She lifted her head then, to pierce him with the same blue eyes he saw every time he looked in the mirror. He caught a glimpse of her usual steely determination emerging from the depths of her distress and guessed he was unlikely to get any more from her.
‘I willna whine and make excuses for what I did,’ she said. ‘I acted as I thought best and we were happier without him.’
She might have been happier. But what about him?
* * *
More bitter resentment, aggravated by a deep sense of betrayal, settled in Adam’s gut over the following few days as he awaited the arrival of his father’s trustee. His rage and hurt stopped him from any further attempt to coax the truth from Ma, for to do that he must soothe her, cajole her and tell her he understood.
But he didn’t damn well understand.
As the initial shock of the news about his father—and the huge change in his own circumstances—subsided, Adam’s thoughts returned often to the past. To Hertfordshire. Remembering the time he had spent there fifteen years before.
Remembering Kitty.
His gut churned with angry regrets, made infinitely worse by the slowly emerging realisation of what might have been.
He and Sir Angus had spent several weeks at Fenton Hall, overseeing the restoration of a wing destroyed in a fire that had also stolen the life of Lady Fenton, the mother of four young children. It had been a tragic story...and when he was not working Adam had taken himself away from the grief as much as possible by going for long walks in the grounds and surrounding woodland, straying beyond the Fenton boundary on to the neighbouring estate, Whitlock Manor. And that was where he’d met Kitty, only daughter of Lord Whitlock.
And Adam had lost his heart to a girl who was so far beyond his reach she might as well have been an angel descended from the heavens.
But now...the truth was that he and Kitty should have grown up as equals and as neighbours. He’d consulted a map and Whitlock Manor was less than seven miles as the crow flies from Adam’s new home, Kelridge Place.
What might have been possible, had he occupied his rightful place in this world? He’d broken Kitty’s heart and guilt had plagued him ever since, even though he’d done it to protect her. Had his mother not snatched him from his father, he and Kitty could have met on equal terms. Their love could have blossomed, instead of withering under the blast of practicality and principle.
If I had known...if only I had known.
And, at first, he’d wished Sir Angus was home, for Adam longed to be able to talk this through with his mentor. But he was working on a project far to the north and wasn’t expected home for weeks. Then the second blow fell, when Adam happened to mention Sir Angus to his mother one day.
‘I need to tell ye the truth about Angus, too.’
‘What truth?’
‘He is my cousin, on my mother’s side. We were always close as children and, when I came here to build a new life for you and me, he took us in.’ She then felled him with another blow. ‘Did ye never wonder why a man would take on a woman with a young child as housekeeper? Or make that young child his apprentice?’
He had believed Sir Angus had seen Adam’s talent and recognised his hard work and found him worthy of taking on as his apprentice. Adam had been proud of those achievements which, it now seemed, owed nothing to Adam’s abilities. It had been sheer nepotism. His sense of betrayal was complete. Sir Angus—his father figure and, as Adam had grown up, his friend—had been complicit in her lies all this time.
How could he ever forgive either of them?
If only I had known the truth.
Where was Kitty now? Would they meet? Would he recognise her? Would she remember him? She’d been seventeen then and fifteen years had passed. They would both have changed and she was bound to be married by now, but he couldn’t curb his joy at the thought of seeing her again, even though any meeting would be bittersweet with the knowledge of what might have been.
He couldn’t help but wonder how long she had mourned their impossible love—the Earl’s daughter and the architect’s apprentice.
Two weeks later
‘We’re here, my lord.’
Adam jolted awake. The carriage had indeed drawn to a halt and he gazed out at the Mayfair town house, with its five steps leading up to the front door and its stucco finish. He craned his neck to fully view it—four storeys, plus a half-basement—taking in the twelve-paned sash windows and the classical stone-pedimented surround to the black-painted front door, which was topped by a batwing-patterned fanlight.
He twisted on the bench seat to view his travelling companion—a compact, humourless solicitor by the name of Dursley, from the firm of Dibcock and Dursley. Once Ma had provided him with the evidence that she was indeed the missing Countess of Kelridge and that Adam was the rightful heir, Dursley had been briskly efficient in apprising Adam of the full extent of his change in circumstances, following which he had maintained a meticulously professional courtesy towards Adam throughout the journey from Edinburgh. There had been no relaxation of his formal manner: no hint of warmth, no friendliness, no reassurance.
‘I shall collect you at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning and take you to petition the Attorney General, Sir Robert Gifford. As long as he is satisfied with the validity of your claim to the title of the Earl of Kelridge—and I am confident the documentary evidence your mother provided will prove sufficient—he will recommend the exercise of the royal discretion without reference to the House of Lords or the Committee for Privileges. The Clerk of the Parliaments will then record your name in the Register of Lords Spiritual and Temporal, following which you will receive a summons to take your seat in the House of Lords.
‘In the meantime, your butler—Green—will acquaint you with your new household. I instructed the servants to come to London in order to prepare your town house for your occupation.’ Dursley inclined his head. ‘Good day, my lord.’
Adam blanked his expression, keeping his scowl from his face. Dursley owed him nothing, other than the legal service he was paid to provide but, surely, common decency dictated he should at least escort his client into the house and introduce this Green fellow? But he swallowed back his angry reaction to the solicitor’s treatment, suspecting he would need all the goodwill he could get in this alien world. It would not do to make an enemy of his solicitor.
‘And good day to you, too, Mr Dursley. Thank you for providing the transport to London.’
Dursley allowed himself a wintry smile. ‘Oh, the cost will be reimbursed from His late Lordship’s estate, my lord. You owe me no gratitude.’
Adam contented himself with gritting his teeth and a silent vow to appoint a new firm of solicitors as soon as possible. One nugget of information that Dursley had let slip during the journey was that Adam’s heir—his uncle, Grenville Trewin, who would, in time, have inherited the earldom had Adam not been found—was also a client of Dursley’s firm and he was clearly a firm favourite with Dursley himself. Unlike, it would seem, Adam’s late father, upon whom the solicitor resolutely refused to be drawn. No wonder the fellow looked as though he was sucking a lemon most of the time. He would clearly be happier had Adam not been found.
Still. Adam was here in London now and it would be a relief to be released from the confines of the carriage and Dursley’s not-so-scintillating company. The man had even flatly refused to stop at Kelridge Place on the way south, deeming time to be of the essence in establishing Adam in his new rank and status.
The sound of the carriage door opening grabbed Adam’s attention. A footman in dark green livery stood to attention, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Adam stifled a sigh.
He’d visited, and even stayed in, a few aristocratic households for his work and he really did not care for the rigid structure, the divide between the family and the servants who cared for them. Nor, if he was honest, had he much cared for the arrogance of many
of those same aristocrats—the way they simply accepted subservience from others, including Adam, as their due. He supposed that, with Ma being a housekeeper—and he still could not quite believe that, all this time, she had been a countess—he instinctively identified with the servants rather than their masters.
A glance at the front door revealed a man dressed in black tailcoat and grey trousers waiting on the threshold, hands clasped behind his back, and further figures lined up along the hallway. Adam hauled in a deep breath before descending the carriage steps to the pavement. His new life awaited, with not one familiar thing about it to help him come to terms with all this change. Even his name was not his own, he had discovered. He was no longer Adam Monroe, Scottish architect, but Ambrose Adam Trewin, the English Earl of Kelridge. And he not only had an Uncle Grenville about whom he knew nothing, but he also had a cousin—Grenville’s son, Bartholomew, who was thirty years of age.
The weighty dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach over the past two weeks now seemed destined to remain lodged there because, as far as he could see, he had little to look forward to. The only people he knew in this world were those who had hired him as an architect and he was not yet well enough established in his profession to help bridge the gap between him and the rest of the aristocratic world. Neither could he believe those same clients would be overjoyed to find him joining their ranks. He had attended a small boys’ preparatory school in Edinburgh, with the sons of bankers, lawyers and business owners, and had not attended university, so he had never mixed with these people, but he must now make his home in this city of strangers and at his new country estate, Kelridge Place, in Hertfordshire.
Adam did not even have the comfort of his mother. Their relationship had remained strained until he left and although, at the last minute, he had invited her to accompany him, she had refused.
‘I am content here, Adam. It’s been my home for many years and I have no wish to face the censure of those who remember me from before. You will have a hard enough time gaining acceptance without me reviving that old scandal. You are better off without me.’
‘What about your family, Ma?’
‘There is no one, other than Angus.’
The only truths she’d told him of her own past was that she had been born in Scotland, she was an only child and her parents were dead. He had not known that her father—his grandfather—had been a wealthy banker or that she had gone to London for a Season, chaperoned by her mother and a hired companion. It had been there that an heiress, without male protectors, had proved all too easy prey for the impoverished Lord Kelridge.
‘Have you no old friends?’
Her lips had pressed together at that and she would be drawn no more upon the subject. And he—God help him—had not argued, resentment at her betrayal still smouldering deep within him. Now, though, he found that the further he got from Edinburgh and the more distance he put between himself and his mother, the more that resentment gave way to hurt.
Hurt that she had never trusted him enough to tell him the truth. Through his boyhood they’d always been so close. He’d always felt as though they’d shared everything, but now it felt as though his whole life had been a lie.
Now, as he trod towards the front door of his new home, Adam wished he had been more forgiving. Maybe then she would have relented and come with him.
‘Welcome to your home, Lord Kelridge. I am Green. Your butler.’ Green bowed, stiff and correct, then held out his hand for Adam’s hat. ‘Please allow me to introduce your staff.’
‘Thank you.’
Adam scanned the entrance hall. It was dark and cheerless, papered in dark green stripes above the dado, but the cornices were crisply moulded and showed promise. Dursley had said his fortune was large...he would arrange for the house to be redecorated. Maybe then it would feel more like home?
Give yourself time. Don’t rush into hasty decisions.
It was true. He’d only just stepped inside the front door. He would wait. He would see what this new life might offer before he changed anything, including his staff, not one of whom met his gaze or smiled during the introductions. He looked back along the line. They resembled soldiers on parade, standing rigidly, eyes forward. He sighed. It was not their fault. They would behave as his father had expected them to behave.
But...he was not his father and he did not have to continue any of his traditions if he chose not to. And he did choose not to. He was the Earl. He could dictate the mood of the house. The only other example he had was the happy household in which he had grown up, that of Sir Angus, who had always treated Ma more like a friend than an employee. That was the example he preferred.
Except, a sly inner voice reminded him, do not forget they were family. Not employer and servant, after all. So how would you know what is correct and what is not?
Even more confused, he vowed again to take his time.
‘Aye. Well!’ Adam clapped his hands together and then rubbed them briskly. He saw the momentary shock upon Green’s face when he heard the Scottish accent and the devil inside him prompted him to exaggerate it. ‘I hae been travellin’ a week or more and I’m fair grubby and weary. Mrs... Ford, is it, aye?’
The housekeeper dipped a little curtsy. ‘It is, my lord.’
‘I should like to bathe, if ye’ll arrange for water to be heated, please. And...’ his roaming gaze paused on the chef ‘Monsieur Delon, I should very much like a cup of tea while the bath is being prepared. Green... I will inspect the rest of the house, from basement to attics, after I have bathed.’
Green’s lips compressed. ‘The late Lord Kelridge relayed all domestic instructions through myself, my lord. And Monsieur does not make tea. Aggie...’ he crooked a finger at a kitchen maid ‘...will see to that.’
‘I see.’ Adam scratched his ear. ‘But, ye ken, I am not your late master. And if I wish tae communicate my needs directly tae the person most able tae satisfy them, then I shall do just that.’ He smiled at the butler. ‘I do hope we’ll no’ fall oot over this—or any other—wee detail, Green.’
The butler stood to rigid attention. ‘No, my lord.’
‘Verra good,’ Adam murmured. ‘Now, will ye show me the ground floor while Aggie fetches me that cup of tea?’
Chapter Two
‘Stepmama? Are you in here?’
Kitty, Lady Fenton, laid aside her quill pen with a quiet sigh. ‘I am.’
This was the problem with trying to write here in London—at least at home at Fenton Hall she had her own parlour where she could remain undisturbed, whereas she could hardly bar members of her family from entering the salon of their town house. Kitty twisted in her chair to find her seventeen-year-old stepdaughter, Charis, regarding her with a smile and a teasing light in her eyes.
‘I am sorry to interrupt you, but I have such exciting news I cannot wait to share it with someone and Robert has gone out. Again.’
Kitty suspected that Robert—Charis’s older brother, and thus Kitty’s stepson—had not gone out, but had yet to return home from last night. A not uncommon occurrence. At twenty-six, however, that was his affair—he was his own man and Kitty had neither the inclination nor the right to interfere in his life. Fortunately, her relationship with all four of her stepchildren was an affectionate one and she trusted Robert—Viscount Fenton since the death of his father five years before—not to succumb to the wilder excesses of some of his peers.
It was a relief Charis was far too innocent to realise the half of what her brother—and most young men in the ton—got up to.
And long may she hold on to that innocence.
Love for her stepdaughter filled Kitty’s heart as she rose to her feet, then linked her arm through Charis’s and gently urged her towards the sofa.
‘Then you shall share it with me, love. I dare say it is time I took a break from writing...the words prove somewhat reluctant this mornin
g and I fear my prose is somewhat stilted.’
She bit back a smile at the disgust in her own voice. When would she accept that it would never be an easy matter to transfer the images in her head into interesting, or even compelling, phrases and sentences on paper? The late Miss Jane Austen had made the entire process seem so much easier than it proved. Kitty’s attempts to follow in her footsteps had resulted in the publication of one novel—albeit anonymously—but it was proving even more daunting to write a second and, try as she might, it seemed impossible to confine her story to family and community as Miss Austen had done with such sly, observant wit. No. Kitty’s characters inevitably seemed to stumble into thrilling dramas and her own prose veered towards exaggeration no matter how hard she tried to rein it in.
‘You may tell me about it later,’ said Charis, who delighted in Kitty’s covert double life as a novelist and often helped her to work through any sticky patches that arose in the plots of her romantic adventures. ‘But, first... I received this from Annabel.’ Miss Annabel Blanchard and Charis had been firm friends from their first meeting at the start of this Season, when they had both made their debuts. Now, Charis thrust a note covered in painstakingly neat writing—presumably Annabel’s—under Kitty’s nose. ‘Talaton has spoken at last!’
‘At last?’ Kitty laughed. ‘You young girls are always in such haste! To my certain knowledge, Annabel only met Lord Talaton for the first time this Season. So that is...now, let me see...’ She tapped her chin, puckering her brow and raising her eyes to the ceiling as she pondered.
‘You are teasing me, Stepmama.’ Charis pouted, then nudged her shoulder into Kitty, who dropped her pose and laughed again.
‘Well, how could I resist? Your delight in such exaggeration makes you a most satisfying target for my poor attempts at wit. But it is true, nevertheless. Annabel and Talaton only met two months ago and that is a very short time in which to form a lasting attachment.’
The Earl with the Secret Past Page 2