Excitement churned with frustration. If only she could share her finds with someone. Sarah had no interest in antiquity. Even approaching the vicar was out of the question. While he cared little about the stone foundations of the pagan temple, he was as susceptible to the lust for treasure as any other man.
Sighing, she sketched the object, then completed her notes on its condition – not that anyone would see them. Finding this piece underscored the gulf separating her from the antiquarian community. No one would read her careful records or consider her theories.
Lord Mitchell’s letter taunted her from its pigeonhole in her desk. She had not yet replied. How could she explain turning down an offer that any normal antiquarian would grab?
Freak!
Her father’s voice echoed through her ears.
Stifling it, she shook off the blue-devils. Her work might not be accepted in her lifetime, but eventually someone knowledgeable would visit the ruins. They would find a complete, professional account of her excavation.
She unlocked the trunk where she stored valuable and unusual artifacts. Keeping them out of sight was another precaution. The staff would never steal anything, but she was less certain of their tongues. Remaining silent about odd bits of stone and broken tile was easy. Secrecy would be much harder if they knew she’d found anything exciting.
Depositing the unidentified bronze, she turned her attention to the letter from her father that had arrived that morning. She was still groping for a way to prove he’d cheated. It was her only hope for avoiding a Season.
She could no longer postpone reading his demands. Unfolding it, she frowned. His scrawl was nearly illegible at the best of times, but this was the worst she’d ever seen. He must have been drunk.
Phrases stood out from more muddled scratchings. Kestler’s idea … easiest way to find a husband … sacred oath … only using your money to settle your future…
If she interpreted his excuse-laden maunderings correctly, his friend Kestler had conceived the idea of winning her dowry from Lord Linden – he didn’t admit to cheating, though. To improve his chances of success, her father had sworn an oath on his immortal soul that he would put all the proceeds in trust. Yet he had retained enough to pay for her Season – hardly a surprise; the way he had set up the trust precluded spending even a shilling of it before marriage. But he had lost that sum in a gaming hell barely an hour after reaching London. While staggering back to his rooms, he’d fallen, breaking his leg. He would be confined to bed for several weeks and might limp for years.
I accept this inconvenience as Divine retribution for reneging on my sworn word, he continued on a second sheet – his excuses had crossed and recrossed the first – and am most grateful that He did not exact a harsher penalty. I vow to repay every shilling, with interest, the moment I rise from this bed, he added piously.
She laughed. The man belonged in Bedlam. But at least this would keep him out of trouble for a few weeks. His latest vow meant nothing. She had long ago accepted that gamesters were as helpless as drunkards when faced with temptation. Word of a game drove every other thought from his mind – which was why setting up the trust was so astounding.
Perhaps Armageddon was at hand.
Murch rapped on the workroom door.
“Is dinner ready?” she asked. She often lost track of time.
“Two hours yet, Miss Alex. But a carriage met with an accident near the gates, laming one of the horses. No one was hurt, but the passengers request beds for the night.”
“Passengers?”
“Two gentlemen.”
“Do they have names?” Murch had never been so closemouthed.
He extended a small tray. Two cards lay in its center, corners turned up to indicate a personal call.
“The Honorable Tony Linden,” she read from the uppermost, stifling an oath. “Who is Mr. Torwell?” she asked, holding out the second.
“Mr. Linden’s cousin. He serves as vicar to the village near Linden Park.”
“Ah.” She met Murch’s eyes. Both knew there had been no accident. Cursing her father for putting her in this position, she sighed. “Put them in the west wing. I will see them in the drawing room before dinner. Is Sarah back?” One of the tenants was ill.
“An hour ago.”
“I will warn her.”
Once Murch left, she stared at the cards, pacing her workroom as she pondered this new complication. She should have expected Linden’s heir to track her down. How else could he recover his inheritance? She ought to bar the door, but she couldn’t.
“The Honorable Tony Linden,” she repeated, staring at a London address not far from her father’s. Everyone knew that the very dishonorable Tony Linden cared little about rules, taking what he wanted, without regret.
Was this her father’s real goal? If Linden dragged her off to the altar, Sir Winton would be spared participation in the Season – and he could keep the cost of one for himself. Did he not care that she would be tied to a monster?
She snorted. Of course he didn’t care. Ridding himself of an unwanted daughter was his only goal.
Banishing images of her father, she considered Linden. Unsavory stories had abounded for years, even in this remote valley. He was a rakehell who had ruined more than one innocent, though his legendary charm still made him welcome in all but the strictest drawing rooms.
After so many years of dealing with her father’s debauched friends, his rakish adventures did not bother her, but his reputation as a drunken gamester did. The only reason he was not in debtor’s prison was the generous allowance he received from his wealthy father.
Forty thousand pounds and a lucrative estate.
The allowance was now gone. Not only his inheritance, but his very livelihood was locked into a trust that could be recovered only by wedding her.
So he had come to seduce her. And he had gone about it quite cleverly. The staged accident. The vicar in attendance. Did he have a special license tucked away in his luggage?
Her feet picked up speed.
Damn the man! And damn her father for putting her in this position. Even if Linden gave up and left her alone, others would be close behind. Sir Winton would already be spreading the word that she was an heiress. Why would a desperate man wait until she arrived in London, where he must vie with others for her attention?
Linden was beyond desperate. He would also be furious that he must abandon more interesting diversions to recover what should never have been lost. To conclude this distasteful business as quickly as possible, he might break into her room, his vicar cousin in tow, and wed her that very night.
She shivered, but guilt was stronger than fear. She knew, deep in her bones, that her father had cheated. Even his shattered leg could not atone for so despicable an act. He had deliberately destroyed an entire family for his own convenience. Reparation was possible only by wedding Linden’s son.
So she must consider his offer.
Yet his reputation was terrifying. Accepting marriage was bad enough with any man. Could she condone it with one she could never respect? The answer might well be no.
She pondered her dilemma as she headed upstairs, searching for a way out.
Perhaps she was being too harsh on her father. Her only evidence that he’d cheated was her own instinct and Murch’s hints. What if Tony Linden had learned his vices at his father’s knee? If the viscount was also a gamester, she owed him nothing.
Yet she had even less evidence for that scenario, she admitted wearily. Could a confirmed gamester keep his family fortune intact for decades? Her father couldn’t. And what about Linden’s wife, mother, daughters, younger sons? Were other family members being hurt through no fault of their own? Gamesters cared nothing for others, but that did not mean their families were culpable.
In the absence of facts, her own beliefs were all that mattered. It was unconscionable to strip a man of everything he owned, so she must do whatever she could to rectify this crime. But until she determined whether marriage was possible – his reputation made her shiver every time she thought of it – she must protect herself from a compromising attack.
There was only one solution, she decided, rapping on the door to Sarah’s bedchamber. She hated deceit, but this situation was too dangerous.
“Tony Linden is here,” she announced when Sarah answered.
“
The
Tony Linden?”
She nodded.
“Dear Lord! Why did you let him in? He is in league with the devil. Whenever parishioners strayed from righteousness, Papa would remind them that they risked the same damnation as Linden.”
Alex bit back a sarcastic retort, for her uncle had been far from saintly. “I am well aware of his reputation, but I could hardly turn him away after Father stripped his family of every penny.” She explained her fears.
“Do you honestly believe you can live with so debauched a man?” Her needlework fell unnoticed to the floor.
“I don’t know. That’s why you must help me. I cannot risk a compromise, so you must pretend to be me. Even a hardened libertine would balk at attacking so obvious an innocent.”
It was the closest she could come to mentioning Sarah’s clubfoot. A man accustomed to escorting beautiful women would be even less tolerant of imperfection than her father, whose pointed disgust forced Sarah to hide whenever his friends visited. Those friends were just as free with insults. As were the neighbors, who rarely called and never included Sarah on invitations. Linden would hesitate to attach a cripple until he was sure he could live with the consequences.
“You must be mad,” countered Sarah, her eyes wide with shock. “Deceit never works. And how will you explain employing it if you do decide to accept him?”
“He will not care. All he wants is his inheritance.” Her conscience cringed at the choice she faced, but it had to be done.
“What about the staff?”
“Murch will see that they behave.”
“And what about callers? I grant that we receive few, but Mrs. Nobles has not been here in more than a fortnight. And news that we have two gentlemen in residence is bound to excite interest.”
“Mrs. Nobles was called away to her sister’s sickbed last week.”
“I had forgotten,” Sarah admitted.
“And Murch will keep news of this from spreading. The masquerade cannot last more than a day or two. Linden’s excuse for seeking shelter will stretch no longer, and I will know by then if I can accept him.”
“You should decide tonight. With your luck, one of Uncle’s friends will appear at dawn. You know they never warn us that they are coming.”
Her irritation grew at each new objection. “Those who visit London in autumn are already there. The others are unlikely to travel again until spring.”
“You cannot have thought this through,” Sarah protested. “No matter what his motives, a man of Linden’s reputation will be slow to forgive trickery.”
“I have no choice!” Alex barely controlled her temper. “If I followed my heart, I would refuse him admittance. You know I have no interest in marriage. Placing myself under the thumb of a husband would be far worse than having to deal with Father. But Linden would not accept so summary a dismissal, and I cannot ignore the probability that Father cheated. I must consider this offer, but I must also protect myself from coercion. A man of his reputation would think nothing of forcing himself on an antidote, but I believe he retains enough decency to respect you.”
They argued for half an hour, but in the end Sarah agreed. The only change she suggested was with names. To avoid confusion, Alex would become Miss Merideth, companion to the crippled Miss Vale.
Sarah had known quite well why Alex considered her safe from Linden’s advances, for her own father had made it clear from birth that well-born ladies and gentlemen would never tolerate her. She decided to exaggerate the infirmity, even pulling out her hated crutch.
Alex returned to her room to look over her wardrobe, then realized that anything would do. None of her gowns were stylish, and all showed signs of wear. So the only change she would make was with her hair. Instead of bundling it haphazardly atop her head, she would pull it into a knot on her neck. A companion could not afford new clothing, but she would at least make the effort to be neat – unlike Miss Alex Vale, who had long ago abandoned any attempt to make a good impression on the world.
The admission raised nervous trepidation for the first time. Her usual attitude around men was belligerence. Could she behave like a normal lady tonight? And a subservient one, at that…
* * * *
Tony tied his cravat into an undistinguished knot, then donned Jon’s worn evening jacket. Already the imposture was causing problems. Though Torwell’s work clothes would suit the role he was playing, his evening wear was clearly a product of Weston’s genius. So he had traded with Jon. The fit wasn’t perfect for either of them, but a country recluse would hardly notice.
And it was too late to change tactics.
He cursed. If he had known that Sir Winton was in London, he would have introduced Jon as the vicar and Torwell as an antiquarian, removing his reputation from consideration. But he’d found out too late. Asking about Vale House in the village would have put his supposed accident to the lie. And he’d already produced his own two calling cards before requesting an audience with Sir Winton. Changing stories now would turn Miss Vale against him. The play was in progress. He could only pray that she was tolerable.
Deformed…
The description had plagued him for days. It must be truly serious for her own father to describe her so. Even confirmed gamesters usually guarded their families.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said aloud, trying to convince himself. He must protect his mother.
He opened the connecting door to Jon’s room – the two had once formed a suite – then choked. “Good Lord! You can’t go down looking like that!”
“What’s wrong?”
“That cravat would shame a tradesman.” Ripping off the offending cloth, he dug out a freshly starched square of linen and fashioned an impeccable Oriental, drawing Jon’s squeaking protest when he pulled the knot tight. “Why did Simms not tie this?”