The Lost Heiress

by Roseanna M. White

  Well, she would never know if she didn’t ask. “I was hoping I could have a cup of espresso.”

  The chef spun on her, his face red. “You would have me abandon my hollandaise, the most temperamental of sauces, the one I learned from my grandmother in Provence, which she had learned from hers, to make you coffee?”

  The kitchen went silent around them, but Brook merely folded her arms over her chest. The French bluster she knew well. His particular accent she did not. “Provence? I think not.” More likely some corner of Quebec or another.

  He sputtered and muttered, though he used no words that she could make out. And the red in his cheeks faded to white.

  Blast. She hardly cared if he had lied about where he was from to secure a position as a French chef du cuisine. All she wanted was a cup of coffee. Why was that so much to ask?

  Deirdre held her breath with the others while the baroness and the monsieur all but spat at each other in French. Apparently her ladyship had no qualms about arguing with an employee. She answered him phrase for phrase, gesture for gesture. Proclaimed something emphatic with a sweep of her arms and then pointed at the odd machine that hissed and steamed whenever the chef used it, and spurted out a coffee black as night. Other than Bisset himself, no one but Lord Abingdon had ever suffered it. Well, and the baroness. Though when a cup had been requested for her last week, the chef had not set the thing to hissing, he’d merely tossed a few grounds into a kettle.

  Which her ladyship must have realized. Pure exasperation covered her face as she delivered another line of too-rapid French, ending with a s’il vous plaît that sounded more like command than request.

  Monsieur Bisset glared. Sighed. Asked something.

  “Non.” The baroness motioned again at the machine. “Je veux seulement un espresso!”

  He huffed. But he nodded before he waved a hand at the stairs.

  The baroness echoed his huff and spun away. “Merci, monsieur.” To the rest of them, she nodded. Then she stomped her way back upstairs.

  “Well, I never.” Mrs. Doyle smoothed a hand over her shirtwaist and looked from the stairs to the chef. “What, pray tell, was that all about?”

  Monsieur Bisset barely glanced at the housekeeper—he lumbered to the machine with a kettle of water. “Coffee.”

  “Coffee.” The housekeeper’s tone was cooler than February in Kilkeel. “Her ladyship raised her voice at you over coffee?”

  He didn’t answer, not even in French. Odd—usually he greeted their questions with an unintelligible spout of nonsense. Now he cranked the coffee grinder.

  Mrs. Doyle looked to Deirdre with raised brows. “O’Malley, is she always like this?”

  Deirdre cleared her throat. “No, ma’am. Not that I’ve seen. Though she does lapse quite often into French, ma’am, and I can’t be telling what she says.”

  “DeeDee.” Hiram breathed her name like a warning.

  But it was nothing but the truth, and she couldn’t lie to the housekeeper. She lifted her chin.

  Mrs. Doyle lifted hers too. “I do detest anyone raising their voices at one of our own. Monsieur Bisset, give the coffee to me when it is ready. I will deliver it myself.”

  Hiram raised his brows, but Deirdre could only shrug. She slid to her seat beside him as the chatter returned to the kitchen. But Hiram held silent, and she could think of nothing to say either.

  A few minutes later the monsieur slid a cup of inky coffee onto the table before Mrs. Doyle, and everyone else fell silent again too. Silent and somber as the housekeeper fetched a larger cup, poured half the espresso into it, and filled the rest with water.

  Their laughter followed her up the stairs.

  Twelve

  Justin pulled into the drive of Whitby Park, lined with unfamiliar carriages and cars promising strangers he didn’t feel up to meeting, and knew he shouldn’t have come. Never mind that Grandfather had told him to—he couldn’t erase from his mind the way the duke’s hand had trembled when they parted yesterday. How short of breath he had been.

  Now Justin would have to paste on a smile and put aside his worry, though he would rather turn his Rolls-Royce around. Still, he followed Thate to the stables and parked.

  Peters hopped out the moment Justin switched off the magneto. “I’ll see to your things, my lord.”

  “Thank you.” He slid the key into his trouser pocket as he got out and scanned the figures flocking the lawn. Given the direction of Thate’s gaze, Lady Regan must be by the table. Perhaps Brook was near her.

  “There you are! I thought you would never arrive.”

  Or perhaps she was in the stables. He pivoted, spotting her as she emerged into the sunshine, and grinned. Even though his usual reaction to her beauty made him remember Grandfather’s parting remark. “You know what you must do.”

  “Hiding, Brooklet?”

  She bypassed the hand he held out and greeted him as she always had, kissing him on each cheek. “Naturellement. She managed to get twenty people here, all to stay the week—and she has been going absolutely batty with the preparations.”

  He could only assume the “she” was her aunt. “Whitby allowed it?”

  Her smile did his heart good. Even better was the gleam of contentment in her eyes. “I give him two days before he flees Yorkshire. And I will be there by his side—you’re welcome to join us.”

  “You are getting on, then.” He took her hand, tucked it against his arm, and led her toward the lawn. Thate awaited them with lifted brows.

  “We are much alike. And Lord Thate, you can relax—for a few days at least.” She flashed a grin that would likely have turned his friend to a puddle, had he not been one already over her cousin. “Lord Worthing and his sister will not be arriving until Tuesday. You have three whole days to win her, and I suggest you put them to use.”

  Thate grinned, too, even as he said, “I don’t know what you mean, my lady. But might I say, since my oaf of a friend failed to do so, that you are looking particularly lovely today?”

  It was drattedly true. She wore some blue thing that looked like a slice of the sky draping her too precisely. The nip in the air had put roses in her cheeks, and the sun—which must have shown up on order of Lady Ramsey—made her hair gleam purest gold.

  No doubt every male set of eyes would be glued to her all week, and Justin wouldn’t be able to rid his mind of Grandfather’s warnings. Grandfather’s commands.

  Thate’s low chuckle made Justin aware of his own scowl. “Predictable.”

  He lifted his brows and glanced toward the table where Thate’s gaze kept wandering. “Pot and kettle.”

  Thate laughed, but the way Brook’s brows knit made him wonder if she had not yet learned that particular idiom. She didn’t seem to catch the meaning of their jest, praise be to heaven.

  With a tug on his arm, she spurred him onward. “Thank heavens you’re here—now I can finally get a decent cup of espresso.”

  He pulled her to a halt again, though Thate sighed when he did. “What do you mean? The chef obviously knows how to make it.”

  She shrugged and looked out into the distance. When her gaze grazed the collection of people on her lawn, she leaned a bit closer to his side.

  He wasn’t about to complain—though he wondered if she even realized she had done it. Or if she could possibly know how it made him want to catch the curl that the wind toyed with, give it the tug he always had … and then slide his hand to the back of her neck and lean down to touch his lips to hers.

  He forced his mind back to the issue of caffe. “What is the problem?”

  The light in her eyes dimmed. She shrugged again, a gesture so very Gallic that she might as well have broken into a rousing rendition of “La Marseillaise.” “They don’t like me.”

  Now Thate faced them, frowning along with Justin. “Who? The kitchen staff?”

  “All of them.” She smiled, but it was dim and forced. “The family has welcomed me, but the staff … It is their loyalty to my father,
I think. They have seen so many pretenders over the years.”

  But with loyalty should have come trust—and if they distrusted her, then they also distrusted Whitby’s recognition of her. “Unacceptable. You are their mistress, and if they cannot serve you well, they ought to be replaced. Surely your father agrees … Except you’ve not told him, or you wouldn’t look away with that”—oh so lovely—“flush in your cheeks.”

  “I know I should. And I will.” She forced a little smile. “After the house party.”

  He wanted to press the issue, but it would do no good. She had that obstinate set to her chin.

  But even Thate looked concerned. He motioned them onward again but kept his focus on Brook. “Have you hired a lady’s maid? Perhaps if you have someone loyal first to you …”

  “I chose to promote the head housemaid. She has a way with hair.”

  Did she know how weak it sounded? She must, because she kept her gaze fastened on the ground ahead of them. “Brook.”

  “I thought it would help.” She looked up now, and her smile went cheeky. “You ought to have seen her horror the first time I pulled out my riding habit.”

  He snorted a laugh at the thought. But given that she had first learned to ride astride in Justin’s outgrown knee breeches, the split skirt ought to have been praised as a brilliant compromise. “I can well imagine. Have you chosen a horse yet? I hear Whitby has some of the best stock in the country.”

  “I have been riding a black mare named Tempesta—she is a beautiful creature, with an admirable spirit. But …” Her eyes gleamed so bright, he knew trouble brewed. “It is her brother I want. They say he cannot be broken and keep him on a tether at all times. His name is Oscuro.”

  Justin tightened his fingers around hers. Riding astride was one thing—toying with wild horses quite another. He had nearly had a fit when she’d told him last year of the prince’s horse she had “helped train,” and Prince Albert’s quiet assurances that she had been well guarded had done little to allay the fears. “Whitby surely doesn’t let you near him.”

  Her impish grin said otherwise. “I’ve already got him tolerating me in the stall. Another week and I intend to put my weight on him. If I can ride him in two months’ time, my father and I will learn to drive the car together. By next spring, Lord Thate, I may be racing you at Surrey.”

  The woman needed to be locked in a tower somewhere. On a desert island. With no wild horses. Or racetracks. “Don’t even think it.”

  Thate laughed. “Our friend is quite right. You would never stand a chance in that touring car of your father’s. You would need a proper racing car. Perhaps a Lancia. Or a Benz.”

  “A Fiat,” she countered. “They may not have won the Grand Prix in May, but they set the fastest lap times, n’est pas?”

  She was mad—stark, raving mad. “Before sliding off the road and killing one of their mechanics. You are not racing, Brook. And you.” Justin spun on Thate, lifting his hand from hers to give his friend a helpful shove in the arm. “Stop encouraging her. In fact, if you hope to win Lady Regan before Nottingham’s son shows up, perhaps you ought to quit talk of racing altogether.”

  “I don’t have—” He cut himself off with a huff, apparently realizing the absurdity of the claim. He pursed his lips and looked to Brook again. “I don’t suppose she’s mentioned me.”

  Brook’s silver laugh chimed, making Justin’s stomach tighten. “Perhaps.”

  “Hmm.” Mouth still pursed, Thate drew to a halt a fair piece from the gathering. “My mother says no lady of quality will have me as I am.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous. And I think my cousin would agree.” She grinned as she looked toward Lady Regan. “For all her steady ways, she is a romantic.”

  “She is … perfect.” Squaring his shoulders, Thate sucked in a breath. “Excuse me, Bing. My lady. I have only three days, and I don’t mean to waste another moment of them.”

  Justin watched his friend stride off, smiled, and was content to hold Brook on the edge of the gardens for a while longer. “He has an honest chance with her?”

  Brook hummed and rested her cheek against his shoulder, making his pulse accelerate far too much. “She’s in love with him. Melissa thinks it foolish, and Aunt Mary talks only of whether Lord Worthing will propose. But if Thate speaks up, she’ll accept him in a heartbeat.”

  For a moment they said nothing more, just watched the way Thate first greeted a gentleman, how he used the conversation to shift directions, and then just happened to find himself at Lady Regan’s side. Deft. Justin hadn’t known he had it in him. “We ought to fashion a story to commemorate this occasion. We can call it, ‘The Day Thate Conformed to Normal Social Ritual.’”

  She tossed back her head in a laugh. “A bit unwieldy, that title. I prefer ‘When Love Found Them.’”

  His smiled. It faded, though, when a dark-clad figure caught his attention. “Pratt came, I see.”

  She looked his way, shuddered, and then tugged Justin toward the house. “Those are my other cousins he is talking with. The Rushworths—Lord Rushworth and Lady Catherine. My mother and their father and his brother, Henry, were first cousins. Both their parents have passed. They have only their uncle left, but he has been in India for most of their lives.”

  From this distance, Lady Catherine could have been Brook. Blond hair, trim figure, fashionable. Though he certainly hoped Brook never clung to Pratt’s arm like that one did. “Did you meet them yet?”

  “Briefly.” Brook nodded toward where her father sat in a chair on the terrace, trying to disappear behind a newspaper. “Lord Rushworth said hardly a word, but his sister seemed nice enough—though Regan doesn’t like her, and Regan is usually a sound judge of character.” She yawned, though she tried to cover it.

  Justin eyed the bench adjacent to Whitby’s chair. Perhaps they could find another newspaper and follow his example. “Tired already?”

  “I was up too late looking for that journal I mentioned—I’ve no idea where it got put, and poor O’Malley was obviously afraid I’d blame her for it. Though Odette must have moved it when she packed for me, or Mademoiselle Ragusa at some point.” She shrugged, though her eyes did not lose their disturbed gleam. “And I have been having the strangest dream.”

  Not a good one, if the set of her mouth were any indication. “Nightmare?”

  “Oui. The same one, over and again.” Her words drifted into Monegasque. “It is very vague. A storm, fierce and frightening. Lightning, thunder, darkness … and always this feeling of some threat lurking.” Her right fingers found her pearls, twisted.

  Justin frowned. The journal would turn up, and the dreams were likely nothing—the influence of an unfamiliar home, an unknown future, unanswered questions. Still. “Every night?”

  “Almost. But they will pass.” She renewed her smile and removed her hand from his arm so she could sit.

  Justin sat beside her, trying to ignore how cold his arm now felt.

  Whitby looked up from his paper. Smiled at Brook—scowled at him. “You. You have some explaining to do, Lord Abingdon.”

  Perhaps he would have worried, had Brook’s laugh not been so carefree. He looked from the woman beside him to her father. Was it laughter in Whitby’s eyes too, or irritation? “What have I done, my lord?”

  Whitby folded his paper and raised his hand, a finger up. “You taught my daughter to ride astride.” He raised another finger. “To shoot a pistol.” A third. “To drive an automobile.” Four. “To swim.” And his thumb. “To fence.”

  Brook’s next laugh interrupted him, and Justin felt his mouth tug upward into a grin too.

  Whitby narrowed his eyes. “What have you to say for yourself?”

  Looking at her, how she sat with such confidence, how she laughed with such abandon, how she faced the world with such brilliance, there was only one thing he could say. “You’re welcome.”

  Deirdre hated this time of morning. When all was still dark outside the many-paned windows
of Whitby Park, when she should have had a peaceful hour to take her breakfast and go about her tasks.

  It had once been her favorite time of day. Now she dreaded it, knowing she had to rush if she hoped to have Lady Berkeley’s room prepared before the baroness surged out of bed. Her ladyship was up before the sun most mornings. She seldom asked for anything, but that only made it worse. She knew Deirdre resented her presence, and by knowing made her ashamed of it with every apologetic smile.

  Sure and it was enough to spoil the whole day.

  She trod silently down the hall, pausing outside the baroness’s new room. Granted, it had now been hers longer than the Green Room had been, but it still felt strange to Deirdre. This was a chamber she had once cleaned with a pervasive sense of pity for his lordship. One that Beatrix wouldn’t even step foot in without crossing herself. The babe’s room, they had used to call it.

  Lady Berkeley’s now.

  Deirdre said a silent prayer that the lady would still be abed and turned the knob. No lamplight greeted her. No soft humming came from the window seat. The baroness’s wrapper was still draped on the chair—a guarantee that she was yet beneath her covers, for the girl couldn’t tolerate chill air.

  Deirdre loosed a breath of relief and headed for the dressing room. His lordship had been sending over jewels and hats, scarves and gloves. Anything belonging to the late Lady Whitby that had not gone absolutely out of fashion.

  Still, the girl only wore that pearl necklace she had arrived in. She would slip on a bracelet or ring of the late lady’s now and then, but the heavily-jeweled items remained on their velvet trays.

  Deirdre flipped on the electric light once she’d closed herself in. The baroness had instructed her to have her riding habit ready this morning. A hunt was planned. Deirdre couldn’t help the purse of her lips as she pulled it down. Had the woman no shame, to wear pants with all those guests around?

  At least the lady would have to dress for breakfast first. She had indicated no preference for that, so Deirdre selected an ivory morning dress with rose inlays, just because she fancied it.