A Friend in Paris

by Jennie Goutet

  Hester Tunstall, widow of the fourth earl’s brother, received the apartment in Bath the former earl had purchased independently of the estate. Lucretia Keyes, sister of the deceased, was given that portion of the library she had requested for her husband’s use, and his nephew Philip, a gold fob left by the third earl.

  Gertrude, second sister of the deceased, received the grandfather clock and extra set of chinaware in Cavendish Square, since, “as the earl stipulated”—the solicitor peering above his spectacles to quote—“you were forever pestering me about them.”

  The young gentleman in the pink coat—Stratford discovered—was Sir Richard Crenshaw, another of the earl’s wards. In addition to his small independence of 500£ per annum, he was to receive the prized mare in the stables, but, “he must stable her himself now that he is of age.”

  At last, the solicitor came to Miss Daventry. Stratford’s heartbeat sped a notch, and he leaned forward. “For Miss Eleanor Camilla Daventry, the Fourth Earl of Worthing has left a sum of three hundred pounds for her London Season, which should be enough to secure a trousseau, a court presentation, her hand, etcera.” Good, thought the earl. That should launch her. I wonder where her aunt has lodgings…

  “The earl has also bequeathed Miss Daventry a dowry of fifty acres of unentailed land on the southeastern edge of the property, bordering the stream to Amesbury, known as Munroe hamlet and its surrounding…”

  The rest of the words were lost as Stratford spun around in his chair. Miss Daventry was so still she looked to be barely breathing. He turned back in time to hear the solicitor give the crowning touch. “…of which the income—apart from the sum set aside for the London Season—will be bestowed on her upon marriage.”

  Stratford’s mind raced furiously. He’d lost the most lucrative part of his estate—to a girl who wouldn’t benefit from it. At least not until she married, and then the land would pass straight into her husband’s hands. So then Miss Daventry was no better off than before, except that she would be hounded by every fortune hunter on this side of London. He ground his teeth. Of all the fool things.

  The solicitor stacked his papers neatly and slid them into the stiff leather bag. He removed his spectacles and gave a nod to the earl. Stratford, rooted to his chair, felt all eyes on Miss Daventry as the buzz of conversation in the room increased. Crenshaw, in particular, leered at her in the most repulsive way. Finally, the earl stood and turned as Mrs. Daventry, a gloating smile in place, pulled Miss Daventry’s arm. Of course she would be smug, he thought angrily. What a coup she has made. Then one glance at Miss Daventry’s stricken face gave Stratford pause.

  The Daventrys had not yet exited the room when Sir Keyes put his hand on Stratford’s arm. “It’s utterly preposterous. A young girl of that stock inheriting such a large share of the estate. Can’t you do something?”

  Stratford looked from the hand on his arm to the florid face of his distant relative, his voice icy. “I will do what needs to be done, of course.”

  At this, Sir Keyes pulled his arm back. “Well, well,” he muttered.

  Stratford turned away. Honestly, what could he do? He would inquire, but these testaments could not, in general, be overturned. He’d have to make the best of it and hope for no more spurious remarks from greedy or overly sympathetic relatives. These people may be relations, but they’d had nothing to say to him before he inherited. How he hated such affectation. Now he’d have to endure dinner and an evening’s insipid entertainment. What I need, thought the earl, is a stiff drink.

  He didn’t get it. In the short interval before dinner, a delegation of sympathizers came to bemoan his uncle’s stupidity. And if he thought Miss Daventry and her aunt might not appear at dinner, he was wrong. Mrs. Daventry showed either good breeding or an utter lack of sensibility by appearing as if nothing were wrong. He suspected the latter.

  The same couldn’t be said for Miss Daventry, who was pale and quiet. At least she wasn’t flaunting her success. He wanted to know what she was thinking, what she planned to do now that she had this inheritance. Did she have any designs on him? He should just steer clear, but the less she spoke the more curious he became.

  It was not until after dinner in the drawing room that he was able to get a word alone with her. Her aunt, the Keyeses, and Gertrude’s husband were engaged in whist, and he suspected only a play for points could resign the baron to mingling with Mrs. Daventry. Crenshaw took off after mumbling about a prizefight not three miles distant, and both Gertrude and Hester had pleaded a headache.

  Poised on the edge of the settee was Miss Daventry, book in hand.

  Stratford approached, and when Miss Daventry lifted her face to his, he was again struck by the look of intelligence in her eyes, which he now saw were light brown in color, with specks of gold. He reached across her to turn the cover of her book, baring the title.

  “Romance of the Forest,” he said. “A fan of the gothic novels, are you?”

  “I cannot say. It’s my first one. I found it in your library.” Miss Daventry put her finger in the place where she’d been reading and gave him her full attention.

  “Hopefully from the section of the library that will go to my aunt. May I sit?”

  Once beside her, it was harder to find something to say. He rested his hand on one knee and faced her. “Your mother is on the Continent.”

  Miss Daventry nodded. “I understand it to be so. I’ve not had word from her since she left, and I was but seven when that occurred.”

  “Likely communication was interrupted by the war.” Stratford gave her a searching glance.

  “Perhaps.” She returned his gaze, and he caught the flicker of a rueful smile. “But I would not wager on it. She has not once shown, to my recollection, a single display of maternal affection.” Miss Daventry did not appear disconcerted by the admission.

  “So your aunt raised you then?” He looked ahead to the lady in question but could not find in her the author of such quiet character as Miss Daventry appeared to possess.

  “My aunt has been most attentive, but it was my former nurse who deserves the credit. Or the blame.” She laughed, and the musical sound lifted the corners of his mouth, rusty from disuse. “Prisca was not intimidated by the late earl, and she persuaded him to allow me to attend Miss Spencer’s Academy, which was highly recommended by the rector. And so I was given the benefit of a real education.”

  This was the longest speech from her yet, and he wanted more. “You were fortunate in your protectors,” he said. “Not many nurses would be willing to brave conversation with an earl to gain an advantage for their charge.”

  “I was most fortunate,” she agreed. “And Prisca was not an ordinary nurse. Her consideration for others was equally given, be it to a duke or a chimney sweep.” Miss Daventry’s lips twitched in humor. “However, I’ve sometimes wondered if, in speaking to the earl, she was merely attempting to relieve herself of my charge.”

  “Oh, yes. A burdensome one, to be sure,” he teased. Her answering smile deepened the perfect dimples on each cheek and transformed her demure look to one of mischief.

  Stratford’s own smile lingered. “Where does your aunt reside when she’s in London?”

  “My aunt rents a lodging in Bedford Square when she’s in town.” The words sat between them before silence reigned over both. Stratford fixed his eyes on the party of four playing cards on the other end of the room, a sense of foreboding lodged in his chest. A rented lodging in Bedford Square did not bode well for Miss Daventry’s London Season. Surely she would expect something from him, and more than he was capable of offering. What am I doing getting mixed up in affairs that are not my own?

  Too uncomfortable to pursue the matter further and conscious that he was ending the conversation in haste, Stratford bid her good night. He felt her eyes on him as he made the rounds, speaking to each of the guests, all the while reasoning to himself that she would likely launch into society just fine under her aunt’s chaperonage now that she had s
omething of an inheritance.

  Still, he cursed his uncle’s folly. This piece of land would be of little worth to anyone but himself or—now he thought of it—Amesbury, who also bordered the property. Left in the charge of her silly aunt, Miss Daventry would probably end up marrying some fool content with the land’s income when it had the potential for so much more. Whoever it is will have a blasted piece of luck. They’ll get income from a piece of land that means nothing to them. And, Stratford admitted to himself begrudgingly, they’ll get a snug little armful as well. Ah, I’ve been away too long.

  Late that night at Amesbury’s house, and far from the prying eyes of his relatives, Stratford finally had the drink he had been waiting for. It did not take long for the excellent brandy to have an effect. I’ve grown soft, Stratford thought as he accepted two more fingers of the spirit…or four. The flickering fire had the most amazing, mellowing effect after his brisk ride in the cold, and were it not for the irritation that the best part of his unentailed property had been willed to someone else, he would have felt quite content. He didn’t need the income, he reminded himself. I just hate to see an innocent like that snapped up by fortune-hunters.

  “Come, ole’ man; drink up. You’re positively blue-deviled,” said Amesbury. “Although why is anyone’s guess. You’ve just become heir to the largest estate in Suffolk with a title to boot! Were I in your shoes, there’s not a thing that could keep me from celebrating.”

  Stratford frowned, his eyes fixed on the fire. “The land bordering Bailey Stream from the Munroe hamlet to the turnpike road has been bequeathed to Miss Daventry.”

  “What?” Amesbury stood, knocking the brandy decanter on the floor where it smashed. “That’s impossible!”

  “Careful,” Stratford said in a listless voice. “The brandy is leaking toward the fire,”

  “Blast!” Amesbury jumped and dropped his handkerchief to block the stream of liquor. “I only have four of these bottles left.” He rang the bell, and the door to the library sprang open. “Get someone in here to clean this, and bring me another bottle.”

  When a second footman had made away with the broken pieces of glass, and the new bottle of brandy had been uncorked, Amesbury sat down. “Start from the beginning,” he said.

  “My uncle, the Fourth Earl of Worthing,” Stratford enunciated, jaw clenched, “was moved to bequeath the most prosperous portion of the unentailed property to a penniless maiden, wholly unrelated to our family.” He took a long draught. When the fire had slid down his throat and he could speak, he added, “I don’t know why, but I intend to find out. Perhaps she is not a Daventry.” As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted them. This was not worthy of her. Or him.

  “There must be a loophole. This is madness. How long has that property been tied to your estate?” Amesbury so forgot himself as to fill his friend’s glass to the brim with the precious liquid.

  “There is never a loophole. And this is tied up in her dowry. The man who marries her will get it.” Worthing drank the entire glass in one shot. “Ah,” he said, when he had blinked away the tears. “If I’m not careful, I might find myself on the go.”

  “Nonsense,” Amesbury replied, absently. He stood again and went over to the fire, then paced back to his seat, took the glass of brandy and swirled it thoughtfully. “Tied up in her dowry, you say? Marry her! And get the land back. She’s not a bad-looking chit, and with her family past, she’ll throw herself at your feet.”

  Stratford shook his head, trying to clear the fumes that must be interfering with his hearing. “You’re telling me to marry her. You, who wanted me to send her away as soon as the will was read because of her questionable past. A girl out of the schoolroom?”

  “Well this inheritance puts everything in a new light, of course. It appears she is not without a portion, and that makes her a more palatable choice.” Amesbury mumbled, “Hell. I’d marry her…”

  “What?” snapped Worthing.

  “I said, ‘I’d marry her.’ Why let someone else walk off with the inheritance when it only serves those connected to the land. Unless you wanted her…”

  “I will not offer for a young lady who is under my protection, even temporarily, for such mercenary reasons as this. She will have to find some other suitor.”

  “Oh, she will.” Amesbury walked over to the billiard table and spilled the weighted ivory balls onto the green felt cloth. “I wager her dance card will be full, the wastrels will vie with the sharks, and she’ll have a proposal from some fellow punting on the River Tick before summer. No reason we shouldn’t try our luck first. Come. I’ll give you the first shot.”

  Stratford stood and felt the world spin. If he could spend some time focusing on the game it would clear his head, and he would be none the worse for wear in the morning. However, his friend poured more brandy in his glass, and he was obliged to take a swallow. He looked at it strangely, the liquid spinning in the most beautiful shades of amber. Not…unlike Miss Daventry’s eyes.

  He took another sip, caught by the superior taste, the recollection that many years had passed since he had no battles to fight and nothing to do but seek his own pleasure, and the niggling irritation that Miss Daventry would indeed be hounded by every gentleman, young and old, who had run through his fortune. Stratford leaned against the billiard table, cue in hand, forgetting for an instant what he was meant to do with it.

  Her pale face and soft amber eyes wavered before him, and he had an odd notion that those intelligent eyes were pleading with him to do something to protect her. He shook his head.

  I have enough worries without adding the burden of a woman I barely know. But as he rubbed chalk on the end of his cue and took aim, the thought persisted.

  “Manuscript Not Final, Copyright © Cedar Fort, Inc.”

  Excerpt From: Jennie Goutet. “A Regrettable Proposal”

  Click here to subscribe to my newsletter and find out when A Regrettable Proposal is available for purchase.

  Thanks again for reading.