Miss Carlyle's Curricle: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix) (3 page)

“Why are you here, Mr. Sinclair?” she said abruptly. This time she did not blush. Impatience rushed through her, wanting to be done with facades, for she felt suddenly sure that Mr. Sinclair was presenting just that. She had had little patience with pretense when she had been in London, and the relief she had felt in coming home was the relief of discarding the masks that society had placed upon her those torturous few months.

There was a short silence, while Mr. Sinclair continued to gaze at her. Then he straightened in his chair, and though his legs were still casually crossed, she could not feel that the word “frivolous” any longer applied to him. His hands slid to the edge of the arms of the chair and his long fingers tapped out a short rhythm, but his eyes never left her.

“I assume the will is to be read soon?” he asked.

“Yes,” Diana replied. “This afternoon, in this room—” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “In about a quarter of an hour.”

He nodded. “I am here for the reading of the will.”

“Yet, if I am not mistaken, you did not know of Lord Brisbane’s death until today.” She frowned. “Do not toy with me, Mr. Sinclair.”

He smiled widely. “I see it would be useless to do so.” He picked up a cup and drained it of tea. “But it is true. I was contacted some weeks ago by Lord Brisbane regarding his will.”

A maid entered the library to clear away the dishes, but Diana forestalled her when she reached for the tea tray and requested more hot water and tea. “More tea?” Diana asked Mr. Sinclair, managing to hide her skepticism. When he nodded, she poured the rest of the tea into his cup, then gestured the maid to take away the pot. “Are you a solicitor, then?”

“No, I am not. His lordship wished to bequeath something to me, and was insistent I come here to discuss it with him.”

“Then you
are
related to us.” She gazed at him curiously, and wondered why she had not heard of him before.

Mr. Sinclair smiled again. “I suppose I must be.”

Diana nodded. “So I thought. You have a look of the Carlyles.”

“Do I? I suppose you must have discerned it when you examined me an hour ago.”

She winced. “I . . .I was rude, I suppose.” She glanced away. “I apologize.”

“I did not mind it. Naturally, you were curious,” he replied, and his voice was gentle, giving her an excuse. She took the excuse, nodding, and felt relieved.

Diana was about to ask him more questions about his presence, but the door opened, and her mother entered, followed by her cousins, and then her uncle’s solicitor, Mr. Barrett.

She had two distant cousins, Sir James Rackbury and Mr. Lionel Southworthy, who looked so very much alike that anyone would think them brothers. But there was a space of fifteen years between them, and they were unlike in nature as a stick from a stone. Sir James Rackbury cast her a smiling glance from his dark eyes, then his humor fled as he caught sight of Mr. Sinclair. Sir James’s brows rose as he looked at Diana again—perhaps he wondered at this intrusion from a stranger. Certainly she did!

Mr. Southworthy gazed at Mr. Sinclair curiously, as if in recognition—and there, she was right to see a family resemblance for it was clear to her that the vicar did. She introduced Mr. Sinclair to them, and the vicar stared even harder, his face seeming to pale. But he was a studious man, more often than not within doors with his books, and so was naturally fair-skinned. She smiled at them, then sat down again.

Diana shifted uneasily in her chair. She had liked Sir James when she first met him—he had arrived at Brisbane House a year ago after long journeys elsewhere, and he was very much a Corinthian. She approved of this far more than Mr. Southworthy’s occasional pious censure of her fondness for sport. She supposed Mr. Southworthy could not help it; he was the vicar, after all. Perhaps a vicar must disapprove of anything that might seem a threat to a virtuous woman, since the vulnerability of women to wickedness always seemed to be the point of the various religious tracts he gave her.

Sir James, however . . . she squashed her feelings of discomfort. He was an amiable fellow, to be sure, and most ladies in the area seemed very much to find his intense vitality attractive. Further, it was silly to judge a man by the way he handled a horse. Sir James was a superb sportsman overall; it was not his fault if he could not handle horses as easily as she did. Indeed, even Vicar Southworthy was a better horseman, though Diana would never tell either man so, since her mother had said it was not at all politic to mention it to them.

Diana allowed herself a small, rueful smile. Her mother once said that Diana judged people too harshly on their competence in sport, and it was true. She had tried very hard to rein in her judgments, but her sojourn in London during the Season had only reinforced her beliefs about people’s natures: that sporting people were much less prone to present a false face to society than those addicted to fashion. But Mrs. Carlyle was right, and Diana tried her best not to be so prejudiced.

It was with a good grace, then, that she took yet another tract from Mr. Southworthy, and nodded to Sir. James. The vicar flicked another curious glance at the newcomer, but Mr. Sinclair did nothing but smile and nod as they passed him.

Mr. Barrett went to the large table that had been set earlier near the library windows. The solicitor looked uneasy, and Diana felt a little sorry for him; he was a small, neat man, perhaps uncomfortable with what must be the most emotional and upsetting part of his duties. He took out a white pocket-handkerchief, and carefully polished his spectacles before putting them on his nose again, then drew out some papers from a small leather case. Slowly he spread them out, sighed, then looked at the black-clad company before him.

“I regret I must be present at such a sad occasion,” he began, then cleared his throat. “But Lord Brisbane was meticulous and careful in all his estate matters, and of course it is my duty as his solicitor to carry out his wishes to the last detail.” He ran a hand over the papers—a nervous gesture. “Unpleasant. Most unpleasant,” he muttered. “I shall go through the smaller bequests first, and then we shall proceed to the, er, more important ones.”

It took a long time. Diana was glad that she had ordered more tea, otherwise she would have fallen asleep at the tediousness of it all. She glanced at her mother, clearly abstracted and not paying attention to Mr. Barrett’s droning voice, and then at Mr. Sinclair. She could not tell if his sleepy look was his natural expression, or if he felt indeed as drowsy as she. Sir James’s usual intensity had an overlay of boredom, while Mr. Southworthy gazed dutifully at Mr. Barrett.

The solicitor cleared his throat, catching Diana’s attention once again. “And to my niece, Miss Diana Carlyle, the best sportswoman I have had the good fortune to know, I bequeath my racing curricle, for I know she will take care of it to the best of her abilities.”

Diana’s hand shook, spilling tea from the cup she held. She put down the cup, blindly, almost upsetting it, before Mr. Sinclair gently took it from her hand and set it in the saucer. “The curricle?” she asked.

“Yes, Miss Carlyle.” The solicitor looked at her sympathetically. “It is to do with as you wish.”

She stood suddenly, the sensation of her wringing hands the only thing that kept her from total numbness. “Is it not wrecked? I had thought—since my uncle—” Her throat closed, and she could only stare at the solicitor, unable to speak, her legs shaking.

Mr. Barrett gazed at her kindly. “No, Miss Carlyle, it has only some slight damage to the body, and the wheel and axle need some repair, but it can be mended in a very short time. I understand it is an unusual vehicle—”

“Unusual? It is a scandal that such a vehicle be given to a young lady!” Mr. Southworthy cried. “A perch phaeton, at best, but a curricle?” His lips pursed together in disapproval. “Especially when the vehicle was the cause of such a tragedy.”

“What—I don’t—A scandal?” Diana’s numbness faded to bewildered pain as her gaze fell on Mr. Southworthy. The pain quickly gave rise to anger. “A scandal that my uncle has done me the honor of giving me his curricle? That the best sportsman in this county believed me to be worthy of it?”

“With all respect due to Lord Brisbane,” Sir James said, “I believe the speed at which he was going in the curricle and some unfortunate rut in the road caused his accident. An excellent whip, his lordship, but even excellence can fall before mischance.” There was an edge to his tone, as if he believed Lord Brisbane’s judgment to be faulty, or his abilities less than excellent.

Diana turned to Sir James and her hands turned into fists, and her voice rose. “Whatever you might think of Lord Brisbane or his abilities, I am honored—
greatly
honored—to have received this gift.”

“Diana!” her mother’s voice was sharp with reproof.

“I won’t—
won’t
—have them saying anything against Uncle Charles, Mama! Anything!” Diana cried passionately.

“Diana!” her mother said again, frowning.

Diana felt her hand taken gently and she turned to find Mr. Sinclair standing near her and nodding sympathetically. “You must admit, Miss Carlyle, that it is a most unusual bequest. It is not many young ladies who are judged capable of driving a curricle, and even more unusual is the thought of a young lady owning one. Obviously your uncle knew differently. However, you cannot expect such a bequest not to startle anyone. Indeed, am I mistaken in thinking you, too, were surprised?”

Diana stared at him for a moment, caught by the look of understanding and command in his eyes. A glance at her mother made her feel ashamed at her loss of control. She shook her head slowly, her face heating. “No, you are right, Mr. Sinclair. I was not expecting it. I have been overset—I was fond of my uncle.” She turned to her mother. “I am sorry, Mama. My outburst was inexcusable.” She cast an embarrassed glance at Mr. Bartlett. “Please, sir, do go on. My apologies for the interruption.”

The solicitor nodded kindly. “Understandable, Miss Carlyle. This is a grievous time, to be sure.” He looked over his spectacles at Sir James and Mr. Southworthy, both of whom seemed to be looking elsewhere.

Diana looked at Mr. Sinclair gratefully. “Thank you, sir,” she murmured.

“It was nothing, I assure you,” he replied. “It must be difficult for both yourself and your mother.”

Her mother—shame overcame Diana, for in her outburst she had not thought of her mother, only of herself. She cast an apologetic look at Mrs. Carlyle across the room, and saw her mother nod in acceptance, then saw her smile slightly as she looked from Diana to Mr. Sinclair. Diana became conscious of his hand still holding hers, and she pulled away, sitting hastily on her chair.

Mr. Bartlett cleared his throat again and adjusted the spectacles on his nose. He peered at the papers before him. “There is an additional bequest, Miss Carlyle, one I am sure shows your uncle’s concern for your welfare.” The solicitor smiled encouragingly at her. “It says, ‘I also bequeath to Miss Diana Carlyle a stipend in the amount of seventy-five pounds per annum, and a dowry of an additional twenty thousand pounds per annum upon her marriage to the next Earl of Brisbane.”

“What?!” Diana stared at Mr. Bartlett, amazement and horror hitting her at once. “But he said—I cannot—this is preposterous! How could he think—oh, no. Oh, dear heaven.” The bequest was an incredible fortune, but the conditions felt like a prison. She groaned and briefly covered her face before bringing her hands down, clenched, into her lap.

Mr. Bartlett looked more uncomfortable than ever. “I am sure he meant it for the best, Miss Carlyle. He did mention the London Season you had, and how, er, none of the gentlemen seemed to be to your taste. I suppose he wished to secure your future before he departed this world.”

She thought back to the words her uncle had spoken to her before he died, that he would provide for her. She had not thought on it until now, for she had always depended on her uncle to know what was best for her; had he not come to her and her mother’s rescue so many years ago? She had never protested his directives before—having a governess instead of going off to school, for example, or learning how to polish tack and curry a horse, even though such things were normally left for servants; she had generally found his orders sensible if not always pleasant. She had expected she would have nothing to protest now, either.

But this! She cast a quick glance at Sir James and felt a little ill when he grinned at her. She thought of the stipend she’d been bequeathed—it would be enough to keep her in clothes if she were frugal enough and stayed at Brisbane House—but the dowry amounted to a fortune. It was very clear Uncle Charles wished her to marry and be the next Countess of Brisbane. He had been like a father to her . . . and she supposed this was the best way he could think of to give her the title, since he had no children of his own. She groaned again. She would refuse to marry, that was all there was to it. Glancing at Sir James, she saw his amused expression and she clenched her hands tighter—it was better than giving her tongue free rein to say what was on her mind.

Uncle Charles had provided for her mother as well, for Mrs. Carlyle also received a stipend of seven hundred pounds per annum, and a provision should she marry again as well. Neither bequest was a fortune, except for Diana’s dowry. However, her and her mother’s combined income was perhaps enough for them to live comfortably, if modestly. Indeed, Diana thought, casting another quick glance at Sir James, she would prefer to forego the fortune, for though she was sure that her uncle had meant well, she did not think Sir James would make a satisfactory husband, despite his popularity with the ladies. Indeed, it was precisely that popularity that would keep him from being an ideal husband. Attractive or not, she had no faith in the idea that a rake could make a good one, for old habits died hard. A fortune was not worth a lifetime of misery. And though Sir James was known to be a successful gamester of extraordinary luck, she did not believe such luck typically lasted a lifetime.