Loving a Lost Lord (2 page)

They all stiffened at her sharp tone. There was a long silence before Masterson banged his wineglass down on the table. “That's a damned good question. I was so shocked at the news that my brain ceased working. I'm going to head north and find out what happened. The survivors will be able to tell us more. Maybe…maybe there will be a miracle.”

Randall said grimly, “Not bloody likely.”

“Perhaps not, but at the least I'll learn more about his death.” Masterson rose, swearing under his breath as he wavered from a combination of exhaustion and drink.

“And I'll go with you,” Kirkland said flatly. He and Masterson turned their gazes to Randall.

“It will be a fool's errand!” Randall exclaimed. “Grasping at false hope will just make the truth more bitter in the end.”

“Not for me,” Masterson retorted. “I'll feel better for knowing I tried. Granted, it's unlikely he survived, but there is some chance that his body will be found.”

Randall scowled. “Very well, I'll join you. Ashton deserves our best efforts.”

“Then it's decided, gentlemen. You may spend the rest of the night here and take fresh mounts from my stables.” Lady Agnes rose and caught their gazes, one after the other. Voice steely, she commanded, “And if Adam is alive, I expect you to
bring him home!
”

Cumberland, Northwest England
Two months earlier

By the time her tour of the house reached the drawing room, Mariah Clarke was giddy with happiness. “It's wonderful!” She spun in a circle with her arms out and her blond hair flying as if she were six years old, rather than a grown woman.

Her father, Charles, moved to the window to admire the Irish Sea, which glinted along the western edge of the estate. “Finally we have a home. One worthy of you.” He glanced at her fondly. “As of today, you are Miss Clarke of Hartley Manor.”

Miss Clarke of Hartley Manor. That sounded rather intimidating. It was time to start acting like a young lady. She straightened and tied a loose knot in her long hair so she would look closer to her twenty-five years. Like Sarah. As a child, she had often been alone, so she'd imagined that she had a twin sister called Sarah, who was always available to play. Always loyal. The perfect friend.

Sarah was also a perfect lady, which Mariah wasn't. If Sarah were real, she would be impeccably dressed with never a hair out of place. There would be no missing buttons or grass stains from sitting on a lawn. She would always ride sidesaddle, never shocking the countryside by riding astride. She would be able to charm everyone from cranky infants to curmudgeonly colonels. “I shall have to learn the art of supervising a large household. Can we afford more servants? The three here aren't really enough for an establishment this size.”

He nodded. “The same card game where I won Hartley Manor also yielded a nice amount of money. With care there will be enough to staff the estate properly and make improvements. If the manor is managed well, it will produce a respectable income.”

Mariah frowned, not liking the reminder of how her father had acquired the manor. “The gentleman who lost the estate, was he left destitute?”

“George Burke comes from a wealthy family, so he won't starve.” Charles shrugged. “He shouldn't have gambled if he couldn't afford to lose.”

Though she could not be as dismissive of Burke's fate as her father, she didn't pursue the subject. As a small child, she'd lived with her great-grandmother, who had gypsy blood. After Granny Rose's death, Charles had taken Mariah with him everywhere. Though she loved her father, she'd never enjoyed their life on the road, where his charm and skill at cards had produced a sometimes erratic living.

When Charles's wallet was particularly flat, Mariah had told fortunes at village fairs, a skill she'd learned from her grandmother. Mariah couldn't see the future, but she was good at reading people, so they left feeling happier about their lives and prospects.

Fortune-telling was not a pursuit that Miss Clarke of Hartley Manor would ever admit to! Luckily, she wouldn't have to do that again. “I'll look for the estate account books so I'll understand our finances better.”

“My practical little girl,” Charles said with amusement. “You'll have this place in order in no time.”

“I certainly hope so.” She pulled a holland cloth cover off the nearest piece of furniture, revealing a wing chair upholstered in blue brocade. Like most of the furniture left in the house, it was worn but serviceable. Every room and wall had gaps where George Burke had removed the more valuable pieces. No matter—furniture and paintings could always be replaced. “With so few servants, neither house nor garden were as well cared for as one might wish.”

“Burke preferred spending his money on a fashionable life in London.” Charles looked at her with the regret revealed when he thought of the mother she couldn't remember. “You will be a splendid lady of the manor. But I'd best warn you now that as soon as we're settled, I must leave for a few weeks.”

She stared at him, dismayed. “Is that necessary, Papa? I thought now that we have a home, we will stay in it.”

“And so I will, Mariah.” His mouth twisted wryly. “I am not so young as I was, and the thought of a comfortable home is very appealing. But I have…some family business to take care.”

“Family business?” Mariah said, startled. “I didn't know we had any relatives.”

“You have whole clutches of them.” Her father's gaze shifted away from her to contemplate the sea again. “I was the black sheep and my father disowned me. With justice, I might add. Now that I have achieved respectability, it's time to mend fences.”

Family. What a very strange concept. “You have brothers and sisters? I might have cousins?”

“Definitely cousins. Not that I've met any of them.” He sighed. “I was a very wild young man, Mariah. I didn't start to grow up until I became responsible for you.”

She tried to imagine what it would be like to have family beyond her father. “Tell me about your—our—family.”

He shook his head. “I will say no more. I don't want you to be disappointed if I am still forbidden the family home. I really have no idea what I'll find there.” His expression was bleak.

“Surely at least some of your relations will welcome you back.” She tried not to sound wistful when she added, “Perhaps I can visit them?”

“I'm sure that even relations who still disapprove of me would be pleased to meet Miss Clarke of Hartley Manor.” He grinned. “Now let's visit the kitchen. I've found that Mrs. Beckett is a most excellent cook.”

She followed happily, ready for some of the bread she'd smelled baking. It would be worth missing her father for a fortnight or two to finally have a family.

Hartley Manor, several weeks later

Mariah awoke with a ridiculous smile on her face, as she did every morning now. She slid from the bed, wrapped a robe around herself, and padded to the window to look out at the shimmering sands that bordered the sea. She still had trouble believing that this lovely estate had become her home. Granted, much work needed to be done, but every day there was some improvement. When her father returned, he would be surprised and pleased by her efforts.

A gentle rain drifted across the landscape, soft and magical. The dampest corner of England wouldn't have been her first choice for a home, but no matter. Now that she was here, she loved every raindrop and twist of fog.

Hoping that she would receive a letter from her father today, she dressed, doing her best to look like her dignified imaginary sister. She began to comb out her hair while mentally listing her tasks for the day. After breaking her fast, she would go into the village. First she would call on the vicar, who had promised to suggest men who might make good outside servants.

Her thoughts lingered on the vicar. Mr. Williams was single and attractive, and she had detected warmth in his gaze whenever they met. If he was looking for a wife, he would want a Sarah, not a Mariah, but she was making progress at being respectable.

After visiting Mr. Williams, she would take tea with her new friend, Mrs. Julia Bancroft. Knowing a clever, amusing female near her own age was in some ways even better than the vicar's admiration.

The local midwife, Julia was a young widow who was also the local substitute physician since there were no real doctors for miles around. She treated minor injuries and ailments and knew something of herbs.

They'd met after a church service and immediately struck up a friendship. Granny Rose had taught Mariah a great deal about herbs. Mariah wasn't a natural healer like Julia, so she was pleased to pass on her great-grandmother's knowledge to a woman who appreciated it.

When the snarls were out of her hair, she twisted a neat knot at the back of her head. Sarah approved. The young maid of all work arrived with a tray containing toast and a cup of hot chocolate and helped Mariah dress. Mariah felt like quite a grand lady.

After finishing her light repast, she pulled on her gloves and cloak, collected her straw bonnet, then headed down the stairs, whistling cheerfully. She stopped before reaching the kitchen. She was quite sure that Sarah wouldn't know how to whistle.

“Good morning, miss.” The cook, Mrs. Beckett, spoke with a Cumbrian accent so thick that Mariah could barely understand it, but no matter. She was a good plain cook, and she welcomed the new owners because they were living in the house. For years, Mrs. Beckett had been a general housekeeper and sometime cook on the rare occasions when the previous owner had chosen to visit. It was good to have a steady position, she'd confided, but she'd missed having people about.

“Do you need anything from the village shops?” Mariah asked.

The cook shook her head. “No need, the pantry 'tis full. Have a nice walk, miss.”

Mariah was fastening her cloak when the maid scuttled into the kitchen, her eyes wide. “Mr. George Burke is calling to see you, miss,” she blurted out.

Mariah's cheer fell away. If only her father was here! But she hadn't even received a letter from him in over a week. “I suppose I must see the man,” she said reluctantly. “Please ask him to wait in the small salon.”

After the maid left, Mariah said, “At this hour, I don't suppose I'm required to serve him refreshments. I wonder what he wants?”

Mrs. Beckett frowned. “I don't know what Mr. Burke will do, and that's a fact. I'd heard tell he was staying at the Bull and Anchor. I hoped the rascal would leave Hartley without calling here. You watch yourself with that one, Miss Mariah.”

A good thing Mariah was dressed to go out. That would give her an excuse to keep the meeting short. “Do I look proper?”

“You do indeed, miss.”

Conjuring Sarah's serene expression, Mariah headed to the small salon. When she arrived, George Burke was contemplating a small, inlaid table. In his early thirties, he was fair-haired and good-looking in a bluff, manly way.

As she entered the salon, she said, “Mr. Burke? I am Mariah Clarke.”

“Thank you for receiving me.” He ran his fingers over the inlaid wood wistfully. “This table belonged to my grandmother.”

It was a pretty table and Mariah liked it, but she and her father had agreed that Burke should be allowed to remove personal belongings and anything with sentimental attachments. “In that case, you should have it, Mr. Burke.”

He hadn't looked at her when she entered, but at her words he glanced up. His expression changed. Mariah recognized that look. It was the interest of a man who found a woman attractive and was wondering how beddable she might be. “You are gracious,” he said. “I'm sorry we meet under such circumstances.”

Then why hadn't he stayed away? Coolly she asked, “You have returned to Hartley for a visit?”

“I'm staying at the inn.” He frowned. “This is awkward. I called largely because I wondered if you had heard the news about your father.”

Alarm shot up her spine. “What news? If you wish to speak with him, you must wait until he returns from London.”

“So you haven't heard. I feared that.” Burke glanced away, not meeting her gaze. “Your father was killed by highwaymen just outside of London, in Hertfordshire. I was staying at the local inn when I heard about the stranger who had been murdered, so I stopped to see the body in case I could help identify him. I recognized your father immediately. His face, the scar on the back of his left hand. It was unquestionably him.”

She gasped in disbelief. “How do I know you're telling the truth?”

“You insult me, madam!” Burke took a deep breath. “I will make allowances for your grief. If you don't believe me—how long has it been since you received a letter from your father?”

Too long. When he first left, she'd received a letter about every other day. “It…it has been over a week.” She sank onto a chair, still not quite grasping that her father could be gone. But highways could be dangerous, and she'd been feeling anxious about the lack of letters. Her father had promised to write often, and he never broke his word to her.

“This was taken from your father's body. I wasn't sure he had family, but since I was coming to Hartley, I said I'd try to return it.” He pulled a gold ring patterned with a twisting Celtic design from his waistcoat pocket. She accepted it with trembling fingers. The ring was well worn and utterly familiar. Her father wore it always.

Her gloved hand clenched over the ring as she accepted that Burke was telling her the truth. She was alone in the world. Her last letter from her father didn't say that he had called on his long estranged relatives yet, so they wouldn't know of her existence. She didn't have the faintest notion where his family lived, so she couldn't write them and introduce herself. For all practical purposes, they didn't exist.

She was alone. Granny Rose and her father were both gone, and all she had was Hartley. But that was a good deal more than she'd had two months earlier.

Still between shock and disbelief, she asked, “Why didn't you notify me so I could see that he was properly buried?”

“At the time, I didn't know of your existence. But you may rest assured that he was buried decently. Since I'd known him, I gave the local authorities the money to put him in a local churchyard. I also gave them the name and address of your father's lawyer, whom I'd met during the transfer of Hartley's ownership. I expect you'll hear from him.”

“Thank you,” she said numbly.

“This is very difficult, Miss Clarke, but I must tell you that your father cheated in the game where he took my estate,” Burke said tersely. “I was prepared to challenge him legally, but his death complicates the situation. I returned to Hartley to reclaim my property, and learned about you. I decided I'd best call to give you the bad news if you hadn't heard.”

His words cut through her numbness. “How dare you make such an accusation! You insult my father, sir!” Despite her words, a small, cold corner of her mind wondered if the claim might be true. Her father was generally an honest gambler. As he had told her more than once, that was just good business. A cheat would soon be barred from play with gentlemen.