The Lost Heiress

by Roseanna M. White

  “Would you like a tray of tea and toast before you venture out of doors, my lady?”

  Had she offered coffee, it may have been enough to tempt her. But tea? “No thank you.”

  “Shall I assist with your hair, then?”

  “No need, just for a walk.” To prove it, Brook ran her fingers through the curls and then twisted them to her head as she walked toward the dressing table. A few pins strategically jabbed, and it was as neat a chignon as one needed for a foggy morning promenade. She fastened her pearls around her neck and turned toward the door.

  Deirdre stood poker straight beside the unlit fire. Brook slid her coat on and then paused before the maid. “Thank you for your help—and I am sorry to have startled you this morning.”

  “It was my pleasure to assist you.”

  Brook let the lie slide and smiled. She then hurried from the room and toward the stairs that would lead her to the great hall and a garden exit.

  She passed a horde of housemaids busy polishing and dusting in the main rooms but otherwise saw no one—which suited her well. Stepping into the cool morning, she let the fog slide over her as she walked, until she felt like nothing more than a shadow in the obscured garden.

  At the moment, disappearing into the low-hanging cloud soothed her as nothing else could. All the previous evening, every single set of eyes about the place seemed trained on her. Watching, waiting for her to slip up, trying to discern who and what she was.

  If only she knew, so that she could show them.

  She passed the hulking forms of the shrubs, went into the flower garden. Other than the occasional birdsong, the fog dampened any noise and cocooned her in precious quiet.

  Then, after exiting the gardens and wandering across the lawn until she couldn’t make out so much as an outline of the house behind her, after climbing a hill, she heard sweet music—the crash of waves on shore. Brook hurried up the remaining rise and sucked in a breath at the scene before her.

  Perhaps a storm raged somewhere out at sea, for the water rose and fell in a froth of whitecaps, choppy and savage. A blurry impression of white floated about the horizon, where the sun struggled to stake its claim on the day. A gull screeched and dove.

  This was beauty. This could be home. More than the high ceilings and masterful plasterwork, the gleaming chandeliers. Those had evoked something in her, yes. But they hadn’t beckoned like the sea.

  The words she had read last night from Hosea echoed now in her mind. “Therefore they shall be as the morning cloud and as the early dew that passeth away, as the chaff that is driven with the whirlwind out of the floor, and as the smoke out of the chimney. Yet I am the Lord thy God… .”

  She drew in a deep breath, pulled her coat tighter around her. And listened for the Lord in the clap of surf, where she always heard Him best. Where He lurked from time eternal, no matter what else may change around her. Let me not be like the mist, mon Dieu, she prayed. Let me not vanish into it in this strange new place.

  A horse’s pounding hooves broke through the stillness mere seconds before a startled whinny brought her around. The beast reared only a few feet away, sending a spray of sandy earth in her direction.

  It was a fine creature, one that spoke of wealth and a keen eye. She stepped to the side and murmured a soothing phrase in French while its master called out a harsh “Whoa!”

  Her focus traveled from horse to man, and she barely held in a gasp. Obviously a man of means, the rider bespoke masculine beauty in his every line. Muscled legs, tapered waist, broad shoulders, a perfect face.

  But it was the eyes, dark as jet, that made her stomach clench with the memory of the dream, that made her want to turn and run all the way to Monaco.

  “Good morning.” His voice was all it should be. Smooth and cultured, a rich baritone. But it made her retreat a step. As did the way his gaze swept over her. “Are you lost, Miss … ?”

  She had the sudden urge to babble something fast and senseless in Monegasque. But it felt cowardly, so instead she lifted her chin in the way Maman had taught her. “I am not lost.”

  Horse calm again, the man dismounted and held the reins in one hand. The smile he gave her made unease skitter over her neck. How far had she wandered from the house? Too far, certainly, for anyone to hear her if she screamed.

  But this was a gentleman. Surely it was only the nightmare, the mist, his unexpected appearance that made her uneasy. Surely she would laugh at herself once the sun broke through the clouds and she had a cup of strong coffee to bolster her.

  He bowed. “Forgive me if I frightened you. Lord Pratt—at your service. You must be a guest at Whitby Park.”

  Brook inclined her head. “I am staying there, yes.”

  “One of Lady Regan or Lady Melissa’s friends, perhaps? I am Whitby’s cousin.”

  Lord Whitby hadn’t mentioned any cousins in the area while they were on the topic of family during dinner. Brook lifted her brows. “Are you? I am his daughter.”

  “Are you?” His smile turned to a smirk. “You must be the opera singer Harlow was accompanying from the Continent.”

  “Abingdon. And though I was raised by a singer, I am not one myself.”

  “Hmm.” Again his gaze swept the length of her, making her hand itch to slap him. “My apologies. How long has the earl given you to convince him? Most receive two or three days of grace, though a few have been sent packing within an hour.”

  Were she a cat, Brook’s hackles would have risen. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but why is that any concern of yours?”

  His chuckle set her teeth on edge. “I would like a more formal introduction before you leave this place.”

  “She isn’t going anywhere.” The voice came out of the fog like a lighthouse beam. Brook turned her head in its direction, but it was another moment before Lord Whitby became a silhouette and then a man.

  A man with a hard expression aimed solely at the young lord. “And you, Pratt, will speak with more respect to my daughter.”

  Whitby stopped at her side, close enough to touch. And glowered with enough force to send the young man back to his horse.

  Brook pressed her lips against a smile. With such similar glowers, he and Justin ought to get on well.

  Pratt cleared his throat and bowed. “Morning, Whitby. And forgive me. There have been so many over the years.”

  “And yet, were she a fraud, you would have been interested in an introduction?” Her father nodded toward the way from which Pratt had come. “Get on with you.”

  Pratt’s smile was as smooth as ice—and just as treacherous. “Of course, cousin. I know how you enjoy solitude on your morning walks. Good day.” His gaze moved to Brook. It was too dark to be termed respect, but at least it was not so predatory. “And I look forward to meeting you again … my lady.”

  She made no reply, other than to shift closer to Lord Whitby. Swinging back into the saddle with a grace that normally would have earned her appreciation, Pratt nodded, gave her another too-warm smile, and turned his mount around.

  Not until the horse’s hoofbeats had faded away did her father let out a low sigh that sounded half like a growl. “Watch that one—he brings trouble wherever he goes. And I don’t like the way he was looking at you.”

  Yet, now that he was gone, the morning mist seemed to glow silver. Or perhaps that was thanks to Lord Whitby. She slipped her hand through his arm. When she looked up at him, there was no stirring of supposed memory, no thought of This is my father. Only the recognition of a man she could like well—kind, handsome, and of the sort of disposition she had always been drawn toward.

  And a lingering question that made her wonder why, in her dying moments, her mother hadn’t asked Maman to see Brook safely into his arms.

  Whitby looked down at her, loosing a snort of laughter. “Listen to me. Twelve hours a father again, and already I’m threatening the young men to stay away from you.”

  Brook smiled and let him lead her a few steps closer to the shore. “Tha
t is one man from whom I’m happy to steer clear—I didn’t like the way he looked at me either. He is a cousin?”

  Her father sighed. “Unfortunately, though too distant for his tastes. I try to be patient with him, as it was through his father that I met your mother. But I have little use for those so blatantly trying to claim what is mine. He has been after your cousin Regan this past year. No doubt he’ll now give his attention to you.”

  Brook couldn’t suppress a shiver, though she tried to tell herself it was from the frigid breeze off the water and not the thought of Pratt lingering too near, too often. She also couldn’t quite get used to all those yours. Her mother, her aunt, her cousins … her father.

  Her gaze locked on the tossing waves, it took her a long moment to realize Whitby was studying her. She tilted her head and nodded toward the North Sea. “I have always been drawn to the ocean. Was … was my mother that way?”

  “No.” His voice went soft, filled with yearning. “The house and gardens were her domain. This—” he swept a hand out toward the sea—“you apparently inherited from me.”

  “Did I?” That helped—the thought that she was not just “the very image” of her mother, that she had some of him in her too. And yet. “Are you quite certain, beyond all doubt, that I am your daughter? Because if not, I do not want to prolong this, it will only make it harder. And with everyone so suspicious of my motives already …”

  He looked into her eyes long enough that she had to wonder what he saw. “I always believed …” He drew in a deep breath. “From the moment you were born, I adored you. Your mother and I, we doted on you ourselves when our friends entrusted their babes to nurses. I knew you—knew how to soothe your tears, knew what would make you smile. Knew, after the accident, that you were still alive, somewhere. And I always believed that when I found you, there would be no mistake.”

  Something quivered inside. Not with unease. Non, more like a sprout unfurling its first leaf. “But there have been so many claiming they were your daughter.”

  “Yes.” He looked out over the sea as though it were a part of him. “Beginning as soon as your mother was buried. But I knew what my babe looked like, how she acted, though no one thought I would. And as the years passed, as I realized I would likely not know my daughter by sight … that was when my prayers grew more fervent. Something has always made it clear that the claims were false. Information did not match up.”

  “Ought you not to look for that now?”

  He chuckled and turned them back toward the house. “We are more alike than you think, my dear. I already have—in the time since Lord Abingdon first came to me. I found nothing to make me doubt the truth of your story. Still, I knew the true test would be meeting you.” Feet still moving steadily, he looked over at her. Lips unsmiling, his eyes gleamed with certainty. “I have no doubts. And the fact that my sister agrees—well, that is miraculous enough to speak for itself.”

  Brook smiled and let the silence of the fog wrap around them as they crossed the wide expanse of lawn.

  Once in the garden again, he cleared his throat. “I called you Little Liz when you were a babe. Even then, you looked so much like her. Which pleased me to no end.”

  Little Liz … like in that letter. His hand had penned those words to his love. She tried to picture this cynical man fawning over an infant and had to grin at the image. “That is very sweet.”

  “Your mother didn’t think so.” A corner of his mouth quirked up. “She insisted you would be your own person. She … she called you Brook.”

  “Truly?” The green life inside opened a little more. And its root shot down into the earth beneath her feet.

  “Truly.”

  They said no more, traveling the garden path in a quiet uncannily comfortable. When they reached the house, a beam of sunshine arrowed through the mist and painted its gold upon the red brick.

  A warming sign to chase away the lingering chill of that terrible dream.

  “Shall we take breakfast with the others?”

  She hadn’t realized they had been out so long. “Am I presentable?” A quick check of her dress proved it unsoiled by her walk, if damp, and he chuckled when she lifted a hand to her hair.

  “You look perfect.”

  She grinned and let him guide her toward the dining room, from which welcoming voices spilled. The chandelier glowed above the polished cherry table, and a cheerful fire crackled in the hearth. Her aunt and cousins and Lady Thate sat already, plates before them. Thate pulled out a chair as they entered, and Justin was still at the sideboard, selecting a rather suspicious-looking piece of … meat?

  Her father let go her arm, and she smiled at him, then went to Justin’s side. “What is that?” she asked in a whisper.

  He chuckled. “Kippers—smoked fish. If you ask anyone from Yorkshire, Whitby is the only place in the world where you can get them in their right proper form.”

  She was saved the need to respond when Lord Thate made a noise like a wheezing animal. She looked over in time to see him lower his steaming mug and reach for a goblet of water.

  “Good heavens, Bing—how do you drink that stuff?”

  Brook arched a brow at Justin, who grinned and motioned toward the smaller of two carafes upon the sideboard. “Apparently the chef has an espresso machine.”

  “Incroyable.” She bypassed the plates and headed for the coffee cups.

  “Drink it at your own risk, my lady. Stiff enough to stand a spoon in.” Thate coughed, widened his eyes, shook his head. “I shan’t sleep for a week.”

  An added benefit, if it fended off more of those dreams.

  Her aunt chuckled and then blinked in a way that Brook suspected was a warning. “You returned just in time, Ambrose. The girls and I were discussing the need for a house party.”

  Whitby grunted. “The words need and house party should not be uttered in the same sentence.”

  Brook grinned.

  Not so her aunt, who loosed a sigh bright with frustration. “Do be reasonable, Am. We must introduce Brook to the families of import, and it is far too long until next Season to wait until then. Though we must begin planning her debut now, along with Melissa’s. With King George’s coronation set for next summer, absolutely everyone will be in Town.”

  “Debut?” Her father set the larger coffee carafe down with a bit more force than was necessary. “She isn’t old enough to have society foisted upon her.”

  “She is eighteen!”

  “Nonsense. Why, she is only, what … four months old?” Only the small twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his jest.

  The marchioness sighed again. “Why must you always be so absurd?”

  “Because the thought of sending her straight into a Season terrifies me.” He spooned an egg onto his plate, added toast, and moved over to the table. “Being every bit as beautiful as Lizzie, she’ll no doubt garner a dozen proposals by the end of summer, and then I shall be forced to give her away, after just getting her back. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  A rumble of thunder darkened Justin’s eyes too. “Quite a valid fear, my lord. Might I suggest locking her in her chamber instead? You may have a small hope of keeping her out of trouble that way.”

  Brook spared him only an obligatory scowl. Of more concern was picking up a plate and considering the offerings. Justin had often told her that English sausage didn’t have nearly enough spice for a Mediterranean palate, and the kippers … non. Fish was to be served fresh, not like that. But eggs ought to be safe, and toast with some of that delectable-looking jam.

  And if all else failed, the coffee could be a meal in itself.

  “Back to the topic of the house party, if you please,” her aunt said.

  Whitby sighed. “Why are you asking me, Mary? It is no concern of mine if you host a party when you return to London.”

  “Oh, but it would have to be here, Uncle Whit.”

  Brook turned to the table and found her younger cousin leaning forward. Taking the
spot left open between Whitby and Justin, she smiled at Melissa, though the girl kept her gaze on Whitby.

  He forked a bite of egg and ignored his niece.

  Aunt Mary scooted forward on her chair. “She’s quite right, Ambrose. The London house hasn’t any ground for hunting or sport, and I don’t want to impose upon Ram and his new wife so soon.”

  Ram, she had learned last night, was Aunt Mary’s stepson, and the Marquess of Ramsey these last two years—since his father’s death.

  “And yet you feel no compunction in imposing upon me.”

  The words may have sounded harsh, but the tone was light. Her aunt grinned. “I seem to recall a certain brother telling me, upon my marriage, that I ought always to consider Whitby Park my home.”

  “Your brother was young and foolish at the time, and didn’t realize you’d be forcing a house party upon him.”

  “So it’s settled, then.” Her aunt clapped her hands together, though Brook couldn’t think where she’d read the permission in Whitby’s response. But he made no more objection—Mary obviously knew her brother far better than Brook did. “Two weeks ought to be enough for the planning.” Her aunt proceeded to tick off names that meant nothing to Brook, all those she insisted they must invite, present company included. And then, “And I suppose we must invite Lord Pratt.”

  Whitby, who had looked to be paying no attention until then, frowned. “Must we?”

  “Indeed. And the Rushworths—they are Brook’s closest relatives on Lizzie’s side. I wonder if their uncle is back from India yet. Major Rushworth was always fond of Lizzie.”

  “Too fond,” Whitby mumbled before taking a bite of toast.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He gave his sister a closed-mouth grin, swallowed. “Nothing, Mary. Only I don’t think he has left the subcontinent in a decade or two.”

  “Never mind him, then. Ram and Phoebe, of course, and her siblings.”

  “Oh heavens. We’ll be overrun.” Her father put down his cup and reached for the paper a footman held out on a silver salver.