The Unwanted Heiress
Read The Unwanted Heiress Online
Authors: Amy Corwin
The Unwanted Heiress
By
Amy Corwin
To my husband, Thomas, who has suffered much for my art.
The Unwanted Heiress
An American heiress nobody wants; a duke every woman desires; and a murder no one expects
.
When Nathaniel, Duke of Peckham, meets Charlotte, he’s s
uspicious of her indifference. Too many women have sought—and failed—to catch him. Happily, Charlotte is more interested in dead pharaohs than English dukes and laughs at both him and his suspicions.
Her resistance crumbles, however, when a debutante seeking to entrap Nathaniel gets murdered. All too soon, his reputation as a misogynist makes him a suspect, and Charlotte impulsively comes to his aid.
Unfortunately, both are unaware that a highwayman interested in rich heiresses is following Charlotte, and that another debutante lies dead in Nathaniel’s carriage.
Some nights just don’t go as planned.
1818 London
False pretences
- Obtaining property by. - This offence is distinguishable from larceny, inasmuch as the owner consents to the property being taken out of his possession, though such consent has been induced by fraud. —
Constable’s Pocket Guide
Despite his belief that White’s Club guaranteed Nathaniel Archer, current Duke of Peckham, freedom from the machinations of unmarried women, he could not concentrate on a simple game of cards. He stared at the peculiarly delicate hands of the waiter holding out his glass of port and frowned.
Weren’t the servant’s hands a little too white, a bit too small for a man?
He took the proffered glass and glanced up to study the young man’s round, girlish face. Dimples indented the plump cheeks, and a fine haze of reddish stubble shadowed the somewhat weak jaw. Although the hairs glinted in the candlelight, Nathaniel remained unconvinced.
Many women had downy facial hair. In fact, some ladies actually had moustaches, God help them.
A sharp Adam’s apple bobbed in the waiter’s throat as he swallowed, his movements nervous and jerky. He edged away and tripped over the edge of the carpet as Nathaniel’s critical gaze followed him.
“Is that all, Your Grace?” the servant asked in a strangled voice.
“Yes,” Nathaniel replied, turning his shoulder to the man. He was not going to let his suspicions ruin his evening.
Damn all women, anyway!
He shifted in his chair and concentrated at his cards. There weren’t any females in White’s—at least none that anyone had discovered this evening. However, he couldn’t shrug off the feeling that something, or someone, waited in the shadows behind him, leaning over his shoulder….
It wasn’t the waiter, however. He faded through the darkened doorway when Nathaniel glanced up. Nathaniel took another quick look toward the door—just to be sure—before frowning at his cards.
“I bid one American,” Lord Westover drawled before pounding the table with the thick bottom of his heavy glass. “Waiter! Where is that rascal?”
When the waiter stuck his head through the door, Westover signaled for a scrap of paper and quill.
“An American?” Nathaniel asked, staring down at his own cards. His free hand tugged at the nugget of lapis lazuli dangling from his watch chain. He absently rubbed the cool, twisted surface although his lucky lapis
had not held any magic this evening. The hand he held was rubbish. He glanced at Westover’s smug face and added, “An American coin might rate a shilling or two, but it hardly matches the current pot which stands at fifty thousand pounds.”
Westover shrugged. That left it up to Nathaniel’s uncle, John Archer, to make the final decision. Archer’s estate formed the bulk of the pot. If he decided the novelty of an American dollar was an acceptable match to fifty thousand English pounds, so be it.
Nathaniel rotated his stiff shoulders and stretched out his legs toward the crackling fire before studying his cards again. They had not changed. He still held two kings, two eights, and the ace of diamonds.
A glance at Archer’s bland face did not allow Nathaniel to judge the strength of his uncle’s hand.
As for Archer, he seemed unconcerned about the value of Lord Westover’s bid. He stared off into space, his cards held loosely in his hand, as if in an advanced state of ennui. Maybe their late London nights had finally done the impossible and worn down the indefatigable John Archer.
The clock chimed two, and Nathaniel shifted again.
Refuse the insulting wager, he silently urged Archer. Take the pot. For once, take the safe course. Just let this blasted game end so they could all go home to bed.
Nathaniel rubbed the stubble shadowing his chin and prodded his uncle. “Archer?”
“I beg your pardon?” Archer asked. He looked startled and glanced around the room with raised brows. “One American,” Nathaniel replied, trying not to yawn. His jaw muscles cracked with the effort.
“One American? An American dollar? Against fifty thousand pounds? Surely you can do better, Lord Westover. I can match your dollar with a shilling, but only if you can meet the original fifty thousand.”
Lord Westover laughed and flicked a glance at Nathaniel. “An American heiress, Archer. With rich farmlands and holdings worth over a hundred thousand. Why, last year her income was nearly five thousand!”
“An heiress? What am I to do with an heiress?
I am a married man.” Archer caught Nathaniel’s eye and winked. Both men caught Westover’s quick flickering glance at Nathaniel.
While Nathaniel might still be in the game, he wasn’t in need of funds or a wife. His recently inherited dukedom kept his hands full for the moment. The last thing he needed was another expensive responsibility like a wife hanging about with mantua-makers and linen drapers, even if she was as rich as Croesus.
Besides, if she was such a fine asset, why did Westover want to get rid of her?
Archer eyed the fourth player sprawled in his chair.
The man fidgeted with a nearly empty glass and avoided Archer’s glance.
“Too bad you folded, Bolton,” Archer said. “You could certainly use an heiress, couldn’t you?”
Sir Henry Bolton’s lips twisted, and he shrugged before peremptorily ordering more sherry. After taking a long sip, he replied, “I am not the one betting my country estate.”
When Nathaniel flicked a cold glance at him, Bolton dropped his gaze back to the table and drummed his fingers. The condescending idiot was Lord Westover’s friend, and against Nathaniel’s better judgment, he had
allowed Bolton to join the game. The yellow-jacketed coxcomb had not contributed much other than an air of scowling superiority and a few snide comments that only Westover seemed to find amusing.
Lord Westover leaned forward. “But Archer, think what it will mean to be her guardian.
You will have over a hundred thousand to control, even if you must spend a few hours managing her funds. Of course, you will also pay her expenses, her upkeep, and so forth out of her portion, but the rest….” He left the tantalizing possibilities to the imagination.
“Sounds like a disagreeable responsibility, if you ask me,” Archer replied, mirroring Nathaniel’s own thoughts on the matter.
“You are missing the point. If you are providing her room and board, you must compensate yourself accordingly. From the proceeds of her fortune.”
“Are you suggesting I steal from my own ward?”
“No, no, not at all. But you must have some form of recompense for managing the estate and the chit, herself. Believe me, you will earn it.”
“You’ve nothing else?” Archer asked, sounding unconvinced.
“That’s the wager, Archer. The heiress against your fifty thousand.”
Nathaniel shifted irritably. When his uncle glanced at him, he shook his head. Neither of them needed an
American heiress.
“Done,” Archer agreed, winking at Nathaniel. “Your hand, sir.”
Lord Westover smiled as he lay down a pair of kings, followed by a pair of jacks. “Beat that, if you can,” he said with annoying complacency.
Face expressionless, Archer turned over his cards, playing them out with fine, dramatic timing. The ace of spades. The ace of hearts. The ace of clubs. Then, finally, the ace of diamonds.
Silence fell over the room as the four men stared at the cards distributed evenly in a row on the table.
Nathaniel blanched and felt his heart thud uncomfortably. The cards in his hand felt like coals from the fire.
Had Archer cheated? Good God, what a mess, and how ironic considering Archer was always so adamant against “manipulating the odds unfairly”—his euphemism for cheating.
And yet, Archer had to have cheated.
Perhaps he was senile. Archer was only forty-six but it was the only answer. He had hardly touched his glass of brandy, so he couldn’t possibly be inebriated.
What the hell was Nathaniel supposed to do with the bloody ace in his own hand? He reordered his cards, putting the ace on the bottom.
“Your Grace?” Westover asked. “Your cards, please.”
“Utterly worthless,” Nathaniel said in a calm voice. He placed his cards face down on the table and stretched out a hand to sweep up the stack in the middle. Merging the cards together would disguise his own damning hand.
Westover grabbed his wrist. “Perhaps, but let us view them, nonetheless.”
“Certainly.” Nathaniel shook off the implied insult along with Westover’s hand. With a careless gesture, he turned his cards face upward. As he did so, he slid the ace neatly into his sleeve. In a flick of his wrist, he replaced it with another card, deftly removed from the stack in the center.
The eight of diamonds.
“Too bad,” Westover said. “I had hoped you might win the hand, Your Grace.”
“I have no need of a ward or an heiress,” Nathaniel replied, his voice jaunty with relief. He collected the cards and shuffled them. “And certainly no intention of taking a wife. Not yet, at any rate.”
At twenty-eight, Nathaniel had no great desire or need to rot away in the stifling regularity of domestic bliss. He could think of nothing more dismal than bland routine.
“Neither do I,” Archer said. “But I’ve got her anyway, the devil take her. Wouldn’t you rather sign over a few horses from that fine stable, Westover?”
“No.” Westover’s grating laughter sounded almost forced, and he was obviously relieved when he added, “You’ve won her.
I will send my man of business over with the necessary papers to your townhouse tomorrow. My wife has taken the girl on a tour of Northumberland churches, but they ought to be back in three weeks. Time enough to get used to the idea, eh? Now, if you will excuse me, I promised my daughter I would be back before three.” He checked the jeweled watch hanging from a chain stretched across the curve of his belly. “Nearly two-thirty—you will have to excuse me.”
Archer waved him away and methodically collected the coins and scraps of paper from the center of the table.
Sir Henry shuffled away, following his friend.
“Uncle John,” Nathaniel said, relaxing back in his chair and draining his glass of port. “Have you thought about your wife?”
Archer’s quick fingers stilled for a moment. “Indeed. Indeed, yes, I’ve thought of her. Lady Vee always wanted a daughter. After our little Mary passed away—well, perhaps she’ll finally get the chance for all that female folderol and nonsense. Balls, routs, dinners—that business.” He stood and smiled, although his thin face looked haggard in the flickering candlelight. “I am sure she’ll love the chit. Whoever she is.”
“I hope so. Do you
want me to accompany you home?”
“Whatever for?”
“Perhaps Lady Victoria will not be as pleased as you expect.” Nathaniel’s presence would prevent any loud protests, at least for one night.
“Nonsense,” Archer said. “She’ll be ecstatic. Besides,
I’ve three weeks before she needs to know.”
Nathaniel sighed. “You know her better than I do.”
“I would certainly think so,” Archer said as he ambled out of the club, forgetting his hat, gloves and greatcoat.
Nathaniel collected his belongings and accepted his uncle’s items from the porter, as well.
Then with a deep breath, he strode out into the damp night.