Authors: Diane Davis White
The Marquis had married four times and sired four sons—none living past adolescence—and the only son he had left was David. David, however, was his by-blow, presented in his forty-fifth year by the daughter of the village smithy.
He smiled faintly to recall the magnificent Mary Strongbow with her flashing black eyes and her tall, strong figure, full bosomed and wide-hipped. Mary, the sensuous and willful woman who was the only one he had ever loved, for none of his wives had taken his affections as she. He heaved a great regretful sigh and pulled his mind back to the moment.
How to get an heir at this late date. It seemed impossible, for his withered legs were not the only dysfunctional items of his body and he had long since given up keeping a mistress in London. He had thought he could make David his heir, but the solicitor had told him flatly that he could not inherit the title or the entailed property, no matter if he were legalized; therefore David could not take up the role and continue the line.
The solicitor suggested he take a wife, not realizing that it could do him no good and the Marquis had not enlightened him otherwise. But now a germ of an idea had begun to sprout, and he considered it very carefully.
"Darwin, I need my solicitor here as soon as possible. See to it, if you will." He spoke to the man who stood at attention by his chair.
The butler bowed to him and went to do his bidding, not even bothering with a 'yes Milord'—for the fellow was not wont to waste words.
.
* * * * *
.
Dispirited and alone, Lady Hannah DeLacey had just come from the double funeral of her beloved parents, the Earl and Countess of Crossham. Her only relative—her father's heir—was a gross and wicked man, and his wife no better. They had not come for the funeral, but had sent their solicitor instead. The man was here to inventory the property and had not bothered with condolences, nor brought any from his employer.
She heard him moving about above stairs, opening doors and drawers, mumbling to his assistant, and barking at the servants who did not move quickly enough for him. She had not the heart nor the inclination—nor indeed the strength—to stop him or curb his willful plundering of her possessions.
No,
not hers
, she reflected. Nothing here was hers anymore.
A timid knock at the open door to the scullery brought her head round, and she smiled for the first time that day as her dear friend, Camille Emmons, sister of the local vicar, entered the room, a basket on her arm from which drifted delicious aromas.
"Thought you might like some company," Camille said in a gentle voice. "I am fairly tired of being alone up at the vicarage. That retched influenza has carried off half the village. My brother has done nothing but preside over services these four days past.
"Whatever is that Hannah?" The sound of banging from the upper regions of the house caught Camille's attention.
"Oh, it is just Baits' solicitor and the servants doing an inventory."
"Baits? Oh... you mean the new earl, of course." Reaching across the table, she patted the girls' fisted hands as they lay on the cloth. "Poor dear child. Do you suppose you'll stay on here?"
"No. I am certain I shall not." Tears pooled in her eyes, and Hannah removed her glasses, wiping her hand across her face as she explained wearily. "The... new earl... Baits, my cousin, you know. Well, he has offered me to stay on, but I find I cannot accept his terms. His wife was explicit, you see, that I should be reduced to an underling... a... a maid of all work."
She gulped back a sob and looked at the woman through eyes swimming in tears, "I cannot be put to work as a scullery maid. I am the daughter of an earl, no matter a displaced one. I should die... "
"Well, of course I would help you if I could, but I have no connections that could possibly provide you with employment, or even a roof over your head. My brother is dependent upon the new earl for his living, so I am afraid—and ashamedly so—that I cannot help you, my dear."
Having conveyed that message, the vicar's sister departed hastily, leaving the contents of the basket upon the table. Hannah did not look up from her clasped hands as the door clicked shut behind her one and only friend. A friend who could not help her at all.
By the following day—having racked her brain for a solution to her current circumstances—it was evident to Hannah that she was completely, utterly alone. Thinking of taking her few belongings—those she might be allowed to keep, that is—and walking to London to seek work as a governess, she sat at the kitchen table most of that second day, not eating, seeing no one.
Just wondering how far she would walk before exhaustion and hunger overtook her with the peaceful oblivion of death.
.
* * * * *
.
David Strongbow was a man without purpose and a man without funds. He sat in the small cramped sitting room of his suite, resting his elbows on the wobbly table, his eyes cast downward as he contemplated walking off the end of London Bridge and ending it all. Of course, it was only idle contemplation, and he had done it often enough to know that.
Every time his miserly stipend did not reach the next quarterly allowance because he had gambled it all, or worse yet, spent it on trinkets for his current ladylove, he would fall into this funk.
There was not enough money and never a means of getting more, as his father's solicitor, Mr. Maguire, was adamant that he not get one farthing more than he was allowed—and never an advance on his funds. Despite his illegitimacy his father could have done better by him.
He did receive occasional packets from his grandfather Strongbow, which always included a pound note and a few shillings.
It was, however, at a dear cost that the man made this gesture, for he was hard put to take care of his own, much less a grandson he seldom saw. David knew it was money he'd sent to help his mother, and it hurt him that she and his grandfather knew his circumstances so well that they would return it to him in the guise of a gift.
David, who could not even aspire to wed an heiress to relieve his financial woes—for he was not suitable—had turned into a lay-about, a useless man who hung on the fringes of society, hoping for an opportunity to change his fortune, yet never quite discovering the means to do so.
When he'd left university he'd held high hopes of making something of himself, but soon found out that those fellows who had treated him so well when they were students together drifted away to a different world once graduated. He'd been left with others of his ilk, hanging around the clubs, wagering money they hadn't got and making the days pass as best they could.
He supposed that he might have wormed his way into the center of the
ton
, and become an eligible but his father had never sponsored him to any of the high toffs of society, and he could not bring himself to try on his own, rejection being the only outcome of such folly.
He finished the last of his ale, tossing the bitters back with a quick jerk of his hand, and slammed the tankard back to the table with a loud crash. Not enough drink to get blotted and forget the world, but just enough to whet his appetite. Oh well, it was not the first time—nor would it be the last—that he had come up short.
Six days to go... six days before the solicitor sent round his bank draft. Perhaps if he went to White's he would find a crony there to invite him home for dinner. It had happened before, the fellows of his acquaintance being aware of his circumstances and usually about this time of the month he was ready for their generosity.
When the knock sounded on the door, David was almost asleep, slumped over the table, his arms a cradle for his dark head. He lifted his face and listened, not fully awake. When the pounding grew louder he realized with a start there was, indeed, someone at the door. He rose quickly to open it.
Standing on the other side, with arm raised to strike the wood again, Mr. Maguire peered at David with squinty eyes and smiled. Not a real smile, just his usual officious grimace.
"Well, Master Strongbow, will you leave me standing in the hall?" Spoken with a false jocularity, the man looked David up and down, the unpleasantly thin line of his lips stating he noticed the wrinkled untidy appearance and unshaven jaw with a modicum of distaste. He stepped past the younger man, not waiting for a response.
"Good day to
you, too
, sir." David intoned the greeting, despite the other's lack of one, and followed his guest—who ignored his sarcasm—into the tiny room that suddenly seemed smaller as both men took up the entire space. "Have you come, per chance, to bring my allowance? I had thought it would be six more days... "
"Never
think
it my boy. You know your father's policy on that issue. I have come for another purpose altogether. The Marquis has sent you a letter and instructed me to deliver it and wait for an answer. I would read it straight off if I were you."
David took note of the solicitor—obviously not wishing to tarry in this place longer than necessary—apparently compelled to convey a sense of urgency. It resounded in his impatient tone.
Sitting at the table, Mr. Maguire placed his small portfolio in front of him and opened it quickly, drawing out several packets and placing them in a row. Lifting the first one, which was the letter, he handed it over and sat back, folding his hands over his lean stomach. He waited, watching David's face with some interest.
"Have I grown two heads, Mister Maguire?" David was bemused by the solicitor's unflinching regard. "You seem particularly interested in staring at me."
"I'm thinking there is no way to put this delicately," the solicitor finally said. "I can only suggest a change of linen and a shave."
"Oh that," David replied offhand. "You are no doubt correct on that score." He scrubbed a hand over his face, then at the solicitors frowning nod toward the envelope, reached for it.
David tore the envelope open and pulled out the page, written in his father's hand. He flipped it over and turned it back again, noting there were only a few lines written there.
He read it again and looked a question at the solicitor who wordlessly pushed the next packet across the table with a flick of his fingers.
"What did he write this for?" Indicating the first missive with a nod of his head, David gave a short bark of laughter. "Writes me a note asking if I want to increase my allowance and, if so, open the next packet."
"I think perhaps your father's sense of humor is misplaced at times, but the next letter will explain all. Please read on." Mr. Maguire smiled that officious, irritating smile again, and handing him the next packet, turned his eyes to the window.
"Good God! Is he mad?" David read the first few lines again and sank back in his chair. "Do you know what he is proposing?"
At the solicitors' serene nod, David returned his gaze to the page and continued to read, mouth open and eyes wide with astonishment.
"Outrageous! No other way to put it. I could not... hello... " he raised his eyes to the other man once more and whispered reverently, "A thousand pounds a month? That's... four thousand pounds a quarter."
"Three thousand, actually David." Mr. Maguire tapped the next packet with a delicate finger, his face clenching in his usual simile of a grin. "Have the contract right here."
David loosened his already loose cravat and looked around wildly, as though the whole thing were a dream and he simply needed to awaken, only he didn't really want to wake up. "I... I don't know what to say. I mean... it's not the thing... surely a law against it. I mean, it's adultery, of course."
He looked a question at the attorney, his eyes boring into the others. "You condone this?"
"Can't say I do, and can't say I don't. Not my place to condone or not to condone."
The solicitor, heaving a somnolent sigh, showed every evidence of having grown weary of the younger man's procrastination, and drove home his point by picking up the next packet and tossing it across the table where it landed with a dull thwack. "Look in there."