How could Edward leave her like this? And her last words to him had been Do try to stay out of trouble. She was always scolding him, though he’d taken it in good humor. And now he was gone. This couldn’t be real.
But Mr. Channing was waiting. With an effort, Lina dragged her scattered thoughts back to their conversation. What was it he’d just asked?
At her blank look, Mr. Channing’s mouth twisted down, a little of the old contempt creeping back into his manner. “To inherit, Lady Radbourne. Your son would be the next earl. Surely there’s some hope...?”
Her son? What was he talking about? She’d never had a son. Didn’t he know that? She wasn’t even expecting, apparently, not with the spotting she’d had the morning before. “I don’t—no.” She shook her head. “No, I’m quite certain it must be a distant cousin...”
“Ah. Well, then.” Mr. Channing straightened. “I’m sorry for your loss. He was always a spirited lad, your husband, and would have ended up a fine man if he’d had time enough to grow into the role. I’ll be on my way, and Mr. Wilkins should be by to offer you what comfort he can.”
Mr. Wilkins? The vicar, comforting her. Edward didn’t even like the vicar.
Lina sat in a fog, hoping this was all a bad dream and in another minute she would wake up, safe and well loved in the feather bed.
* * *
“Merciful heaven, we’ve arrived at last.” Freddie turned away from the window as the carriage rolled to a stop, his long arms and legs making the interior of the chaise feel even smaller and more cramped than before. “Even an average pigeon could have made it here in six hours. A good racer might have cut that time almost in half.”
Win rose, stooping so he wouldn’t hit his head on the roof again. He was disposed to look with indulgence on both the eccentricities and the chatter of his younger brother, but not when they threatened to wake his daughter. “Keep your voice down, you nodcock. Julia’s asleep.”
Fortunately, Julia didn’t even stir, wrapped in a woolen blanket against the cold. It astonished Win that anyone could sleep in a moving carriage, especially with the wretched state of the roads in this corner of England, but he’d slept in some rather uncomfortable spots himself when he was five years old. Besides, it wasn’t far from her bedtime. The late January daylight was waning fast.
Freddie opened the carriage door and hopped out. As gently as possible, Win lifted his sleeping daughter in his arms, settling her head against his left shoulder. Carefully, he stepped down from the coach.
He paused to survey the house before him. If ever a place was likely to be haunted...
“Not much to look at, is it?” Standing at Win’s elbow, Freddie wrinkled his nose. “It’s large enough, but—do you suppose there’s a dovecote? I believe monasteries shared the droit de colombier with manor houses, and were allowed to keep their own pigeons.”
“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.” Win’s eyes ranged over the hulking mass of weathered stone. Abbeys generally came in two varieties—soaring Gothic jewels like Westminster, and their squat Norman ancestors. Belryth Abbey fell into the latter category. An entire wing was in ruins—no roof, no windows, just crumbling gray walls—and the remaining structure loomed like a giant overturned bathtub, bulbous and ugly.
But it was his ancestral home, and now he could finally make good on his promise to Harriet. For that alone, he would learn to love it.
Win climbed the worn steps to the front door, his brother trailing after him. There seemed no way to knock quietly with the heavy iron doorknocker, but Julia didn’t even stir. When no one answered, Win banged again, harder this time.
Presently the door swung open to reveal a portly servant of middle age with keen eyes and a slightly receding hairline. He glanced from Win to Freddie and back again. “Yes?”
Win opened his mouth to give his name—and, damn it, how should he introduce himself? It felt presumptuous to march up to the front door and say I’m Radbourne to an old retainer, as if he’d been waiting all his life to step into the late earl’s shoes. He hadn’t even known he was next in line to inherit until he’d received the solicitor’s letter. He settled on giving the name he’d used all his life. “Winstead Vaughan from Hampshire, and my brother, Mr. Frederick Vaughan. The seventh earl’s fourth cousins, once removed.”
At the Vaughan name, the butler’s demeanor changed from chilly civility to brisk welcome. “Ah, of course, sir!” He bowed from the waist. “Do excuse me. I was only surprised. Mr. Niven isn’t expecting you until tomorrow, and we weren’t informed you were a family man.”
“A widower.” Sir? Win nodded to the child sleeping in his arms. “My daughter, Julia.”
“Welcome, sir. I’m Dyson.” He looked over his shoulder to the footman standing just behind him. “Fetch Mrs. Phelps. Tell her Mr. Vaughan has arrived, and that he’ll require a room for his brother and young daughter as well.”
Sir again, and Mr. Vaughan. Was that the usual protocol so soon after a peer’s death, or was the butler unaware of his reason for coming here? Win could almost believe the letter he’d received nearly three weeks before had been nothing but a practical joke, an elaborate prank one of his old army comrades was playing, except that Dyson had mentioned Mr. Niven by name and the servants were clearly expecting him.
The house was better on the inside—much warmer, and not so dark or closed in as Win had feared. Though the floor of the front hall was slate, the rooms on either side boasted thick Persian carpets—expensive ones, if he was any judge. Their rich colors brightened the interior, dispelling any sense of gloom. Win detected no hint of damp or strong drafts, either, and that was saying a lot for such an old pile.
“Is there a dovecote on the estate?” Freddie asked the butler.
Dyson’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “A dovecote, sir?”
“Yes. You know, a columbarium. A structure for housing pigeons or doves. There are dovecotes in France that have upwards of two thousand boulins.”
“Pigeon holes,” Win translated for the butler’s benefit. “My brother has a great interest in pigeons.” Though he’d long since resigned himself to the hopelessness of persuading Freddie to converse on any other topic, at the moment Win wished his brother were a bit more circumspect about sharing his eccentric single-mindedness with everyone he met.
“Centuries before Christ, pigeons were delivering the results of the Olympic games to the city-states of ancient Greece,” Freddie told the butler. “That’s why I give all my pigeons classical names. Admetus and Alcestis, Odysseus and Penelope, Baucis and Philemon—”
Win cut him off. “No need to overwhelm Dyson with the entire list, Freddie.”
The butler’s face remained admirably impassive. “I’m afraid there’s no dovecote on the abbey grounds, sir.”
“Really? Well, dash it. Where might the nearest one be?”
Win had used every tactic at his disposal to persuade his brother to make the trip, including vague intimations that Yorkshire was a pigeon’s paradise. Naturally Freddie wouldn’t rest until he’d sent for his birds. “Let’s worry about that after we’ve seen the rest of—”
He broke off as the housekeeper, younger and more attractive than he’d expected, arrived to show them to their rooms. Win had no intention of dallying with the servants, but discovering that the upper staff wasn’t made up entirely of antiquated old retainers was a welcome surprise.
In the room meant for Julia, the chambermaid was still laying the fire. Win d
eposited his daughter gently on the turned-down bed and drew the crewelwork coverlet up to her chin, hopeful she’d sleep through the night. It was a large room, and pretty, not at all the cheerless cell he’d feared—though after seven days on the road, any room that didn’t look and smell like a coaching inn was bound to seem inviting.
He emerged back into the corridor to discover that Mrs. Phelps had already shown Freddie to his room. As fond as he was of his brother, Win was grateful to have a moment to himself. Between Julia’s short attention span and Freddie’s obsessive chatter, he’d known scarcely a moment’s peace since leaving Bishop’s Waltham. At least now he knew all there was to know about gauging the health of a pigeon from the look of its droppings.
His own room turned out to be every bit as inviting as his daughter’s, its paneled walls, mahogany bedstead and silk hangings leaving him still more sanguine about the condition of the house. He’d no sooner washed off the dirt of travel, however, than a soft knock came at the bedroom door.
“Excuse me, sir,” Dyson said when he answered, “but Mr. Niven wishes to see you in the parlor.”
He needed the butler’s escort to find the room. It was a large chamber near the front of the house, furnished in what looked like Chippendale, stylish and elegant. Baroque portraits stared down grandly from the walls. Why, Belryth Abbey was downright luxurious.
Win shook his head at the way he kept sizing up his ancestral home like a horse trader inspecting a nag. He’d have to break the habit before one of the servants caught him checking the silver for hallmarks.
Two men awaited him. The first was a trim, dapper gentleman with an unlined face and neat silver hair. Seeing Win, he came hurrying forward with his hand outstretched. “I’m Arthur Niven. I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon.”
Win shook his hand. “I did my best to shave time off the journey. I’ve no taste for being on the road, especially in the winter. I had more than enough of the unsettled life, fighting in Spain.”
Mr. Niven gestured at the larger man standing just behind him. “This is Mr. Channing. He’s asked to be present for this interview.”
“I’m magistrate here,” Channing said, likewise shaking Win’s hand, “as well as one of the three trustees of the estate. I contacted Mr. Niven after the late earl’s death, and I’ve been his eyes and ears here when he’s in York.”
Though Mr. Channing looked to be only a little older than Mr. Niven, the two were physical opposites. Mr. Niven had a suave, fastidious air, while Mr. Channing was dressed in the rumpled tweeds and well-worn top boots of a country squire. He was big and broad, almost Win’s height, with rough hands and a weathered complexion.
The lawyer waved Win toward an armchair. “Please, have a seat. We’ve a good deal to discuss.”
Win sat. “From the look on your face, it can’t be good news.”
“Unfortunately, you have the right of it.”
“I’ll stand,” Channing said as Mr. Niven chose one of the two chairs facing Win. “I’ve a bad back, and sitting does it no favors.”
Mr. Niven met Win’s eyes and sighed. “I’m afraid there’s no welcome way to say this. When I wrote to you, I was convinced you were the rightful heir to the late Lord Radbourne’s title and dignities. You and he share an ancestor in the fourth earl, and I could find no closer claimant in the male line.”
Win tensed. “I sense a ‘but’ coming on.”
The lawyer gave a sharp nod. “Indeed. You were contacted too precipitously. At the time, I believed that the late Lord Radbourne died with no legitimate issue of his own, with no hope of legitimate issue. But it appears his widow is increasing.”
The letter Win had received from Mr. Niven had been full of categorical language like the recent decease of his brother and died childless. Nowhere had they mentioned that the late earl even had a widow. “You’ll forgive my frankness, Mr. Niven, but it’s more than 250 miles here from Bishop’s Waltham, and I’ve just traveled the distance in a closed carriage with a small child and a restive nineteen-year-old. I’m not the kind of man who uproots himself at the drop of a hat. You might have determined whether there was a baby on the way before you informed me I was the heir.”
Mr. Niven’s lips pursed slightly. “Yes. Yes, you’re absolutely right. I apologize for that. I should have waited longer before attempting to contact you. But I’d been assured that Lady Radbourne had explicitly ruled out the possibility of a baby.” He threw a dark look at Mr. Channing that made it clear who his informant had been.
Mr. Channing bristled. “She told me she wasn’t increasing. Told me flat-out that there wasn’t a chance! And it’s not as if I could question a new widow about her...er, female symptoms. She gave me to believe she had no doubt.”
“But there is a baby on the way,” Mr. Niven said. “Or, at least, Lady Radbourne informed us five days ago that she believes there is.”
Mr. Channing looked as if the news had left a bad taste in his mouth. “Aye, though whose baby it may be, God only knows.”
Win blinked in surprise. “Do you mean to say there’s some doubt about the child’s paternity?”
“More than some.” Mr. Channing paced the figured carpet in restless dissatisfaction. “Even while her husband was alive, Lady Radbourne was far too friendly with the local doctor—and him coming and going at all hours too. Most of the neighborhood remarked on it. I wouldn’t put it past her to get with child as soon as she learned her husband was dead, expressly to keep her claws in the Radbourne fortune. After all, she was a Douglass before she married.” He spoke the last sentence as if it were all the evidence he needed.
Win shifted in his chair. “You forget, I’m not from around here. What does being a Douglass have to say to the matter?”
Mr. Niven looked pained, but Mr. Channing’s face set in a fierce expression. “Why, her mother had five brats by three different fathers, and there never was a Mister Douglass, if you take my meaning.”
Win doubted anyone could miss his meaning. So Lady Radbourne’s mother had been an adventuress—and to judge by Channing’s manner, the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.
“Lady Radbourne’s mother and three of her siblings have since died,” Mr. Niven said, his tone far more diplomatic. “She’s half sister to the other surviving girl.”
Mr. Channing nodded. “Like chalk and cheese, those two—the one dark-haired and as bold as brass, and the other so fair and sickly.”
Win wondered which of the two sisters Lady Radbourne was, the bold one or the sickly one. He supposed she must be the former, if she’d been carrying on with another man behind her husband’s back.
Mr. Niven’s expression turned grave. “Unfortunately, there’s no way to prove Lady Radbourne’s baby was conceived adulterously, and even if there were, the law doesn’t concern itself with whether the late Lord Radbourne is the child’s father, but only with whether he could have been. Legally, any baby born within a reasonable gestation after his death must be considered his posthumous child.”
“A reasonable gestation?” Win said. “How long is that?”
“It’s not precisely fixed in statute. As a rule, any birth occurring within ten months of the father’s death is deemed legitimate.”
“Ten months...” So he might remain in limbo until October.
“Perhaps longer. When the legitimacy of a child is in dispute, most juries are loath to stain a widow’s name and disinherit a fatherless child.” Mr. Niven shrugged. “You do have one recourse, M
r. Vaughan.”
Mr. Vaughan. Win was glad now he’d chosen not to use the title when giving his name to the butler. “What’s that?”
The lawyer leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers. “You could obtain a writ de ventre inspiciendo. It would allow you to have Lady Radbourne examined to determine whether she’s truly with child. If she is, you could keep her confined to some fixed place and have her examined regularly until her delivery, then have witnesses present at the birth.”
Win’s jaw dropped. “My God. That’s really the law?”
“It’s not often executed these days, but yes, as heir presumptive you have that right. The writ would prevent her from introducing a supposititious child—that is, from feigning pregnancy and attempting to pass off a foundling as the rightful heir.”
Good Lord, was Lady Radbourne really that devious? Whatever her character, Win knew his own conscience. “No. I’m not going to subject my cousin’s widow to an examination. I’m certainly not going to keep her confined like a common criminal.”
Mr. Niven’s slightly hooded eyes held an approving glint. “A wise course, if you’ll permit me to say so. Whatever the result of such an examination, Lady Radbourne is still the dowager countess and a dependent of the estate.”
“She’ll always land on her feet, that one,” Mr. Channing said with a dour look.
Win heaved a sigh. He’d looked on Mr. Niven’s letter as divine intervention. Hamble Grange wasn’t entailed, and Win’s father had mortgaged the estate years before to pay for his sons’ education and to put a new roof on the house. The crops had suffered in the cold summers of the past few years, and though Win was a careful manager, he was falling behind on the mortgage payments. He’d already had to pull Freddie out of Cambridge—not that Freddie minded, but Win certainly did. If he didn’t find some way to satisfy the bank, he was going to lose the Grange.
Then there was the added boon of Julia’s growing up a nobleman’s daughter instead of the child of an obscure and cash-strapped gentleman farmer. Lady Julia Vaughan. Just when Win had begun to hope he might finally keep his word to Harriet...
The Marriage Act Page 29