by Allison Lane
But Charles made a formidable foe, proving to be surprisingly competent, intelligent, and purposeful. Nor was he the selfish toad she had labeled him. Despite ignoring Swansea for years, he seemed committed to it now. His plans were practical and promising. Perhaps losing the fortune he had so long counted on had made him take charge of his life and utilize his talents. He had risen to the challenge, becoming a better man because of it. Lady Lanyard would approve if she could see him in his new persona. There was much of the iron-willed Lady Tanders in him after all.
Melissa had learned many things about society since her arrival in London. The world of the haut ton encouraged indolence in its children. A girl’s education focused on manners and the art of flirting, giving her the tools she needed to attach a husband who would provide for all of her needs. Gentlemen did not wed until some ten years later, but in the meantime, they were encouraged to idle about town, drinking, gaming, sparring, and wenching. Frivolity was king, while serious pursuits earned the contempt of their peers. Anything involving productive work was anathema to a real gentleman.
In that context Charles was an admirable man. He was never mentioned in tales of heavy drinking, excessive gaming, or juvenile pranks. Even his well-established reputation as a rake seemed consigned to the past.
Lady Hartford’s comment about reformed libertines made her shiver.
Charles was different from his peers, and that difference must arise from his own character. It could not have been learned, for there had been no one to teach him.
“You are up early, Charles,” she commented now. He looked as tired as she.
“There are several things we need to discuss.” A frown twisted his mouth despite the way his eyes lit at sight of her. He remained by the fireplace.
“What?” She thrust her awareness of him aside and sat on the couch.
“Your brother was badly beaten last night,” he began baldly. “He is staying elsewhere for the moment. I did not dare bring him here.”
“Why? We would not shrink from caring for him.”
“I know that, love.” He smiled wanly. “But I do not want anyone to know where he is. He was unconscious when I found him, very near where you were attacked. He only regained his senses at dawn and remembers little.” Charles had been up all night, frantic that Drayton might die. Though logic refuted the idea, he felt responsible for the beating. Lady Castleton had told him that Toby should never be left alone – but his old schoolmates would not have known that.
“Does he know who did it?”
“Heflin. Toby and his friends watched the fireworks, then Toby headed back to the box. I suspect Heflin was stalking him, for the moment your brother was alone, Heflin pulled him into the Dark Walk and nearly killed him.”
“It would be easy.” Melissa sighed. “Toby does nothing but drink and is in deplorable condition. But why do you look guilty, Charles? This wasn’t your fault. If you had not found him, things could have been worse.”
“I was supposed to be looking after him,” he reminded her.
His assumption of responsibility raised a warm glow in her heart. She was only beginning to know this side of him. Now that she no longer filtered his actions through suspicion, she liked what she saw.
“Nonsense, Charles. You are not my brother’s keeper. Toby is six-and-twenty, plenty old enough to order his own life. If he chooses to behave rashly, he must accept the consequences. He knew Heflin hates to be thwarted, and he knew not to wander off alone.”
“Repudiating Heflin’s claims of a betrothal was part of it. But this had more to do with your brother’s debts.”
“There are no debts. Heflin won by cheating.”
“Matt knows he cheated but we can’t figure out how. I must expose him to protect others.” He left the fireplace to pace the room.
“Is Matt all right? Heflin knocked him out before dragging me away. With everything else that’s happened, I forgot him.” She blushed.
Charles grinned, eyes twinkling in shared memory, but he quickly sobered. “He has a bruised jaw, but nothing serious. He is chagrined that he was bested so easily. Toby is in his rooms for now. But enough of that. It is time to speak of us, Melissa.” He stopped just out of reach and gazed longingly at her.
“Can you so easily give up your dreams of wealth?” she asked. It was the last barrier.
“The only thing I want from Harriet is forgiveness for dragging her through so improper a deceit. I pray her reputation was not damaged by her assistance.”
“She is fine and harbors no ill feelings.”
“That removes a weight from my heart,” he admitted. “I love you to distraction, Melissa. But before you give me your answer, you must know the full reality of my situation. We’ve talked of it in bits and pieces, but you must understand the entire picture.” He resumed his pacing. “Swansea was a prosperous estate fifty years ago. Its problems started with my grandfather, who had a penchant for deep gaming and abominable luck. To finance his losses he began skimping on upkeep. By the end of his life, he had raised rents beyond what the tenants could pay. Several left, their farms sinking into disrepair when no new tenants could be found. The remaining ones could barely scrape sustenance out of the land after paying such exorbitant sums. Some of them eventually gave up as well.”
“Poor people,” murmured Melissa. “Where did they go?”
“Two families left for the colonies as indentured servants. One found a new situation on another estate. The rest disappeared into London’s slums.” He grimaced. “My father abhorred his parent’s profligacy, vowing to return the estate to its former preeminence, but he had little head for agriculture and no inclination for work. He tried to recoup his fortunes through investment, but his judgment was unsound, and most of his ventures lost money. Yet, like my gamester grandfather, he remained convinced that the luck would turn, that the next venture would succeed beyond his wildest dreams. In truth, they were just alike, both addicted to a ruinous activity.”
“And you are not?” she asked.
“One might conclude so until recently,” he admitted sheepishly. “Though I must plead for compassion. It is true I did nothing to improve the situation, but I had been told almost from birth that a fortune would be mine on my grandmother’s death. I expected to sweep home and correct all problems as soon as she died. I had already lowered the rents, though that meant I could barely scrape by in town. I’ve been making ends meet by selling off the family art collection.”
Melissa’s brows raised in surprise, but she said nothing. The fact that he would part with something he loved came as a shock.
“In retrospect, I made a big mistake. I should at least have taken stock of the situation when I inherited. A different steward and procedural changes could have helped, even without any new investment. But I was young and caught up in a young man’s life in town. I did not expect my grandmother to live much longer.”
He sighed. “In truth, I wanted all or nothing, choosing to avoid the frustration of seeing problems that I could not correct. Now it is different. Fate has denied me the means, which I suspect is for the best. Finishing the job any time soon is impossible, so I must content myself with addressing those deficiencies that can be improved, and accept living with the rest. It will be a long fight, Melissa, but I am convinced that I can ultimately succeed, because the course I have set is hard work and reinvesting all profits into the estate.”
“How bad is it?”
“My father put even less into upkeep than my grandfather had,” he admitted ruefully. “Worse, he made no attempt to incorporate any of the new agricultural methods. The steward was lazy and hidebound, content to let things go the way they had always gone.”
“Who is running the estate now?” she asked curiously.
“I did not replace him, assuming his duties myself. My best tenant is seeing to affairs while I remain in town. Once I return, I do not expect to leave again. There will be no money.”
“I see. So you are offering
me a penurious life in the country with little hope of socializing.” She kept her face carefully neutral, not revealing that such a life was what she preferred.
“Yes. But at least it will have purpose to it. And there is one other admission I must make, my love. Though I need you desperately in a personal way and cannot envision life without you, I also need your dowry. I have tried to find a way to put it in trust for your own use, but I cannot see how. There are things that must be done immediately if there is to be any hope of success. The tenant cottages require repair or replacement. The manor must have a new roof if it is to survive. The abandoned farms need to be cleared and planted. And I must invest in some of the new machines.”
“You seem to have covered the essentials. What about cottage industries?”
“I have not had time to look beyond the obvious. We have already discussed the pottery. Cottage weavers cannot compete with the mills these days.”
“There might be other things,” she suggested. “Cheese making, basket weaving, bees, leather goods…”
“You are more knowledgeable than I in that area,” he commented, settling onto her couch.
“I spent much time in my uncle’s library this past winter. He has an extensive collection of books on estate management and craft industries.”
“Will you marry me then, my love?” he asked, stroking the back of her hand with his fingers.
She paused. What he really needed was his grandmother’s fortune, of course. And she could provide it.
Or could she? How could she prove that she was Harriet Sharpe? It would not take much to convince Charles, for she could easily recount their arguments. But that would hardly convince solicitors and courts. She had changed so much that no one at Lanyard Manor would recognize her, and Beatrice was unavailable.
And how could she explain her own continuing deceit? She should have confessed the moment Charles appeared in London, but she had not, fearing that he would expose her to society. By the time she understood that he would never have harmed her, she had learned of the will. By now the deceit was too entrenched to change. Thus the means to rescue his estate was forever denied them. But he did not know that.
“Charles, I fear that you will grow frustrated under such straitened circumstances. You will come to hate yourself for not pursuing Harriet, and hate me for deflecting your course. I could not live under such conditions.”
“I will not,” he denied sharply. “I love you too much to ever wish for another. Having experienced that joy, the idea of a marriage of convenience turns me cold. I know things will be frustrating, but I have felt the exhilaration of personal achievement these past months, and it more than makes up for the sacrifices we must make. Let Grandmama’s fortune go to the charities she designated.”
She smiled, watching as hope exploded across his face. “Then I will marry you, Charles.”
“Thank God,” he breathed, drawing her into his arms. From the first touch of lips, she could feel his joy, feel the matching chords in her own heart. This was so right. So perfect. And she understood at last why Beatrice had taken widowhood so hard. Having lived with this, who could adjust to loneliness?
His kiss deepened, building shocking heat and longing in the secret recesses of her body. She was half-lying on the couch, Charles stretched out beside her. Irresistibly curious, her hand trailed lower to touch the bulge straining at his pantaloons.
Shock convulsed him.
“Don’t, Melissa,” he begged, drawing back and raising her hand to his lips. “I’ll lose control and ravish you here and now. I cannot dishonor you so. Besides, your grandmother would be furious. She will be in here any minute.”
“Of course,” she agreed as reason returned. But she couldn’t resist stroking the line of his jaw, sending another tremor ripping him from head to toe.
“The wedding had better be soon,” he muttered, “or I’ll die of frustration.”
“As will I,” she admitted. “I am hopelessly wanton around you.”
He grinned. “We’ll post banns immediately. I think I can hold out for three weeks.”
But can I? wondered Melissa.
* * * *
Charles scanned the reading room at White’s, relaxing as his eyes found Matt Crawford. The message had stressed urgency.
Matt poured wine. He had chosen a pair of chairs far removed from anyone else. The crowd was thin, offering even more privacy.
“Why the summons?” asked Charles quietly. “Is Drayton worse?”
“He is fine. I think we have Heflin.” Matt’s face remained calm, but his eyes glowed. “He played piquet with young Dawkins two nights ago, adhering to his usual practice of requesting a new deck from the house. After they finished – Dawkins lost four hundred pounds – I found a new deck wedged into the chair seat. Damned careless of him, but his attention was distracted by a contretemps just as the game broke up – Devereaux and Willingford over Willingford’s wife.”
“I heard about that. It is amazing that Devereaux has not faced more problems.” The man was a libertine who had worked his way through most of Mayfair’s bedrooms in a twenty-year career. Along the way he had learned to read character very well. It was odd that he hadn’t tagged Willingford as the furiously possessive sort. Charles recalled his own encounter with the gentleman and shuddered. “But finding a deck of cards in a chair proves nothing.”
“I know, but it started me thinking. The problem has always been proof, for he invariably starts with a fresh deck, and examining the cards afterward reveals no nicks, scratches, or marks of any kind. Last night I played with him myself, but this time I came prepared. When his attention wavered after the third hand, I replaced the deck we were using with a new deck I had brought with me, then excused myself with a crack about his skill still being too much for me. It was late and we both left, so I doubt he knows yet. His deck was definitely marked, though so subtly it takes a keen eye to notice, especially in dim light. He must have eyes like a hawk. I took it to the steward this morning. There should be an announcement any minute.”
Charles whistled softly. “Good work, Matt. What will he do now?”
“I don’t know, but there are too many people who have lost to him lately for him to stay. I suspect empty coffers brought him here. He is too sensitive about his limp for any other explanation.”
Charles agreed. If the man had known in advance that Melissa was in town, he would have arrived at the beginning of the Season.
Heflin entered the club, a frown creasing his face. The moment he spotted Matt, he headed that direction.
The steward stopped him in the middle of the reading room. Somehow, others sensed that a drama was about to take place, for the gaming and dining rooms were already emptying as gentlemen jostled for position.
“You have been charged with cheating, sir,” intoned the steward, pulling the cards from his pocket. “I have examined the deck you used with Mr. Crawford last night, one which was not obtained in this house, sir. The cards are marked.”
Gasps echoed around the room.
Heflin paled. “Nonsense!” he exploded. “If something is wrong with the cards, then Crawford is responsible.” But the glares directed at him by every man present froze further protests on his tongue.
“It would be interesting to hear your explanation of why Mr. Crawford was the loser,” declared the steward, “but there is little point. Your membership in this establishment is terminated, Lord Heflin. You will not darken these doors again.” Two burly footmen appeared behind him. Heflin glared, but when it became obvious that they were prepared to use force, he turned and strode away.
By evening the news was all over town. The other clubs had also rescinded his membership. By morning he had fled to France, for those whom he had fleeced were already dunning him to return their losses.
Chapter Sixteen
Toby returned to Castleton House as soon as Heflin left town. Melissa was appalled by his injuries.
“It is nothing,” he disclaimed, a
nd indeed he was no longer bedridden. But his face remained a mass of bruises that prevented him from fully opening his eyes. A sling supported a broken arm, and he walked with a limp.
“Why did he do it?” she asked.
He shrugged. “You were right about him, Missy. He was evil. This was in retaliation for not paying my vowels.”
“But he won by cheating!”
“Do you think he cared about that?” Toby demanded incredulously. “If anything, it gave him an extra grievance. He wasted a full month milking a dead cow, and turned up lame besides. But at least he is gone, and I am under no obligation to pay.” Satisfaction brought a supercilious smirk to his face. “And you are well set. Rathbone seems wealthy enough.”
She caught the gleam in his eye and sighed. “Forget it, Toby. He is as poor as we are. We will retire to his estate.”
“Have you no brains?” he demanded sharply. “You could have your pick of wealthy gentlemen. Why throw yourself away on a pauper?”
“You will have no hold on any gentleman I wed, so what do you care?” she countered. “You are no longer my guardian. Remember? I have more important criteria for choosing a spouse than wealth. And you still have Drayton Manor. With a little effort, you could turn it around. You are sitting on a gold mine, Toby. If you stay away from wine and work on improving the estate, your income will soar. Stop gaming and you’ll keep the new wealth. You could be the first earl in a century to be a success.”
“Enough! I don’t need you to tell me how to run my life,” he growled, limping toward the door. “And you are as dishonest as Heflin. You tricked me into signing away my rights, cheating me out of settlements that should have been mine. You’ve got what you wanted. Now leave me alone. You shan’t be welcomed at Drayton again.” Slamming the door, he shouted for Barnes, demanding that a carriage be readied.
Melissa shook her head, blinking away tears. Despite everything, he was her brother. Hope whispered that he would relent when he had calmed down, but reason knew otherwise. He was selfish, caring only for what she could bring him, and all the while he was racing down a path of self-destruction. Even without the debt to Heflin, he was on the verge of ruin. Saunders had verified that the estate was mortgaged to the hilt. Without the immediate remedy of hard work and reinvestment, it would never produce the income to retire those debts. If he did not kill himself through some wine-induced folly, he would lose everything. It seemed likely that the title would come to an ignominious end with the seventh earl.