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Caruthers shuffled the papers in front of him. “Your uncle insisted on my silence, and I felt it necessary to comply. But all is not lost. The three of you can still inherit something. As the girl’s guardians, you are charged with bringing the new Lady Everard out in style.”
“Bringing her out in style?” Richard’s scowl deepened. “Just how old is she?”
Caruthers glanced down at the parchment. “Sixteen, if memory serves.”
“Sixteen?” Vaughn protested. “That cannot be right—Uncle could never have hidden a daughter so long. And now you expect us to play chaperone like some doddering dowagers?”
The solicitor seemed only too happy to elaborate. “Your uncle expected it, sir. His will stipulates that the girl must be presented at court, accepted in all the households who refused to receive your uncle and garner no less than three offers of marriage before the Season is out.”
Richard shrugged. “Easy enough. We’ll all offer for her.”
Caruthers eyed him, mouth twitching as he unsuccessfully tried to cover his sneer. “I do not believe you are considered suitable, Captain Everard, but that will be up to the girl’s governess, Miss Adele Walcott, to determine. She is charged with monitoring the success of Lady Everard’s Season.”
Jerome shook his head. “This is ridiculous. Uncle loved his games. Take this proof to Doctor’s Commons for probate, and you’ll find he’s played you for a fool.”
The solicitor’s grin blossomed once more. “No, Mr. Everard, I fear in this case you are the fool. Your uncle offers you a small bequest and the estate on which you and your brother were born, if you help your new cousin take her place in Society. Otherwise, sir, even your horse is forfeit.”
Jerome rose then, even as Vaughn and Richard moved closer to him in front of the solicitor. “My uncle may have preferred secrecy,” Jerome said, “but the College of Heralds will insist on the truth, and so will I. Show me this proof.”
“All in good time,” the solicitor had replied with maddening calm. “I intend to journey to Dallsten Manor in Cumberland in a few days to meet with her ladyship, retrieve the necessary papers and hold a formal reading of the will. I expect you three will want to join me.”
Jerome’s fist tightened on the reins now, remembering. Join Caruthers? Never. If anything, they must discover the truth first. The solicitor’s story had to be a lie, a fiction designed to keep Jerome from taking control of his inheritance.
Uncle had never understood the importance of the Everard legacy, its various estates across England, the fleet of ships that plied the waters of the world. Hundreds of people—tenants, servants, staff, sailors, merchants and villagers—relied on the Everards. Uncle had delayed important decisions, shrugged off responsibility for improvements, always too busy with pursuits Jerome found purely trivial. From Jerome’s point of view, his uncle had wanted only to reap what his ancestors had sown with no thought of working for the future. And he had resented Jerome’s insistence on doing otherwise.
Well, Jerome had protected their dependents from his uncle’s capricious moods; he would protect them from a cozening female now. If this girl and her governess wanted a fight, he was ready to give it to them.
He swung down from the saddle, a cold wind brushing his face and threatening to whip the hat from Vaughn’s head.
“Watch the horses,” Jerome instructed Richard as Vaughn leapt down beside him.
Richard cocked a smile but dismounted as well. “Do you expect them to be stolen out from under us?”
“At this point, nothing would surprise me,” Jerome replied. With a nod to Vaughn, who adjusted his black hat to a rakish angle and fell into step beside him, he mounted the stairs to the stout oak door. Each bang of the brass knocker against the solid panel seemed to resound inside Jerome’s chest.
“Are they deaf?” Vaughn asked. He reached out and tugged at the door, but it held firm. Who locked a door in the light of day in the country? Did they expect to be attacked? Or did they have something to hide?
From within came the sound of a bolt being drawn. Jerome stiffened and saw Vaughn had done the same. The massive door swung open to reveal a tall, gangly footman with hair the color and texture of a newly thatched roof and gray livery nearly as rumpled. He eyed Jerome and Vaughn as if discovering something distasteful on the bottom of his shoe.
“May I help you?”
Jerome drew himself up, making him a few inches taller than the fellow. “Jerome Everard and company to see Miss Everard. We are her cousins.”
The footman’s eyes tightened in his narrow face. “Mr. Jerome Everard is not allowed entrance to this house. Good day, sirs.”
And he slammed shut the door.
“They’re leaving!” Samantha Everard sighed as she slumped against the frame of the schoolroom’s west window.
Adele Dallsten Walcott shook her head. Most days she loved the way the wide windows that circled the tower room brought in light. The glow brightened the dark worktable where she and her charge had sat for lessons for the last ten years and she had sat as the student for years before that. The light sparkled on the creamy walls, warmed the polished wood floor and gilded the pages of the history tomes and French language books that were their texts.
Today, unfortunately, the view had proven nothing but a distraction for her sixteen-year-old charge. Samantha had run to the window the moment the first knock echoed up the stairs, and nothing Adele said could budge her.
“Of course they’re leaving,” she told Samantha, laying aside the improving novel they had been reading this Sunday afternoon. “I told you it had to be a mistake. There is no reason for three gentlemen to visit Dallsten Manor.”
“Perhaps they’re old friends of yours,” Samantha said, craning her neck to see out the tower window.
Adele remembered when the knocker had sounded for her, but that was long ago, another life, it seemed sometimes. “Most of my old friends live in Evendale, and we saw them at services just this morning,” she pointed out.
“Friends of Papa, then,” Samantha insisted.
Adele hurt at the wistful sound of her voice. She rose and moved toward the window at last. “Your father has never sent us visitors unless he accompanied them. He and the Marquess of Widmore aren’t expected until the summer recess of Parliament.”
“But what about Mr. Caruthers?” Samantha asked with a wrinkle of her nose that said what she thought of the solicitor. She pressed her forehead against the glass. “Wait, what are they doing?”
Adele had tried to set an example (a lady did not stare out the window at passersby, after all), but her curiosity got the better of her, and she leaned over the padded window seat to peer out, as well.
The men stood conferring at the foot of the steps. From three stories up, she could not distinguish their features. The tallest, a red-haired giant, took the reins of their riding horses and pack horse and pulled them around the north tower. Was he heading for the stables? The leanest fellow, whose hair was hidden by a wide-brimmed hat, headed past Adele and Samantha’s viewpoint to the south, and she caught a flash of light from his side. Had he just drawn a sword?
The last man climbed to the door again, disappearing from their sight, but Adele thought she could feel the force of his knock all the way up in the third-floor schoolroom.
Samantha sprang away from the window in a flurry of pale muslin. “They have come to visit!”
“Samantha.” Adele’s command brought the girl up short before she reached the schoolroom door. Though panic tickled the back of Adele’s mind, she kept her face pleasant from long practice. “I want you to stay in the schoolroom. Do you understand?”
Samantha’s pretty face scrunched up. “No. Why can’t I go down to meet them?”
How could she explain without frightening the girl? Samantha still found the world new and exciting, each day a revelation. Adele had learned far more caution in her twenty-seven years. The only child of a baron, so close to the Scottish border without her father in residence, could make for a kidnapping.
Please, Lord, not Samantha! Protect us!
“Let me meet them first,” Adele said. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for their appearance here. Once I know where things stand, I’ll send for you.”
“Promise?” Samantha begged, those deep brown eyes wide and imploring.
Adele tucked a golden curl behind the girl’s ear. “Promise.”
“All right, but don’t be long.” Samantha wandered back to take up her position at the window. Her sigh followed Adele down the curving stair.
Adele had hoped she might find Todd in the wide, parquet-tiled entryway, but of course the space stood empty. The footman was impossible! Why had Mr. Caruthers sent him to them a week ago? They did well enough with the staff they had: Mrs. Linton, their elderly housekeeper, and her husband, their groundskeeper; Maisy and Daisy, their maids of all work; and Nate Turner, their groom.
A strong fellow like Todd might have been some help, but he was lazy, incompetent and at times disrespectful, even if his reference said he’d previously worked for the mighty Marquess of Widmore, Lord Everard’s closest friend. Too bad that reference also said Todd had been chosen by Lord Everard. As he was the only servant with that honor, they couldn’t discharge the fellow without her employer’s approval.
Their mysterious caller certainly had more determination than the footman. His knocks continued, each one more forceful, as Adele hurried to the door. She paused only a moment to smooth her dark hair into the bun at the nape of her neck and pat down her gray lustring skirts, then pulled back the bolt and opened the door.
Their visitor looked as surprised to see her as she was to find such a gentleman at her door. He was tall and well formed, with shoulders made broader by the capes of his greatcoat and long legs, which stood firm on the stone step.
Up close, his hair was like polished mahogany, thick and wavy, cut short in the style shown in Samantha’s fashion plates, though several locks swept down across a wide brow as if caressed by the breeze. His eyes were shadowed, set deep in a square-jawed face, and his mouth was wide and warm. His gaze locked with hers, and she felt suddenly light-headed.
She thought he might be furious, having been kept standing so long, but his smile was pleasant.
“Forgive us for startling you, madam,” he said, sweeping her a graceful bow, “but we thought it best, given our news, to come north quickly. Allow me to introduce myself. Jerome Everard, at your service.”
His baritone dripped with genteel sophistication, and she could imagine its drawl in the glittering ballrooms of London. Still, the first name meant nothing to her, and he could easily have fabricated the last to match the name of her employer.
“Welcome to Dallsten Manor, Mr. Everard,” she replied with a quick dip that might pass for a curtsey. “You will not mind if I ask for some confirmation of your identity.”
His mouth held just the hint of a smile. “I regret that my uncle, Lord Everard, did not have the opportunity to introduce us properly. However, I have a letter from him I can share.” He stepped forward as if expecting her to move aside and let him in.
Adele held her ground and her smile, bracing one foot on the inside of the door, ready to slam it shut if needed. Could she reach Mr. Linton and his gun before this man and his companions breached the house? Did it matter? Somehow she didn’t think the elderly groundskeeper would scare any of them.
As if he knew her concerns, Jerome Everard held out his arm. It was a civilized gesture, a gentleman indicating his willingness to escort a lady into the house. It spoke of kindness, of protection.
“Let me in, please,” he murmured, clear blue gaze on hers. “I swear no harm will come to you.”
She wanted to believe him. His manners, his smile, his attitude all said he was a gentleman.
And if he wasn’t, she still had the upper hand. She knew Dallsten Manor better than anyone, every crooked passage, every family secret. If Jerome Everard wanted to cause trouble, she was ready for him.
She opened the door wider. “Certainly, Mr. Everard. Come in. Perhaps we can both find answers to our questions.”
Chapter Two
Jerome followed his hostess across the parquet floor of the entry hall. After his initial reception by the footman, he wasn’t sure why this lady had let him in or what he’d find.
But Dallsten Manor looked as respectable inside as it had out. The grand staircase rose to the upper story in polished oak magnificence, a brass chandelier with at least thirty candles gleamed overhead, and to their right, the white wall was draped with a massive tapestry of knights conquering a stag.
He could see his uncle here. A poet at heart, like Vaughn, his uncle would have delighted in the sweeping grandeur of the manor on a hill, the bold colors of the tapestry, the fine workmanship of the carved posts on the stair. Jerome had a more practical bent. He saw the dust dimming the rich fabric, the cracks marring the tall walls. He calculated to the last penny the cost of refurbishing and wondered how far the owner would go to see Dallsten Manor restored. Was that motive enough to steal another man’s legacy?
The footman came out of a corridor behind the stairs just then and pulled up short. “You let him in.”
The words were frankly accusatory. Jerome lifted a brow.
His hostess raised her dark head. “Yes, Todd. I let him in. That is what one generally does with guests.”
His eyes narrowed again, giving him a decidedly feral look. “His lordship never mentioned guests.”
Had he spoken with Uncle? Had Uncle tried to protect his secret kingdom from Jerome, even at the end?
His hostess’s rosy lips tightened in an unforgiving line. “He never mentioned the Prince Regent, either,” she said, eyes flashing, “but if His Royal Highness showed up at the door, I assure you I’d let him in, too.” She tugged down the long sleeves of her gown so that the soft lace at the cuffs brushed her wrists. “Now, I believe Mr. Everard had two companions?”
How did she know? Had she been watching? She glanced at him for confirmation, and Jerome kept a polite smile in place.
“My brother Richard Everard and cousin Vaughn Everard,” he supplied. He’d sent one to the stables and the other to reconnoiter.
She nodded and returned her gaze to the recalcitrant footman. “I suggest you find them and bring them to the library. And send Mrs. Linton to me there, as well. Now take Mr. Everard’s coat.”
Even the brazen footman, it seemed, would not argue with this woman. He inclined his head and strode up to Jerome. Jerome turned and felt the fellow lift the greatcoat from his shoulders. Before Jerome could question him, the footman had thrown the garment over one arm and stormed off down the corridor.
Ignoring the rudesby, his hostess motioned to a doorway at their left. “If you’d be so good as to attend me in the library, sir.”
“It would be my pleasure.” He bowed her ahead of him.
Who was she? he wondered as he followed her. She was too young to be the housekeeper or the mother of a girl ready to embark on a London Season, and too old to be his supposed cousin. And he couldn’t see her as a governess. He hadn’t met very many women in that position, but somehow he didn’t remember any of them as being this pretty and poised. She moved with the assurance of the lady of the house, and certainly the staff obeyed her.
She was equally as comfortable in the venerable library. Oak bookcases with leaded-glass fronts lined one wall; crimson drapes hung on either side of a window facing the drive, the afternoon sun spearing through to warm the room and touch the Oriental carpet with fire. A landscape painting of a brook and willows graced the space over the wood-wrapped fireplace, elegant, calming. Another time he’d have been delighted to study it further. What drew his attention now were the papers that littered the surface of the desk. What he would have given for a look at them.
She didn’t offer him the opportunity. She slipped behind the desk and opened a drawer, and he thought he saw her palm something. The knife used to slice apart the pages of new books, perhaps? Did she think him so dangerous? With a quick glance his way, she settled herself near the empty grate on a blue velvet-backed chair, which looked suspiciously like a throne, then held out her hand. “The letter?”
Jerome gave her his most charming smile as he approached. “Of course.” From his coat, he pulled the letter his uncle had left each of them. Caruthers had indicated it extended to a line of credit to allow them to meet expenses until probate was finished.
He handed it to her and watched as she opened and bent over it. She looked nothing like his uncle, shadow to the Everard light. Her dark brown hair shone red in the light, pulled back from a heart-shaped face into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were nearly as dark as her hair as they moved back and forth in her reading. And her gray gown was of fine material, which gleamed along the curves of her figure.
Could she be his supposed cousin? Caruthers had said the girl was sixteen, but he might have been mistaken. This woman looked only a little younger than Jerome’s thirty years. Yet if she was his cousin and nearly his age, she would have been born when Grandfather was still alive. Was that the explanation for her being kept in secrecy? The old man had all but disowned Vaughn’s father for a misalliance. Perhaps Uncle had wanted to avoid a confrontation with his father. But if Uncle had somehow kept the marriage quiet, why hadn’t he revealed it when Grandfather had died? Uncle had been the heir then—he hadn’t shirked in making his desires known anywhere else.
The woman before him lowered the letter slowly and glanced up. Tears sparkled like diamonds on her thick, sable lashes. “Is he truly dead?”
Her voice was no more than a throaty whisper, and Jerome felt the clear pain inside himself as well. Though he had not meant to touch her, he found himself reaching out to press a hand to her shoulder. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
She nodded, sucking in a breath. The urge to gather her in his arms, comfort her, was strong, but he tamped down the feeling. He could not afford to be attracted to her. At best, she was his cousin; at worst, a schemer out to steal his future. He forced himself to release her.
She bent her head back over the page, this time with a frown. “This letter is quite brief.”
Which made it as easily misunderstood as he’d hoped.
To Whom It May Concern, it stated. The letter you are reading is testament that I have shuffled off this mortal coil. The bearer of the letter, Jerome Everard, is an heir to my estate and should be accorded the courtesies thereby due. It was signed merely Arthur, Lord Everard.
“I’m certain my uncle hoped he’d have time to explain further before it was read,” Jerome replied.
Her frown deepened. “Did he leave no other instructions?”
Interesting. Could his cousin be ignorant of the contents of his uncle’s will? Jerome had intended to use every weapon in his arsenal—reason, charm, even intimidation if necessary to convince the household to give up the truth about this girl. How could they be the enemy if they knew nothing of the war?
“My uncle’s solicitor will follow in a few days for a formal reading of the will,” Jerome told her. “I’m sure he can further enlighten you. In the meantime, we wanted to come meet my uncle’s daughter, comfort you in your grief.”
She glanced up at him, lovely face still troubled. “How kind, but you must realize that comfort will take some doing. He was much admired here in the valley.” She paused as if expecting him to admit how much he had admired his uncle.
She would have a long wait. Only Vaughn admired Uncle in the way she seemed to mean, with a keen devotion and unbridled respect. Jerome could find no common ground on which to build such admiration.
His uncle had been an ungrateful son, driving Grandfather to an early grave. Uncle had been no help in guiding Jerome, in teaching him what it meant to be the heir to such vast holdings, from sailing ships to lands in six counties. In fact, the man had ever tried to be playmate, never parent, another reason Jerome found it impossible to believe his uncle had wed, much less been a devoted father.
Still, he could see why his uncle would want to show the most flattering sides of his nature to this woman. Hers was a soul-deep beauty, from the hollows under her high cheekbones to the graceful way she handed back the paper to him. After only a few moments in her presence, he found himself wondering what dragon he might slay for her.
As if she weren’t the dragon he needed to slay.
“Were you close?” she asked him as the silence stretched.
Not close enough, apparently. “He had charge of me and my brother after our parents died,” Jerome replied.
