The Lost Heiress

by Roseanna M. White

  “She struck you? And you let her?”

  Leave it to him to make it sound like her fault—and make her want to smile about it. “I assure you, had she advanced again, she would have taken a fist to her upturned nose.”

  Papa sighed. “Then what?”

  “Then …” Swallowing did nothing to make the lump in her throat go away. “Then she said she was not so stupid as to think Justin’s travels a coincidence, that he was in the place they originated. That I was just like my mother, and look where it led her. She intimated … Papa, I don’t think the carriage accident was an accident. Not entirely, anyway.”

  There. She’d said it, that truth that had pounded her brain with every thunder of Oscuro’s hooves.

  Her father spun away, muttering a word she couldn’t quite make out but that she suspected was a curse, given the way he seemed at a loss as to what to do with his hands. After a moment he clasped them behind his back in that way of his. “Catherine was trying to upset you. It was a fierce storm. The rain had wrought havoc on the roads. The carriage overturned. A tragic accident, nothing more.”

  Storm? Thunder and lightning and darkness.

  Brook, hands shaking, sank to the edge of a chair. “No one ever mentioned that. Is that what I’ve been dreaming of all these months? The storm that killed her?”

  Papa looked at her as if the very question would make him unravel.

  Justin, when he stepped into view, instead looked at her like her sanity already had unraveled. “You were far too young to remember anything from that night.”

  “I know that.” And she didn’t need him to make her feel ridiculous. She pivoted, strode to a shelf, though all the titles upon it blurred together. “It has always been so vague. So frightening. Impressions, nothing more. But you cannot know how it has tormented me.”

  Justin held up his hands. “I can imagine. But focus on the facts for now. This is a serious accusation you’re lobbing Lady Catherine’s way. And linking it to your mother’s death, which she could not possibly be responsible for, will do nothing to gain you believers among the constabulary.”

  She wasn’t trying to get the constable to believe her, though—just them, the two men who mattered most. Dragging in a long breath, she fixed her gaze on her father. “What about Catherine’s parents? Her father—Mother’s cousin?”

  He shook his head. “They were never close but never seemed at odds. His wife was jealous and contentious, but she would never have taken it so far.”

  “But how far would she have taken it? Perhaps the accident was an accident, but what sent her on that journey?” Brook splayed her hands, begging them to understand. To believe. “Why would she leave here, with me, with the letters from you? Why, when Collette arrived, did my mother tell her to take me away and not to find you? Why?”

  Papa shook his head, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “Questions I have asked myself too long.”

  Justin eased forward. “The more immediate question is what Lady Catherine wants, and how far she will go to get it. The hint about my having traveled to these Fire Eyes’ origin is little help. I was in Africa and India both, and both are rich in mines of all kinds.”

  Brook folded her arms over her middle. “Whatever they are, it seems my mother had them, perhaps unwittingly. It is all linked. That is certainly no coincidence.”

  For a long moment, neither man made any response. Then Justin’s eyes went dark. “You didn’t write to me about any of these concerns, did you?”

  She shook her head, though his meaning still made her stomach churn. “I told you in November there were things I could not put in a letter.”

  “Good. I think we need to operate on the assumption that someone has stolen your correspondence purposefully.”

  “Stolen your—” Papa cursed again, louder this time. “Why have you said nothing of this to me, Brook?”

  “We just realized it.” Justin shoved his hands into his pockets. His shoulders had edged back. His spine had gone straight. He looked, standing there in a casual suit of clothes, perfect confidence in his every line, like a duke. “I wrote her dozens of letters, she says she got none. She sent me dozens, I received only one.”

  He hadn’t mentioned that. “Which one?”

  His eyes flashed. “It was dated the twenty-third of February. A week before you were set to go to Sussex.” He said Sussex as if it were the birthplace of all annoyance.

  “When we were still in London for Mary’s birthday.” Papa’s eyes went calculating as he thought through it. “The one you posted yourself, that day we went out for a drive.”

  She could see the suspicions mounting in his eyes, as they had in her mind. The implications were unmistakable—she had sent other letters from London and Sussex. But they had not reached him, either.

  The postmaster in Eden Dale could hardly be blamed.

  She sank onto the edge of Papa’s favorite chair.

  Justin paced to the unlit fireplace. “Which servants travel with you?”

  “My valet, Lewis. Her maid, O’Malley. Clark, who drives the carriage with them and our luggage. That’s all.”

  Justin had turned back toward them but did not approach. “Does the maid still dislike you, Brook?”

  Her father sucked in a breath. “She … ? Brook! What else have you not told me?”

  A headache was gathering behind her eyes. “It was nothing to burden you with, Papa. The servants are all so loyal to you, it took them a while to accept that I was not out to steal all that is yours. That is all. Je promets.”

  Her promise didn’t seem to ease him any. “How long is ‘a while’? How long did they not accept you after I specifically instructed them to welcome you as their mistress?”

  Given the paternal fire in his eyes, he might call the servants in and dismiss each and every one of them, even though at this point they all doted on her.

  Or so she thought. “Focus, Papa. We have only three suspects right now, and I daresay, whichever of them did it, it wasn’t a matter of dislike. Pratt said something today about how I’d never received any letters from Justin—intimating he got the information from the postmaster.”

  Her father narrowed his eyes. “And what was Pratt doing here?”

  She waved a hand. “Proposing. But the point is that he may have bribed—”

  “Proposing?”

  The twin responses from Justin and her father made Brook roll her eyes. “Oui, and I, of course, fell at his feet in adoration and said yes. Because we all know how much I like him. Again, could we please focus, gentlemen? On the possible bribery?”

  Papa tugged on his waistcoat. “What kind of man proposes to a young lady without first speaking with her father?”

  “The kind who knows well her father would refuse his blessing.” She managed a smile for him and resisted the urge to glance at Justin. “Bribery, Papa.”

  “Hmph.” He stalked to the window, glaring in the direction of Pratt’s land. “Lewis has been with me for twenty-five years. I cannot think he would do this—he has no family to support, and I have set aside a living for him when it is time for him to retire. But … those years have established a friendship, and if he believed you a pretender, as those who came before …”

  “O’Malley’s family is struggling.” She didn’t want to say it, to admit it. Didn’t want to think it could be Deirdre, with whom she’d finally established a rapport. “I’ve been sending extra funds, but she doesn’t know that. I know little of Clark.”

  “I know little more—he only joined us last year. O’Malley has been here nigh unto eight.” Her father nodded, staring into space. “We will look into all of them. We cannot afford to assume.”

  Justin was still glowering. “Have we two issues here, or one? Are Pratt and Lady Catherine working toward separate goals—he, you and she, the Fire Eyes—or are they somehow working together?”

  Brook drew in a breath and leaned back into the chair. “Pratt would have no claim on any Rushworth jewels. And Kitty—
Catherine.” She wouldn’t use the familiar name, not anymore. “She’s in love with him, so she certainly would not aid him in his pursuit of Whitby Park. They must be separate.”

  “I agree.”

  Justin nodded once, then shook his head. “You always have had a knack for finding trouble, Brooklet, but this … Pratt is obviously not opposed to stooping low to get his way. And if Lady Catherine would really hire a man to threaten you over jewels, what would she do because of Pratt’s affection for you?”

  “It isn’t affection—it’s greed. But your point is valid.” She raised a hand to rub at the muscles gone taut in her neck. So many hours spent laughing together. So many times she had listened while Catherine pined for Pratt. How could her cousin think Brook low enough to pose a threat to her relationship with him? “They may be unrelated at the core, but that does not mean that one will not exacerbate the other. Pratt thoughtfully warned me that Catherine will try to rip apart my reputation in London. I didn’t believe him then, but …”

  Papa’s face finally relaxed. “We can only hope. If you complement her gossip with that horrible pink thing your aunt commissioned for your debut, we might have reason to come home again by June.”

  No doubt she would be ready well before then. Brook grinned. “I plan to wear the gown Grand-père sent. But have no fear, Papa—I’ll not force you to too many balls.”

  “Your aunt will try to have us at something every night of the week.”

  “United, we can stand against her.”

  Justin had lifted a brow and seemed to squelch a grin. “Pink? You look terrible in pink.”

  “Thank you ever so much for noticing.”

  His chuckle sounded like memories, indulgent and carefree. “You’ve always been quick to proclaim it—I don’t know why your aunt would ever dare try to put it on you. What did the prince send?”

  “Oh, the loveliest gown.” It seemed trivial, in light of all else they needed to talk about. And yet not, because it was a gift from her grandfather, one that proved he still thought of her, still loved her. “Pale green, with a blue overlay of beading. Wait until you see it.”

  Justin smirked. “Green? For a debut? Only you would dare wear something other than white or pale pink, Brooklet.” Then his eyes shifted. They went softer, and that flirtatious gleam entered them again. “Don’t forget you’ve promised me your first dance—after you open the floor with your father, of course.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” Her smile, though, would only stretch halfway before it felt too heavy. Too false. Sighing, she met her father’s gaze again. How was she supposed to worry with filling up her dance card when her mother’s death still loomed over her, when mysterious jewels taunted her, when friends declared themselves enemies, when threats seemed to lurk everywhere?

  Papa moved to the chair and rested a hand on her shoulder. “She has been gone this long, my dear. Much as we both need the answers, there is no urgency.”

  Because she must, she nodded. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that in fact there was.

  Twenty

  Twilight possessed the heath by the time Justin rolled to a halt at the carriage house of Azerley Hall. He had dined with the Edens, but when Whitby issued an invitation to stay, the pressing upon his spirit said he shouldn’t. He still wasn’t sure if Brook had looked disappointed or relieved.

  He still wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved.

  He parked his car, let himself out, and trudged his way toward the front door of his cousin’s house. The drive had not, as he hoped, helped him collect his thoughts. They were still awhirl with it all. Proposals from Pratt. Threats from Lady Catherine. Something called the Fire Eyes.

  And she hadn’t kissed him back.

  “Justin.”

  He started at Cayton’s voice. Looking up, he could barely make out his cousin’s form at the edge of the garden. “James?”

  “Mm. Join me? I just ordered some wine.”

  Out here? The evening had turned cool, but the moon held court in the heavens, and it was rare enough that his cousin actually asked for his company. Justin altered his course, thankful he had shrugged into his great coat for the drive. “Of course.”

  He passed through the opening in the hedge as Cayton sat at a small table, in one of two chairs. His cousin motioned toward the second. “I need to talk to you.”

  Justin’s stomach went tight as he pulled out the cold metal seat and lowered himself into it. “Why does that not sound pleasant?”

  Cayton sighed and folded his arms, shirtsleeves gleaming white over his chest in the moonlight. “You are going to London tomorrow?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “Soon. But I … I need to go to Gloucestershire first.”

  At that, Justin frowned. Aunt Susan was there with Aunt Caro. But they said they were traveling tomorrow too. “To Ralin? What do you need? We can phone the castle and have it sent with your mother.”

  A servant emerged from the house, bottle of wine and goblets on a tray. After depositing it on the table, she scurried away.

  Cayton said nothing while he poured.

  Justin waited. Accepted a goblet, took a sip.

  His cousin’s next sigh gusted forth. “I’m betrothed.”

  That brought Justin’s spine straighter, though he had been ready to try to recline against the wrought-iron back. He smiled—halfway, until he realized that Cayton didn’t. “When? I was not aware you’d seen Lady Melissa lately.”

  Cayton held his glass but didn’t drink. Apparently he would rather stare into its burgundy depths. “I haven’t seen her since last month, when I was in Town.”

  The frown pulled at Justin’s brows again. “You have been engaged a full month and have said nothing? Someone would have mentioned—”

  “No.”

  No … what? That Cayton hadn’t been engaged a full month, or that he hadn’t said nothing? It must be the first. “You asked her by letter?”

  “No.” Sounding exasperated now, Cayton looked up. The moonlight caught on the whites of his eyes. “It’s not Melissa.”

  “It’s not …” The words made little sense. Justin gave up on the wine. “You told me you were in love with her.” And the saying of such a thing had been striking, when he read his cousin’s letter over the winter—he had not thought them close enough to warrant such a confession.

  “I know. I am. Or was. Or …” Cayton set his goblet down with a clatter of crystal upon marble—leaned forward and rested his forehead in his hands. “I’m strapped, Justin. And a second daughter’s dowry isn’t going to help.”

  “James—”

  “Don’t lecture me. I know you put your estate to rights, so you no doubt think I can do the same. But I can’t. It’s been languishing too long, and I had no idea. I thought the steward had it well in hand—he’s been taking care of everything since before I was born. But when he passed away in January and I looked over everything …”

  Now it was Justin’s turn to sigh. “I was not going to lecture. I certainly cannot judge. But are you sure marriage is the answer?”

  Cayton snorted. “I have no other alternatives. It seems I don’t have the luck of your father.”

  “James—you’ve been gambling?”

  His cousin winced. “The horse races.”

  A breath of laughter slipped out before he could stop it. “Perhaps you should have tried baccarat—that was Father’s game.” Not that Justin was actually advising … but his cousin knew that.

  Cayton sent him a lopsided, sad smile. “Too late. I’ve already sworn off it all.”

  For a long moment, the only sound was the chirping of the frogs from the pond. Justin took another sip of the wine. “Who, then, if not Lady Melissa?”

  Cayton picked his glass up again too. “Miss Adelaide Rosten.”

  “Rosten.” Justin held his burgundy halfway to his lips. “The name sounds familiar.”

  “It should—she is your neighbor in Gloucestershire. Her grandfather mad
e his fortune in the mills.”

  “And she is the heiress.”

  Cayton nodded. “She … she is a sweet girl. Unobtrusive. I knew her as a child, though I scarcely paid any mind to her. She has no family left.”

  Try as he might, Justin could not put a face to the name. “So it is official?”

  “Yes. We haven’t made the announcement yet, but yes. I wanted … Before anyone else knows, I wanted to speak with you. Mother isn’t happy with me, nor is Aunt Caro. And of course, if we’re all in London, the gossips will soon pick up on it all, and Miss Rosten … She doesn’t deserve to be lambasted. If you stood with us, it would go a long way toward smoothing things over.”

  For Cayton, yes. No doubt it would. But for Justin? He ran a hand over his face. Brook would no doubt be furious on behalf of her cousin. One more thing between them, if he stood beside Cayton. But what choice did he have? “Have you told Lady Melissa?”

  “Not yet. I will as soon as I get to London. I realize this will put you in a tight spot with your baroness. If you …”

  “You know I will support you, James.”

  Cayton’s shoulders sagged. “I couldn’t be sure. I know you hoped it would be neat and tidy for you. Thate married to Regan, me to Melissa, you to Brook.”

  It would have. But he should have known better than to expect it. “Reality is rarely so tidy though, hmm?”

  “Indeed. Let us pray it is simpler for you and you can win her back.”

  Justin had been reaching for his glass again, but that brought his arm to a halt. “Win her back?”

  Cayton motioned in the direction of Whitby. “Melissa told me she and Worthing are always exchanging letters, that she visited him in Sussex and had nothing but happy tales to tell.” He took a drink, set his glass down again. “Don’t underestimate your competition, cousin. When you didn’t write to her, she had to turn somewhere.”

  “I did write her. More frequently than I ever had before, but—it seems someone intercepted the letters.”

  His cousin stared at him for a long moment, brow creased. “Are you quite serious? Why the devil would anyone do that?”

  Justin shook his head. “I don’t know. But someone did, and caught hers to me too, before they could be posted.”