The Second Lady Emily (2 page)

Willard was right. She was an incompetent idiot who withdrew into a fantasy world to escape facing reality.

* * * *

The shock of the phone call was nothing compared to Cherlynn’s visit to Christie’s the next morning. A sleepless night set the stage for a surreal day. By noon, turmoil had swept away her earlier numbness and left her reeling.

She had arrived at the auction house the moment its doors opened. Mr. Carstairs was waiting. He accepted her credit card, then whisked her to Buckingham Palace, explaining his purpose as they drove. Even getting caught behind a traffic accident gave him time for only the basics.

Because her bid had not been serious, she hadn’t read the catalog description. Lot 4753 included more than just the marquessate. Broadbanks had dumped every honor he possessed. Not only was she a marchioness, she was also Countess of Thurston, Viscountess Harrisford, Viscountess Montescu, Lady Ashburn, Lady Wexford, Lady Rainfield, and Lady Cameron. All were real and included full honors. She was now a British citizen with a seat in the House of Lords.

“But—” she choked on this last piece of news.

“I know that it has never been done before,” interrupted Mr. Carstairs. “But those were the terms agreed to by Her Majesty, the Prime Minister, and Parliament.”

“But—”

“Surely you are not reneging on your bid.” Ice dripped from every word.

“Of course not, but—”

The car drew to a halt. A Coldstream Guard opened the door, his face expressionless beneath the bearskin hat, his scarlet coat blazing in the morning sun. Two others opened the palace doors.

“Curtsy, if you can,” ordered Carstairs as they followed a secretary along miles of corridors. “She knows you are from America, but try to remember protocol. Speak only in response to a question. Do not sit without an invitation. You cannot turn your back on royalty, so when she dismisses you, back out. Once she confirms your rank, you will be a British peer, but you will still be several degrees below Her Majesty.”

Cherlynn nearly laughed – from hysteria rather than humor. She wanted to assure him that she understood the hierarchy of British titles and honors, but she could not recall a single one. Her brain had gone into hibernation within minutes of reaching Christie’s and threatened to die altogether now that she was approaching the Queen. Black dots danced before her eyes as a uniformed footman opened another ornate door.

The meeting with Queen Elizabeth passed in a fog, leaving little behind in memory. It was far worse than her first encounter with Willard’s family, for terror left her as tongue-tied as the most humble of awestruck supplicants. Mortification would come later. She looked like a bag lady in a cotton T-shirt, peasant skirt, and running shoes – the first clothes her hand had touched once she had given up on sleep. A blast of wind outside Christie’s had turned her frizzy brown hair into a flyaway rat’s nest. Even her makeup was smeared.

But she curtsied and mumbled an inane reply to the Queen’s question about her visit to London. Her Majesty seemed warmer in person than on the news, actually beaming at her newest subject. Not until Cherlynn had been turned over to a secretary and escorted to an antechamber did she begin to register her surroundings. The room was little different than the office she had once shared on Capitol Hill, though its furnishings were of wood rather than steel.

“Tell me about yourself, Miss Cardington,” the secretary began, pulling papers and a pen from a drawer.

“Mrs.,” she automatically corrected, then grimaced. “I suppose I should drop the Cardington. I refuse to presume any connection to that family. Miss Edwards will do.”

“You are a widow?”

“Divorced. As of two weeks ago.”

He made a note. “Why are you visiting London?”

“Research. I am writing a book.”

“Ah. You are an author. Do you write under your own name?”

“Probably, but I need to find a publisher first.”

He frowned, tapping the pen fretfully on the desktop. “Have you another job in the meantime?”

“Not yet. My most recent was a stint at McDonald’s while the divorce was in progress. Before my marriage I worked as an aide for a Congressional committee.”

“Ahh.” He perked up. “Government service.” The pen scratched busily. “Which committee?”

“The House Committee on the Environment. I was one of the lowest aides.” And given only the shit jobs no one else had wanted. Even when she had uncovered the information that convinced Congress to narrowly defeat a bill that would have destroyed priceless wetlands, she had received none of the credit. It would have been better if she had. Willard’s father had been intensely interested in that bill, though he had remained in the shadows as a silent partner of the development company that had wanted to turn the marsh into a resort and condominium complex. If Willard had known of her involvement, they never would have wed, to the benefit of both.

“It matters not,” said the secretary, breaking into her memories. He pulled out another sheaf of forms and began filling in blanks.

“What are you doing?” She had tried to understand what was happening, but everyone she met today left her with new questions. She hadn’t dared ask anything of the Queen, and Carstairs seemed to have disappeared, but perhaps this secretary, whose name she hadn’t caught, would help.

He glanced up, sympathy softening his eyes. “Her Majesty requires just cause for bestowing a hereditary title. Even though this is a transfer of existing honors, protocol must be observed. But rewarding government service has long been done.”

“Even if the government is not Britain’s?” she had to ask.

“America is an ally. It is not entirely without precedent.”

“I don’t understand.” She sighed in frustration. “I thought title sales raised money but conferred no legal status on the buyer.”

 “That is generally the case,” he agreed, “but both Harold Villiers and Her Majesty preferred to divest him of everything – honors, privileges, and duties. Parliament concurred.”

She wanted to ask why, but his words raised a more pressing question. “Duties?”

“You must take your seat in Parliament, my lady. And you must revise your will, designating an heir until such time as you produce one – or do you already have children?”

“No,” she said weakly, blinking away tears as the full tragedy of the last year swept over her.

“How about siblings, cousins, or other relatives?”

“None,” she confirmed, again swept by loneliness.

“Unfortunate, but time will rectify that,” he murmured. For some reason, his words sounded false, though he couldn’t know that the doctors put her chances of conceiving again at practically zero. “The title is hereditary, entailed to your oldest child. Parliament modified the articles of patent to include daughters in the succession and to permit a deed of transfer to a designated heir should you fail to produce one naturally.”

He continued to outline the duties of a peer of England, but Cherlynn was no longer listening. All this talk of heirs was unsettling. Those icy fingers were again parading down her spine. It sounded like she needed a lawyer. At this rate, her ten-pound purchase was likely to eat up her entire divorce settlement.

“Who will you name as your heir?” he finally asked.

“I must think,” she said with a sigh. “I know no one here. Unless I designate Her Majesty.”

Horror flashed across his face. “That is the one thing you cannot do,” he said firmly. “The letters of patent require that you formally designate an heir, but that heir cannot be a member of the royal family.”

“How about you?”

“I must respectfully decline. Surely there is someone you can name. He or she need not be a British citizen. The patent confers full citizenship on any title holder.”

“Very well.” His voice was fading in and out. She should have eaten breakfast, but a sleepless night spent mulling unanswerable questions had destroyed her appetite. Now her empty stomach churned and low blood sugar left her lightheaded. “Will you need a copy of the will once it is complete?”

“You misunderstand, my lady. You will be signing your will before you leave this room. You may, of course, modify it in the future.” He pressed a buzzer. A sober gentleman of vast age entered. “May I present Sir Anthony Wiggins? He is a noted solicitor who will assist you in every way possible.” Before she could respond, he had slipped out.

* * * *

Five hours later, Cherlynn fled to the safety of her hotel room and shuddered. What had she gotten herself into? Sir Anthony had answered no questions and volunteered no information. He listed her assets – the principal one being her new array of titles – and demanded she name an heir. He didn’t care who, as long as she could provide enough identification to allow contact if necessary. She finally named an aide to the Committee on the Environment, and stipulated that everything but the titles go to her alma mater. The exercise was morbid in the extreme, but even that could not explain her growing uneasiness.

Fishy odors emanated from every aspect of this case. Her Majesty had seemed almost jovial, welcoming an insignificant American into the British peerage with the enthusiasm a new saint would receive at the Pearly Gates. And not just any American, but a female who had failed at everything she had attempted in twenty-six years. Why? Even at the close of the twentieth century, when high taxes had reduced most lords to genteel poverty, when ancestral homes had been turned over to the National Trust, and when political power rested solely in the House of Commons, the peerage remained aristocratic to the bone, clinging to the arrogance and protocol of past centuries and disdaining their social inferiors. Yet the Queen and a marquess had conspired to elevate a foreign nobody to those exalted ranks, apparently with the full connivance of the British government.

For God’s sake, why?

Word of her new rank had spread like wildfire. Sir Anthony had spirited her out of the palace via a rear entrance, but reporters accosted the car as it left the grounds. More waited at her hotel. Feeling like a combination rock star and celebrity criminal, she ran the gauntlet as quickly as possible, shielding her face and responding to none of their shouted questions. Upon reaching her room, she snapped several orders into the phone, then collapsed.

What now? Reporters never gave up. If anything, her evasions would encourage them to new heights. Any hope of sightseeing or research was out of the question. Even returning to the States would change nothing. Perhaps she could invert her itinerary and tour the countryside, but even that would require a bodyguard to keep reporters at bay. Granting interviews to the press was impossible. She could not explain why she had purchased the title. She had not the slightest idea what she would do next. And she had no wish to see her face blazing from millions of television screens where Willard could see how ridiculous she was.

“Damn!” Her brows snapped together. He was still influencing her behavior. If not for him, she wouldn’t be in this fix.

“Room service,” a voice murmured from the hall, accompanied by a discreet knock.

She hesitated. She had ordered dinner and several newspapers, but had not expected such speedy delivery. Leaving the chain in position, she peered outside. The white-jacketed man appeared to be genuine.

“Dinner, my lady,” he intoned when she opened the door. His deference stood in sharp contrast to the slow and sullen service she had received for the past week. Rank still commanded privilege, she decided as he bowed himself out, leaving a three-course meal and eleven newspapers on the table.

Shock riveted her eyes to the lead story.

AMERICAN BUYS CURSED TITLE

(London) A daring young American today tempted fate in a magnanimous bid to save the monarchy from extinction. Miss Cherlynn Cardington of Cambridge, Massachusetts agreed to take on the curse that for two centuries has exterminated branch after branch of the once-powerful Villiers family. Seventy-eight-year-old Harold Villiers, last survivor of the clan, expressed appreciation for the selfless act that will prevent the title from reverting to the crown when he passes on.

“Oh, my God!” Cherlynn scrabbled through her briefcase for the packet of letters she had purchased three days earlier. No wonder they had seemed familiar. She had forgotten her silly bid long before she found them, but all fifteen mentioned the Marquess of Broadbanks. Each was addressed to Lady Debenham and signed by Lady Travis. Cherlynn had recognized the recipient’s name. Lady Debenham had been an influential society hostess for much of the early nineteenth century – and a well-informed gossip.

She carefully unfolded the last one, dated March 1818, and scrutinized the faded writing on the recrossed page.

It is with Great Sadness that I must report the Death of the seventh Marquess of Broadbanks, who slipped unobserved from the cliffs near Broadbanks Hall at sunset yesterday evening, coming to Grief on the rocks below. His parting revives the old Scandals, as must be expected. To die in one’s Prime always causes Talk. And more. Each new Tragedy adds Credence to tales of the Gypsy’s Curse which have circulated these six years past. It would seem quite Potent, having already carried off Four Victims – miscarriage by the sixth marchioness only two days after she called the Curse onto the House; death by Suicide of the sixth marquess; miscarriage by the seventh marchioness two days later, despite having earlier produced a healthy boy and two girls; and now the death of the seventh marquess. Young Franklin is but four years old, an Endearing Boy already quite solemn over his new duties. Will he live to secure the Succession? One must hope that the sixth marchioness suffers Greatly in her Banishment, for she has brought Unmeasured Grief to a Noble House.

Her skin crawling, Cherlynn returned to the newspaper. It was a tabloid, which cast doubt on its wilder conjectures, but even the bare facts were chilling enough. Since 1812, no Marquess of Broadbanks had sired a child. The five marchionesses who were increasing when their husbands acceded to the title had all miscarried. No marquess had died of natural causes. None had lived more than three years after achieving the title, though many were young when it passed into their hands. In 186 years, 71 men had held the title. Harold Villiers, 76
th
Marquess of Broadbanks, was the last Villiers, his branch having split from the family tree over four hundred years earlier. Few in Britain scoffed at the Broadbanks Curse. No aristocrat claimed disbelief. Until this morning, Broadbanks’s death would have transferred the title to the crown. With the monarchy already on shaky ground, the Queen didn’t want it.