The Reluctant Heiress

by Evelyn Richardson

  Once again Lord Farringdon faced Sir Thomas, adopting as conciliatory an expression as he could summon up for the old goat. “You need what, sirrah?” the older man bellowed. “I was under the impression that you creatures skulked around in the shadows all by yourselves. And now you want to drag a perfectly respectable young officer into this dirty business. It don’t bear thinking of.”

  With an effort Alistair bit off the retort that rose to his lips. A man who had enlisted to defend his country would surely find tracking down a dangerous enemy more honorable than mounting guard duty a few hours a day in the safety and security of the metropolis.

  “And I suppose you will ask Lieutenant Summers to adopt some vulgar disguise instead of wearing his uniform like a man of honor and a true soldier.” Sir Thomas was quickly working himself into apoplexy.

  “I shall leave Lieutenant Summers’s personal safety and the success of his mission up to his own discretion,” Alistair snapped.

  Sir Thomas was silent. He knew that he was obliged to give Lord Farringdon what he asked, but he did not have to give it willingly. The man was too valuable a resource to Wellington to be ignored. That had been made uncomfortably clear to Sir Thomas more often than he cared to remember. He loathed this man who was nothing but a wild and reckless rebel with none of the proper respect either for authority or for his elders. Let him stew a while. Sir Thomas stalled, frowning in a considering manner for some moments before replying, “Very well.”

  Without a word Alistair turned on his heel and strode from the room. He was damned if he was going to give the pompous prig the satisfaction of being thanked or even of being addressed as sir. Lord Farringdon never called Sir Thomas anything, and he knew he irked the old man considerably. Good. The earl was not part of any regular command. He answered to no one except Wellington himself, and he was certainly not in the regular army, so he saw no need of treating a stupid, blindly authoritarian old man as a superior.

  After his bout with Sir Thomas, Alistair was even more anxious to return to Kent and freedom from the petty politics of the capital. However, he consoled himself with strolling over to Brooks’s where he was hailed with relief by young Summers himself. “Farringdon, share a bottle with me and tell me something more exciting than the name of the latest opera dancer who is all the rage.”

  The lieutenant was more than happy to be asked to spend time in the country, keeping an eye on a dangerous Frenchman and two lovely women. “But do not let Lady Sarah know you are there, else she is bound to try to help you,” Alistair warned him with a gleam of humor in his eyes. “She is a little fire-eater, to be sure.”

  The lieutenant darted a curious glance at Lord Farringdon. As a rule, the man never mentioned his women, though his conquests were legion. Now he was not only speaking of Lady Sarah, but he was referring to her with a special warmth in his tone that the lieutenant had never heard before, and he knew the Earl of Burnleigh better than most. Their acquaintance was not of long standing, but they had shared danger together in a way that made men instantly close.

  Ferdie was intrigued. What sort of woman was so special as to win the earl’s attention this way? Certainly the Marchioness of Cranleigh, whom he was also instructed to protect, was a renowned beauty, who had commanded the admiration of the ton for several years, but Lord Farringdon had referred to her only in the briefest of manners. Lieutenant Summers brightened. His prospects had certainly improved since this morning. “I shall be delighted to keep my eye out on your behalf, Farringdon. It appears that once again you are awake on all suits. I do believe that no one else suspected the Frenchman of a thing.”

  Alistair’s bark of laughter was cynical, to say the least. “You mean that no one else was willing to distrust a man who flirted so gracefully and lost so much so obligingly at the gaming tables.” He rose, clapping Ferdie on the shoulder. “I trust you completely, Ferdie. You will keep in touch in the usual manner? And now, if you will excuse me, I have another, er, another appointment.”

  Ferdie winked, nodded, and called for another bottle of port as Alistair made his way to the door. Oh yes, Farringdon, he murmured to himself, I shall keep close watch, but it will not be on the Frenchman nearly as much as it will be on Lady Sarah Melford.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Alistair’s other appointment was in the silken boudoir of the much neglected wife of a politician. Lady Violet Carstairs, whose exuberant animal spirits exhausted even Lord Farringdon. For years they had maintained a discreet relationship, even as he conducted more amorous affairs with other beauties. Violet had never asked for anything but passion and consummate skill in lovemaking, both of which the earl could provide in abundance. Besides that, the lady thought as she relieved Alistair of his jacket and shirt, no one could be a finer figure of a man than Lord Farringdon with broad shoulders, narrow waist and hips, and powerful legs, not to mention the piercing eyes and square jaw,

  “But what is this, my lord, are you hurt?” Violet asked in some concern as she uncovered the bandage.

  “ ‘Tis naught but a scratch,” he murmured, pulling her into his arms and burying his face in the smooth white skin of her neck.

  “A jealous husband, no doubt,” Violet hazarded a guess.

  “No doubt.” His hands slid the thin muslin of her gown off her shoulders to reveal a voluptuously rounded bosom. “Ah,” he sighed as his lips traveled slowly down her neck, dropping kisses so light and tantalizing that she shivered in anticipation.

  Finally, Violet could stand it no more, and with a groan of satisfaction she fell back onto the soft pillows of the bed. Truly, she was a fortunate woman. No other female in all of London could have a more skillful lover she thought as her body came alive under his hands.

  Unfortunately, her partner did not entirely share this rapture. Alistair found himself curiously detached from the entire scene, as though he were watching another man. Ordinarily, he enjoyed such activities a great deal, but somehow today it all seemed rather flat and mechanical, utterly lacking in mystery and desire. As he slid his hands along the generous curve of Violet’s hips, he could not help thinking of Sarah’s slim figure and wondering if he could spark the same sort of passion he now saw smoldering in the sapphire eyes that regarded his so hungrily. As he twined his fingers in Violet’s copper curls, he could not wipe out the vision of how Sarah would look with her blond hair tumbled over bare shoulders.

  Alistair sighed inwardly. What was wrong with him? Usually, he had no trouble keeping his women straight, never thinking for an instant of anyone but the woman he was with at the moment. Now it seemed that every woman reminded him of Sarah. All he could think about was those deep green eyes so full of understanding and sympathy, that finely sculpted face with its serene smile that always welcomed him and offered him a place of refuge and trust in a greedy and selfish world.

  “Aaah.” Violet’s gasp of satisfaction brought Alistair quickly back to the present. Planting a deliberate kiss on the full red lips, he apologized, “I am afraid I must end this delightful interlude rather abruptly, my lady, but I am in the midst of most pressing business.” Then, kissing her again, he released her, slid off the bed, and began to gather up his clothes, which were scattered all over the room.

  “But my lord,” the lady protested, pouting, “you have only stayed the briefest of moments. Surely you can linger a little longer.”

  Alistair summoned up a suitably desolated expression. “Alas, fair lady, my time is not my own- Believe me, I shall endeavor to return to the delight of your company as quickly as I can when I am again able to call myself my own master and am free to pursue my pleasures as I will.” He let his eyes drift slowly over the ripe curves of her body before pulling on his breeches and grabbing his shirt.

  Accepting that he was resolved on leaving her, Violet stretched languorously on the pillows and watched him as he dressed. His was such a magnificent body it seemed a pity to cover it with clothes. She sighed. Their encounters were far too infrequent to her way of thinki
ng, but she was grateful for what little she did have, and very glad that he was back in London for the moment at least. Where the peripatetic Earl of Burnleigh was concerned, one could never rely on his presence anywhere for very long. Violet raised her head to accept his parting kiss and lay back again, enjoying the satisfaction lingering from his lovemaking.

  Discreetly letting himself out, Alistair drew a sigh of relief the minute he gained the street. From the moment he had kissed Violet and the image of Sarah rose before his eyes, he had known his visit was a mistake. He had experienced the oddest sense of claustrophobia. It was almost as if he could not breathe, and he had wanted nothing more than to escape his lover’s clinging arms and demanding lips.

  Was this unpleasant experience going to be repeated with every woman? Alistair sincerely hoped not. Or would he just continue to feel dissatisfied until he had held Sarah in his arms once again. Why could he not forget the thrill of pulling her tightly to him and feeling her heart beat against his. He had never really experienced that closeness with any other woman, had always moved on to satisfy his desire, never stopping to relish his intimacy with another being. But with Sarah he had been instantly aware of the life, the vitality that was so nearly a part of him, yet separate. Seeing the pulse beating at the base of her neck and feeling her breath against his cheek had been almost magical, and something he had never sensed before, even in his most passionate liaisons.

  Alistair shook his head. He must stop thinking this way. He had so many other things to do he did not have time to spend endless hours wondering about some chit of a girl who insisted on burying herself in the country with her books and journals. Besides, she was Ferdie’s problem now and none of his concern. He did hope that Ferdie would keep a close watch over her. After all, Ferdie was young and occasionally careless, while Sarah was adventurous, headstrong to a fault, and bound and determined to help Alistair catch the chevalier. Damn! Would he never get her out of his mind?

  Lord Farringdon would have been even less happy with the entire state of affairs if he had known what was transpiring in the library at Ashworth, where at that very moment John the coachman was standing before his mistress with his latest report on the comings and goings of the Chevalier d’Evron.

  “You may be in the right of it, my lady. Yer chevally be meeting somebody at the Red Lion all right, and that somebody be Ned Wittle.” Seeing his mistress’s puzzled frown as she tried to identify Ned among the many Wittles that thronged the village and its environs, he added, “You know, he lives down in the marsh and does a spot of work once in a while as a grave digger.”

  Sarah nodded. “Yes. Now I recall. His youngest daughter used to be maid to Dr. Heatherton’s wife, I believe. Thank you. I shall see what I can do about persuading him to describe the nature of his relationship to the Chevalier d’Evron.”

  “Now, my lady”—John began shaking his head in the manner of one long accustomed to useless remonstrances—”you’ll not be visiting him alone.”

  “Thank you for your concern, John, but I must, you see. He will not take kindly to having any witnesses to our conversation. No, I must do this alone.” Sarah had sounded confident enough at the time, though she did experience some misgiving later as she knocked at the door of the Wittles’ tumbledown cottage at the end of a lonely track that extended deep into the marsh. It was an isolated spot with only the rustle of the breeze in the high grasses to break the pall of silence that hung over the place. The cottage itself was quiet and forbidding. There were no flowers, no chickens, no dogs or children, not even a puff of smoke to indicate any sign of life.

  Sarah knocked again, louder this time. Eventually, she heard the sound of shuffling feet, and a hoarse voice growled, “What do you want?”

  “I would like a few words with Ned Wittle.” Sarah spoke decisively, hoping that none of the uneasiness she felt showed in her voice.

  At last the door opened to reveal a grizzled old man whose wiry frame and weathered features spoke of a lifetime spent out of doors. If he was surprised at the identity of his unexpected visitor, he gave no sign of it, just stood there eyeing her fiercely.

  Best take the bull by the horns, Sarah encouraged herself. “Now, Ned, I am sorry to be bothering you, but it has come to my attention that you have been doing business with the Chevalier d’Evron.”

  “It has, has it?” The marsh man sneered unpleasantly. “And what concern is it of yours, missy, I’d like to know. I am a free man, not one of your hoity-toity servants at the hall—slaves more like.” He spat in the dust.

  “I know you are, and that your independence is precious to you, which is why I have come to warn you.” Sarah spoke calmly and firmly without the least sign of the anxiety she was feeling.

  It was not the response Ned had expected, and he shot a suspicious glance at her.

  “The chevalier is a Frenchman, Ned. We are at war with France, and people naturally look with distrust on such men. If you are caught having anything to do with him, you will, at best, be either imprisoned or transported. In either case, your precious freedom will be naught. The Frenchman has friends in high places to protect him should he be found guilty of any, er, inappropriate behavior. You do not, and I assure you, he will see you hang or dispose of you himself rather than lift a finger to help you.

  The cottager shook his head angrily. “I don’t see what business it is of yours,” he responded sourly, but there was just the slightest hint of doubt in his voice. “A fine lady like you has no cal! to worry herself over a fellow like me.”

  “That may be,” Sarah acknowledged, realizing that brutal frankness was more likely than anything else to win the man’s trust. “But I have great call to dislike the chevalier. He is a very bad man and an enemy of England besides. Why, he would have Napoleon and his armies over here in a minute if he could. Ah, I see that you had not thought of that, What did you think he was doing? Napoleon has conquered all of Europe. He is not going to rest until he has conquered England as well, and believe me, the French do not prize freedom as we English do. The claims of a few yeoman farmers and marsh men are nothing to a man who is emperor of half the world.”

  Ned had fallen into a surly silence, jamming his hands into his pockets and kicking the dust with his foot. Sarah pressed her advantage. “Besides, the money will stop coming when he has used you to his purpose, whereas I need someone to help out in the stables for quite some time to come. John has more than he can handle at the moment, and he is not getting any younger. Of course, I could hire a lad from the village, but there is not enough work to keep one fully occupied. I just need someone every once in a while. Furthermore, I could probably pay you more to keep an eye on the chevalier than he is paying you to do whatever you do for him. Now what do you say?”

  The cottager was still silent, but it was a less belligerent, more thoughtful silence. At last he spoke. “The wife was sick, you see. Ned Wittle don’t have anything to do with foreigners usually, but I had to call the doctor and—”

  “Yes, I understand,” Sarah interrupted briskly, guessing how difficult it was for the old man to admit such weakness. “Why do you not come around to Ashworth tomorrow and speak to John. In the meantime, keep an eye on the chevalier for me.” She gave Ajax a nudge and began to head back toward the lane, but at the last minute she turned around to add, “Be sure to continue taking his money, otherwise he will suspect something.”

  That won a reluctant grin from the marsh man. “You can be sure of that, my lady.” And then as horse and rider disappeared down the lane, he muttered under his breath, “Thankee, my lady.” Ned had heard tell that lady Sarah was a right one. Apparently, the reports were true, for she knew how to help a man without taking away his pride. Ned stepped back into the gloom of the cottage. “Rose, you are to have some more of that medicine, do you hear me?” he spoke to the figure that lay in the bed near the cottage’s one window, breathing heavily. “We’ll have you up and about in no time, my girl.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine
<
br />   Ned had been working at Ashworth for no more than a few days when John the coachman came to Sarah to say that the new stable hand would like to speak with her. She thanked him. “And he is working out, is he, John? He is not too much in your way?”

  The servant grinned. “No, my lady. Of course, I really do not need any help, but he does know how to make himself useful, and he doesn’t talk a fellow’s head off as some of the younger lads do.”

  When Ned was brought to her in the library, Sarah was pleased to note that the man looked a good deal less sullen than he had at their last encounter, and she was relieved to think that it was the expense of his wife’s illness and nothing else that had led him to betray his countrymen. “Ned says that you wish to speak with me, but first I must ask if everything is working out satisfactorily.”

  “Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady.” Ned was considerably more subdued in the library at Ashworth than he was on his own land. Then, wasting no further time on pleasantries, he continued, “You’ll be wanting to watch the Frenchy at the next full moon, for he is planning to meet some boat or other.” Ned stopped, hesitating as he twisted his cap in his hands.

  “Yes, what is it, Ned? You can tell me,” Sarah prompted. Then comprehension dawned. “Aah, he’s asked you to gather some men to help, is that it?”

  Ned nodded reluctantly.

  “Well, limes are hard. Men do what they are forced to do. I am sure that those to whom I relay this information will pay not the slightest heed to anyone who is English. It is only the French they are after.” The audible sigh of relief that greeted this brought a smile to her face. “I am very grateful to you, Ned. Just speak to Mr. Higgins as you leave, will you? He will show you just how grateful I am, and perhaps we shall arrange for a little something for the others, shall we?”