The Reluctant Heiress

by Evelyn Richardson

  “I know, my lord, I know,” Rosalind soothed. She had expected this sort of resistance and had prepared her arguments accordingly. “But just think how little time you spend here and how very expensive it is. Sarah loves Cranleigh, and she has come into a fortune that is rightly yours; why should not some of her inheritance be spent taking care of a place she loves?” Rosalind paused before adding triumphantly, “And I am sure she would agree with me.” She then continued in her most practical tone, “Freed of the burdens of these expenses, think of how much more you could do to the house in town, how much more we could entertain on a lavish scale. You know how important that is to your career. A politician of your stature cannot live as shabbily as we have done.”

  In truth, Harold had not thought that they had lived shabbily, but his wife did have a point. They would have to practice far less economy if they were able to put all of their income toward the establishment in Berkeley Square. The more he considered it, the more Harold found that the idea appealed to him. They really did need a smarter carriage, and a few more footmen would certainly add to their consequence. Rosalind had been begging for a barouche that would do her justice when she rode out in the park. Yes, it did seem an excellent solution. Of course, he had already been thinking very much the same thing himself; Rosalind was merely the first to articulate such a notion.

  His wife, well aware of the tortuous thought processes unfolding in Harold’s head, gave him a moment to digest the concept and appropriate it as his own before concluding, “Then you will speak to your sister directly, will you not, for the more quickly it is settled, the better. We shall have guests arriving quite soon, and given that one of them is Lord Edgecumbe, I feel that we should spare no expense.”

  “Ah, er, yes, well I suppose so.” Harold hemmed and hawed.

  “I think now would be a good time, Harold.” The marchioness’s tone was sweet enough, but there was no denying the forcefulness with which she uttered these words nor the determined light in her eyes.

  Harold shifted uncomfortably in his chair. At last he sighed and reached for the bellpull. “Very well. I shall send for her.” Giving it a tug, he stared gloomily at the papers on his desk until Nettlebed appeared. “Ask Lady Sarah to come to the library,” he ordered with such a lack of enthusiasm that the old retainer subjected both of the room’s occupants to a penetrating but unobtrusive glance before replying, “Very good, sir.”

  Something was in the wind for certain, the butler thought. To a man, the staff and the tenants of Cranleigh had been delighted at the disposition of Lady Willoughby’s worldly goods, as much because it was a slap in the face of His Pomposity, as Harold was known below stairs, as it was good fortune for the young mistress whom they genuinely loved.

  In theory, the marchioness was mistress of Cranleigh, but it was to Lady Sarah that they all looked for guidance. She might be a quiet enough little thing, but she was clever, with a hidden strength that would surprise one. Not a thing went on that she did not know about, and she was not too high in the instep to share her knowledge with the rest of the world.

  Nettlebed knew that everyone under his command as well as the rest of those on the estate was eagerly awaiting the departure of the marquess and his lady, for each of them made life much more difficult for everyone. His lordship’s bumbling attempts to establish his command merely bungled and confused things that had previously run very smoothly by themselves, and her ladyship’s whims and incessant demands caused a great deal more work for everyone from the housemaid who had to heat her bathwater to just the right temperature to the handsome young footman required to run countless errands for her in the village.

  Nettlebed bowed and shut the door behind him, his brain working furiously. They had both looked so smug that they must be up to something. His lordship did look rather uneasy, therefore it must have been the marchioness’s idea, whatever it was. She was much quicker than her husband. If the staff at Cranleigh had not disliked her so much, what with her vain and selfish ways, they would have been extremely diverted at the way she managed her husband. She was forever out-thinking him and then making him believe that everything he did was of his own conception. But Rosalind, though she was no worse than many other mistresses, thought of no one but herself and demanded the same abject service from her servants as she did from her admirers. Consequently, the sympathies below stairs were all in favor of his lordship—not that the self-important marquess did not deserve to be led a merry dance by his beautiful wife.

  Mulling all this over carefully, Nettlebed went in search of Lady Sarah. He hoped that those two in the library were not going to make her life miserable. She was such a gentle thing, and her brother and sister-in-law were as selfish as they could be. While it was true that Sarah’s quietness did not stem from a weak nature and she did stand up for what she thought was just and fair, the butler did not like the idea of her being put to such a test.

  Nettlebed rapped gently on the door to Lady Sarah’s chambers. Lady Sarah opened it herself. “His lordship wishes to see you in the library.”

  “Oh, dear.” Sarah sighed, a rueful grimace wrinkling her brow. “Is it very bad, Nettlebed?”

  “I could not say, my lady,” was the reply. Then, dropping the dignified pose of Cranleigh’s most respected retainer, he whispered conspiratorially, “It does appear, however, as though they are up to something.”

  “Thank you, Nettlebed, I shall be on my guard.” Having known the butler all her life, Sarah was well aware that as the source of all information at Cranleigh he was possessed of an uncanny ability to read the implications in even the most ordinary of situations. If he suspected the motives of her brother and his wife, then it behooved her to move cautiously.

  Whatever could Harold and Rosalind be concocting? Sarah had no idea, but she could hazard a well-educated guess as to its general purpose. It undoubtedly had something to do with her newly acquired fortune. She had never wished for such a windfall, in fact, it had never occurred to her that her grandmother might leave it to anyone except Harold, but it had been worth any trouble that might ensue just to see the expression of horror and disgust on her brother’s face when the will had been read.

  The preposterous proposal from poor Richard had alerted Sarah that she was not going to be allowed to enjoy her inheritance in peace, and she could not help but wonder what Rosalind’s latest scheme was for diverting the fortune from Sarah to herself. Like Nettlebed, Sarah, well aware of the limits of her brother’s mental powers, had no difficulty in identifying the true inspiration behind all these machinations.

  “You wished to see me?” Sarah could have laughed aloud as she entered the library, so obvious was it that the pair were up to something. Her brother looked distinctly uneasy while his wife’s dark eyes had a triumphant sparkle that boded no good for anyone except the Marchioness of Cranleigh.

  “Yes, er...” Harold struggled to adopt a suitably impressive expression, which only made him appear more absurdly pompous than ever. “As you no doubt are aware, Sarah,” he began majestically, “the duties of Marquess of Cranleigh are many and varied. They have been handed down from one generation to another as a most sacred trust, which the Melfords have always fulfilled with the utmost of distinction. As the years have passed, these duties have only increased in number and complexity. I, as my father before me, was raised to fulfill these ancient and honored obligations and have always endeavored to do so with the utmost of my abilities.” To the profound relief of his listeners, Harold at last stopped to draw breath. In doing so, he made the mistake of looking at his sister to reassure himself that she was suitably affected by his words, only to find her regarding him with such blank curiosity that he entirely lost the thread of his long and tangled speech.

  “What Harold is trying to say,” Rosalind interjected swiftly before her husband could gather his befuddled thoughts, “is that the costs of maintaining Cranleigh are positively ruinous, and what with his political obligations your brother is in a most difficu
lt situation. His duty to the nation requires that he keep up a good appearance in London, which, as you know, is shockingly expensive.” Fortunately, Rosalind, even though she never gave a thought to anyone else’s opinion, did not look at her sister-in-law, for she could not have failed to detect the ironic twinkle that appeared in Sarah’s eyes at the thought of Harold, forced by loyalty to his country to support a fashionable wife and live in the best possible style.

  Rosalind proceeded to make her point. “And as you are the main reason that Cranleigh is kept open and fully staffed ...”

  Bui here Sarah, by now well aware of the direction the conversation was taking, hastened to interrupt. “And I appreciate Harold’s concern for my welfare. However, he need worry himself no longer, as I have been making arrangements to purchase Ashworth and shall therefore no longer be a charge on him in any way.” It was with some difficulty that Sarah kept the acid note out of her voice. It was not as though she had been such a great burden to her brother after all. In fact, her presence had spared him the necessity of having to keep such a tremendous staff, and it had been Sarah, not Harold, who had discovered that the former bailiff had been pocketing a goodly portion of the rents due the marquess. If anything, she had saved Harold considerable expense rather than incurring it. If Sarah had not become inured to her brother’s self-centeredness, she would have been furious rather than amused at his feeble attempts to claim a share of what was left to her by her grandmother. As it was, she was enjoying herself immensely as the full implications of her proposal sank in. Harold’s expression of horror and outrage were perfect.

  “Set up your own household? Why, I have never heard of anything so absurd, or improper! As your guardian I will not allow you to ruin yourself in such a way!” her brother shouted.

  Sarah rose, smiling sweetly. “I thank you for your solicitude, Harold, but as I am of age, my welfare is none of your affair, and, as you so correctly pointed out, it is high time that I look after myself instead of expecting you to support me. Miss Trimble has agreed to join me as my companion, and I have already engaged a staff to see to my needs.” This last was not entirely true, for there had not yet been time for Sarah to hear from her former governess, but knowing the woman’s affection for her, she felt reasonably assured of the reply. As to the rest of the staff, she was more than amply provided for and in fact had been forced to refuse those from Cranleigh who had begged to come with her when they heard of her plans. With that parting shot she quitted the room, leaving her brother and his wife dumbfounded.

  Rosalind was the first to recover. “Of course you will stop her, my lord. This latest queer start of hers is the height of eccentricity and extravagance. It will ruin her,” she hissed fiercely.

  Her husband, meanwhile, could do nothing but sputter helplessly. He knew very well that Sarah had remained quietly in the country and, with the exception of her unfortunate tendency toward intellectual pursuits, conducted herself with reasonable propriety simply because she wished to and not in obedience to any dictates of his. In fact, for all that she was serenely good-natured, Sarah had a will and a mind of her own, which were both far stronger and infinitely superior to her brother’s. At last he gasped, “Outrageous! You must do something, my lady. As a female you understand the importance, nay, the necessity of a spotless reputation. I leave it to you to reason with her, if reason can be applied to such a ridiculous notion.” And, having spoken, the marquess stumped furiously from the room, abdicating to his wife, as always, the responsibility for remedying the situation.

  When in doubt, Harold usually blustered, and it usually had its desired effect, which was to leave observers so intimidated by his annoyance and his exalted position as Marquess of Cranleigh that they took care of whatever was upsetting him. Such was not the case with his wife, but Rosalind, knowing the truth of the matter, was well aware that it was up to her to discover a solution whenever her husband was unequal to the task, which was most of the time.

  Sighing, Rosalind pressed a hand to her forehead, which truly was aching now, and tried desperately to think of what to do next. In truth, she rather envied Sarah, who had so blithely and easily freed herself from Harold’s annoying presence. She also knew that once Sarah had made up her mind, nothing and no one could change it. The best Rosalind could do. as she saw her dreams slipping away and her schemes going sadly awry, was to put a brave face on it and make the best of it. At least with Sarah at Ashworth she would be spared her presence which somehow, for reasons she could not begin to explain, made Rosalind feel the tiniest bit inadequate. The marchioness knew she was far more beautiful, far more sought after than her sister-in-law, but Sarah’s very lack of interest in such things robbed her of a sense of superiority. It was Sarah’s quiet competence, her unruffled attitude toward everything, coupled with the fact that no matter what order Rosalind or Harold issued, the servants always confirmed it with Sarah that contrived to make Cranleigh’s new mistress feel just the slightest bit of relief that Sarah was going.

  Rosalind sighed again and rose from her chair. Feeling sorry for herself would do nothing for her; in time she would figure something out. She always got her own way in the end, and this would be no different. Besides, she had a house party to plan and the attentions of two of the row’s most dashing gentlemen to look forward to. After all, who had need of a fortune when one had wealthy admirers to lavish one with beautiful tokens of their esteem. True, she could hardly take Lord Farringdon or the Chevalier d’Evron to London’s most fashionable modiste and order a new wardrobe, but a clever and beautiful woman could manage, and she, Rosalind, Lady Melford, Marchioness of Cranleigh, was just such a woman,

  Her spirits somewhat restored, Rosalind went off in search of Mrs. Dawlish to give the housekeeper instructions regarding the guests soon to descend on Cranleigh.

  Chapter Seven

  Some days later in distinctly bachelor quarters in Mount Street, a dark-haired gentleman sat, a glass of brandy in one hand, a gilt-edged invitation in the other, and a sardonic smile on his face as though he were relishing a private joke. In fact, he was. Alistair, Lord Farringdon, Earl of Burnleigh, well known for his own brazen behavior, could appreciate such recklessness in someone else, and this invitation from the Marchioness of Cranleigh was just that. She must be quite thoroughly bored if she were willing to risk gossip among the town tabbies by inviting him to Cranleigh. He had enjoyed a discreet but passionate flirtation with Rosalind, but it had been over for some time and quite forgotten until now. Though young, she had been so beautiful and so accomplished in every trick designed to make a man’s pulse race that Alistair had been more attracted to her than he had been to any woman in quite some time. In fact, the only flaw in the entire affair had been the young lady’s insistence on marriage or nothing, a proposition that Lord Farringdon, one of London’s most dedicated bachelors, had regretfully declined.

  Of course, he had soon found consolation in the arms of a lively widow whose principles were not nearly as nice as Rosalind’s, but then, neither had she been as enticing as the lovely young miss who had taken the ton by storm that Season. Being much sought after by ladies of every station, Alistair had not repined over his loss; he had even had the magnanimity to feel a little sorry that such a very talented coquette as the new Marchioness of Cranleigh should be forced to accept a life with someone as dull and respectable as Harold. However, Rosalind had craved social cachet and a secure place in the ton more than anything else. As Marchioness of Cranleigh she certainly had these. Giving her credit for having gotten what she wanted, Alistair consoled himself with the thought that rank and wealth outweighed Harold’s lack of style or personality.

  However, now it was obvious to Alistair that such was not precisely the case. The young miss, intent on securing a place for herself in the fashionable world, had now become a dashing young matron determined to make up for a husband completely devoid of éclat by taking advantage of the freedom that her married status conferred upon her.

  Rosalind,
like so many others who had married for worldly advantage, was not about to sacrifice romance and delicious dalliance—she had merely deferred them. If he had not been so amused by the transparency of the lady’s machinations, Alistair would have been just the slightest bit disgusted. She had dropped his acquaintance quickly enough when it became apparent that he had absolutely no intention of making her his countess. Now, however, it appeared that once again he could be useful to her, and she was more than ready to acknowledge him again.

  Alistair chuckled drily. He had no objection to being exploited in such a manner. After all, he never had been under any illusion that he had ever meant more to Rosalind than did her fashionable gowns or her jewels. He was merely another accoutrement for an incomparable to flaunt before the envious eyes of the ton, another indication of the power of her attractions. He had known that from the outset and enjoyed her accordingly.

  Lord Farringdon glanced again at the invitation. He was also willing to bet any amount of money that the Chevalier d’Evron, another of Rosalind’s cicisbeos who had refused to come up to scratch, had also been invited to this particular house party. For Alistair, the probable presence of the charming Frenchman was a far greater reason for heeding the summons from Cranleigh than the beauteous Rosalind.

  For all that Rosalind was lovely and exceedingly skilled at the art of dalliance, she was one among many, and the chance to feast his eyes on the creamy skin, voluptuous figure, and perhaps kiss the tantalizing lips of the marchioness was not enough to lure him from the arms of his current mistress or the smiles of his latest flirts; however, the opportunity to keep an eye on the Frenchman was.