonder all the more at the blank spaces.

  Five

  From the car, Justin surveyed the rows of people waiting before the grand front entrance to Whitby Park, the family aligned in front and the servants behind. All sto
od straight as arrows. All looked taut as bows.

  All wore cold cynicism under masks of welcome.

  His fingers wanted to fist, but he kept them relaxed so as not to alarm Brook. If any one of them dared to insult her, dared to upset her … If any one of them showed her anything but kindness …

  They wouldn’t—not so long as he was there. He knew well she had only been granted this audience because Whitby wouldn’t turn down the request of the Duke of Stafford’s heir. But one audience was surely all it would take. Whitby would see in a glimpse what Justin had upon spotting the painting of the late Lady Whitby. The rest of the family, though?

  He scanned the faces, most of them vaguely familiar. Lady Ramsey and her elder daughter, Lady Regan, he had met a time or two during the Season, though the younger girl hadn’t yet debuted. The matron stood close to her brother, the tilt of her chin giving away the steel behind her gracious smile. Lady Regan looked nearly bored, as if she had undergone this same scenario countless times. Which, likely, she had. How many pretenders had paraded through Whitby Park, hoping to charm their way into an inheritance?

  Thate switched off the magneto and slid out of the car, bringing Lady Regan’s smile to the surface. Justin couldn’t tell if she had any interest in his friend beyond that which every female seemed to have in society’s most dedicated black sheep, but her demeanor shed some light on why Thate was taken with the raven-haired beauty. The true question, though, was whether her loveliness would be soured by hatred when her cousin was legitimized and named heiress in her place.

  If so, then hopefully Thate would forgive Justin for taking her to task.

  The younger daughter shifted beside her sister, curiosity coloring her expression as she tried to glimpse the visitors. Whitby himself looked the least at ease. He kept his hands clasped behind his back but rocked on his heels. No smile curved his lips—his jaw was clenched too tightly.

  Beside him, Brook toyed with her necklace. Twist, release, twist again. But it was the only indicator of her anxiety. Her face bore the mask learned first from Collette and then perfected under the Grimaldi tutelage. Did she realize how much the princess she looked? There was no pretending to that kind of bearing, the regal je ne sais quoi that made heads turn whenever she stepped onto the street.