Lord Somerton's Heir (3 page)

His eyes closed, the grip on her hand relaxed and he slept at last.

For a long moment Sebastian thought that, if he opened his eyes, he would find himself back in the fetid ward of the hospital with no beautiful ladies spinning strange stories. The feel of the fine linen beneath his fingers and the soft bolsters beneath his head made the dream a reality.

He screwed his eyes tighter. He didn’t want reality. In the dark of his fever, Inez had come to him, her long hair falling around her shoulders like dark satin, and her brown eyes full of love. He had begged her to come back to him and she had replied in English ‘I am here’. But he knew it had been a dream. Inez lay buried in the brown earth of her native Portugal, her death forever on his conscience.

He opened his eyes and found himself looking up at an embroidered bed hanging. He picked out a myriad of brightly coloured flowers jostling together in a heavenly cluster above him. When he turned his head he saw an elegant tallboy standing against richly patterned wallpaper beside a heavy, mahogany door. Perhaps he had died and this was heaven.

The sound of familiar whistling from outside the door caused a smile to catch at the corners of his mouth. No. Heaven would never admit Corporal Bennet.

‘Oh, so you’re awake?’ Bennet entered the room carrying a tray. ‘Doctors said now the fever’s broken you’d be hungry, so I took the liberty of bringing up some broth for you.’

He whipped the cloth from a steaming bowl. The scent of chicken broth rose into the air. Sebastian’s stomach growled in anticipation and he tried to pull himself up in bed, realising that his efforts were as pathetic as those of a newborn lamb.

Without fuss, Bennet was there to assist. A custard of some nondescript appearance and taste followed the broth.

Invalid pap.

He told Bennet next time he wanted real food.

Bennet just clicked his tongue. ‘Doctor’s orders, Cap’n,’ he said. ‘We nearly lost you and it’s goin’ to take some time to build up your strength again.’

‘It will if you keep feeding me that swill,’ Sebastian observed. He looked around the room, noting the expensive furniture and thick rugs on the floor. ‘Where am I?’

‘You’re at Somerton House in Hanover Square and very grand it is too. I’ve counted twenty bedrooms.’

‘Why am I here?’

‘Don’t you remember?’

‘Some strange woman with a tale about me being Lord Somerton?’

‘Aye, that’s right. Seems like she’s right too. You is Lord Somerton.’

Sebastian lay back on his pillows and looked up at the bed hangings again.

‘I cannot possibly be Lord Somerton. I’ve never even heard of Lord Somerton.’

Bennet shrugged. ‘Well, her ladyship’s got the proof. So you’d better start getting used to it…m’lord.’

Bennet swept him a deep bow and, had he been stronger, Sebastian would have thrown a pillow at him. As it was, he could do nothing except suggest in strident terms that Bennet leave him in peace.

A few minutes later, the door opened again. Sebastian gathered his strength to snarl at Bennet but subsided when he saw his visitor was a woman — a woman who looked vaguely familiar.

‘Good morning, my lord,’ she said.

He managed a smile. ‘Good morning, madam. You will forgive me not standing but I fear I would fall over.’

‘As you undoubtedly would. You have been very ill, Captain Alder…my lord…but it seems you are now on the mend and as soon as your strength is sufficiently recovered, you will travel to the Somerton estate at Brantstone in Lincolnshire.’

Somerton estate?
Oh yes, he remembered her now. The woman from the hospital.

He pulled himself up in the bed, flinching as the wound caught. ‘Ah, so I didn’t dream it. Please remind me — who are you, madam?’

She advanced and stood at the end of the bed. ‘I am the dowager Lady Somerton, the widow of your cousin, Anthony, who died in an accident just before Christmas.’

Sebastian looked away, absently pleating the heavy linen sheet between his fingers. ‘I recall you mentioned that at the hospital. My father…’ his voice cracked as he corrected himself, ‘my stepfather was the late Reverend Alder of Little Benning. My mother never…’

His mother had never breathed a word about the identity of his real father. When he was old enough to understand these things, he had assumed himself to be illegitimate. When he had asked she had turned away.

Your father is dead, Bas. That is all you need to know
.

She had taken the knowledge of his father’s identity with her to the grave. He swallowed, remembering how he would pass men in the streets and wonder if any of them could be his real father.

He squared his shoulders and returned his gaze back to her, embarrassed to see she had been watching him. ‘So tell me, Lady Somerton, as you seem remarkably well informed on my antecedents: who, then, was my true father?’

‘James Kingsley, the younger son of the late Lord Somerton, my husband’s grandfather. He eloped with your mother and was cut off by his father. I believe he died shortly after your birth. I have the necessary proof that the marriage was legal. You and my husband, Anthony, are…were…legitimate first cousins.’ She paused and seemed to clear her throat before continuing, ‘Anthony and I were not blessed with children and, as the closest male in the direct lineage, you are the heir to my husband’s estate. It is quite simple.’

Sebastian passed a weary hand over his eyes. ‘Simple for you, perhaps, Lady Somerton, but I swear to you this is the first I have heard of the Somertons. My mother never thought fit to mention any such connection. Even on her death bed.’

‘It’s not for me to gainsay your mother’s reasons for withholding that knowledge from you.’ Her tone held a sharp edge as if she were losing patience with him. ‘If you still doubt me I have the evidence of the marriage, Captain Alder, and of your birth and your father’s death. Nothing more is needed.’

She folded her hands in front of her and the import of what she had said finally sank in. He, plain Sebastian Alder, son of a parson, an officer in the Twenty-Second Regiment of Foot, was now a Viscount and the inheritor, he presumed, of some vast estate.

‘I did know that the Reverend Alder was not my father,’ he hastened to reassure her. ‘He took us both in when my mother was in dire need. He was a good man and I could not have asked for a better father.’

‘I believe you have a brother and sister still living in Little Benning?’

He nodded. ‘You are well informed, Lady Somerton. Matthew and Constance are the children of my mother’s marriage to the Reverend Alder.’ He frowned. ‘Do they know of my…my…change in fortune?’

‘I believe that should be a task for you, not I,’ Isabel said.

‘I will write to them.’ He gave a hollow, unwise laugh that made his wound catch. ‘I doubt they’ll believe me.’ He shook his head, imagining Connie and Matt in the parlour of the little cottage reading the letter. ‘I don’t believe it myself.’

‘You will find all you need in the desk.’ Lady Somerton indicated a mahogany desk in the window embrasure. ‘I will leave you to rest. Is there anything you need?’

Sebastian looked around the sumptuous bedchamber and then returned his gaze to Isabel with a rueful half smile. ‘Some decent food?’

Lady Somerton unbent enough to smile, softening the severe effect of her sombre clothes and hideous matron’s cap and he wondered if he could lure more smiles from her on better acquaintance. ‘I’m not sure Doctor Sandler will approve but I will see what can be done.’

She glanced at the ironbound box that stood in a corner of the room with the name ‘Alder’ stencilled in chipped and fading letters on the lid and the heat of embarrassment rose to Sebastian’s face. The sum total of his possessions fitted in that pathetic box. Surely this had to be some sort of cruel jest and someone would appear to tell him that it had all been a mistake and he was still plain Captain Sebastian Alder, a wounded officer of His Majesty, now on half pay.

He sank back against the feather bolsters that threatened to engulf him in their downy depths.

She turned back to look at him. ‘You’re tired. I will leave you in peace.’

He lifted a hand to detain her. ‘One last thing: would it be possible to see the London broadsheets?’ He wanted to see the casualty lists. So many friends dead on that bloody field. He prayed that it was the end of the carnage.

She dropped a curtsey. ‘Of course. You are Lord Somerton. Whatever you wish, you just have to ask.’

With that she closed the door behind her. He closed his eyes and considered that statement.

Whatever he wished, he just had to ask
.

Chapter 3

Sebastian picked up the pen and drew a sheet of thick cream paper towards him. He traced the embossed crest with its five-pointed stars at the head of sheet with his finger — the Somerton coat of arms, he presumed.

He ran an appreciative hand over the tooled green leather of the beautiful writing desk made of inlaid mahogany and took a steadying breath. He could hardly bring himself to believe that this desk, like the house itself, now belonged to him.

Every spare penny of his captain’s pay went to Matt and Connie, leaving nothing for himself. Despite Bennet’s best efforts, even his dress uniform was second hand and fraying at the cuffs. As he had lain in the hospital his only thought had been how they would survive on half pay now that the war was truly over. Some strange fate had, for the first time in his life, dealt him an unexpected hand.

Despite Bennet’s protestations, he insisted on rising from his bed and dressing in his one set of civilian clothes. His clothes now hung on him, reminding him that once again he had diced with death. He dipped the nib of the pen in the inkstand and began to write.

My dearest Connie and Matt. I know Bennet sent word to you that I had been wounded at Waterloo and returned to England. I write now to reassure you that my wound, while unpleasant, is not as bad as last time and I am well on the road to recovery. However, I have to admit to you that my recovery is due in no small part to a dramatic turn of events that will astonish you. I have been informed that I am the heir to Lord Somerton of Brantstone in Lincolnshire, who died some months ago. He was, it appears, my cousin, and my father his uncle. I have been provided with solid evidence of my parentage and I am now resident in the London abode, a small, pleasant house of only some 20 bedrooms (Bennet has counted them). When the doctors declare me fit for travel, I intend to travel to the family estate at Brantstone Hall. As soon as I am settled I will send for you both to join me but I think it prudent that you allow me a little time to become accustomed to this change in our fortunes and see what needs to be done to make proper provision for you both, and, of course, Mrs Mead. I am sure this comes as much a shock to you as it does to me. My soldiering days are done. I must learn to be a gentleman of the aristocracy. Until we meet, S
.

He sanded the letter and folded it. He picked up a seal, engraved with the same coat of arms, and applied it to the wax, shaking his head in disbelief as he inspected the impression.

Rising carefully from the chair, his hand going to his side, he limped over to the door. Beyond it, a wide gallery circled around from a broad, sweeping staircase. Using the balustrade for support, he took the stairs with care, cursing the infernal weakness of ill health.

When he reached the ground floor, he found himself in an elegant, circular entrance hall with a floor of black and white tiles. He turned a slow circle, taking in the elegant Grecian statuary in the alcoves and the fine paintings on the walls.

A number of closed doors, all of which were now his to open, led from the hall. He took a deep breath, hesitating and, for a moment, closed his eyes. Surely this magical world would vanish and it would all be revealed as a fevered dream. But when he opened his eyes, a white marble statue of Diana and her hounds beamed back at him. He smiled and put his hand to one of the doorknobs. .

The first door revealed a dining room dominated by a long polished table and the second a handsome reception room. The third revealed a bright, cheerful parlour — a woman’s room, he thought.

‘Captain Alder!’

Lady Somerton rose from a small escritoire as he entered, her eyes wide with surprise. She wore the same gown of black silk that he had seen her in the previous day, unrelieved except for a white collar, fastened by a black mourning brooch and narrow white cuffs at her wrists. She wore her hair scraped away from her face and concealed by an ugly cap. The effect leeched any colour from her face and made her look years beyond her true age, which he guessed to be much of his own years. She looked pale and forbidding even in the summer light. To effect such severe mourning, he supposed she must have loved her husband very deeply.

‘My apologies, Lady Somerton. I should have knocked. I didn’t mean to intrude.’ He turned for the door.

She took a step toward him. ‘No, no, you are not intruding. Come in and I shall send for some tea. I am only surprised to see you up and about so soon.’

He lowered himself into the chair she proffered, regretting his impetuosity at venturing so far. He had, as usual, overstretched the limits of his body.

‘I have a letter to send,’ he held up the folded paper.

Isabel took it from him without glancing at the address. ‘I shall put it with my letters and it will go this afternoon’

‘Thank you.’ He leaned his head back against the chair, closing his eyes and gathering his strength to face the stairs again.

‘I sent Bennet on a mission to do some shopping for you, and, if you are up to it, we will arrange for the tailor to come tomorrow,’ Isabel said.

Sebastian opened his eyes and looked down at the frayed cuffs of his only civilian coat. He bit his tongue against the protest that rose to his throat. Captain Sebastian Alder had no money to spend on new clothes but Lord Somerton could hardly appear in public in a coat so old that the black of the fabric had turned to verdigris.

He looked around the bright, sunny room. A glassed door led out into the walled garden he could see from his bedroom window and he longed to throw it open and stride out into the fresh air.