Anne Barbour (8 page)

“I know!” Lawrence howled in rage. “It’s the River Farm! David managed to wheedle the River Farm out of Father. Well, I won’t stand for it! That place is mine, and David can’t have it.”

“My lord!” gasped Mr. Smollett. “Please, restrain yourself.”

Regina gripped her son’s arm and, fairly dragging him in her wake, began to make her way again to the library.

“Enough, Lawrence,” she said from between tight lips. “Come along. It will all be over soon.”

The servants’ bequests were soon dispensed with, and those of the staff who had been remembered by his lordship departed the library, with much sniffling and flourishing of handkerchiefs.

Seated at the large Sheraton desk belonging to the late earl, Mr. Smollett gazed about the room from beneath a pair of spectacularly bushy brows. His rather prim mouth was curled in a slight, unaccustomed smile, and an oddly expectant expression sat on his plump features as he allowed his piercing stare to rest on each member of the family in turn.

Lady Falworth sat nearest him, in a regal attitude. Next to her, as usual, slouched Lawrence, sucking on the end of his quizzing glass. Farther back, Crawford and Cilia murmured together, their eyes wide with the unaccustomed solemnity of the occasion. David sat apart, glowering and uncomfortable. Kate watched him from the other side of the room, and Lady Falworth gazed at her black-gloved hands, occupied with her own unfathomable thoughts.

Mr. Smollett rustled the papers before him to gain the attention of those remaining in the room.

“My lady,” he began, “my lord—ladies and gentlemen. If we may get started?”

“By all means.” Lawrence yawned. “Let’s get on with it. You’ve already been prosing on for hours.”

“We have been here for only forty-five minutes, Lord, er, Standing,” said the attorney, drawing his watch from his waistcoat, “and one cannot rush these things.”

“Fudge,” said Lawrence. Then he added importantly, “But you really should address me as Lord Falworth, you know.”

Mr. Smollett opened his mouth, but immediately closed it again, and contented himself with a sour smile.

“Before we discuss the various bequests,” he said, “I must read a document signed by his lordship only a few days before he passed away. It is of, er, some significance ...” Here he glanced at Lawrence, who was boredly leafing through a copy of the
Racing Journal
he had picked up from the table beside his chair. “... So I ask that you all pay close attention.”

Mr. Smollett adjusted his spectacles and began reading.

“ ‘I, Thomas Merritt, third earl of Falworth, Viscount Standing, Baron ...’“

“Please spare us the embroidery, Mr. Smollett,” interjected Lady Falworth. “We are all familiar with my husband’s titles. Is this to be a very long document? Perhaps you could paraphrase it.”

Mr. Smollett stiffened, and his already formidable brows beetled alarmingly, but his voice was controlled as he replied.

“No, my lady, it is not a long document. If I may proceed?”

He lowered his eyes again to the paper in his hands.

“ ‘I, er, Thomas, do affirm that while in the West Indies, in the year 1790, I became acquainted with Miss Felice Wharburton, a young woman living on the island of Barbados in the West Indies. Miss Wharburton’s mother was the former Dominque Le Fevre, a native of the Indies. Her father, George Wharburton of Great Shelford, Cambridgeshire, was a clerk in the governor’s office there. I fell in love with Felice, and ...’ “

“Good God!” It was Regina who spoke, fairly quivering in her outrage. “Are we to be subjected to a chronicle of my husband’s youthful misdeeds? How dare you, Mr. Smollett!”

“I’m sorry for any discomfort you may be caused, my lady,” replied the little attorney, who did not look sorry in the slightest, “but this reading, as you will see, is necessary.”

Referring again to the paper, he continued. “ ‘I fell in love with Felice, and in the course of our relationship, she became pregnant. I wished to marry her, but feared the reaction of my family. Felice died giving birth to our son, David, on November 15, 1791, but I am happy to say that shortly before that event, I overcame my reluctance. I now affirm that on August 10, 1791, Felice Wharburton and I were married in the Church of Santa Clara, on the island of Carriacou, a dependency of Grenada, where I lived at the time on my family’s spice plantation. Our vows were repeated later in a ceremony performed by a British cleric on the same island. Felice, therefore, was my first wife, the Viscountess Standing, and, had she lived, would have become the Countess of Falworth.’“

Mr. Smollett smiled benignly, first at Regina, who had shrunk in her chair as though struck, her face a ghastly white, and then at Lawrence, who sat, quizzing glass at the ready, a puzzled expression beginning to spread over his features. The attorney’s gaze then moved to David, who had risen to face him, thunderstruck.

Mr. Smollett, too, rose, and extended his hand. “Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on the accession to your father’s title, Lord Falworth.”

Chapter Six

Mr. Smollett smiled benignly at the scene of chaos before him. Lady Falworth had now also risen from her chair, and she advanced on the attorney as though he, personally, were responsible for the crack that had just opened in her world. Her eyes glittered darkly in her white face.

“This—this is monstrous! What kind of hoax are you trying to perpetrate?”

Ignoring her completely, Mr. Smollett stood and moved toward David, who still seemed rooted to the spot.

“My lord, you are understandably, er, bewildered by this turn of events, but if you will read this ...” He handed the bemused young man a sheet of paper, covered in a thin, precise script and embossed with the seal of the Earl of Falworth. “It
is a letter your father dictated to me the morning of his death, and I believe it will explain matters more fully to you.”

Blindly, David accepted the letter from Mr. Smollett. He felt as though he stood alone on a teetering precipice, watching the universe rearrange itself around him.

He must be dreaming! He, David Merritt, a bastard all his life—now the master of Westerly? The fourth Earl of Falworth! The words, reverberating in the suddenly hollow cavern that was his stomach seemed the gibberings of a madman.

Kate could scarcely comprehend what she had just heard. David—Uncle Thomas’s legitimate son! She watched his hand close over the letter. Observing his dazed expression, she unconsciously put a hand out to him, though he was across the room from her. As if some pull emanated from her fingertips, David turned to look at her, and it seemed to Kate that beyond the shock, past the utter astonishment in his eyes, there shone a spark of something else—something she could not define.

She jerked her attention back to Mr. Smollett, who had wheeled about to deal with Regina. She clawed at his arm, almost babbling in her rage. Kate caught the words, “ridiculous” and “madness” and “fraud,” but Mr. Smollett remained calm.

“There is no fraud, my lady, and Lord Falworth was in complete possession of his faculties. He provided me with certificates documenting his marriage to the lady in question, as well as Mr. Mer—that is, the fourth Earl’s birth certificate. Everything is quite in order, madam, and there is nothing more to be said.”

As it turned out, there was a great deal more to be said, nearly all of it on the part of Lady Falworth and Lawrence. It was a full hour before Regina could be convinced of the legality of David’s claim to the title, and even then, she fumed impotently, threatening to have the will overturned and to insure Mr. Smollett’s disbarment from the legal fraternity.

Lawrence merely squeaked, “It can’t be!” and “It’s not fair!” over and over in a number of variations until Lady Frederica grasped Kate’s arm and said in a loud whisper, “If I have to listen to this uproar for another second, I shall go round the bend. Come, we’ll have a cup of tea in my room.”

Kate cast one last glance at David, who had gone to stand at the window, apart from the storm, where he gazed unseeingly at the unkempt landscape spread before him. With a sigh, she allowed the older woman to lead her from the room, and in a few minutes they were seated before the Adam and Eve tapestry, steaming cups in hand.

“I cannot comprehend this, Aunt Fred,” gasped Kate, as breathless as though she had been running. She loosened the high, restraining collar on her mourning gown.

“It’s a stunner,” agreed her aunt, removing her veiled bonnet, with which she began to fan herself briskly. “Who would have thought Thomas to have so much spunk in him? To marry his inamorata!”

“And to keep it such a secret all these years.” Kate paused, then continued with indignation, “One doesn’t wish to speak ill of the dead, of course, but how
could
Uncle Thomas have kept silent for so long, when it caused David so much unhappiness. If Aunt Regina had known he was the true heir ...”

“Her enmity would have been none the less virulent,” finished Aunt Fred. “But she might have concealed it a little more adroitly. What I want to know is how he managed to keep the news of the marriage from the family. The wedding of a member of the peerage must always gain attention, even in the Indies!”

Kate could only shake her head, her thoughts with the solitary figure belowstairs, who stood at a window looking into his future.

In the library, the strident sounds of protest behind him went largely unnoticed by David. He felt remote, somehow, as though all the chaos had nothing to do with him. David Merritt, the Earl of Falworth? The words simply had no meaning.

Yet, they carried an undeniable ring of exultation. Westerly was his! He need not leave, but could stay to cherish it forever. He would work, he vowed, and use every ounce of wit at his disposal to transform the lovely old estate to its former glory. And at his side....  No. He had received a gift from Heaven, and that must be enough.

The rest of the day passed in a state of suppressed pandemonium. It did not take long for the momentous news to circulate among the servants’ quarters and thence to the stables and gardens and the tenants’ cottages. Soon the entire estate was humming with surmise as to the course the lives of “the grand people in the House” would take. Speculation ranged from the immediate departure of Lady Falworth to the Dower House to the dim future ahead for Mr. Lawrence, who in one afternoon had gone from Viscount Standing, to Lord Falworth, and then, ignominiously, to a mere Honorable.

David remained closeted for several hours with Mr. Smollett, and the two were served dinner on a tray in the library. Regina dined in her chambers, as did Aunt Fred. Lawrence had stormed out of the house some time earlier, and had not as yet returned home. Crawford, sensing that the atmosphere at Westerly might not be conducive to good digestion, rode out to “take his mutton” with a neighboring friend. Cilia, in a rare display of filial duty, dined with her mother.

When Kate, prepared to eat alone, entered the gold saloon, she was startled to find Lucius Pelham awaiting her. She blinked at him in consternation. Having almost forgotten the existence of the young man in the turmoil of the day’s events, she had told Cook to prepare a simple meal for her of meat and fruit.

“Why, Mr. Pelham!” she said, feeling extremely foolish.

“Ah, Miss Millbank,” he replied with his usual calm courtesy. “It appears we dine
a deux
this evening. I am not sure this is quite proper, but if you can bear my company for an hour or two, I shall be honored to dine with you.”

“Mr. Pelham, I’m so sorry. You have been treated abominably—first left to cool your heels in the hall earlier today, and now—well, I’m afraid you’ll find you’ve been condemned to a horribly inadequate meal. It’s just that—”

“Everything is quite at sixes and sevens,” finished Lucius, his eyes twinkling. “Perfectly understandable. And no meal, I am sure, could be considered inadequate when taken in your company.” He sketched a graceful bow, and Kate smiled with relief.

“I suppose,” she said hesitantly, “you’ve heard about David?”

“That my erstwhile comrade in arms is now the Earl of Falworth? Yes, he took a moment before he began his conference with the attorney to tell me his news. What an astonishing turn of events!”

Kate nodded abstractedly. “It has taken us all by surprise. Tell me, Mr. Pelham,” she said, suddenly glad to have this opportunity to talk to David’s friend alone, “how did he receive his injury? He won’t talk about it to me, and he doesn’t seem to think he will ever really recover from it. Do you think that’s true?”

Lucius was silent for a long moment.

“The Battle of Toulouse lasted only one day,” he began finally, “but it was a day that seemed to go on for an eternity. David had volunteered for the Forlorn Hope, of course, but...”

“The what?” asked Kate in puzzlement.

“Before every battle,” explained Lucius, “a contingent of volunteers is sent ahead of the main body of troops to get things started. Their purpose is mainly to draw the enemy’s fire, thus revealing their positions. As a rather painful example of our famed dry, British wit, this force is called the Forlorn Hope, wherein very few men survive duty. There are, however, always plenty of volunteers, because if one does get through the engagement, he is virtually assured of promotion.”

“And David was a part of this—this Forlorn Hope?” asked Kate in appalled accents.

“No, as I said, he volunteered, but he was refused. Generally no one above the rank of lieutenant is allowed to participate.”

“But why would he
wish
to go? He had already risen to major in a remarkably short time.”

Again, Lucius hesitated.

“Yes—yes, that’s true—but—he had his reasons. Not very good ones, to my mind, and not,” he added pointedly, “ones that he would want discussed. At any rate, David had his own company, of which I was a member. We were ascending the slopes of the Mont Rave, just outside Toulouse. It was a long ridge, really, rather than a hill, and the enemy was securely entrenched. Our target was the Sypiere redoubt. Ten of our lads and myself had attracted fire from a single rifleman perched on the heights. He had us pinned down, and was picking us off like hens in a barnyard. There were only three of us left alive when David spotted our predicament. He was a good two hundred yards away, but he simply stood up, grabbed a rifle from a nearby enlisted man, and walked over to us, ignoring the fire that showered down on him. When he got within range of the sniper, he took careful aim, for all the world as though he were at a firing range. The sniper, seeing him, shot first, and that’s when David was wounded. He didn’t fall, though, until he fired his own rifle. The Frenchie went down, and we were safe.”