How I Met My Countess (15 page)

She’d regarded him warily, for the residents of Hampstead had always been a bit scandalized by the Ellysons’ less-than-reputable connections.

“Well, then it is sorry I am to tell you they were all lost in the fever a while back,” she’d said, her rheumy eyes filled with tears. “My sister, the master, his daughter, all of them lost.”

His lungs had drained of air, his heart had stilled, but even so he’d managed to ask, “Lost? All of them?”

No, it couldn’t be. The darkness threatened to overcome him. The same black spirit that had been haunting him since Malcolm’s death.

“
…
the master, his daughter …”

But wait, she’d said “daughter,” not “daughters.”

“Which daughter? Which one died?” His hands had clenched the arms of his chair as he’d waited.

The lady hadn’t seemed to notice his distress, for she’d tapped her chin and taken her time to pull the memory from her befuddled senses. “Oh, the pretty one. The elder. Mariana, wasn’t it? But she’d been poorly for some time, so her passing was no surprise.”

Clifton’s heart had begun to hammer, a light of hope piercing his armor. Lucy had been spared. But that hadn’t meant he hadn’t ached for the loss of Mariana, who’d always been so full of life. The thought of her bright light extinguished had made the room a little darker.

“And the other daughter?” he’d prompted. “Miss Lucy?”

At this, Mrs. Kewin’s sister had frowned. “Well, married of course. In haste, I might add. Don’t approve of such things, but there it is, what else would you have expected from such a girl? Scandalous bit she was and good riddance. Poor fellow, though. He got a rare bargain there, he did. Such a hasty choice. But men, what can I say? When they decide to marry, no thought to the matter, just pick a lady and off they go …”

He hadn’t listened any further. There had been no need. For Lucy might as well have died of that fever, for she was just as lost to him.

Married. She’d married another. Forgotten his promise to come back for her and married another.

He couldn’t recall much else of the interview, other than thanking the lady, declining her offer of cakes and tea, and leaving.

As fast as he’d been able.

Clifton had fled England like a man possessed, his grief turned to rage. Returning to his work, he’d spent the next five years like a man consumed.

But still it hadn’t banished the bitter rage of Lucy’s betrayal from his heart, and seeing her today had served to crack that aching wound wide open.

Oh, the sight of her. Her dark hair slipping loose from beneath her bonnet, her face set with the same determination and her eyes as bright as he remembered. She was the same unconventional Lucy Ellyson he’d fallen in love with.

Why, Lucy? Why didn’t you wait?

“Clifton, I do say! Are you listening to me?” Penwortham sputtered.

“I’d rather not,” the earl said quite honestly.

“Whatever has you woolgathering this evening?” his uncle pressed.

“Nothing.”

Her …

“What you should be thinking about is the blunt that gel will bring to your coffers. Her pin money could have Clifton House reroofed twice over.”

And Lord knew, Clifton needed the money. And a new roof.

But there was an alternative to Lady Annella and her plump dowry, one that Clifton hadn’t shared with his uncle, and the sole reason for his trip to Town; it was not, as Penwortham imagined, to finalize a betrothal.

Malcolm’s lost fortune. The money their father had set aside for his natural son. By rights, it was Clifton’s, that is if Malcolm hadn’t actually willed it to another, as Strout claimed.

He glanced down at the glass in his hand. There was something not quite right about all this. A fortune to a complete stranger? What had Malcolm been thinking? Besides, when had Malcolm ever met this woman?

One of George Ellyson’s old sayings came to mind.
Trust your hackles
.

And Clifton’s were definitely up.

First of all, Strout hadn’t been able to produce his brother’s will or the name of this unknown heir. But the wily solicitor had underestimated Clifton’s determination—honed by years abroad—as well as his connections. Clifton had simply followed the money to the bank where the account was held, and then pulled strings to determine the name on the account.

Lady Standon.

But when he’d gone to see her this afternoon, she’d denied ever knowing Malcolm. So he was back to the beginning of the puzzle.

What he needed was to get his hands on that will. For if Clifton could lay claim to those accounts, they would stave off the worst of his estate’s creditors, put the fields back to the plow and get his lands producing again.

Without having to leap into a marriage of necessity.

“Come now, my boy,” his uncle was saying, “Lady Annella is a lovely creature and an heiress, to boot. For the life of me, you’d think she had spots and was missing half her teeth. So be done with it, and propose. You’ll have new roofs a plenty by the time you get home from your honeymoon.”

Clifton had chosen that moment to take another desperate swig from his drink, and he now found himself sputtering it all over. “My wh-a-a-t?”

“Honeymoon! Egads, man, whatever is wrong with you? That gel is stunning. I’m starting to wonder if perhaps you got knocked in the head while you were mucking about the Continent if you can’t see a woman like Lady Annella and not want to bed her.”

“Uncle, I concede that the girl is very lovely, but I would like a little more time to get to know her.”

Not that it had taken long to fall in love with Lucy. What had it been? A fortnight? A sennight? But a few days in her company and he’d been caught by something he couldn’t explain.

That was what he wanted still. Something he couldn’t explain.

Across the table his uncle laughed. “What’s to get to know? That’s what marriage is for. Dance with her a few more times. Make an afternoon call. Better yet, Agnes says that Lady Asterby and Lady Annella are going shopping tomorrow afternoon. I shall arrange for us to meet them, and you can invite the chit for ices or whatever it is young girls fancy these days. Then get down on bended knee and beg the chit to take you before some other lucky devil gets his hands on her fortune.” His uncle waved for one of the servants to bring another bottle.

Make that two,
Clifton wanted to tell the fellow, but he suspected he was falling into deep waters and needed to keep his wits about him or he’d wake up married to this paragon.

Or worse, combing the streets of Mayfair looking for Lucy.

His body tightened, as it always did when he thought of her. Remembered her. Her lush curves, her passionate nature.

What had she called the lady with her? Clump? Clack? No, it was Clapp. But who was this Clapp? Her mother-in-law, perhaps?

Perhaps Lady Standon could direct him to Lucy, since it appeared they knew each other. Then again, he mused, remembering Lady Standon’s dark scowl and ringing scold, perhaps that wasn’t the most prudent course.

“Oh, you’re as cautious as your father was,” Penwortham declared, waxing along without any notice of his audience’s disinterest. “It’s that Grey blood of yours.” Again, his uncle, mindful only of his own grand plans, continued blithely on, “Agnes said I shouldn’t press you, but demmit, boy, the Season is almost upon us and I would hate for some young buck to come along and steal Lady Annella away from you.”

Clifton glanced about the room hoping to find one who would do just that.

“Besides, you can’t go much longer without some proper blunt. And Asterby has plenty of it … maintains a membership here and at Brooks, and a penchant for going to Tattersall’s,” his uncle was saying, selling his plan with all the determination of a fishwife. “Horse-mad Asterby is, always has been, but the man’s got good bloodlines.”

“His horses or daughter?” Clifton couldn’t help asking.

The joke went right over his uncle’s head. “Why both, my boy. Both!”

A round of cheers and rich masculine laughter resounded through the room as yet another bet was laid down in the infamous book.

Thankfully, it diverted his uncle’s attention. “Wonder what the devil is going on? Must be some rich action to be making such furor.” Penwortham leaned back in his chair and waved over a passing young cub. “You there, Harmond, isn’t it?”

“Oh, good evening, my lord,” the young man said, bowing low. “How may I be of ser vice?”

“Whatever has everyone in such a state? Has that rapscallion Demple gone and chased after another married woman? How he manages to get himself in and out of so many bedrooms without being shot in his—”

“No, no,” Harmond supplied, stopping the marquess’s speculations. “All that ruckus is over some trio of dowagers.”

“Dowagers?” Clifton said, glancing yet again at the fervor, which was now filling the room and had fellows arriving in a steady stream to add their bets. “What could three old ladies do to create such a fuss?”

“Apparently they are to be married. Or at least that is what Stewie Hodges claims, for all three have been dowered by the Duke of Hollindrake to get them off his hands.”

“Not the Standon widows?” Penwortham gasped, then shuddered, his thick jowls waggling like a hog’s before Michaelmas. “Those three harpies?”

“Standon?” Clifton said. “As in Lady Standon?”

“Why, yes,” his uncle said, then he stilled, a feat in itself. “Just a moment! You know one of them? Now, that is a surprise.”

“I sought an audience with Lady Standon this very afternoon.” Clifton shuddered at the memory.

“From that grimace, I would have to imagine you met Minerva,” his uncle said. “She’s a regular stickler. Probably sent you off with a flea in your ear.”

Clifton snapped his fingers. “Yes, yes. Rang a peal over my head when I asked her how she knew Malcolm.”

Penwortham choked and sputtered. “You asked Minerva Sterling how she knew your bastard brother?” His great jowls shook—with laughter or dismay, it was hard to tell. “My boy, you are lucky to still have your head attached. Whatever gave you the notion that she would have had anything to do with Malcolm?”

“Something my solicitor mentioned. Some old business.”

“Not with Minerva,” his uncle said. “Top-lofty, that one.”

“Perhaps it is one of the other Lady Standons,” Harmond suggested.

Now it was Clifton’s turn to pause. “You mean there is more than one Lady Standon?”

The young man nodded to Clifton. “Yes, of course. Three of them, actually. Hollindrake finally grew tired of their bickering and has ordered them all to live in a house on Brook Street until they can find husbands. Or rather the duchess has done the dirty deed, at least that is what Stewie claims.” He nodded toward the crowd. “They are betting on who is in dire enough straits to marry one. I’m off to order up flowers and get ahead of the line, so to say. Pockets to let and all,” the man said, bowing and making his hasty departure.

Clifton closed his eyes and took a deep breath. So if it wasn’t Minerva, then which Lady Standon had Malcolm known? Known well enough to leave his estate in her hands?

But before he could investigate further, the scrape of his uncle’s chair drew his attention.

“Now don’t say a word to your aunt,” Lord Penwortham admonished, for he’d gotten to his feet and was tugging his waistcoat down over his belly. “I won’t put down a single monkey, but I have got to see what that nincompoop Hodges thinks he knows about this business.”

“Yes, worth inspecting,” Clifton urged, knowing his uncle’s penchant for wagers.

“Oh, don’t think you’ll cast me off so easily. We’ve got this business of your marriage to finish,” Penwortham said, raising a toast.

“Marriage?” said a familiar voice.

Clifton glanced over to see his old friend Lord John Tremont coming to a halt. “Jack!” he called out, rising to his feet and taking the man’s outstretched hand with warm enthusiasm.

It had been years since they’d seen each other.

“You’re to be married?” Jack asked, taking the seat Clifton waved toward. “Who is the lucky chit?”

“Lady Annella Corby. Asterby’s only child,” his uncle interjected before Clifton could correct the matter. “Fine girl, good match. Tell him, Tremont! Tell him how marriage agrees with a man. You’ve turned out extraordinarily well since you married Lady John. Unusual lady, but a delight, I must say. A delight.” The man looked longingly over his shoulder as another cheer rose from the crowd.

“Careful there, Penwortham,” Jack offered. “Stewie’s a bit of a sharpster.”

This made the marquess laugh and the man continued to watch the circus across the room.

Clifton thought he was about to escape his uncle’s marriage machinations completely, the man having been diverted by the betting, but such was not his luck.

The large man turned and wagged a fat finger at his nephew. “Don’t forget, Clifton. Tomorrow. I expect you to be at the corner near Bond Street at precisely three. Take another look at the lady, and then I defy you to tell me how she isn’t the perfect bride.” He winked, then toddled off toward the action, calling out to the man in the orange jacket, bright red waistcoat and puce trousers, “How terribly rude of you, Stewie, my good man, not to invite me over.”

There was an echo of laughter and much made of the marquess’s arrival, and Clifton knew that was because his uncle was considered an easy mark.

“So what is this about a marriage?” Jack asked, helping himself to a drink from the bottle on the table.

“It isn’t quite settled yet,” Clifton said.

Jack eyed him carefully. “Do you love this chit?”

Clifton shook his head. “Love her? Good God, man, I barely know her.”

Jack leaned forward. “Then take it from a man who slipped out of more near betrothal snares than one dares count: get out of Town now.”

There was a soft scratch on the door, and Lucy sat straight up in bed.

“Lucy?” came a whispered plea from the hall. “Are you there?”

She got up immediately, tossing her wrapper over her shoulders and tying it tight as she went to the door. When she opened it, Mickey came through like a shot, throwing himself into her arms.

“There is more arguing,” he whispered, burying his face into her belly and his arms winding around her in a tight circle. “Downstairs. It sounds like a regular rough and tumble.”

Lucy sighed at his use of cant, but now that he’d roused her, she heard the raised voices as well.

Gracious heavens, were Minerva and Elinor back at it yet again? For after the duchess had left, the two had launched into a lengthy catfight of who-was-to-blame.

Mostly, they’d leveled their charges at Lucy.

“This is all your fault!” Elinor had huffed. “I’ll not be tarred with your sins when I know you impersonated me in Brighton!”

“Dash it all, bother Brighton,” Lucy had shot back. “That was nothing but a horrible misunderstanding, not that I expect you to stand and listen to reason!”

How was it Lucy’s fault that the innkeeper had thought her to be Elinor? He had just assumed that since she was Lady Standon, she was Elinor. It happened all the time.

As for the damage to the inn … well, Lucy hadn’t known that the bills had been directed to the Duke of Hollindrake as Elinor’s expenses and come out of her quarterly allowance, not Lucy’s.

Well, not entirely my doing
, she thought with a tinge of guilt, having not quite forgiven Elinor for insisting that Lucy and her entourage move out of the duke’s summer house in Kent to make way for some spontaneous house party of hers.

Oh, they’d dredged up all sorts of accusations and incidents until Clapp had wandered absently into the fray and innocently asked which rooms they were to take, which had set off another round of arguments as to who was to have which chambers, such as they were.

Eventually they’d all retreated to their claimed corners of the house to lick their wounds and, Lucy had to imagine, determine a strategy for extracting themselves from this debacle.

Lucy had spent a better part of the evening trying to come up with some plan on how to escape London.

Escape
him
.

Not that she thought he wanted her. Or even cared a whit for her.

No, it was what he’d said.
“I was looking for Lady Standon …”
Unwittingly, he’d come to call on her.

And she knew enough of him to realize it was only a matter of time before he’d discover the truth and return.

For her. The Lady Standon he
was
seeking.

Oh, bother!
Whatever does he want with me?
she mused as she did her best to piece together the crumbs of clues he’d offered.

“Some old business” … “Must be all a mistake anyway” … “I can’t see Malcolm having any association with that harridan”…

No, this didn’t bode well in the least. She hugged Mickey closer, her lips pressed together.

Up the stairwell, the voices echoed, growing louder. “I’m going to knock their heads together,” she muttered. Then she said to Mickey, “Come along, you need to get your sleep.”

We all do
, she mused as she got the boy tucked back into his own bed.

Then she marched downstairs, forgetting every Mayfair manner her mother-in-law, Lady Charles, had ever tried to instill upon her.

Pushing up her sleeves, she set her jaw. If they were going to act like Seven Dials slatterns, then she was going to treat them as such.

But halfway down the stairs, she spied Minerva standing in the shadows. When she turned and looked at Lucy, Lucy could see that Minerva’s face was ashen with shock.

And so it would be, considering the ugly snippets of accusations coming out from behind the closed doors to the receiving room.

“—why, the gossip is all over Town as to your situation. Mine as well, not that a selfish creature like you would care.” This was punctuated by the
thump
of a boot heel.

“
Who?
” Lucy mouthed to Minerva.

“Elinor’s stepfather. Lord Lewis,” Minerva whispered. She cringed as the man began to rant again.

“—a wretched disgrace, that is what you are. You’ve made a fool of me again.” There was more stomping as the man paced about the room.

“—I’ll not let you marry without my cut. I’ll not be left without what I am due, since you made a mess of the last one. You couldn’t even manage to get an heir. An heir, Elinor, then you wouldn’t be in these straits. As worthless as your mother was to me—”

This was punctuated by a loud, hard slap.

Lucy straightened. “Did he just strike her?” For while her father had always been a man who had not minced words, he had never hit his daughters—or any other woman, for that matter.

Minerva nodded. “I feared it would come to this.” She shook her head. “There is little we can do.”

“Little you can do, perhaps,” Lucy declared, “but I am not going to stand for this.”

“You cannot interfere,” Minerva said, catching her by the arm. “You’ll mortify Elinor.”

Lucy shook her off. “I won’t let that man beat her. This is
my
house too.”

She crossed the foyer and threw open the doors.

Inside, Elinor was slumped to the floor and her stepfather stood over her, about to land another blow. A pinch-nosed lady sat on the couch, watching the proceedings with a cruel gleam in her eyes.

“Hit her again, and it will be the last breath you draw,” Lucy told Lord Lewis.

Brandy fumes filled the room, and from Lord Lewis’s bleary eyes and ruddy cheeks, Lucy knew him for exactly what he was. A drunken bully.

The man paused; in fact, everyone in the room stilled. He looked up at Lucy and sneered. “Who the hell are you?”

“Lucy, please leave,” Elinor begged. “Just leave.”

At this, Lord Lewis’s gaze narrowed. “Lucy? You’re Lucy Ellyson? You dare to tell me what to do? Get out of here, you worthless slut. Go back to the Dials or whatever hole it was your father crawled out of. This is none of your affair.” Then he eyed her from head to toe. “Or stay if you want. That is, if you put out like your fancy whore of a mother does.”

Apparently Lord Lewis had never heard the tale of Monday Moggs.

Be a lady
, she could hear Lady Charles plead.
Don’t let your temper get out of hand.

“Please leave,” Elinor whispered again.

But it was a different sort of advice that stuck in Lucy’s resolve. A bit of wisdom from the erudite pockets of Rusty and Sammy.

Always carry a bess with you, lass. It can be used to break more than the hinges off a door.

She crossed the space and grabbed one of the empty candlesticks from the mantel. It wasn’t as versatile as a bess, but it would do.

“Get out!” she ordered, waving the heavy silver piece at him. “Get out of our house, and don’t you ever dare to darken these doors again or you shall see how much of the Dials still flows in my veins.” She waved the candlestick at Lord Lewis and the glowering woman, even as she caught Elinor by the arm and tugged her up, then shoved her toward Minerva.

The lady on the settee rose up. “Oh, move away, Fenton. Good God! She’s mad!”

“I’m beyond mad,” Lucy told them. “If you ever dare raise a hand to Elinor again—”

“I’ll raise my hand to any bitch I want. Including you,” Lord Lewis said, lurching forward, but only for one teetering step. Then he froze, his eyes bugging out.

Lucy glanced briefly over her shoulder, relieved to find the formidable sight of Thomas-William in the doorway, pistol in hand and pointed at the man.

The lady screeched again, but she was silenced by a sharp retort from Lord Lewis. The pair of them edged out of the room and then out the door, all under the watchful, unforgiving gaze of Thomas-William.

But before Lucy could push the door closed, Lord Lewis shook his fist at Elinor. “Don’t think this is over, you worthless bitch. I’ll be back. I want your sister. You can’t keep her forever. The law is on my side.”

Lucy had heard enough. She slammed the door shut, then latched it quickly. With her back against it, her fingers still clenched to the latch, she looked up at Thomas-William. “Thank you.”

He huffed and said nothing, shaking his head and turning back into the shadows of the house, as if such occurrences happened so often that this one was hardly worth mentioning.

Elinor trembled in Minerva’s arms, and they both gaped at Lucy as if they were seeing her for the first time.

As if they had never witnessed such a horror. She braced herself for the lecture on being ladylike. Of not butting into private business. Of restraint.

So it was of some shock when Minerva said, “Well done, Lucy. Oh, very well done.”

If that wasn’t enough to bowl Lucy over, Elinor swept across the foyer and took Lucy into her shaky grasp, drawing her into a tight embrace. “Dear heavens, can you ever forgive me?”

“Or I?” Minerva said, crossing the room and putting her tentative arms around the two of them.

Minerva, hugging?

“Whatever are we to do?” Elinor whispered after a few moments. “There is no one to help us.”

“No, Elinor. We have each other,” Minerva said, stepping back from the other two, as if suddenly remembering her place. Well, nearly. “I think claret and a toast is in order. Isn’t that right, Lucy?” she demurred.

Clifton and his old friend Jack Tremont had retreated to a quiet room in White’s in order to get caught up without interruption, or, as Clifton said, “Avoid my uncle before he takes it in his head that I should propose this evening.”

Jack laughed. “Running from the French?
Tsk. Tsk.
I have heard better things of you. But in this case, running to ground may be in order.”

“Ah, you know my uncle well,” Clifton said in all earnestness.

They both laughed.

“So you don’t love this chit, but you are going to let your uncle bully you into marrying her?” Jack shook his head and poured a measure of brandy into the two glasses a servant had brought over. “Sounds as high-handed as Parkerton. He used to try every Season to bully me into the parson’s trap with some gel or another.” Jack shuddered at the memory. “So why marry at all? If you don’t like the chit, tell your uncle to bugger off.”

Clifton shrugged. “Can’t. I need the blunt.”

“Hmmm,” Jack mused. As the second son, he could understand that problem—for years he’d been perpetually in arrears, his brother, the Duke of Parkerton, holding the purse strings. Luckily for Jack, he’d married Miranda Mabberly, a cit’s daughter with a penchant for business. She’d turned around his enterprises, and they now lived quite comfortably.

Yet Jack had the added benefit of being madly in love with his wife, having left his old rakish ways behind and losing his old epithet of “Mad Jack.”

Well, nearly. For he’d been a rake for far too long not to recognize the signs.

“There’s someone else,” Jack said, his eyes narrowed shrewdly.

“Don’t be foolish. There isn’t anyone else,” Clifton lied.

Jack arched a brow at him and studied him intently.

Shifting under his friend’s scrutiny, Clifton tried to lie again. “Leave off. There is no one else. When would I have had time in the last seven years to have formed some sort of attachment?”

Jack appeared appeased, for he settled back in his seat. “I suppose not. Why, for a time the only woman I ever saw at Thistleton Park was the butcher’s wife.”

Clifton laughed. “Was she comely?”

“Hardly. But after a few months, she would become oddly attractive.”

They both laughed.

“So what does bring you to Town?” Jack asked. “For I doubt you would have come just at your uncle’s behest.”

“No, it is some odd business of Malcolm’s I’m looking into.”

Jack blanched, for he had been with Malcolm the night he’d been shot. He’d tried valiantly to save Malcolm’s life, but there had been naught to do to save Clifton’s brother.

Yet Jack carried the guilt of it still.

Clifton caught up the bottle and refilled Jack’s glass. “We all knew the risks. That night was no one’s fault, just a mistake,” he said quietly.

It had taken him some time to reach that understanding, but how could he not when he’d seen too many men die over the years? He’d come to realize the fickle hand that could be dealt when it came to who survived and who died.

But Clifton could still see the guilt on Jack’s face and considered another notion. “I was going through my father’s papers recently and discovered that he had set up a trust account for Malcolm. Monies separate from the estate.”

“Good of your father,” Jack noted.

They both knew most men didn’t give much consideration, let alone blunt, to their second or third sons, never mind their natural sons.

“Yes, well, it is a small fortune,” Clifton said. “Enough to get me out of the bind that I am in. I’ve tracked the money to an account, but it is still held in trust—for Malcolm’s heirs.”

“Which is you,” Jack said, raising his glass in toast to his friend’s good fortune.

“You would think, but it has been left to the discretion of Lady Standon. I cannot touch it without her say-so.”

“Lady Standon?” Jack muttered. “But why ever would Malcolm leave his money to Lucy?”

A cold chill ran down Clifton’s spine. “What do you mean, ‘Lucy’?”

“You must have met her. George Ellyson’s daughter, Lucy. She’s Lady Standon now.”

“Lucy Ellyson?”

“Uh-huh,” Jack nodded.

“Lucy Ellyson, George Ellyson’s daughter, is Lady Standon?”

“Yes, the same. So you do remember her?”

Remember her?
If only Jack knew
. Icy shock settled over Clifton. “Oh, yes, I remember her.”

“She married Hollindrake’s heir, Archie Sterling. Of course he wasn’t the heir then, just a clerk working for some solicitor.”

A bit of stray dialogue from long ago flitted through Clifton’s memories.

“Naught but Archie, the clerk at Mr. Strout’s office … he’s taken a fancy to Lucy …”

“She married him?” he said more to himself than to Jack.