An Heiress at Heart

by Jennifer Delamere

  “Clear the way, Harding,” James said. “There has been an accident.”

  Harding’s eyes widened at the sight of a woman bleeding on his mistress’s immaculate steps. He quickly sized up the situation and opened the door wide.

  Geoffrey lifted the unconscious girl into his arms. She was far too thin, and he was not surprised to find she was light as a feather. Her golden hair contrasted vividly with his black coat. Where was her hat? Geoffrey scanned the area and noted with chagrin the remains of a straw bonnet lying crushed in the street. Something tugged at his heart as her head fell against his chest. Compassion, he supposed it was. But it was curiously profound.

  “She is bleeding profusely,” James pointed out. “Have one of the servants carry her in, or you will ruin your coat.”

  “It’s no matter,” Geoffrey replied. He felt oddly protective of the woman in his arms, although he had no idea who she was. His carriage had struck her, after all, even if her own carelessness had brought about the calamity. He was not about to relinquish her; not for any consideration.

  He stepped grimly over the red smears her blood had left on the white marble steps and carried her into the front hall, where James was again addressing the butler. “Is Lady Thornborough at home, Harding?”

  “No, sir. But we expect her anytime.”

  Geoffrey knew from long acquaintance with the Thornborough family that Harding was a practical man who remained calm even in wildly unusual circumstances. The childhood escapades of Lady Thornborough’s granddaughter, Victoria, had developed this ability in him; James’s exploits as an adult had honed it to a fine art.

  Sure enough, Harding motioned toward the stairs with cool equanimity, as though it were an everyday occurrence for an injured and unknown woman to be brought into the house. “Might I suggest the sofa in the Rose Parlor, sir?”

  “Excellent,” said James.

  As they ascended the stairs, Harding called down to a young parlor maid who was still standing in the front hall. “Mary, fetch us some water and a towel. And tell Jane to clean the front steps immediately.” Mary nodded and scurried away.

  Another maid met them at the top of the stairs. At Harding’s instructions, she quickly found a blanket to spread out on the sofa to shield the expensive fabric.

  Geoffrey set his fragile burden down with care. He seated himself on a low stool next to the woman and once again pressed his handkerchief to the gash below her hairline. The flesh around the wound was beginning to turn purple—she had been struck very hard. Alarm assailed him. “What the devil possessed her to step in front of a moving carriage?”

  He was not aware that he had spoken aloud until James answered him. “Language, Geoffrey,” he said with mock prudishness. “There is a lady present.”

  Geoffrey looked down at the unconscious woman. “I don’t think she can hear me just now.” He studied her with interest. Her plain black dress fit her too loosely, and the cuffs appeared to have been turned back more than once. Her sturdy leather shoes were of good quality, but showed signs of heavy wear. Was she a servant, wearing her mistress’s cast-off clothing? Or was she a lady in mourning? Was she already sorrowing for the loss of a loved one, only to have this accident add to her woes? “If she is a lady, she has fallen on hard times,” Geoffrey said, feeling once again that curious pull at his heart. He knew only too well the wretchedness of having one’s life waylaid by one tragedy after another.

  A parlor maid entered the room, carrying the items Harding had requested. She set the basin on a nearby table. After dipping the cloth in the water, she timidly approached and gave Geoffrey a small curtsy. “With your permission, my lord.”

  Something in the way the maid spoke these words chafed at him. He had been entitled to the address of “my lord” for several months, but he could not accustom himself to it. There were plenty who would congratulate him on his recent elevation to the peerage, but for Geoffrey it was a constant reminder of what he had lost. Surely nothing in this world was worth the loss of two brothers. Nor did any position, no matter how lofty, absolve a man from helping another if he could. He held out his hand for the cloth. “Give it to me. I will do it.”

  The maid hesitated.

  “Do you think that is wise?” James asked. “Surely this is a task for one of the servants.”

  “I do have experience in this. I often attended to the ill in my parish.”

  “But you were only a clergyman then. Now you are a baron.”

  Geoffrey hated the position he had been placed in by the loss of his two elder brothers. But he would use it to his advantage if he had to. And he had every intention of tending to this woman. “Since I am a baron,” he said curtly, motioning again for the cloth, “you must all do as I command.”

  James laughed and gave him a small bow. “Touché, my lord.”

  The maid put the towel into Geoffrey’s hand and gave him another small curtsy. She retreated a few steps, but kept her eyes fastened on him. Geoffrey suspected that her diligence stemmed more from his new social position than from the present circumstances. It had not escaped him that he’d become the recipient of all kinds of extra attention—from parlor maids to duchesses—since he’d become a baron. The years he’d spent as a clergyman in a poor village, extending all his efforts to help others who struggled every day just to eke out a meager living, had apparently not been worth anyone’s notice.

  Geoffrey laid a hand to the woman’s forehead. It was too warm against his cool palm. “I’m afraid she may have a fever in addition to her head injury.”

  James made a show of pulling out his handkerchief and half covering his nose and mouth. “Oh dear, I do hope she has not brought anything catching into the house. That would be terribly inconvenient.”

  Harding entered the room, carrying a dust-covered carpetbag. He held it in front of him, careful not to let it touch any part of his pristine coat. “We found this near the steps outside. I believe it belongs to”—he threw a disparaging look toward the prostrate figure on the sofa—“the lady.”

  “Thank you, Harding,” James said. He glanced at the worn object with equal distaste, then motioned to the far side of the room. “Set it there for now.”

  That bag might be all the woman had in the world, Geoffrey thought, and yet James was so casually dismissive of it. The man had a long way to go when it came to finding compassion for those less fortunate.

  He turned back to the woman. She stirred and moaned softly. “Easy,” Geoffrey murmured, unable to resist the urge to comfort her, although he doubted she could hear him. “You’re safe now.”

  James watched from the other side of the sofa as Geoffrey cleaned the blood from her hair and face. “What a specimen she is,” he remarked as her features came into view. He leaned in to scrutinize her. “Look at those high cheekbones. And the delicate arch of her brow. And those full lips—”

  “This is a woman, James,” Geoffrey remonstrated. “Not some creature in a zoo.”

  “Well, it’s clear she’s a woman,” James returned lightly, unruffled by Geoffrey’s tone. “I’m glad you noticed. Sometimes I wonder if you are aware of these things.”

  Geoffrey was aware. At the moment, he was too aware. He could not deny that, like James, he had been taken by her beauty. Except her lips were too pale, chapped from dryness. He had a wild urge to reach out and gently brush over them with cool water…

  “Good heavens,” James said, abruptly bringing Geoffrey back to his senses. He dropped his handkerchief from his face. “This is Ria.”

  Geoffrey froze. “What did you say?”

  “I said, the young lady bleeding all over Auntie’s sofa is Victoria Thornborough.”

  No. Surely that was impossible. There were occasions, Geoffrey thought, when James seemed determined to try him to the absolute limit. “James, this is not the time for one of your childish pranks.”

  James shook his head. “I am absolutely in earnest.”

  “But that’s preposterous.”

&nb
sp; “I think I should know my own cousin. Even if it has been ten years.” He bent closer as the woman mumbled something incoherent. “You see? She heard me. She recognizes her name.”

  The room suddenly became quite still. Even the servants who had been hovering nearby stopped their tasks. All eyes turned toward the sofa.

  Was this really Ria? Geoffrey had to take James’s word on it for now; he had never met her. He had been in Europe during her brief, clandestine courtship with his brother. This woman, to whom he had been so curiously drawn—for some reason he could easily believe her to be a lady, despite her dirty clothes and bruises. He had no trouble believing Edward could have fallen in love with her—had he not been taken with her himself? No, he told himself again. It had been mere compassion he’d been feeling. And it was utterly incomprehensible that his sister-in-law should appear like this out of nowhere.

  “If this is Ria,” Geoffrey said, “then surely Edward would be with her?”

  “So one would expect,” James replied. “I agree that the situation is most unusual.”

  “Unusual,” Geoffrey repeated drily. The word might describe everything about what had happened between Ria and his brother. Their elopement had taken everyone by surprise, causing a scandal that was bad enough without the embarrassing fact that Ria had been engaged to his other brother, William, at the time.

  “At least we can surmise that they were not aboard the ill-fated Sea Venture,” James said. “Where did they go, I wonder?”

  “That is only one of the many things I’d like to know,” Geoffrey said. He’d exhausted himself with searches and inquiries after Edward and Ria had disappeared without a trace. The best they could discover was that the couple may have booked passage on a ship that had sunk on its way to America. And yet all was conjecture; there had never been answers.

  Geoffrey took hold of the woman’s left hand and began to remove a worn glove that was upon it. He heard the maid behind him gasp, but he was beyond worrying about the possible impropriety of his actions. If this was Ria, he wanted evidence that Edward had made an honest woman of her. He did not think his brother would deliberately trifle with a woman’s affections, but he also knew Edward was prone to rash whims and irresponsible actions. Anything might have kept him from carrying out his plans.

  With one last gentle tug from Geoffrey, the glove came off, revealing a hand that was rough and calloused. It was a hand that had done plenty of manual labor. Though she was not wearing a wedding band, she was wearing a gold and onyx ring that Geoffrey recognized as having once belonged to Edward. The sight of it nearly devastated him. He could think of only one reason why she would be wearing it instead of his brother.

  “Why?” asked Geoffrey roughly, as his concern melted into consternation. “If they were in dire straits, why did they stay away? Why did they not ask us for help?”

  “If you were in their shoes,” James answered, “would you have wanted to face William’s wrath? Or Lady Thornborough’s?” He looked at her thoughtfully. “Perhaps they were not always so destitute. Look at her, Geoffrey. Look at what she is wearing.”

  Geoffrey allowed his gaze to travel once more over the slender figure in the plain black dress that seemed to declare her in mourning. “No!” Geoffrey said sharply. How could she have survived, but not Edward?

  Geoffrey rose and gave the towel and the glove to the maid. He walked to the window and peered through the lace curtains to the street below. It was filled with carriages moving swiftly in both directions, but he could see no sign of either his coach or the doctor’s. He knew it was too soon to expect their return, but he could not quell the anxiety rising in him.

  Which was worse: the continual pain of not knowing what had become of his brother, or the final blow of discovering he really was dead? If anyone had asked him that question before this moment, he might have given an entirely different response.

  He had to get Ria well again. And he had to get answers.

  Chapter 2

  She was dimly aware of voices speaking above her, of a soft, cool cloth against her burning face.

  A sweet scent of roses kept urging her to inhale deeply, trying to lure her back to consciousness. But a piercing pain shot through her side with every breath, and the pounding behind her right temple kept forcing her back into a gauzy daze, unable to open her eyes.

  The murmuring paused, seemingly stilled by a rustle of skirts and a quick tread upon the floor. A woman’s sharp voice said, “Have you done nothing to bring her around?”

  “We have sent for Dr. Layton,” a man replied.

  “Tut, tut. You are as useless as your father was.”

  “My dear aunt, I must protest. I am sure I am a good deal more useless than he was.”

  Another disapproving noise, then a curt order. “Quick, Mary. Bring my smelling salts.”

  More rustling, followed by the assault of an acrid smell under her nose. She sneezed hard, wincing as a bolt of pain surged through her head.

  Gradually her eyes focused on an elderly lady dressed in a heavy silk gown of very dark green. The woman was looking down at her with a mixture of shock and astonishment.

  And then she remembered.

  She had been standing across the street from Lady Thornborough’s house, trying to make up her mind whether or not to approach it. Even now, after coming so far, she had hesitated. Could she carry out her plan? Would they believe her story?

  It had to be done. She had made a promise to a dying woman, and she would keep it. Both fever and chills had plagued her during the long walk up from the docks, compelling her to keep moving lest she faint dead away on the pavement.

  “You must go.” Ria’s voice had echoed in her ear. “I am counting on you.”

  Gathering her courage, she had stepped into the street. Her aching head had blurred the multitude of sounds on the busy thoroughfare, and the glare of the late afternoon sun had hidden the approach of a swiftly moving carriage.

  Now, Lizzie Poole lay motionless as she returned the gaze of the lady standing before her. The woman’s gray eyes matched the color of her hair, which was pulled back in a tight bun. Her regal manner indicated she was the lady of the house. This must be Lady Thornborough—the stern, implacable woman who had raised Ria.

  Would Lady Thornborough believe she was now looking at the granddaughter whom she had last seen ten years ago, when the girl was just seventeen? Or would she instantly recognize Lizzie as an imposter? Not entirely an imposter, she corrected herself. Ria had convinced her they were half sisters and told her where she could find proof. This made Lizzie a granddaughter of Lady Thornborough, too, although the old woman did not know it.

  And if Lizzie pretended to be Ria, what of it? Ria was dead now. Her relationship with Lady Thornborough had been a stormy one, and Ria had begged Lizzie to help her make amends. What better way to do this than to become Ria—to be the dutiful granddaughter Lady Thornborough had always wished for? As an illegitimate granddaughter, Lizzie could do nothing; as Ria, she could claim everything. Ria had given her blessing to the scheme; in fact, it had been her idea.

  For several long, agonizing moments Lizzie watched as Lady Thornborough’s face remained stern and inscrutable. Then she frowned and shook her head.

  Lizzie closed her eyes. I have failed, she thought. She knows I am not Ria. She fought a surge of disappointment. Ria had so thoroughly described the family, the house, and the servants, that Lizzie believed she could walk through the door and take up the life her half sister had left behind. Now she was seized with fear that they would toss her into the street before she even had a chance to explain.

  At last, Lady Thornborough spoke. “Ria, where have you been?”

  Her words were crisp, but not unkind—and sweet to Lizzie’s ears. Relief washed over her, for one blessed moment stemming the pain that wracked her body. Lady Thornborough believed her to be Ria. She could stay. She reached for the cloth on her temple and sat up, despite the fresh round of pain this set off in her throb
bing head. So many things she had planned to say, yet all she could do was answer Lady Thornborough’s question: Where have you been? “Why, Australia, of course…” she murmured, her voice trailing off.

  “Australia?” Lady Thornborough repeated in mortified surprise. She sat down and put her arms around Lizzie. “Oh, my dear girl.”

  This was not at all what Lizzie had been expecting, but she accepted it gratefully. She relaxed into the woman’s comforting embrace, thankful for the way the cool silk of Lady Thornborough’s dress soothed her burning cheek. Soft whispers of guilt stirred within her; awareness that this plan could hurt the woman whose love and respect Ria had so longed for. But Lizzie was ill and exhausted, and her body ached everywhere. She had set her course, and she would stick with it. And in any case, she had nowhere else to go.

  Slowly she became aware of a man sitting on a nearby footstool. He leaned his chin on a gold-handled cane and examined her with curiosity.

  “You have changed, Ria,” he said. “I don’t remember your eyes tending so much to the violet. You are certainly much thinner, and your skin is brown as a farm girl’s. But you remember me, don’t you, my girl?”

  He gave her an encouraging smile. Lizzie studied him carefully. He was a slender man of about thirty, with curly brown hair and cornflower blue eyes. And well dressed. He wore a fine gold vest and white shirt under a tailored blue coat that showed off his square shoulders to their best advantage. A cravat of the same color as his vest was tied in an expert knot at the base of his crisp shirt collar. The only thing marring his handsome features was the tiniest bump on his nose—a souvenir, Ria had called it, of a day long ago when he had fallen out of a tree.

  The man must be James Simpson. He met every one of Ria’s descriptions of her favorite cousin. His clothing proclaimed that he was still a dandy, and Lizzie wondered if he was also, as Ria had said, “a wastrel and a wild one, the sort who was always getting into the kind of trouble that requires ‘hushing up.’ ”

  Certain as she was, Lizzie was still anxious as she answered him, hoping fervently that her instincts were correct. “It appears you have not changed, James.”