Amanda StoNeS
Historical Regency Romance Author
An Arranged MarriageWith a Cruel Earl
First Chapters
Chapter 1
“Go away! No!”
Andrew’s own cry of horror jolted him awake. He sat up in bed, his heart pounding, sweat sticking the sheets to his skin. Images from his dream hovered before his eyes. His grandfather’s face contorted with pain before him; breath rasping as he struggled to draw in air. He gasped and struggled as Andrew tried to help him back onto his feet. Andrew stared into his face, but his expression changed from shock to accusation. His hazel eyes—usually so full of love—narrowed with hate. His voice was a harsh whisper. You did this, he hissed at Andrew, his gaze venomous. You have killed me.
Andrew ran a trembling hand over his face, trying to push the images away. The dream, so vivid and haunting, left him shaken. He closed his eyes and exhaled; his voice low. “It’s just a dream,” he murmured to the empty room. “Just a dream.”
The dream in which his grandfather died in his arms and Andrew had to watch, helplessly, came whenever he was tense and upset. This new variation, in which Grandfather accused Andrew of causing his death, was a fresh torment. Grandfather had died in his arms, but Andrew had not killed him. He, of all people, had to remember that. If he did not, the dream would drive him mad. It was easy to believe that he had been responsible. If they had not been arguing, perhaps Grandfather would never have been taken by the apoplexy that had killed him. It was altogether too easy to imagine that.
Andrew slid out of bed, gazing down at the sweat-soaked sheets that clung to his muscled torso. He shivered, his flesh and his dark hair still damp with sweat. He walked across to the nightstand to drink some water. He gazed out of the window, his blue eyes widening to take in the grey-shadowed lawn and the overhanging trees beyond the window. It was early morning, the sky outside a dull, uncertain grey. Even from the bedroom window, he could see how neglected the garden was; the weeds claiming more and more space every day.
He tugged on his high-collared, starched shirt and buttoned it over his lean muscled chest. The looking glass on the wall opposite showed him the outline of his long, chiselled face, his skin pale in the half-light from the window. Even in the darkness, it was possible to see the grey rings of exhaustion and the haggard expression on his face.
“I need to do something about this,” he said to the empty room.
There were too many worries on his mind.
It was because of the rumours. He had tried to convince himself that it meant nothing, that being accused by most of the Ton of compliance in his grandfather’s murder was something ordinary and trivial. But it had wounded him more than anything else could and had made him flee London and return to Rilendale estate, his home just two miles away from the city.
And it was why he was having nightmares again.
The rattling of a trolley made Andrew look up as he walked into the hallway. It was the butler, on his way to the breakfast room. Andrew wanted to laugh at the astonished look on the man’s face upon seeing the Earl of Rilendale awake at a few minutes past five.
“Good morning, my lord,” the butler greeted politely, struggling to contain his astonishment.
“Morning, Pearson,” Andrew greeted mildly as if there was nothing odd about being awake so early. He walked past and went downstairs and through the front door.
Being in the garden did not lift his tension as he had hoped. The overgrown shrubs and untrimmed trees, the weed-choked flowerbeds and tumbledown walls only served to highlight the neglect into which the estate had fallen. Feeling more distressed, Andrew headed indoors towards the breakfast room.
The butler had already set out the food and Andrew breathed in the scent of toast and pastries. There had been fresh pastries cooked every day during his childhood, but since the money had dried up, the cook only baked them on Tuesdays.
He took a seat, his stomach growling with hunger at the smell. As he poured tea for himself, he looked up in surprise at a noise in the hallway.
“Grandma?”
The Dowager Countess of Rilendale, his grandmother, was eighty years old, and she walked slowly, leaning on her expensive ebony walking stick that tapped the floor. Her small, frail form was clad in dark blue velvet as she came into the room, still in mourning for Grandfather. The early sunshine shone on her pure white hair, making it seem to halo her soft oval face. She blinked in surprise as Andrew stood up politely from his place at the table. A serene smile spread across her face.
“Andrew! Grandson. You’re up early.” Her dark eyes scanned his countenance, a small frown forming between her brows. She had noticed his haggard appearance. He gave her a reassuring smile.
“I could not sleep any longer,” he explained gently. “And it seems you also awoke early?”
She sat down. “I often wake this early,” she told him softly.
Andrew reached for the teapot, pouring her a cup of tea. She thanked him, then added a lump of sugar and stirred thoughtfully. Her eyes held his.
“You worry too much, Grandson,” she said consideringly. “It does not suit you.”
Andrew laughed. His grandmother had always had the ability to surprise him. Gentle and kindhearted, she was keen-eyed and observant to an even greater degree.
“Thank you, Grandma. I’m not sure if I should be complimented or not.” He grinned.
She laughed at his comment, but her piercing gaze never left his face.
“I know you worry,” she began. “But it doesn’t help. And locking yourself away here at Rilendale doesn’t help either,” she added, reaching for a pastry. Andrew watched as she bit into it. “Lemon curd,” she told him, looking up mildly.
“Oh?” Andrew’s stomach twisted ambivalently. He liked pastries, but lemon curd was not his favourite. He decided to focus on buttering one slice of toast and ignore his grandmother’s advice about visiting other places. He knew that it was sound, but he preferred to ignore it. He added some blackcurrant jelly and bit into it. “Not bad.”
“You need to seek diversion, Grandson,” his grandmother continued, dabbing the crumbs off her mouth with her napkin and ignoring his attempt to divert her attention. “Go into London, mayhap. Attend a gathering or two. Shutting yourself away here does not help.”
“Grandma…” Andrew began, not sure how to argue since her advice was undeniably wise.
“I know whereof I talk,” she said simply. “Being miserable does no good. I miss Randolph terribly. I know you miss him too, but he would not wish either of us to shut ourselves away.”
“I’m sure that’s true, Grandma,” Andrew began gently. He sometimes forgot that his grandmother had lost Grandfather too. His own experience of Grandfather’s death had been so horrible that horror had isolated him from her and from everyone around them. He had not discussed it, or the fact that he blamed himself. His death just confirmed his belief that he was cursed somehow and that those near him would always pass away.
“You require companionship, my dear boy,” Grandma insisted, her soft voice interrupting his thoughts. “You can’t go rattling about in this empty house by yourself.” Her gaze was intense and shrewd.
“I have you for company,” Andrew said instantly, but she smiled.
“That’s not what I mean, Grandson. You need a family. Someone to fill these walls with laughter and light again.” Her expression was sorrowful, and Andrew reached for her hand, guessing she was thinking of her own son Hugh, his father, who had been taken from them both so early. Andrew’s father and mother had perished in a carriage accident on the road to Brighton when Andrew was just three. His parents had been heading to the coast to take the restorative sea air and Andrew had been too young to join them. He had remained at Rilendale with his grandparents, which was the only reason that he had survived the accident. Losing his grandfather, and in such a tragic manner, had been all the more traumatic because he had already lost so much of his family. Blaming himself for all of it was easier than accepting that tragic things can simply happen without reason.
“Grandma,” he said gently, “I cannot…start a family. How could I bring anyone here? The place is falling apart.”
She raised her eyes to meet his own. “Well, a woman could help with that,” she said slowly. “Women bring substantial dowries, you know.” She wasn’t smiling, but her eyes sparkled.
“Grandma!” Andrew blinked in astonishment. His grandmother always surprised him, and she did so severally before the day had even started. “I couldn’t do that! I…” He trailed off. She smiled at him warmly.
“You could, you know. There’s no reason not to,” she told him honestly. “And besides, a match that begins as a cold arrangement need not remain so. I did not expect to fall in love, yet I did. And so shall you,” she said softly, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. “Randolph and I were not in love at first, but as we came to truly know one another, affection soon blossomed.” A tender smile graced her lips at the memory.
Andrew shook his head. The thought horrified him.
“No, Grandma,” he said directly after he had gathered his thoughts. “I do not think I can.” He looked down at the table, not wanting to meet her gaze.
He had no words to offer her—he couldn’t even understand why he, himself, believed he wasn’t capable of falling in love. He was eight-and-twenty, and it seemed to him as though he had lived a hundred years of bitter sadness.
“You can, Grandson,” she told him, holding his stare. She lifted her napkin and dabbed her lips again, then drank her tea and stood up slowly. Andrew pushed back his chair and stood too.
Andrew smiled at her. “Mayhap someone will visit me,” he told her. He stood as she went to the door.
“Good. Good, Grandson.” She tilted her head, her eyes—crinkled with her smile—holding his gaze. “Every person you talk to helps.”
Andrew nodded, agreeing with her. When she had exited the room, he ate a pastry, wincing at the taste, then drank some tea and went to his study.
His thoughts were reeling. His grandmother’s idea held some appeal, but it would be almost impossible to carry out. He avoided London ever since the rumours started. Even if he had wanted to follow her suggestion, what young lady in the Ton would wed a man who was accused—by rumour at least—of murdering his own family member?
He stifled a yawn and tried to focus. He had a lot of work to do. Checking the household accounts was something he had to do once a month, and it was a torment. Perhaps fear of the horrid task was partly responsible for the bad dreams, he thought wryly. He sat down at his desk, drew Mr Pearson’s neatly ordered accounts book towards himself and peered at the pages.
As the clock struck, Mr Pearson knocked at the door. Andrew gazed up, exhausted, from the books. He had been checking the tallies for hours.
“What hour is it?” he asked, sounding weary even to his own ears.
“Ten o’clock, my lord.” Mr Pearson sounded grave.
Andrew sighed and ran a weary hand through his hair. “Is there something amiss?” He knew the man well and knew he would never disturb him unreasonably.
“Apologies, my lord. Lord Neville is here to see you,” Pearson said smoothly.
“Neville!” Andrew exclaimed happily. “Show him in, please.”
“At once, my lord,” Mr Pearson agreed, bowing low.
A few seconds later, Neville stood in the doorway. His long, thin face lit up with a grin, his brown eyes bright with warmth as he saw Andrew there. He was a neighbour, but he was also a valued friend.
“Andrew! There you are,” Neville greeted warmly. “I say, old fellow! You don’t look well. Have you slept at all?”
Andrew chuckled humorlessly. “Somewhat, yes.”
Neville took a seat opposite him at the desk, then rested his hand on the account book that lay there. “Do stop reading through that thing,” he told Andrew firmly. “You’ll just make yourself blind staring at those figures in this light.”
Andrew chuckled. “If that could happen, I’d be blind already, old chap,” he assured him with a grin. “I’ve been staring at the books for three hours.”
“Three hours!” Neville gestured to the door. “Come on. Out of here right away. We’ll take that tea to the drawing room when it arrives. At least it’s light in there. No point hiding in the dark. It’s not exactly a summery day, but it’s dashed better than it looks in the study.”
Andrew smiled to himself as he followed Neville down the hallway. His friend was the one person who would always lift his mood. Besides Grandma, Neville was the only person who Andrew let in behind his guard.
Neville’s father, Viscount Esterfield, owned land that neighbored Rilendale’s extensive holdings and he and Andrew had grown up together, going on long trips in the countryside with their horses. They had pushed each other in the stream and shared their thoughts and aspirations as they climbed walls and played sword-fighting with each other.
Andrew rang for the butler and Neville flopped down on one of the spindle-legged chairs in the drawing room. Andrew winced, but it was a new one that Grandfather had bought before they knew they discovered the deficit in their finances, and it held Neville’s weight easily. Andrew sat down across from him on one of the matching chairs.
“I had a pleasant ride to London yesterday,” Neville began.
Andrew found his gaze roaming around the room as he listened to Neville talk. He had become used to the scuffed, worn flocked silk that covered the walls, the velvet curtains that were threadbare, the floor that was damaged from years of booted feet and the fireplace that was smoky, since they could not afford to have the chimney unblocked. When he looked at everything with the thought of having guests there, though, it became plain how badly in disrepair it was.
“…and so, I took lunch at the Glendale club, and…” Neville paused. “Andrew, you’re half asleep.”
Andrew blinked and nodded. “I am.”
Mr Pearson came in, interrupting them for a moment, and left the tea on the table and Andrew reached for the teapot to pour.
“Dash it, old chap,” Neville said, reaching for a slice of the pound cake. “You’re working too hard.”
“It’s not that,” Andrew murmured, pouring tea for them both and adding sugar to his cup. “I just didn’t sleep much.”
“You worry too much,” Neville told him, echoing Grandma’s observation from earlier.
“I do not think it is possible to worry too much, Neville,” he told him, running a hand distractedly through his own thick, dark hair. “If it were, it would have made me sick years ago.”
Neville nodded. “I imagine that’s true. You need to take action, old chap.”
Andrew made a sour face. “Grandma already said that.” His humour lifted as he recalled something. “And you know what her solution was?” His eyes twinkled. In this context, it sounded amusing. “Find an heiress. That was what she said, more or less. Can you imagine?”
Neville blinked. “It’s an idea, Andrew, honestly.” His expression was bright as if Andrew had made a good suggestion.
“What?” Andrew stared at his friend, agog. “Neville! I could not.”
Neville raised a brow. “You’d be far from the first, old chap.”
“I could not. Truly.” He did not know how he could convey what he meant. “Besides, can you imagine what someone would say, seeing a house like this?” It wasn’t the reason, but it was one everyone might understand.
“It is only a house, old boy. Houses can be fixed, you know.”
“Mm.” Andrew made a vague noise that could have been dissent or acknowledgement. He reached for a slice of cake. At least if he was eating, Neville might stop peppering him with good suggestions.
“Well, I just came to chat, and invite you on a ride to London tomorrow, if you’re interested,” Neville said after a minute. “I have some business to discuss at the Glendale club, and I thought you might like to come along.”
“No, old chap,” Andrew said sorrowfully. “I have to stay here to keep an eye on things. Besides, those wretched accounts still need doing. I shall see the task through tomorrow.”
“Mm,” Neville said, sounding thoughtful.
“It was very kind of you to come and see me,” Andrew said sincerely. “And I wish I could come with you. I just—cannot.” He couldn’t show his face in London for so many reasons. And he did not want to meet new people. What if the curse he seemed to carry around touched them, too?
“No bother, old chap,” Neville said kindly. “I shall go to the Glendale club tomorrow, then. And who knows? I might have some news for you when I get back.” That thoughtful look was back again.
“Mm,” Andrew replied distantly. “I wish you luck,” he added. He knew Neville was going to talk to some investors about investing in a sea voyage to India. He couldn’t invest, even if he had wanted to, so there was little point in Neville’s informing him.
“Thank you, old chap,” Neville said after a few minutes of talk. “I’ll call on you as soon as I come back.” London was a two-hour ride from Rilendale Manor, but it was not unusual for Neville to drop in on the way to his own home.
“I shall see you tomorrow, then,” Andrew said a little sadly as his friend went to the door. He enjoyed talking to Neville, and it would have been pleasant to ride with him. He just could not go into London again. He walked with him to the door, where Neville cantered off on his big brown thoroughbred.
Neville’s advice drifted through his thoughts, but he pushed it aside. It was preposterous. Nobody would wed a man with no money who rumours whispered was a murderer. He would have to find some other solution.
Chapter 2
Emmeline stared out of the window, watching the trees and bushes move past under a grey sky as the coach rolled fast down the road. The scenery was grey and oppressive, and she looked over at her mother instead, who sat opposite. Lady Radley smiled reassuringly.
“We shan’t travel too far today,” she commented, tucking a stray honey-brown curl back under her bonnet.
“Good,” Emmeline murmured in reply. She wished she could feel some excitement about the adventure. She was naturally high-spirited and loved travelling. But she could not find even a little excitement for the trip. All she could think about was Bath and the small townhouse they had ridden from earlier in the day. She shut her green eyes briefly, feeling a pain in her heart.
In many ways, she reminded herself as she watched the slate-blue sky and scrubby hills, it was already a blessing.
The house in Bath was small and cramped, and it reminded her and Mama altogether too much of Papa and his long illness. Papa, the Earl of Radley, had moved the family to Bath so that he could take the curative waters there, but whatever had caused his illness had long been established. He had passed away in Bath and Emmeline and her mother had stayed at the townhouse there for the remainder of the year, observing their mourning period far away from London.
They might have stayed in the tiny townhouse, but Uncle Henry had written, inviting them to London. It was a journey of over a hundred miles and it would take at least a week to complete. Emmeline looked out of the window, watching the wind-contoured trees, and tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. She glanced at her mother, who was watching the scenery with apparent contentment.
Seeing Mama’s relaxed posture made Emmeline feel a little better. Charlotte Ashmore was always her anchor, now more than ever. Emmeline studied that soft, familiar face and paused to glance at her own reflection, reflected dimly in the window of the coach. Her face was thin and angular compared to the viscountess’, with a long slender nose and slight chin. The most striking contrast to anyone in her immediate family, however, was her hair—Mama’s was honey-gold, and Papa’s had been brown. Emmeline’s, however, was vibrant red. In long strands that hung down to her waist, her hair was pale auburn and the feature she was most ambivalent about since it made it impossible to blend in.
She leaned back, her dark-coloured bonnet feeling uncomfortable on her head. She loosened the ribbons and let it fall back behind her shoulders, then took it off. Lady Radley was already drowsing, and even if she hadn’t been, she would hardly have objected to Emmeline taking off her bonnet. The viscountess had never been the sort to fuss about anything, and neither had the late viscount. Emmeline sniffed, her heart aching as she recalled their last conversation. It was only recently that she could bring herself to remember anything about Papa—for almost the whole year the grief had been too overwhelming.
“Stay as you are, my dear,” he had whispered to her, his hand tight on hers. “The world needs you as you are. Your brightness. Your keenness. Your strength.”
Emmeline swallowed through a tight throat. His words had given her considerable comfort. Ever since her debut, some years ago, she had shrunk herself into a smaller and smaller space, trying to talk less, to blend in more. Her outspokenness seemed to offend half of London, to say nothing of her bold ideas. She frightened the Ton with her quick thoughts and direct speech to the point that, after four Seasons, she was still without attachment. Her exposure to London society had only made her long to hide away who she really was.
She pushed the sorrowful thoughts away and thought instead of Cousin Amelia, who she would soon see.
Amelia was her best friend. They had spent endless hours together as children since Uncle Henry’s manor was only an hour’s ride from Ashmore, Papa’s country estate. She and Amelia had played and spent hours racing about the estate gardens together. They had learned to ride together, though Emmeline’s passion for riding had never abated, whereas Amelia had been too fearful to ride anything other than a stout Shetland. Emmeline had debuted the year before Amelia. Every Season they spent time together in London. It was the only good thing about the Season, she thought wryly.
“Would you care for some lemonade?” Lady Radley asked, interrupting her thoughts. “There’s plenty to last us until the inn.”
“No. Thank you, Mama,” Emmeline said warmly. “I am not thirsty.”
“You can have some later, then. I insist on stopping for a few minutes for teatime before we reach the inn. Or we’ll be terribly hungry.”
Emmeline smiled fondly at her mother. “Oh, Mama,” she said gently. “You are a dear.”
“Not at all, dear daughter. Not at all.”
The coach rattled on, and Emmeline leaned back, feeling relaxed. The motion was restful, and her eyes closed, and she soon fell asleep.
***
The coach jolted and bumped its way ahead. They had ridden in the same manner for five days, stopping at inns for the night and leaving as early as they could. Emmeline should have been exhausted, but she was not—she sat alertly, gazing through the window, her stomach knotting with excitement. Soon they would be in London.
“I can barely wait,” Emmeline said brightly to her mother.
The viscountess smiled. “I will be pleased to see Henry too,” she agreed. Henry was Charlotte’s only sibling and the two were very fond of one another.
They were approaching the city—Emmeline knew it. It was far away still, but she knew the countryside so well and if she strained her eyes, she could see buildings rising from the green, leafy landscape and, as the coach turned the corner, she thought she could see the glittering Thames River winding its way through the valley.
Soon, they would be there.
The coachman had slowed, and Emmeline’s breath caught in her throat as she saw why. They were already nearing one of the city gates.
“We won’t be long,” Lady Radley promised Emmeline, as they rattled through the gate. They had decided to stop at their townhouse in Kensington to change their clothes. It would be terribly hard to visit the townhouse. She had never been there without Papa being with her. Memories of him were going to be everywhere.
The butler had been alerted by letter before they departed and he opened the door as soon as they knocked, a huge grin on his face.
“Lady Radley!” He greeted Charlotte fondly. “Lady Emmeline. Come inside, do! We did not expect you until tomorrow morning! The rooms have been prepared precisely as you instructed, my lady.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte commented in a firm tone. Emmeline knew she was struggling with her emotions. Emmeline squeezed her hand, trying to offer her some comfort. Emmeline looked around as they entered, her heart aching. As it happened, her first thought was of Papa’s advice.
Be yourself, dear, he whispered in her mind. That is all you need.
His words were like a talisman against her own self-dislike. So often in this townhouse, she had the thought that she should become smaller and weaker, quieter, and less interesting. In short, more like the ladies in London who were vaunted by society as good noblewomen.
“We should go and change into some good gowns,” Lady Radley suggested.
“Yes,” Emmeline said softly. The faster they could get on their way, the better.
Once she was dressed in a green day gown, she went into the hallway. She grinned in delight to see her mother waiting for her, wearing a blue dress. The colour brought out the soft tone of her eyes and she looked beautiful.
“Mama!” Emmeline shrilled. “So good to see you.” After a year in their black mourning dresses, seeing her mother in a colourful gown was renewing and uplifting, like Springtime had come.
“You look lovely, my dear,” Charlotte said gently. “Come now. Let’s go to the coach. Mr Hodgkins is waiting for us.”
They hurried to the coach and soon drew up outside Fairfax House. Emmeline gazed up at it, excitement filling her. The butler opened the door when they knocked, but Uncle Henry and Aunt Patricia were there already and then Emmeline was laughing, tears in her eyes as Amelia ran to embrace her.
“Amelia,” she murmured. “I’m so pleased to see you.”
“Emmi!” Amelia greeted her, using the name they had used when they were little. “So good to see you!” She hugged her tightly.
“So good to see you,” Emmeline murmured, her eyes moist with tears. Her heart warmed in ways it had not for months.
She breathed in, smelling the familiar, spicy scent of her friend’s perfume.
Amelia stepped back and gazed at Emmeline. Emmeline frowned. There was a line between Amelia’s fine dark brows that suggested she was worried. She also looked paler. She gazed into her cousin’s deep brown eyes, but Amelia was already turning to go upstairs to the drawing room. She pushed her concern for Amelia away. If there was something troubling her cousin, she would surely tell her.
They went into the fine, warm drawing room upstairs. Mama was already chatting with Aunt and Uncle merrily. It was so good to hear her mother sounding so happy. For months Emmeline had not heard that bright, carefree tone in her voice.
“Tea, please!” Uncle Henry called to the butler, with firmness. “And plenty of cake. Our visitors must be starving.”
“Thank you, Henry,” Charlotte said warmly. “You will feed us so much that we shan’t be able to eat our dinner.”
“Nonsense!”
Emmeline watched the exchange between Uncle and Mama, enjoying their happiness. Uncle Henry looked like Charlotte Ashmore—he had her pale colouring, except that his eyes were blue where Charlotte’s were greyer. Aunt Patricia, sitting beside him, had dark curls and big dark eyes, and Amelia took after her. Amelia’s thick hair was the colour of rich chocolate, and her dark eyes were truly beautiful, framed with thick lashes. She had porcelain skin and was truly a beauty. She would have been the toast of the Ton, but she was extremely shy. At most Seasons that they had attended together, Amelia had sat out almost all the dances, too nervous even to say a word to a potential dance partner. It was unfair, since Amelia was a true society beauty, much prettier than she considered she was herself.
“Now,” Uncle murmured as he settled himself opposite Mama. “I want to hear about everything.”
Charlotte began telling him about their trip. Aunt Patricia listened intently, and Emmeline was content to watch, nodding occasionally in agreement. As she listened, she became aware of Amelia staring at her. The gaze seemed desperate. She was about to ask her what was bothering her, but Amelia spoke first.
“Papa?” Amelia answered, “If we may, could Emmeline and I retire to my chamber for a moment? I have a matter I wish to discuss with her.”
“Of course, Amelia,” he said, his gaze loving. “Please, feel free. And you needn’t rush to dinner, either—take as much time as you need. I’m sure you have a lot to discuss with each other after so many months.”
Emmeline nodded and smiled at Aunt Patricia, inclined her head to Mama and hurried with Amelia to her bedroom.
Amelia shut the door and waited for Emmeline to sit down on the chair by the bed.
“I’m to be married,” Amelia told Emmeline at once, her voice swift as she blurted it out.
“What?” Emmeline stared at her, a grin shining on her face. “What wonderful news! My!” She was about to ask who the fortunate man might be, but Amelia’s expression made her stop.
“It is terrible, Emmi” Amelia whispered. Her eyes were wide with fear, her mouth trembling. “I beseech you—I am in dire need of your aid.”
“Whatever is it?” Emmeline asked, a frown twisting her brows.
“It is the man I am to marry,” Amelia said at once. “He is a murderer, Emmeline! Pray help me.”
Chapter 3
Andrew leaned back in his chair, his eyes weary from the strain. He had done as he had planned and had resumed looking over the accounts after a day spent resting and riding.
“It’s not possible,” he muttered into the empty air.
The amount owed by the Rilendale estate ran to a little over five thousand pounds, and that was just debts to craftsmen and tradesmen in the greater London area. If he considered the other debts, it was closer to eight thousand. He ran a hand through his thick black hair and tried to ignore his desperate inclination to go down to the stables, saddle his horse and run away.
A knock at the door made him jump in startled surprise.
“What is it?” he called.
“Lord Neville is here, my lord. Should I send him in?”
“Please,” Andrew replied at once, relief washing through him like a wave. He needed the distraction of someone friendly to talk to.
Mr Pearson opened the door and Neville strode in almost at once.
“Neville!” Andrew greeted, relieved to see him. “I almost forgot your visit. Apologies. I wasn’t aware of the hour.” He had slept later than usual, since he had been blissfully untroubled by visions of his grandfather in dreams. After two hours poring over accounts in the study, it was getting close to lunchtime.
“Just thought I’d drop in,” Neville said casually, drawing out his chair where he customarily sat. Neville’s expression was unusually tense, his eyes bright as though he was intent on something.
“How was your ride to London?” Andrew asked him.
“I had a successful meeting at the club,” Neville told him. Andrew frowned.
“Did something interesting happen?” He could sense that Neville was focused on something, and he wondered what it was.
“I have some news for you,” Neville said lightly.
“News?” His stomach twisted with some sort of anticipation. As Neville cleared his throat, he realised how unusual it seemed to be looking forward to things.
“Yes. I happened to fall in with a fellow, the Baron of Bradwood, at the club with the fellows. Never met him before, but he was telling me and his business associate about his worries. Might not have talked so freely, but for a little brandy.” Neville shrugged.
Neville sipped his tea and Andrew itched with impatience to hear the story. After what seemed like an age, Neville put his teacup aside and continued.
“He told us,” he began, “that he has been worried about his daughter. She is of marriageable age and has a considerable dowry. Even so, he has struggled to find suitors in London.” He shrugged again. “Said the girl was too shy even to speak to anyone.” His eyes widened. “I thought of you.”
“Of me?” Andrew gaped at him. “You mean…”
“Yes. I hope you can forgive me, but I took it upon myself to mention your worries to this baron, and he practically threw himself on the floor before me, wanting me to make an introduction to you. Of course, I said I would do so. It’s the least I can do. I thought the poor fellow was in such a predicament that I simply had to.”
“You led the fellow to believe I would be interested in wedding his daughter?” Andrew stared at him.
“Yes,” Neville said with a touch of levity. “Pardon me, old chap.”
Andrew swallowed hard. His grandmother’s counsel echoing in his mind, and he had to admit there was merit to it. He narrowed his eyes. “Pray, tell me you made it abundantly clear that you had no such authorisation from me?”
Neville tilted his head. “Well, he did not inquire, so I saw no reason to volunteer that information.”
Andrew flushed. Neville had no right to suggest such a thing to anyone. But at the same time, he could not forget that his grandmother had proposed something quite similar only the day before. And it was, indeed, a sensible notion. If he were guided solely by cold, unfeeling business acumen, he would have acted upon it without hesitation.
“I hope you didn’t let the poor fellow believe I would do as you suggest,” Andrew continued. “I might disappoint him.”
“At least meet her?” Neville asked lightly.
Andrew let out a sigh.
“Her dowry is more than fifteen thousand pounds,” Neville added.
Andrew closed his eyes for a moment, lost in thought. The idea was sound, if one thought rationally. But he could not do it coldly. If the girl was truly desperate, it might not be too terrible—she might be willing to live in his house and be a noblewoman and have no interactions with him at all.
“I cannot quite say thank you, since you acted most rashly. However, since you have told the fellow I am interested, it would seem churlish not to visit him.” He didn’t know how he had managed to get the words out. It was easily the hardest sentence he had ever said.
Neville inclined his head. His eyes were wide with surprise.
“Good,” he said softly. “That’s good. Mayhap we could ride to London soon.”
Andrew blinked at him disbelievingly.
“I shall consider it,” he said slowly.
When Neville had ridden off, Andrew walked through the garden. He went to a place high up on the estate grounds, to where the estate grounds led into the farmland. He leaned on the gate and stared out over the property, lost in thought. He tried to imagine what the girl looked like—for some reason, he wished he knew, even though he supposed that it didn’t matter. It was only her dowry that mattered.
He shuddered. He didn’t believe that. He was not that cold and mercenary. He knew it would be torture for them both. And if it was not, if they actually found some affection and respect for one another, that would be even harder for him. He did not want to get close to another person.
“Be sensible,” he told himself aloud. “You can gamble your heart for fifteen thousand pounds.”
It was a king’s ransom. He could afford to rebuild parts of the manor that were neglected and pay his debts. He could even hire staff to ensure the maintenance of his home.
He closed his eyes, trying to think about what it would really be like. He could not do it.
He walked back to the manor, thinking about what he could tell Neville. The man that Neville had spoken to would be disappointed, but that was Neville’s matter to deal with. He could not condemn a young lady to a loveless life to make her father happy.
He walked up the stairs into the entranceway.
“My lord! My lord,” Mr Pearson yelled as he walked in.
“What is it?” Andrew asked confusedly.
“Your grandmother, my lord. The countess. She fell.”
“What?” Andrew was rooted in place, unable to move. His heart thumped wildly in his chest. Grandma! He could not bear it if she…
“She is presently in the drawing room. Mrs Hall found her.”
“Is it serious? Has someone sent for the physician?” Andrew demanded.
“No, my lord. Your grandmother was asking for you.”
Andrew was about to retort that they should have fetched the physician anyway, but they had already reached the door. He rushed in.
“Grandma!”
He ran to her side where she lay on the chaise-longue. Her face was papery white, her forehead livid bruising from the fall, and she looked lovingly at Andrew. She was tucked up under a blanket, a pillow under her head. Andrew took her hand in his and stared into her eyes. She was looking at him, awake and alive. That was all that mattered.
“Grandma,” he repeated softly. “You’re alive.”
“Grandson,” she greeted him. Her voice was a rasping whisper. “I wondered where you were.”
“What happened?”
“I fell,” she said softly. “Nothing serious. Just a shock. And some bruises,” she added, lifting a hand to her brow.
“What happened?” Andrew repeated, touching her forehead gently. He could feel no crack in the bone, though it was swollen, the skin warm, and he let out a sigh of relief.
“I just fell, Grandson,” she said gently. “I will be quite all right. I’m just tired.”
“I’m sure,” Andrew said quickly. He knew the pain of hitting one’s head—he had hit his head falling off his horse once and he had been terribly drowsy.
“I need to sleep,” Grandma said softly. “I’ll be quite all right with time.”
“I am sure you will,” Andrew said swiftly. “May I carry you to your room?” he asked.
“Oh, Andrew. You don’t need to do that,” she said softly, but she smiled at him as she said it as if the suggestion appealed to her.
“I am happy to help,” he said instantly, and bent down and lifted her up. He hadn’t realised how little she was—she was such a huge figure in his life, but somehow her body seemed so frail and tiny when he held her.
He carried her down the hallway and to her bedroom.
“Thank you, Grandson,” she murmured.
“Please rest,” he said softly as he lowered her onto the bed. “Rest and get well.” He kissed her brow. “I will fetch the physician.”
“No need,” his grandmother murmured softly, but he shook his head.
“I will feel better if he has seen you,” he insisted.
She smiled sleepily. “If you must.”
He went to find Mr Pearson to send for the physician.
“What happened to her?” Andrew asked Mr Pearson as they both walked to the door. “Where did Mrs Hall find her?”
“In the hallway,” Mr Pearson explained. “Near the gallery stairs.”
Andrew winced and let out a sigh. The hallway that led to the gallery was dangerous. The floor was rickety—neglect and lack of maintenance led to several boards being loose and some had lifted. It was easy to fall there. He should have had the place cordoned off. Grandma liked to go up there to look at the portraits of the family and he could not deny her that small comfort.
“I ought to have attended to it long ago,” he castigated himself as he walked to his study.
He walked past his bedroom and went in, flopping onto the bed. He closed his eyes, exhaustion overwhelming him.
Sometimes, when he was in need of guidance, he spoke to his father and mother. He did not know if they could hear him somewhere in the lands beyond life, but he fancied that they could. He was calm as he spoke aloud to them.
“Mama. Papa. I wish I knew what to do.”
He paused, the sense of peace settling on him and, even though no thoughts came to him, the calmness was welcome.
“I could repair the floor with fifteen thousand,” he added. He needed to repair the manor—Grandma’s accident made it plain.
He opened his eyes and shut them again exhaustedly. It was a choice that was no real choice at all. He had to fix the manor, and there was only one way to get the money to do so. He had to do what Neville had suggested and at least meet this young lady.
It was what Grandma had asked him to do.