Authors: Alyssa Everett
He emerged back into the corridor to discover that Mrs. Phelps
had already shown Freddie to his room. As fond as he was of his brother, Win was
grateful to have a moment to himself. Between Julia’s short attention span and
Freddie’s obsessive chatter, he’d known scarcely a moment’s peace since leaving
Bishop’s Waltham. At least now he knew all there was to know about gauging the
health of a pigeon from the look of its droppings.
His own room turned out to be every bit as inviting as his
daughter’s, its paneled walls, mahogany bedstead and silk hangings leaving him
still more sanguine about the condition of the house. He’d no sooner washed off
the dirt of travel, however, than a soft knock came at the bedroom door.
“Excuse me, sir,” Dyson said when he answered, “but Mr. Niven
wishes to see you in the parlor.”
He needed the butler’s escort to find the room. It was a large
chamber near the front of the house, furnished in what looked like Chippendale,
stylish and elegant. Baroque portraits stared down grandly from the walls. Why,
Belryth Abbey was downright luxurious.
Win shook his head at the way he kept sizing up his ancestral
home like a horse trader inspecting a nag. He’d have to break the habit before
one of the servants caught him checking the silver for hallmarks.
Two men awaited him. The first was a trim, dapper gentleman
with an unlined face and neat silver hair. Seeing Win, he came hurrying forward
with his hand outstretched. “I’m Arthur Niven. I wasn’t expecting you quite so
soon.”
Win shook his hand. “I did my best to shave time off the
journey. I’ve no taste for being on the road, especially in the winter. I had
more than enough of the unsettled life, fighting in Spain.”
Mr. Niven gestured at the larger man standing just behind him.
“This is Mr. Channing. He’s asked to be present for this interview.”
“I’m magistrate here,” Channing said, likewise shaking Win’s
hand, “as well as one of the three trustees of the estate. I contacted Mr. Niven
after the late earl’s death, and I’ve been his eyes and ears here when he’s in
York.”
Though Mr. Channing looked to be only a little older than Mr.
Niven, the two were physical opposites. Mr. Niven had a suave, fastidious air,
while Mr. Channing was dressed in the rumpled tweeds and well-worn top boots of
a country squire. He was big and broad, almost Win’s height, with rough hands
and a weathered complexion.
The lawyer waved Win toward an armchair. “Please, have a seat.
We’ve a good deal to discuss.”
Win sat. “From the look on your face, it can’t be good
news.”
“Unfortunately, you have the right of it.”
“I’ll stand,” Channing said as Mr. Niven chose one of the two
chairs facing Win. “I’ve a bad back, and sitting does it no favors.”
Mr. Niven met Win’s eyes and sighed. “I’m afraid there’s no
welcome way to say this. When I wrote to you, I was convinced you were the
rightful heir to the late Lord Radbourne’s title and dignities. You and he share
an ancestor in the fourth earl, and I could find no closer claimant in the male
line.”
Win tensed. “I sense a ‘but’ coming on.”
The lawyer gave a sharp nod. “Indeed. You were contacted too
precipitously. At the time, I believed that the late Lord Radbourne died with no
legitimate issue of his own, with no
hope
of
legitimate issue. But it appears his widow is increasing.”
The letter Win had received from Mr. Niven had been full of
categorical language like
the recent decease of his
brother
and
died childless.
Nowhere had
they mentioned that the late earl even had a widow. “You’ll forgive my
frankness, Mr. Niven, but it’s more than 250 miles here from Bishop’s Waltham,
and I’ve just traveled the distance in a closed carriage with a small child and
a restive nineteen-year-old. I’m not the kind of man who uproots himself at the
drop of a hat. You might have determined whether there was a baby on the way
before you informed me I was the heir.”
Mr. Niven’s lips pursed slightly. “Yes. Yes, you’re absolutely
right. I apologize for that. I should have waited longer before attempting to
contact you. But I’d been assured that Lady Radbourne had explicitly ruled out
the possibility of a baby.” He threw a dark look at Mr. Channing that made it
clear who his informant had been.
Mr. Channing bristled. “She told me she wasn’t increasing. Told
me flat-out that there wasn’t a chance! And it’s not as if I could question a
new widow about her...er, female symptoms. She gave me to believe she had no
doubt.”
“But there
is
a baby on the way,”
Mr. Niven said. “Or, at least, Lady Radbourne informed us five days ago that she
believes there is.”
Mr. Channing looked as if the news had left a bad taste in his
mouth. “Aye, though whose baby it may be, God only knows.”
Win blinked in surprise. “Do you mean to say there’s some doubt
about the child’s paternity?”
“More than
some.
” Mr. Channing
paced the figured carpet in restless dissatisfaction. “Even while her husband
was alive, Lady Radbourne was far too friendly with the local doctor—and him
coming and going at all hours too. Most of the neighborhood remarked on it. I
wouldn’t put it past her to get with child as soon as she learned her husband
was dead, expressly to keep her claws in the Radbourne fortune. After all, she
was a Douglass before she married.” He spoke the last sentence as if it were all
the evidence he needed.
Win shifted in his chair. “You forget, I’m not from around
here. What does being a Douglass have to say to the matter?”
Mr. Niven looked pained, but Mr. Channing’s face set in a
fierce expression. “Why, her mother had five brats by three different fathers,
and there never was a
Mister
Douglass, if you take
my meaning.”
Win doubted anyone could miss his meaning. So Lady Radbourne’s
mother had been an adventuress—and to judge by Channing’s manner, the apple
hadn’t fallen far from the tree.
“Lady Radbourne’s mother and three of her siblings have since
died,” Mr. Niven said, his tone far more diplomatic. “She’s half sister to the
other surviving girl.”
Mr. Channing nodded. “Like chalk and cheese, those two—the one
dark-haired and as bold as brass, and the other so fair and sickly.”
Win wondered which of the two sisters Lady Radbourne was, the
bold one or the sickly one. He supposed she must be the former, if she’d been
carrying on with another man behind her husband’s back.
Mr. Niven’s expression turned grave. “Unfortunately, there’s no
way to prove Lady Radbourne’s baby was conceived adulterously, and even if there
were, the law doesn’t concern itself with whether the late Lord Radbourne is the
child’s father, but only with whether he could have been. Legally, any baby born
within a reasonable gestation after his death must be considered his posthumous
child.”
“A reasonable gestation?” Win said. “How long is that?”
“It’s not precisely fixed in statute. As a rule, any birth
occurring within ten months of the father’s death is deemed legitimate.”
“Ten months...” So he might remain in limbo until October.
“Perhaps longer. When the legitimacy of a child is in dispute,
most juries are loath to stain a widow’s name and disinherit a fatherless
child.” Mr. Niven shrugged. “You do have one recourse, Mr. Vaughan.”
Mr.
Vaughan.
Win was glad now he’d chosen not to use the
title when giving his name to the butler. “What’s that?”
The lawyer leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers. “You
could obtain a
writ de ventre inspiciendo.
It would
allow you to have Lady Radbourne examined to determine whether she’s truly with
child. If she is, you could keep her confined to some fixed place and have her
examined regularly until her delivery, then have witnesses present at the
birth.”
Win’s jaw dropped. “My God. That’s really the law?”
“It’s not often executed these days, but yes, as heir
presumptive you have that right. The writ would prevent her from introducing a
supposititious child—that is, from feigning pregnancy and attempting to pass off
a foundling as the rightful heir.”
Good Lord, was Lady Radbourne really that devious? Whatever her
character, Win knew his own conscience. “No. I’m not going to subject my
cousin’s widow to an examination. I’m certainly not going to keep her confined
like a common criminal.”
Mr. Niven’s slightly hooded eyes held an approving glint. “A
wise course, if you’ll permit me to say so. Whatever the result of such an
examination, Lady Radbourne is still the dowager countess and a dependent of the
estate.”
“She’ll always land on her feet, that one,” Mr. Channing said
with a dour look.
Win heaved a sigh. He’d looked on Mr. Niven’s letter as divine
intervention. Hamble Grange wasn’t entailed, and Win’s father had mortgaged the
estate years before to pay for his sons’ education and to put a new roof on the
house. The crops had suffered in the cold summers of the past few years, and
though Win was a careful manager, he was falling behind on the mortgage
payments. He’d already had to pull Freddie out of Cambridge—not that Freddie
minded, but Win certainly did. If he didn’t find some way to satisfy the bank,
he was going to lose the Grange.
Then there was the added boon of Julia’s growing up a
nobleman’s daughter instead of the child of an obscure and cash-strapped
gentleman farmer.
Lady Julia Vaughan.
Just when Win
had begun to hope he might finally keep his word to Harriet...
He rubbed his chin. “So where does all this leave me?”
“Unfortunately, if Lady Radbourne’s baby should be a boy, his
birth divests you of the title and estate. Of course, it’s quite possible the
baby will be a girl.”
“Or Lady Radbourne could miscarry,” Mr. Channing said.
Both Win and Mr. Niven winced at his oddly optimistic tone,
though the lawyer inclined his head smoothly in agreement. “Yes, that’s also a
possibility. So you see, your odds are actually a little better than even, Mr.
Vaughan. And even if the child should be male, you’ll remain next in line until
such time as the boy fathers a son of his own.”
“But for now, I really have nothing.”
“What’s that?” Freddie’s voice came from the doorway, sharper
than his usual absent-minded tone. “What do you mean, you have nothing?”
Win glanced over his shoulder to find his brother peering
owlishly at the tableau he and the other men presented. “It looks as if I may
not be the new earl after all.” He spoke as lightly as he could manage. “Our
cousin left a widow behind, and it appears she’s in an interesting
condition.”
Freddie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re joking.”
“Unfortunately not.” Win made the necessary introductions, then
gave Freddie a brief and expurgated version of what Mr. Niven had told him.
For once, Freddie actually seemed interested in a matter that
had nothing to do with pigeons. Though he didn’t precisely stare at the
lawyer—Freddie had a bewildering tendency to look off into space when addressing
someone—his brows drew down in a disbelieving frown. “So we’ve come here on a
fool’s errand?”
“Yes and no,” Mr. Niven said. “At this point your brother can’t
prove his right to the title, so he can’t apply for a writ of summons or take a
seat in the Lords. But for the time being, he’s the legal heir. While the
trustees of the estate won’t allow him to run it into ruin, he’s entitled to the
use and occupancy of the property, at least until Lady Radbourne’s delivery. The
rest depends on the countess and her baby.”
Available now wherever Carina Press ebooks
are sold.
Copyright © 2014 by Alyssa Everett
Acknowledgments
I wish to thank historical romance author Sandra Schwab for her generous help with the German in the book, especially Leitner’s Viennese expressions. Sandra warned me that the word
torschlusspanik
was too modern for the setting, but I have a weakness for interesting words, so I decided to exercise a little poetic license, which is a prettier way of saying it’s my anachronism, so don’t blame Sandra. Authors Lisa Chaplin and Anke Fontaine also volunteered their help with translation, so I appreciate their generosity, as well.
My continued thanks to my knowledgeable and creative critique partners, Susanna Fraser, Vonnie Hughes, Rose Lerner and Charlotte Russell, and to my wonderful editor, Deborah Nemeth. I couldn’t finish a book without their help, and any errors in this story are solely my own. My parents provided the perfect sounding board when I got stuck halfway through. And, finally, I owe my amazing husband special thanks for his patience while I worked on this story. He’s the best.
Also
available
from
Alyssa
Everett
and
Carina
Press
Ruined by Rumor
Lord of Secrets
A Tryst with Trouble
An Heir of Uncertainty
About the Author
Alyssa Everett grew up in Florida, where from an early age
her favorite books typically had dukes in them. As a teen she worked in an
amusement park, doing just about every kind of odd job a person can do, from
collecting garbage to captaining an African boat cruise.
She met her future husband at Harvard University. They
currently live with their three children and a spoiled springer spaniel in
small-town Pennsylvania.
The Marriage Act
is her fifth Regency romance. If
you’d like to know more about Alyssa’s books, please follow her on Twitter,
@alyssa_everett
, like her Facebook page,
www.facebook.com/thealyssaeverett
, or
visit her website,
alyssaeverett.com
.