My Favorite Countess (2 page)

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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

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Chapter 1
Compton Manor, Yorkshire
July 1817
It was so much worse than she'd imagined.
Bathsheba Compton, widow of the fifth earl of Randolph, stared in horror at Mr. Oliver as he outlined her dire situation. Ruination loomed, and no matter how hard she taxed her brain she couldn't see a way to avoid it—not without a wrenching sacrifice on her part. The very thought of what
that
might entail made her stomach twist into knots.
Matthew also stared at his land agent. Not with horror, but with his usual befuddled expression. With his wrinkled brow, balding pate, and droopy eyes, the current Earl of Randolph looked like a basset hound emerging from a sound slumber.
“I say, Oliver,” he exclaimed. “You've been droning on about the accounts for the last half hour, and I can hardly make heads or tails of it. What do you mean, bankrupt? I can't be bankrupt. I'm an earl!”
Mr. Oliver cast a long-suffering glance in Bathsheba's direction and tried again.
“I regret to say, my lord,” he replied, enunciating very carefully, “that the estate is seriously encumbered with debt and, at this juncture, the small crop yield at the end of the summer will do little to alleviate the problem. Coming on the heels of last year's crop failures, the situation is little short of disastrous.”
Bathsheba closed her eyes and held still, hoping the roiling in her stomach would subside before she became physically ill. The day of reckoning had finally arrived, in spite of her desperate efforts to save her family from disgrace.
“Do you mean we're at a standstill?” demanded the earl, finally waking up to the urgency of the situation. “I thought all that retrenching we did last year was supposed to pull us out of dun territory? What was the point of all that cheeseparing if we're still in as bad a shape as we were last year?”
Mr. Oliver's mouth opened just a fraction as he stared at his employer in disbelief. Matthew glared back at him. The beleaguered land agent sighed and pulled one of the leatherbound ledgers from the pile in front of him.
Hunched over the old walnut desk in the library of Compton Manor, Bathsheba and Matthew peered at the account books Mr. Oliver had spread before them. She had grasped the miserable state of their finances instantly. After all, she had kept her father's books for several years preceding his death. Numbers were one of the few things that never lied, especially when recorded by an employee as meticulous and honest as Mr. Oliver.
The land agent flipped through the ledger until he found what he wanted, then shoved the book in front of his employer.
“My lord, you have very little income, and certainly not enough to support two households. The town house in London,” he glanced again at Bathsheba, “requires significant upkeep and maintains a full complement of servants. You will recall that you and her ladyship agreed some time ago that it was imperative to keep up appearances in town, so as not to draw attention to the considerable debt left by the previous earl.”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “Of course I remember. I'm not an idiot. But we've spent next to nothing these last three years on the improvement of the estate here in Yorkshire. Nothing's been refurbished or replaced. I can't even remember the last time I bought a book.”
Mr. Oliver didn't even blink. “My lord, you obtained several rare volumes just last month. I have the bills right here.”
Bathsheba snatched the papers from Mr. Oliver, quickly scanning them.
“Oh, Matthew,” she groaned. “How could you? You spent over five hundred pounds on books just last month.” She riffled through the bills with growing disbelief. “Did you really need another edition of
The Canterbury Tales
to add to the three you already own?”
The earl's long face drooped with guilt. “I suppose not, Sheba. But it has such magnificent illustrations.”
He lurched from his chair to retrieve the text from one of his carefully organized bookshelves. Returning, he cradled the large volume in his arms as tenderly as an infant.
“See?” He pointed out an elaborate and beautifully drawn illustration of the Wife of Bath. “The workmanship is priceless. I've been waiting years for Samuel Thompson to let go of this.” His eyes pleaded with her to understand.
Bathsheba had to swallow twice before she could answer. “Yes, dear. It's lovely.” But not as lovely as paying off some of their mountain of debt would have been.
He beamed, but his smile faded as he examined her face. He sank into his chair with a sigh.
“Is it really as bad as all that?”
She reached across the desk and took his hand in a comforting grip.
“Matthew, we were forced to retrench last year because all the crops failed after that horrible summer. We hoped the harvest this year would correct the situation but, according to Mr. Oliver's figures, we will not be so fortunate.”
Matthew still looked confused. Though the sweetest man she had ever met, he had the worst head for business in Yorkshire. Never expecting to be a lord—after all, everyone had assumed Bathsheba would give her husband an heir—Matthew hadn't trained for it, and still spent most of his time with his nose buried in antiquarian texts. He had always been more than content to leave the business of managing the Yorkshire estate and the town house in London to her.
His face suddenly brightened. “But what about our investments? You've done a bang-up job managing them these last few years. Surely Oliver exaggerates. Why, you're the smartest female I've ever met. You always take care of everything.”
Guilt burned through her veins like fire. She hadn't managed things well at all, not since the Earl of Trask abandoned her as his mistress two years ago. That had been the first disaster, and more had piled on ever since.
“I'm afraid there have been problems with our investments,” she admitted. “I was forced to fire our man of business just last week. Mr. Gates saw fit to invest the vast majority of our funds in speculative ventures, all of which came to naught. I didn't realize how risky these schemes were until it was too late. We have nothing left. Nothing but debt, and I have only myself to blame.”
Disbelief slowly replaced confusion on the earl's kind face. She couldn't look at him, so she pushed out of her chair and began pacing the threadbare carpet. More than anything she wanted to run from the library and from this house full of never-ending responsibilities and bitter memories. She wanted to run all the way to London, never to set foot in Ripon or Yorkshire again.
Mr. Oliver rose from his chair and began stacking the ledgers. When he had completed his task he turned to Bathsheba, watching her with patient sympathy. She and Mr. Oliver had worked together for years. He was one of the few men in her life she had come to respect.
“Will there be anything else, my lady?”
She stopped in front of the old chimneypiece, painted with a bucolic but sadly faded scene. She had to resist the temptation to lean against the mantel and burst into tears.
“Thank you, Mr. Oliver,” she said, dredging up a smile. “That will be all for now.”
Silence fell over the room after he left, and for a moment it seemed imbued with the peace of a warm summer day in the country. She let her gaze drift round the library, her perceptions sharpened to painful acuity by their impending disaster.
The late-afternoon sun streamed in through the mullioned windows, casting gentle beams on the old-fashioned Queen Anne chairs, the venerable but scarred desk, and the cracked leather wingchair stationed in front of the empty grate. To others it might all look old and worn, but the weariness of the room was lightened by bowls of yellow roses on side tables, and by Matthew's collection of antique globes, polished to a high gleam. The servants had to make do with very little, but they were fanatically loyal to the earl and did their best to transform the run-down estate into a home—more of a home than it had ever been during the time she had resided there with her husband, Reggie.
“Sheba, what are we going to do?”
She jerked around. Matthew hadn't moved from behind his desk, paralyzed, no doubt, by her incompetence. But a moment later he leapt to his feet and hurried over to join her.
“Don't look like that, my dear,” he said. “You'll think of something—I know you will. You always do.”
He gazed at her with perfect confidence, and her heart almost broke under the strain of his trust. Unlike most people she knew, Matthew had never lost faith in her. And he would do anything he could to help her.
She straightened her spine, disgusted by her momentary weakness. Matthew could no more help her than he could help himself. As usual, she was the one who would have to make things right. If that meant giving up her freedom, well, that was infinitely preferable to living in poverty and disgrace.
And there was Rachel to consider. Bathsheba would slit her own wrists before she let anything happen to her sister.
Pinning a confident smile on her face—marriage had taught her never to appear vulnerable—she led Matthew back to his desk.
“I do have a plan, and I must return to London on the morrow to put it into effect.”
“Capital! I knew you'd have some trick up your sleeve.” He sank into his chair, looking enormously relieved.
That made her laugh, but even to her own ears it sounded bitter.
“Hardly a trick. I see only one way out of this mess, and that's for me to find a rich husband. I'll demand—and get—a very large settlement. That way I can help you alleviate your debt, and you'll be able to rent the town house in Berkeley Square once I move out.”
Her heart contracted painfully at the thought of leaving her elegant mansion, but Matthew had let her live there on sufferance. After Reggie died, the new earl would have been well within his rights to ask the widow Randolph to vacate the premises.
Matthew stared at her as if she'd lost her wits. “No, Bathsheba. I won't hear of it. You don't want to marry again—you vowed you wouldn't after—after—that is to say . . .” His words died away as he fiddled with a lump of sealing wax.
“After Lord Trask abandoned me to marry Sophie Stanton? Go ahead, Matthew. You can say it.”
His soft brown eyes filled with sympathy, but he remained silent. She sighed and lowered herself into the wingchair, ignoring the crackle of ancient leather.
Her skin still crawled whenever she thought of those terrible weeks in Bath almost two years ago. Trying to come between Simon and Sophie—to wreck their engagement—had been a cruel and wrenching task. But she'd had little choice. Simon was one of the richest men in England, and if he had married her, all her money problems would have vanished like smoke. But after that episode she had lost her appetite for husband-hunting and had vowed to rescue the Randolph finances on her own. Instead, she had seen their investments—not very healthy in the first place—vanish under the weight of her own carelessness and a hired man's greed.
Matthew stirred, interrupting her gloomy ruminations.
“You don't have to marry just anyone,” he said. “You could marry me.”
His abrupt offer startled a laugh out of her. “My dear, please don't be ridiculous.”
“I'm serious,” he said stoutly. “I'm very fond of you. Always have been. And you're a beautiful, intelligent woman. Never thought that bastard cousin of mine deserved you. I understand your worth, Bathsheba, and I would never betray you. Only say the word and I'm yours.” He finished his unexpected proposal with a shy, earnest smile.
Bathsheba's eyes stung. Lord, she hadn't felt so much like crying since her father died.
“Matthew, you're a dear man and I'm very fond of you, but we wouldn't suit. Besides, that would hardly solve our problem.”
“But if we married we could consolidate households. Sell that bloody great barn in London and retrench here in the country.”
Anything but that.
She would throw herself into the Serpentine before she moved back to Yorkshire.
“Darling, you know I would go mad if I had to live here all year 'round. And I would make your life a misery. My mind is made up. I'll return to London right away and begin looking for a husband in earnest.”
She smiled at him, seeking to ease his anxiety. “I'm not completely without resources. I don't think I'll have too much difficulty finding someone who will suit. He simply needs to be very wealthy, and to bother me as little as possible.”
Matthew bristled. “Of course you won't have any trouble. Never meant to suggest otherwise. Just snap your fingers and every man in London will be falling all over you.”
“Yes,” she replied sarcastically. “But this time I have to persuade one of them to actually marry me.”
He shushed her and rearranged the papers on his desk, but Bathsheba couldn't fail to notice his relief that she had rejected his proposal. No wonder she had turned so cynical. Men didn't want to marry her. They only wanted to bed her. Well, at least she could acquit Matthew of that charge. He didn't even want that.

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