Secret Heiress (4 page)

‘How could you have ruined my life? It meant nothing to me without you. Let me take care of you, Sarah—let me make up for the lost years.'

‘It is too late. My health is not good, Henry. I have settled for a quiet life in the country. You are still young enough to find a new love. I ask nothing more of you than the address I need.'

‘I would ask no more of you than affection.' For a moment his eyes beseeched her, then, as he saw the answer in her face, his expression became cold, withdrawn. ‘Very well, madam. I shall send you what you need. I do not expect to hear from you again.'

Sarah sank back into her elegant elbow chair, her hands to her face as the door closed behind him. He was still angry and bitter, blaming her because she had given into her husband's blackmail.

If only she had been stronger. How different her life might have been if she had been brave enough to leave her husband and go with Henry, as he had begged her.

Her marriage to Manners had been a disaster from the start. Her husband had never loved her. He had had a mistress in London and spent all his time with her. Once Sarah had given him his heir, he had not bothered to visit her bed again. Lonely and unhappy, she had turned to a young man who gave her everything she lacked from her husband. Henry had been the most generous of lovers, sweet and giving.

At the time of their affair he had not yet inherited his uncle's title and had had little in the way of fortune. He was also three years her junior and on the verge of making his career in the army. Lord Manners had
known at once that her child was not his. He'd forced her to reveal the name of her lover and then threatened to ruin Henry if she went off with him. She had been forced to break off their affair and to give up her lovechild as soon as she was born. Her daughter had been snatched from her arms only hours after she had given birth, taken from her cruelly by her unforgiving husband. Lord Manners had never told her where the child had been taken; even after his death, he had tried to keep the secret from her.

He had inserted a clause in his will to make certain that she could not find her daughter. If she made the attempt, she would give up the right to live in the Dower House at Trowbridge and she would lose her jointure. She would have nothing left but the fortune her grandfather had left in trust for her, which her husband had refused her for as long as he could. Now that he was dead, half the capital and the income was hers entirely, the remainder of the capital to be divided between her children on her death. Her son had not known of the existence of a half-sister until he read the will, and he had accused her of vile things before storming out of the house and taking himself off to London.

Her husband's vindictiveness had not hurt Sarah; she had long ceased to care and nothing he did could surprise or distress her. She would be sorry to leave the house she had moved to after his death, for it was pleasant and enabled her to see her son on the rare visits he paid to his estate. However, she had no intention of letting her husband's unkindness stop her at least trying to discover the whereabouts of her lovechild.

A smile touched her lips. She had loved Henry and in those days he had loved her deeply. The tales she had since heard of him had been distressing; her husband
had made certain she heard of the worst of his excesses, but the young man she remembered was still dear to her.

She had reached her decision with the calm deliberation that was her way these days. She would use some of the capital to purchase a house in Bath, a city that suited her much better than London and where she still had a few friends. Then she would try to find her daughter and be damned to the consequences.

 

‘I am sorry, Eliza,' Ted Wright said as she looked at him expectantly. ‘There was nothing for you at the reception office again today.'

‘Oh…' Eliza sighed. It had been ten days now and she was beginning to think that she would never receive an answer to her advertisement. It seemed as if she might have to go into Norwich and ask at the employment agency for domestic servants. Perhaps she had set her sights too high and would have to settle for something more menial. ‘Thank you. I had hoped, but I suppose these things take time.'

‘You may need to put in a second notice, but there is no hurry, Eliza. You are very welcome to stay with us for as long as you please.'

Eliza thanked him, but her spirits sank a little for she did not wish to be a burden to her friends for too long. She would wait one more week, then, if she heard nothing, she would look for employment through the agency.

 

Lady Sarah looked through her post when it was brought up to her by her maid and sighed. Most of it would be invitations to dine or attend the theatre or some other function. She had been in Bath for just three
weeks and already she was inundated by invitations. It was very kind and generous of her friends, but she was used to a quieter life and uncertain whether the new social circle she had found here would suit her on a permanent basis.

She could return to the Dower House and give up her search for her daughter, but that would be to admit defeat. She had been waiting for a letter these past several weeks, but so far the lawyer had not replied to her request for details of her daughter's whereabouts. He was being very stubborn and she could not think why.

She opened the newspapers that had been delivered that morning.
The Times
was always a day late, because it was sent through the post from London, and the local paper had lain unnoticed on her dressing chest all the previous day. She had spent the whole day visiting and had decided to keep to her bed a little longer this morning.

She poured a cup of the dark chocolate she enjoyed, sipping from the delicate cup that was part of a Dresden breakfast set. The chocolate was a little bitter, but she preferred it to tea or coffee at this hour. Sipping its richness, she opened
The Times
and turned to the page she was interested in. Although her maid, who had been with her for years, had been perfectly adequate for her needs in the country, Sarah had become aware that she required a companion here in Bath. She had hoped to find her daughter and ask her to stay, but as yet that was beyond her, though if the lawyer did not soon answer her letter she would employ an agent to find the child…girl. Her daughter would be twenty by now.

Running her finger down the list of young women
searching for a position as a companion, Sarah stopped at one that appealed to her.

The headline read:

Sarah smiled as she read the few lines. They seemed to speak from the heart and told her that the writer had never applied for a position before. The advert was a little naïve, perhaps, but that made it all the more appealing.

Sarah was not yet in need of a nurse, merely someone to run her errands and accompany her to the Pump Room and other functions. The young woman who called herself Eliza Bancroft seemed eminently able to fulfil that duty, and, if Sarah's health grew worse, might be just the person she needed.

She was not going to give up the search for her daughter. Sarah was quite firm about that, but she saw no reason why she should not employ a companion in the meantime. She could afford it; she had the income from her grandfather's estate. Because her husband had withheld it from her for so many years it had grown to a considerable amount. She had been quite shocked when her lawyer told her how much the accumulated capital was. Had her husband been able to touch it, she was
sure he would have gambled it away to spite her, but her grandfather had been a canny Scottish gentleman. He had made sure that the capital and income could not be accessed by anyone but Sarah, or her children if she were dead. How that must have irked her husband. He had the power to prevent her from benefiting from the money while he lived, but he could not take it for himself.

Well, she had it now and no one to gainsay her. As yet her son, Howard, had not run through the fortune his father had left him, though she had heard from more than one source that he was likely to do so in time. Well, she would face that when the time came.

Getting up, she slipped on her peignoir, went over to the pretty lady's desk near the window and sat in the elbow chair. She picked up her pen, dipped it in the glass inkwell and began to write. She would invite the young woman to come to her for a trial period of three months. If they suited she would continue the contract. In the meantime she might find her daughter.

Having written the polite invitation to join her in Bath and offered a salary of two guineas a month and her keep, Sarah felt satisfied that she would secure the services of the young woman. A girl of little experience was hardly likely to get a better offer. She hesitated for a moment, then took out a fresh sheet of paper.

Satisfied with her letters, Sarah sanded and sealed both with wax and her signet. She was using her grandfather's crest. He had left the ring to her and she liked it, wearing it on the middle finger of her right hand.

Smiling, Sarah returned to bed and resumed her breakfast, breaking the soft roll and spreading butter and honey. Had she been reckless in offering a position to a young woman simply on the basis of an advertisement? Her husband would certainly have disapproved. He had summarily dismissed her last companion as unsuitable despite her protests. After that she had managed with the services of her maid. Now she could please herself.

She was certain the young woman who had placed that advertisement was an honest and caring person, and as such she was more than qualified for the position. Sarah would give the letters to her maid when she came for the tray and then she would stroll to the Pump Room and meet her friends.

 

‘Here you are, my love,' Betty said, coming into the kitchen one morning later that week. ‘My Ted picked this up for you this morning at the receiving office.
Rather than wait until this evening to give it to you, he sent it with Farmer Jenkins's boy. I think it must be a reply to your advertisement.'

‘At last…' Eliza took it eagerly. More than two weeks had passed and she had almost given up hope of a reply. Breaking the impressive seal, she read the brief message and sighed with relief. ‘This is almost too wonderful to be true, Betty. I have been offered a position with a widowed lady in Bath—and on generous terms.'

She read the letter to Betty, who nodded her head with satisfaction. ‘Lady Sarah Manners,' she said approvingly. ‘She sounds like a proper lady and her letter is everything it should be. It says that if you accept you will be met in Norwich market square on the twenty-fifth of July at twelve-thirty.'

‘I must write and accept at once, for that is only two weeks away,' Eliza said. ‘I think I shall do it immediately and then perhaps Ted will take it into town for me tomorrow.'

‘I think he was going to town this afternoon. If you walked down to the estate office with it, he will take it with him when he goes.'

‘Yes, I shall,' Eliza said. ‘I had begun to think that I would need to visit the employment office for young ladies in Norwich, but this is just what I need. Do you not think so?'

‘Yes, I dare say it may be,' Betty said and smiled at her pleasure. ‘It is time something good happened for you, my love.'

‘I consider myself fortunate to have such friends as you and Ted,' Eliza said and went through to the parlour to write her letter. When she had finished it, she put on her pelisse and bonnet and set out for the earl's estate office.

 

The Marquis of Cheadle frowned over Lady Sarah's letter. He had recognised the handwriting instantly and for a few heart-catching moments he had thought she wanted him to visit her again—that she might have changed her mind and be ready to take the first step towards going away with him. It was a ridiculous notion, but one that had taken root in his mind since he visited her. The idea was impossible, of course, for he had his daughter's future to think of and that must take precedence over his own desires.

Cheadle had lived by his own rules. He was capable of being ruthless, though not actually the rogue some believed. For many years he had suppressed the ache that had never quite gone away, filled his empty life with gambling and high living, but recently the need for something more had overtaken him. He glanced at the letter again before slipping it into the top drawer of his desk as the door opened and his wife entered.

‘Yes, madam,' he said coldly. ‘Was there something I may do for you?'

‘I wanted to make sure you would accompany us to Bath next week,' Lady Cheadle replied, her mouth twisted sourly. ‘Accrington hasn't come up to scratch and I think Marianne is moping. As you know, I had hopes that he would follow us from London, but he has not obliged. I have arranged to visit Bath; we may meet with better fortune there—but I wish you to come with us, at least for the first few days.'