To Wed an Heiress (9 page)

H
aro woke the next morning wondering whether Eda’s nocturnal visit had merely been a mirage from an overtired mind.

Garth, his valet, was laying out a pair of black stockings clocked with gray on the bed when he cleared his throat ominously. “I don’t know if I’m speaking out of place, m’lord, but there’s a rumor going round the servants’ hall that Miss Swanycke has a Chinese-patterned dressing gown that looks strikingly like yours draped across the chair in her boudoir.”

“My dressing gown?” Haro’s eyes opened as large as cannonballs. There was no point in denying the gown was his. His valet knew every stitch of his clothing by memory. Fiend seize it! Why had he let her slip out into the corridor with his dressing gown still on? Why had he ever let her into his room in the first place?

“Yes, m’lord. Jane the scullery maid saw it when she was lighting the bedroom fires. Normally, I would mind my own business, m’lord, but it seems with such important guests in the house, a rumor like this—”

“Yes, yes. You were quite right to say something. Who all knows?”

“By now, all of the staff, m’lord.”

“Including Mr. Hastings’ valet and Miss Hastings’ lady’s maid?”

Garth pursed his lips. “Perhaps not. They’ve held themselves aloof from the rest of us—a little too lofty for their own good. But Mrs. Rollo, the companion, spends considerable time with the housekeeper.”

Haro groaned. “One can only hope she keeps as quiet to her employers as she does in the drawing room.”

Garth grunted doubtfully but had no suggestions to offer. He had done his duty by his master, and now it was up to the earl to sort out the disaster in the making.

After he had shrugged into his tight-fitting jacket, Haro headed downstairs with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He sat down several times at his writing desk to answer a little correspondence but rose again just as quickly, unable to concentrate on anything but the nightmare at hand. Would Arabella assume he had visited his cousin’s room in the middle of the night? Would this mean the end of their betrothal? Would that mean the end of Woldwick?

He cast aside his quill pen and paced in tortured anxiety, trying to calm himself enough to go in and join the others at breakfast. Taking a deep breath, he entered the breakfast room, feeling momentary relief when no accusations came flying in his general direction. He seated himself beside Arabella who gave him good morning with a smile.

“Ugh,” said Torin, propping up his eyelids with his fingers. “I should have crawled back under the covers and asked Cook to send up my breakfast.”

His mother covered a small yawn with her hand and lifted a cup of chocolate to her lips.

There was one person, however, who seemed unaffected by the dreary atmosphere. Eda swept into the room, dressed in a dark green dress that followed her figure and framed her black hair nicely. Haro was so distracted by his worries that he did not even notice that she had discarded the obligatory black mourning dress in favor of something far more alluring.

“And how are you this morning,
dear
Arabella?”

“Quite well,” said Arabella, with a smile that was obviously forced. She reached lovingly for her betrothed’s hand and placed it against her own cheek—as if to remind this presumptuous cousin that Haro was quite as much hers today as he had been yesterday. Her lips brushed his wrist, in purposeful accident, provoking a tingling all over the earl’s body.

She had not heard. She could not have heard.

He thought of yesterday’s kisses out in the bare birch wood. He could not remember any other girl having such power to make him weak in the knees, but then, the only other girl he had ever had a serious tendre for was Eda. And—this next thought came as a bit of a surprise—he had never given her anything more than a cousinly kiss on the cheek.

Haro reached over and traced his finger across Arabella’s forehead and down her temple, tucking a perfectly formed curl behind her ear. There would be more things lost than Woldwick if the betrothal was broken—the soft skin on Arabella’s face, for example.

Torin nearly choked on a bite of sausage. Lady Anglesford looked down at her cup of chocolate with pinched lips. Mrs. Rollo, had she been a true lady’s companion and not simply a hired drudge, might have nudged her charge in rebuke, but as it was, she simply continued spooning her plain porridge into her even plainer face. Mr. Hastings was too immersed in his newspaper—and too complacent about his new conquest—to feel the revulsion radiating from the earl’s relatives.

“Wonderful to hear that you are doing well!” continued Eda. “I was afraid all the gloom of Woldwick—with its dark trees and horrid curtains—might have dispirited you. But I see you are coping as best you can.”

“And coping quite well,” added Haro, “considering that she has even more vexatious things to deal with.” He glared at Eda, willing her to vacate the breakfast room. He could only hope that she had discreetly hidden the dressing gown before exiting her bedroom that morning.

But Eda was irrepressible, and she had no intention of leaving just yet. “There is something I wanted to show you, dear sister.”

Haro’s heart nearly stopped. Even incorrigible Eda would have qualms about discussing her nocturnal adventures in front of the family over the breakfast table, would she not? But as the malicious sparkle in Eda’s eye brightened, Haro began to fear the worst had come upon him.

Eda darted over to the door and retrieved the item in question from a console table in the hallway. “Here is a sketch I made of Monsieur Bayeux yesterday.” She placed it enthusiastically in Arabella’s hands.

It was well executed, a near-perfect likeness of the man. Eda had toiled long over some of the features—the chiseled cheekbones, the noble forehead, the wavy hair. She had also imbued his eyes with such a smoldering quality that Philippe Bayeux looked like he was ready to come off the page and into the viewer’s arms with intent to ravish.

Arabella’s eyes widened, and her mouth fell open a little before she recovered her aplomb. “Very well executed,” she said primly and made to hand it back to her fiancé’s cousin.

“Oh, I thought maybe you would want to keep it? A little something to hang in your home?”

“Why would I want it?” There was an edge of warning in Arabella’s voice.

“You should know that better than I,” said Eda carelessly.

Haro thanked his lucky stars that the architect was absent from the breakfast room—perhaps he was a late riser—for he doubted that Eda would have withheld the portrait even if its subject had been present. He had been fearing the appearance of the dressing gown and the explanation that must accompany it, but this sketch that Eda had produced was almost as disconcerting.

Arabella’s chin rose. “Very well, I
shall
keep it. I will need some new artwork to display once I get rid of some of these ghastly oils. That one, for example.” She pointed at a gilt frame containing a young woman seated amidst a Grecian-inspired landscape. If her hair had been black and not brown, it could have been a portrait of Eda herself. It was Helen, Eda’s late mother, in a painting commissioned by the young Lady Anglesford before the Irish captain had charmed her cousin away.

At this comment, Eda’s mocking manner vanished. She gave Arabella a look calculated to turn her into stone. Haro blinked his eyes to make sure his cousin’s coils of black hair had not turned into venomous snakes.

“The day you get rid of that painting is a day you will regret for the rest of your life—however short that may be.”

“What’s all this?” demanded William Hastings, putting down his newspaper at last and trying to make sense of the conversation. He did not like to hear anything at the breakfast table louder than jaws chewing, and all this commotion was starting to irritate him.

“I believe Haro’s dear cousin is threatening me,” said Arabella, eyebrows arched, “though I’m certain it’s all in fun.”

“Eh?” grunted her portly father. He glanced from Eda to his daughter with a furrowed brow that did not quite apprehend the situation.

Just then Bayeux made his appearance. Arabella casually turned the sketch over on the table to avoid further comment from either the artist or the subject.

“Speaking of fun,” interjected Haro, “perhaps you’d like to go out and see the pond. The footman tells me it’s completely iced over from the cold spell we had last night. I’d love to show it to you.” A brisk walk—without use of the horses—would be safe enough, and there would be no tittle-tattling servants near the ice.

“Time to sharpen up the old skates?” said Torin.

“Not quite.” Haro shook his head. “It’ll be a week or more before the ice is thick enough to bear our weight. But it
is
beautiful to look at, all sparkling like cut crystal.”

“What a splendid idea!” said Eda, including herself in the invitation that had been meant for Arabella. “And perhaps you’d like to make a fourth and join us on our expedition, Monsieur Bayeux?”

The architect hesitated. “I have a good deal of work to do on the plans—”

“Nothing that can’t wait. And I’m sure Miss Hastings would join with me in entreating your presence.”

Arabella laid down her napkin, and Haro rose to his feet to pull out the chair for her. “Come if you like,” she said with a shrug of indifference. She took Haro’s hand as she stood and held onto it for a second or two before sliding her fingers down to the crook of his arm.

Philippe Bayeux’s eyes narrowed. “I think I will accept your invitation, Miss Swanycke. I never cease to be amazed by the new things I see out in the country.”

“Marvelous. Perhaps you’ll have time to eat a little breakfast while the future Lady Anglesford and I put on our furs. Haro will keep you company. I’m sure you have a
shared interest
or two you could discuss while we womenfolk look for our muffs.”

***

After the young ladies excused themselves, an uncomfortable silence settled on the room. The current Lady Anglesford took herself upstairs to her own sitting room, too overcome with anxiety to face more conversation with the house’s inmates. Mrs. Rollo ambled off to the sitting room on the other side of the house, perhaps to fall asleep in an armchair near the window. This left the room empty of all but the four gentlemen and the remnants of breakfast laid out on the sideboard.

“How
are
those plans coming?” asked Mr. Hastings abruptly, just after the architect had taken a bite of scrambled eggs.

Bayeux swallowed then wiped his mouth delicately with a napkin. “They are nearing completion. You’ll be able to start knocking down walls and putting up new ones in no time. Although I would suggest waiting until late spring before you commence the renovations.”

“You seem a little confused,” Torin blurted out, “about which one of the men in this room actually owns the place.
He
won’t be deciding when and how to renovate. The last I knew, my brother Haro was still the Earl of Anglesford.”

“Quiet down, Torin,” said Haro, his face suffused with red.

“Now, now,” said Mr. Hastings, digging into his waistcoat pocket for a cigar. “Let the boy have his say. Tell me—are you offended that I want to improve the place, young man?”

“If improvements are what is actually meant, then no, I take no offense. But if these renovations are simply to tear down what is old to put up what is new, then that is no improvement. On the contrary, it is a desecration.”

“But, surely, you acknowledge the benefit of brighter windows, more efficient heating, and roomier chambers. There is an energy to the new that the old always lacks.”

“And there is a stateliness to the old that the new can never achieve.”

It occurred to Haro that his brother might not even be speaking about architecture any more. It also occurred to him that his brother might be right.

Mr. Hastings lit his cigar, happy to have exercised his intellect in sparring with the earl’s brother, but still convinced that the lad’s opinion was of little importance. “You are a fine speaker, young man. You’ll do well at Oxford.”

“Why does everyone think that I’m dashed well going there?” Torin rose from the table.

Mr. Hastings laughed at the boy’s outburst. “Because you are, young Torin, you are! I’ve written to my banker about the fees this morning.”

Grinding his teeth, Torin thudded out of the room in search of Uncle Harold. He had need of a conference with someone who actually wanted him at Woldwick and appreciated the old house’s charm as much as he did.

“Finished already?” asked Haro politely, seeing that Bayeux had cleaned his plate and laid his fork upon the side of it.

“But of course. It is not my habit to keep people waiting on my account.”

“A fine sentiment,” said William Hastings with a guffaw, “but unfortunately, not one my daughter shares. She could be upstairs for an hour, trying on this set of furs and that one before she settles on the one that fits her mood. I expect it will be easier for Miss Swanycke as she’ll not have so many sets to choose from.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” said Haro, by now so used to the mill owner flaunting his wealth that he barely even bristled. Eda
would
have an easier time of it—Haro recalled that she had only worn her dark sables and dark dresses since his father’s death. Although, come to think of it, that was a green dress she had been wearing earlier. Had she decided to truncate the period of mourning that etiquette demanded? She always did look fetching in green. She needed emeralds to go with that dress and to set off her black hair and her white throat….

“Well,”—Mr. Hastings folded his paper noisily—“as long as there’s no fear of my daughter incurring injury today, I suppose I can leave her in your hands, Lord Anglesford.”

Haro stopped his daydreaming about Eda. “Certainly, Mr. Hastings.” He gave a wry grin. “A walk to the pond is hardly life-threatening, but I’ll be sure to watch out for her safety nonetheless.”

The mill owner grunted, and, looking down at his pocket watch, left the room to keep some scheduled assignation with his business accounts.

Haro rang for Garth and asked him to bring down his coat. “Shall he fetch yours as well?” he inquired cordially of Philippe Bayeux.

“Yes,
merci
. And my cane.” The Frenchman seemed surprised that the earl thought him of enough consequence to be served by his valet.

“And then we just wait on the ladies,” Haro said, trying to keep matters jovial. “It’s a man’s lot in life—always waiting on a woman.”

“
Bien s
û
r
, Lord Anglesford,” said Bayeux, his dark eyes opening wider and shining with a sort of luminescence. “But a man cannot wait forever, can he? Especially if the woman does not wish him to.” His empty breakfast plate was still in front of him, and taking the fork in hand, he pressed it so hard against the table that the tines bent askew.

“I suppose not,” said Haro, frowning for his mother’s sake at the contorted flatware. He suspected that the architect was no longer talking about their walk. But what he
was
talking about, the earl had no idea.

He did not know which would be the more unpleasant ordeal—enduring a lengthy tête-à-tête with Monsieur Bayeux or escorting two ladies who would rather be at each other’s throats than inmates in the same house.