An Heir of Uncertainty (11 page)

Win sighed and rubbed his jaw. “My wife’s family was rich. I wasn’t. She believed it wouldn’t matter, and I promised her I’d make my own fortune. The difference in our circumstances proved a greater obstacle than either of us foresaw.”

How strange that four long years of bitter disappointments, tearful scenes and escalating shouting matches could be reduced so neatly to one brief sentence. Almost from the start, he’d known his marriage was a mistake.

Oh, his honeymoon had gone well enough. The bedroom was the one place Harriet had never found fault with him. But with every week that passed, she’d grown increasingly dissatisfied. Their life together had quickly become a litany of complaints.

Her sister Charlotte’s husband kept a house in Town, so why couldn’t they? She was dying of boredom, rusticating in Hampshire for the entire Season. And having to drive about in that old chaise, with those plodding farm horses! Couldn’t she at least have a low phaeton of her own to drive, with a sweet-tempered pair of geldings? Why, Charlotte drove a high-perch phaeton. And Charlotte certainly didn’t have to go past a smelly old dovecote every time she ventured out. Why did he let Frederick keep those horrid, noisy birds? He ought to put his foot down about that. Speaking of his brother, she refused to attend the vicar’s card party if Frederick was going, because he was bound to say something half-witted again. And that was the second pair of new boots Frederick had had in as many years. If he could have new boots just because he’d grown a trifle, surely she could have a new pelisse for the Knapps’ Christmas party—she’d seen the most cunning one in
La Belle Assemblée
, fur-trimmed and nothing like her old one. Win couldn’t possibly expect her to wear the same outmoded old pelisse she’d worn the year before, or make do without a new winter bonnet. And when were they going to throw a proper party of their own? A ball might liven things up, at least.

He’d done what he could to keep her happy, though he’d drawn the line at making poor Freddie miserable in the process. Criticism of his failure to provide her with sufficient luxuries had deteriorated into accusations he’d married her under false pretenses, and was intentionally depriving her in order to pressure her family into handing over her fortune.
Papa was right about you. I should have known better than to fall for a half-pay officer with nothing to recommend him but tight breeches and a good pair of shoulders.

Then their daughter arrived, and Julia had been reason enough to white-knuckle his way through Harriet’s grievances and the quarrels that followed. Not that he and Harriet hadn’t had the occasional good day—usually when she was in an amorous mood and disposed to look more favorably on him. One such truce had resulted in her second pregnancy.

Nine months later she was dead. The suddenness of her passing had left Win reeling. She’d been a good mother and he’d grieved for Julia’s sake. But mostly there was guilt—guilt that he’d encouraged Harriet to marry beneath her, guilt that he’d failed to keep his promise or make her last years happy, guilt that he’d fathered the child who had cost her her life. Occasionally he experienced a sense of relief that he was no longer stuck in a bad marriage, and that left him feeling guilty too.

What would Harriet think of his circumstances now, knowing he’d come so close to inheriting a title and fortune? Probably that even thirty thousand pounds a year would be too little, too late.

Lina studied his face, her brow furrowing. She looked as if she was about to speak when Dyson appeared.

“Yes, sir?”

“Some tea, please, Dyson, and whatever food can readily be got together.”

The butler had no sooner gone again than Lina sat forward. “I realize you didn’t ask for my opinion, but if there’s one thing I learned when I was still a child, it’s that men and women in love rarely see the obstacles in their way. You mustn’t blame yourself, or your wife either. She couldn’t have realized what it would be like, being poor.”

Though her tone was sympathetic, Win bristled. He wasn’t
poor
, exactly, just not wealthy in the way Harriet’s family had been. It wasn’t as if anyone had gone slipshod or hungry at Hamble Grange. He’d seen to that. Did she imagine he’d simply given up and let his wife live in penury? Night after night he’d stayed up late, studying dry texts like Blaikie’s
On the Conversion of Arable Land into Pasture
, trying to find some answer to the Grange’s financial woes even as the weather refused to cooperate—

Gad. Was he really that prickly, even two years after Harriet’s death? Besides, he doubted Lina had meant the word
poor
as an insult. With only forty pounds a quarter, she was little better off than he was—unless, of course, she gave birth to a son. “I suppose every marriage has its challenges.”

“And those between high and low have more than most. As happy as I was to go from being poor Lina Douglass to the Countess of Radbourne, I confess even that was a struggle.”

Win smiled a faintly quizzing smile. A struggle, with thirty thousand pounds a year? “And what was so difficult about being high and mighty, Lady Radbourne?”

Despite his ironic tone and the emphasis he placed on her title, she refused to take back her words. “I suppose you imagine I’m inventing hardships where none existed. Well, I’m not. I grew up in what can only be described as genteel poverty. My mother taught me all the essential things—which fork to use, and how to speak properly, and that a lady really oughtn’t to mention money at all. But knowing how to be a lady isn’t the same as knowing how to be the mistress of a great estate.”

“Isn’t that a lesson any bride would be happy to learn?”

“One would think so. The problem is, who’s going to teach her that lesson?” She met his eyes with a challenging look. “What businesses does a grand lady patronize, which charities should she support? When handing out vails at the end of a visit, what is she expected to give to a lady’s maid, or to a particularly helpful housekeeper, and how much of that largesse is best left to her husband? What does she wear for a public day—her best or her simplest? I never knew the answers, and what was worse, I could tell that everyone around me
did
know, and that they found me lacking.”

Win could see her point, but... “It’s still far easier than having to go without.”

“Oh, it’s physically more comfortable to be wealthy, make no mistake. But to feel accepted and understood? To
belong?
That’s all but impossible. Middling folk are always ready enough to help a great heiress learn to live more simply. What could be more satisfying than sharing one’s hard-won expertise with a fine lady, or more charitable than helping one’s betters learn to economize? Besides, people enjoy seeing the proud brought down a peg. Ladies who marry beneath them rarely find themselves at a loss for a friendly smile or a kind word.” She shook her head. “But for the rich to admit the poor and ignorant into their fold? I’ve never met anyone willing to do that, aside from my late husband.”

Win had never stopped to consider that Harriet had met with support in Bishop’s Waltham as well as disappointments. His sister Anne, for instance, had been eager to welcome her into the family, but Harriet had preferred to keep a certain distance. For some reason, he’d always assumed it was his fault she’d felt so out of place. “And what was your husband like?”

“Edward?” Lina broke into a nostalgic smile. “He was a perfect darling—never cross, never bored, always full of energy and good cheer, always ready to laugh and enjoy himself. And he was that way with everyone, despite his rank and fortune. Cassandra believes it’s because he inherited so young he never had the chance to grow spoiled or self-important, but I’m convinced it was his natural temperament and he would have been just as unaffected even had his parents lived.”

If she thought his choice of the word
elegant
to describe Harriet suggested a certain coolness in his marriage, then
a perfect darling
struck Win as something a fond sister or a mother might say rather than the words of a woman in love. What had Dr. Strickland told him?
Fortunately Lady Radbourne was accustomed to looking after her younger brothers and sisters, and never seemed to mind looking after her husband as well.

No wonder she hadn’t thought to wake him so he could see her safely home.

Dyson appeared with the tea things, complete with a tray of sandwiches. Win waited until he’d withdrawn before asking the question that had been much on his mind since the incident in Malton. “Tell me, who has reason to wish to harm you or your baby?”

Lina had picked up the teapot to pour for him, but at this she stilled and pinned him with a look. “You mean besides you?”

Despite the arch reply, he sensed she’d already ruled him out. He could have stood by and allowed her to be trampled by the Mail, and besides, he doubted she’d have slipped into his room the night before if she still thought him capable of murder. “Yes. Who else might have an interest in keeping you and your child from the Radbourne fortune?”

“There are plenty of people in these parts who might wish me ill. Sir John Blessingame, for instance. He never reconciled himself to my marriage, and I suspect he’d sooner drive hot pokers into his eyes than see me return as mistress here.” She poured Win’s tea. “Mr. Channing clearly doesn’t think much of me, and he’s a trustee of the estate. Mr. Niven is only marginally more polite, though in his case I think the dislike amounts to simple disdain rather than outright enmity. All three men were in Malton yesterday. You and I both saw Mr. Blessingame and Mr. Niven close by at the time of the accident, and it’s possible Mr. Channing has some darker motive for sweeping aside my version of the events.” She hesitated. “And then there’s your brother.”

Win had just taken a sip of the tea she’d poured for him, and at her last words he gulped it down and sat up, ramrod straight. “Freddie? Why would you include him?”

“He has good reason to hope you inherit, doesn’t he? You’d have the title and fortune, and he’d be next in line.”

“Yes, but Freddie is hardly—” Win stopped himself as he recalled his brother’s fascination with the derelict dovecote he’d discovered. What might Freddie do to allow his pigeon-rearing mania free rein? Most people would never consider an abandoned granary sufficient incentive for foul play, but Freddie...

No. Absolutely not. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Are you quite certain? I mean no offense, but...well, he does seem just a touch odd.”

“Freddie is more than a
touch
odd—some people even make the mistake of thinking he’s simple—but there’s nothing wrong with either his intellect or his moral compass. It might not occur to him that he’s hurt someone’s feelings, but he’s awake enough on other suits. He was already reading at the age of three. In fact, he could read fluently even before he gave up his peculiar way of speaking.”

“What do you mean, ‘peculiar way’?”

Win shrugged. “He had a rather backward manner of expressing himself as a small boy. He used to put words in other people’s mouths. For example, if he wanted a biscuit, instead of announcing ‘I want a biscuit,’ he would look at his nurse and say in a coaxing way, ‘Do you want a biscuit?’ He wasn’t really asking her if she wanted one, he was instructing her what to say. He’s always had those little quirks.”

“Then what makes you so sure he isn’t dangerous?”

“Because I know him. For every maddening eccentricity Freddie possesses—his obsession with pigeons, his obliviousness to polite expectations, his way of looking off into space instead of meeting a person’s eye—there’s something equally admirable about him. I can set my watch by his habits. He’s up at seven o’clock every morning, and in bed by ten-thirty exactly. He’s loyal and principled, and once he knows a rule, he never breaks it. And he’s honest to a fault. Not once have I ever heard him speak anything but the absolute, unvarnished truth.”

She looked unconvinced. “Truthful people can still be violent.”

“Some, perhaps, but Freddie is the gentlest soul I know. He’s never lashed out in anger at anyone. When he was only a lad and the other boys in Bishop’s Waltham used to bully him, he wouldn’t even fight back.” Win had tried to teach him to box, but Freddie had refused to take the offensive. “
Different
doesn’t necessarily imply
dangerous.
Certainly I have no qualms about entrusting Julia to his care, and I can’t think of a stronger testimonial than that.”

Lina sighed. “On that last point, at least, I can’t argue with you.” The clock on the mantel chimed, and she gave it an almost guilty look. “Oh, dear. I really must be going. I told Cassandra I wouldn’t be here long.”

Win rose. “Then I’ll go with you, to walk you back.”

Again that adorably flustered look, as if she wasn’t at all used to having anyone offer to do her a kindness. “Oh, no. You needn’t—”

“I thought we’d already settled this.” Though he said it lightly, it troubled Win that neglecting to ask for his escort hadn’t simply been a thoughtless oversight on her part. She was actively objecting to the notion.

He’d been more than half hoping the night before had meant something to her—that his broken arm wasn’t the only reason she’d decided to visit his room. But apparently that was wishful thinking, and she had no wish to spend another minute alone with him.

She wasn’t interested in a repeat performance—and he shouldn’t be either, not when kisses tended to lead to messy entanglements and nothing about his future here was certain. He needed to remember that. Lina’s baby might well be a boy, in which case she’d supplant him here at Belryth Abbey, the proud mother of an infant earl with thirty thousand pounds a year.

And if that happened, he’d go back to his old life as poor Win Vaughan, a supposed fortune hunter so hapless he didn’t even have a fortune to show for it.

* * *

“I won’t be leaving on Wednesday after all,” the colonel said as they walked side by side to the dower house, Lina wrapped in her winter cloak. “But I expect you’ve already surmised as much.”