Once an Heiress (3 page)

The last good win he’d had was this very house. He won the deed in a game of cribbage about a year ago. Since then, he’d been trapped in a downward spiral of loss after staggering loss.

He let out a frustrated growl. How could he give up gaming? He had no money with which to pay his debts, so he had to make money. To make money, he had to gamble, but doing so inevitably ended with him further in debt.

After last night’s loss to Edmund Ficken — Ficken! The very name offended him with its coarseness — Quillan had teased Ethan.
“For Christmas, Eth, why don’t you ask your father if he’ll do you the courtesy of dying?”

If only the old bastard
would
die, Ethan’s life would improve in so many ways. He’d inherit the fortune needed to clear his debts. He’d finally be free of his sire’s condescending disapproval. No more would he have to see the regret in his father’s eyes that it was Ethan who would be the next Earl of Kneath, instead of Walter, the firstborn into whom their father had poured all his hopes and dreams, only to have them killed along with the man on the dueling field three years ago.

The wretched man was immortal as Satan himself. He’d clung to life through illness after illness, just to spite his son, Ethan was sure. He delighted in making his wastrel offspring beg for every penny. Refusing to dance to the old man’s tune any more, Ethan had cut off all communication with the earl. He hadn’t spoken to his father in almost two years.

Ethan shook his head. He was being morose. Breakfast, he thought. Something in his belly to sop up last night’s gin. He tugged the bell pull.

A few minutes later, the butler, Jackson, entered the study. The tall man carried a new stack of correspondence. Ethan bit back a curse. More dunning letters. Would he never be free of them?

“Breakfast, please, Jackson,” Ethan said. “Tell Cook nothing too heavy. Just some toast and ham — ”

“No, sir,” Jackson cut in.

Ethan’s brows drew together. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, no, my lord.” Jackson extended his arm. He dropped the papers into the middle of the desk, where they landed on top of the other letters with a soft thud.

Ethan stared at them. “What’s this?” he asked, suspicious.

“These, my lord, are letters of resignation for the entire staff.” The butler’s thin lips turned up in a smug, satisfied smile.

Ethan gaped. He shot to his feet. “The entire — why?”

“You’ve not paid wages to a single one of us in two months’ time, and before that it was months of half wages.
You
might be able to live on credit, my lord, but the rest of us cannot. We have families to feed, parents and siblings depending on us — ”

Ethan flung a hand into the air. “Spare me the melodrama.” He huffed through his nostrils. “So the entire staff is revolting? Who put them up to this?”

Jackson shook his head.

“Well, I don’t accept your resignations!” Ethan yelled, jabbing a finger toward the butler.

He strode across the study and yanked the door wide.

What he’d taken for the sounds of heavy cleaning, he discovered, were, in fact, the sounds of an exodus in progress. He employed a dozen servants — most of whom had come with the house — and every last one of them stood in the front hall, their voices mingled in angry tones.

When Ethan appeared, a hush fell over the group. He felt the weight of twelve irate glares. He held his hands out and spoke in a raised voice. “Everyone,” he said, “I know you’re distraught. But if you’ll just bear with me for another week or two, I’ll have your wages — ”

“Where’s it going to come from?” a footman called. “We all know you haven’t a farthing to your name.”

“Just like the
Quality
,” a maid jeered, “trampling all over honest working folk without shame. Do y’even have a heart, my lord, to treat us so? After all our faithful service?”

“Here, here,” cried another servant. The rumble of voices rose up again.

“Now, now,” Ethan said, trying to calm them.

“To hell with you!”

Ethan didn’t see who said it. But once it was out, a chorus joined in. Ethan stood stock still while his servants rained curses upon him.

Then one of the men picked up a valise. The others followed his lead and hoisted their own belongings. In a silent line, they filed past Ethan toward the servants’ door at the back of the house.

His housekeeper averted her eyes as she passed. “Mrs. Oliver,” he said, reaching for her arm.

She wrenched free of his grip and shot him a look of hurt and anger, then continued on with the others.

Disbelief began to give way to annoyance. What was he going to do with no servants in the house? “Don’t think I’ll give any of you references!”

There was a knock on the door, which intensified to an insistent pounding.

Ethan looked to Jackson expectantly. “The door?” he prompted.

“Answer your own bloody door,” Jackson returned. “The mechanism which opens it is called a knob. It should not be beyond even your comprehension.” With a final, withering sneer, he stalked after the other servants.

Ethan glared at the disloyal retainer’s retreating back and made a sound in his throat. He wrenched the door open.

A short man wearing a neat brown suit doffed his hat. At his heels loomed four great brutes, each dressed in rough trousers and shirts. A hackney coach waited at the curb. Behind it was a team of four draft horses hitched to a large wagon, followed by another team and wagon.

The small man squinted up at him. “Ethan Helling, Viscount Thorburn?”

Ethan frowned at the men and their train of vehicles. “Yes?”

“Mr. Steven Laramie, bailiff of the court. I’ve been charged with carrying out the magistrate’s orders.” He rendered a brief bow, handed him a piece of paper, then shoved past him into the house. The large men followed. Ethan sidestepped to avoid being crushed.

Mr. Laramie gazed at the walls and floor with avid interest, like a visitor to a museum. He glanced up the stairs, and then strolled down the hall, opening doors and touching objects.

Ethan skimmed over the paper the bailiff gave him. He recognized the names of numerous tradesmen to whom he owed money. A cold rock dropped in his middle.

“Here’s the dining room,” Mr. Laramie called. “Begin here.”

The laborers lumbered down the hall to where Mr. Laramie pointed.

Ethan followed, watching in horror as the men grasped either end of a valuable sideboard and carried it into the corridor. “What are you doing?”

“I understand there is no entailed property on the premises,” Mr. Laramie said. “Is that correct?”

Ethan stared at him, all agog. “No, nothing here is part of the tail. Why? What is happening?”

“By order of the magistrate,” the bailiff said with the tone of an official pronouncement, “your property will be auctioned and the proceeds split amongst the listed complainants. Some of them,” he added in a scolding voice, “have waited two years and more for payment.”

Ethan’s mouth snapped shut. The hulking workmen returned to the dining room again and started disassembling the long table dominating the center of the room.

“But these are my things,” Ethan protested.

Mr. Laramie gave him a tight smile. “Not anymore.”

He looked from the vacant hall back to his quickly emptying dining room. Then he took himself to the staircase. He plopped down on the bottom step and watched dispassionately as Mr. Laramie and his lackeys carried out nearly everything of value in his home.

Just as well,
came the bleak thought. With no servants to keep the place up, he didn’t need all these things standing around collecting dust, anyway.

• • •

It was amazing how quickly one’s life could be dismantled, Ethan mused. In the space of a couple hours, he’d lost his entire household staff and most of his belongings. As he walked through the house, the sound of his footsteps bounced off naked walls.

Mr. Laramie had left the study untouched. Ethan sat down and idly flipped through his pile of correspondence, soothed by the familiar action. If he kept his eyes on the desk, it was easy to forget the rest of his house was an empty shell.

In a way, it was good all this had happened, he decided. Being a bachelor, he never should have had so many servants. A single manservant and one or two maids would have sufficed. Ethan had only kept Jackson, Mrs. Oliver, and the others out of a sense of obligation. It wasn’t their fault their previous employer had lost the house in a game of chance — they’d become his responsibility with a turn of a card. Neither would he ever have considered selling off his furnishings, but now that he had no choice in the matter, some of his debt would be retired; the thought offered a sense of relief.

He fished through his papers, searching for the bills from the tradesmen named on the bailiff’s orders. A few pieces of post fell to the floor. When he bent to retrieve them, Ethan spotted familiar stationary amongst the litter. He cracked the seal and unfolded the paper, releasing the faint odor of roses.

My dearest Thorburn,

Too much time has passed since I saw you last. Please come to me. Do not forget your own —

Vanessa

Ethan traced the V with his index finger. He wondered when she’d sent the note; the date at the top of the page was worthless.

Briefly, he considered calling on Ghita — but no. A visit to Nessa would be just the thing. There, he could concentrate on her and forget his own troubles.

He found the limp, wrinkled cravat in the blanket and tied a hasty knot. He plucked his wadded coat from the sofa, shook it out, and wrestled into it.

With something approaching a spring in his step, Ethan left the hollow shell of his house behind him.

• • •

Vanessa lived in a graciously appointed town house. The neighborhood was perfectly respectable, populated by successful tradesmen and professionals. From the clean, stuccoed exterior, to the urns full of flowers flanking the stairs, nothing about the unremarkable house drew attention to the fact that inside dwelt a kept woman.

The butler, Higgins, exhaled in relief when he saw Ethan. “Thank goodness you’ve come, my lord,” he said in a harried tone. A sheen of sweat was evident on his upper lip. “Madam is … ”

Ethan handed the servant his hat. “Bad today?” He glanced toward the stairwell.

As if in answer to his question, a blood-curdling shriek split the air, followed by a stream of incoherent language. The sound was briefly louder when an upstairs door opened, then muffled when the door closed again. Footsteps pounded down the stairs, and a woman wearing a gray dress and white apron burst into the hallway. Her thin face was pale and tear-streaked; her white cap perched at a precarious angle on her head.

She shot a fiery look at Ethan. “That’s it, I’m done. No more.”

“Wait.” Ethan grabbed her arm. “Please don’t go. You know she can’t help herself,” he said. “Please, whatever it takes. You’re the best nurse she’s had. She needs you.”

The woman’s chin trembled. Tears slid down her face. “I can’t take any more, my lord. She’s been screaming all morning, accusing me of thievery. She threw a picture at me. Look!”

The nurse turned her head and pointed to just below her right temple, in front of her ear. A purple lump was raised there, with a ferocious red line in the center.

Ethan winced and sucked his breath through his teeth. “Did you send for the doctor? Shall I?”

She shook her head. “It’s not too bad. But that could have been my eye.”

“I understand,” Ethan said in a mollifying tone. “Take the afternoon off — ”

The nurse laughed bitterly. “The afternoon? Attend, milord. I said I’m done. You’ll have to find a new nurse to take her abuse, because it won’t be me.”

Ethan followed her to the door. “Please reconsider,” he called as she descended the front stairs. “Take a few days … ”

The woman didn’t look back.

Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. It was too early to have to deal with so many catastrophes. He opened his eyes and met Higgins’ fretful gaze. “Send a note to her solicitor, Mr. Logan. Have him put out an advertisement for a new nurse.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I’ll see her now,” Ethan said. “Let me know if this one comes back.” He tipped his chin to the door. “Even if she demands a higher wage, it would be better to keep her than to have to find a new one.”

With Higgins’ assurance that he understood the orders, Ethan climbed the stairs and walked down the hall to her bedchamber.

At the door, a knot formed in his chest. Ethan braced himself, uncertain what he’d find on the other side. His fingers trembled as he twisted the knob.

The aroma of roses — her scent — greeted him at once. Thick carpet dampened his footsteps as he slowly made his way across the room. The French influence was obvious in the furnishings of the elegant style favored by Marie Antoinette and her court.

Soft blues and greens reminded one this was a feminine lair, but invitingly so. It was the kind of room a man could lose himself in when he needed nothing more than the soft ministrations of his lover.

Through the sheer white curtains surrounding the bed, Ethan saw Vanessa’s slight figure reclined against a pile of pillows. She’d fallen silent, perhaps asleep.

Evidence of the morning’s outburst was scattered about. A vase of white roses on the bedside table had toppled; a water stain darkened the carpet beneath it. The picture that had struck the nurse laid face-down beside a tufted ottoman. Though only about four inches wide and six inches tall, the oval gilt frame was hefty. If Vanessa’s aim had been a little better, she could have done the nurse serious harm. Ethan turned it over —

And stared into his own face.

Not
his
face, but one remarkably similar. The man in the miniature wore his hair long, while Ethan’s was clipped short. The artist had captured the bronze hue the men’s hair shared. The gentleman in the painting had the same strong, straight nose and slate blue eyes. The largest difference in features was the jawline. Ethan’s was a touch narrower than the square face in the painting.