Miss Westlake's Windfall Read online

  “She sold the pistols, too, cuz.”

  “Will you stubble it, Algie? I am speaking to Ada.”

  “Here now, no cause to rip up at the boy, I say, not when it’s Ada who is holding out on us.” Filbert couldn’t sleep, so he decided he might as well add his complaints. “She keeps the place so understaffed my valet is threatening to quit if he has to haul the hot water himself. That brass could hire an army of servants, I swear.”

  “Hah! What is your lazy servant compared to my blue domino?”

  “Or the pistols.”

  “We ought to have a proper butler if those London swells are coming.”

  “We ought to have a new chandelier.”

  “And ammunition.”

  Ada had heard enough. “Stop, all of you. Just listen to yourselves, bickering like children over a treat that no one promised you. Once and for all, the money is not ours! Not yours, not mine, and I would rather give it to those who are truly poor than listen to any more of your carping.”

  * * * *

  “What do you mean, she’s going to give it all away?”

  Leo shook his head. “Miss Ada wouldn’t say where or when, but Tess swears she’ll do it, she was that mad at the fishwife and her kin.”

  “Hell.” They were out in the stables again, and Chas was blowing his nose, again. Dragged out of bed to hear Leo’s message, he was half asleep, and half ready to go confess, again. Deuce take it, he couldn’t think, and there was his half-brother, leaning against an upright beam, merry as a grig at Chas’s discomfort. “And to hell with you, too.”

  Leo laughed. “I came to tell you, didn’t I?”

  “I thought you had information about Prelieu, dash it.”

  “No, unfortunately. Only what Tess and I thought you ought to know.”

  “Tess, is it?” Chas sank down onto a pile of clean straw, Tally at his side. “It seems the two of you have grown uncommonly close, doesn’t it?”

  A moment passed before Leo quietly asked, “Are you asking my intentions, Charlie?”

  “Tess is a lady. I am like a brother to her.”

  “Aye, and to the sister, too, from what I gather. Until you can manage your own affairs, you have no call to be prying into mine.”

  “We will leave my affairs out of this, thank you. Ada can look after herself. Tess is ... different.”

  “Special, you mean.”

  Chas nodded. “She is that. But what I meant was that Ada is used to taking care of things; Tess lives in her own world, by her own rules.”

  “I intend to make it my world, if she’ll let me in. I mean to do the thing right, though, give her time to make sure that’s what she wants, then ask her brother if I can pay my addresses.” A moment went by before Leo added, “It is not an easy thing, asking a lady to step down.”

  “Gammon. Show her the house you’re having built. It will be the finest in the area. Make sure you show Tess the indoor plumbing.”

  “I am not talking about the financial aspects, and you know it. How can I ask her to marry a man with a soiled name?”

  “Your name will be cleared, dash it. You won’t always be a smuggler.”

  “No, but I will always be illegitimate.”

  “You will always be the son of Rose and Sam Tobin, decent, God-fearing folk who loved you.”

  Leo sighed. “The gossip will never go away, though, and you know it. How can it, when it is the truth? Tess ought to have a prince, not a—”

  “Wealthy man who adores her? Not a successful merchant who can afford to let her dabble in whatever arts she wishes and never take her place in the everyday world? Not a moonstruck muttonhead who might be the only person in the world besides her loving sister who thinks Tess is a genius? Hell, you two deserve each other.”

  “But those others will try their best to turn her against me, sure as Hades, that shrewish sister-in-law, the toplofty old fop, and that fribble of a cousin.”

  “Spotty-faced sprig with no chin and less brains?”

  “Aye. Algernon.”

  Chas sat up, one hand on his dog. “Did you hear that, Tally? The Johnstone cub is back. Stay out of the woods. And the fields.” The dog licked his hand and went back to sleep. “They’re all parasites, so it doesn’t matter what they think. If they knew how deep your pockets were, they’d be throwing the girl at your head.”

  “I suppose.” Leo straightened up, ready to leave.

  Too tired to move, Chas asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “What I would do if I was rowing a boat ashore in enemy waters: wait and see. It’s early days yet.” Leo reached a hand down to lift his half-brother. “What are you going to do?”

  “About the money?” The viscount’s head ached, he felt feverish, and his dog was getting fat. “Lud knows.”

  “About Ada.”

  “Lud knows.”

  * * * *

  Ada couldn’t sleep again. This time she told herself it was because of the lumps under her pillow; her sleeplessness had nothing whatsoever to do with jealousy of own sister’s happiness. Tess loved her sea captain, she’d confided when she came to wish Ada a good night, and she thought he might even love her back.

  “He hasn’t spoken yet, of course.”

  Ada nodded. “Quite right. You’ve hardly known each other a sennight. You have to be sure about these things.”

  Tess put her hand over her heart. “I am sure.”

  Tess might be certain of her own feelings, but she was worried that her reputation, her other interests, her devotion to the creative arts, might alienate Leo.

  “Oh, no, Tess. He seems to admire your work, and he is encouraging you to complete the illustrations and the score. Why, he even agreed to sit for the paintings.”

  “But what if Sebastian is not a success? Then all the talk will be true, that I have a breeze blowing through my cockloft. I know that’s what people say, Ada, people who don’t feel things as I do.”

  “That’s their loss, dearest. If Sebastian—If Leo loves you, nothing else will matter. Would you like him any less if his shipping business failed?”

  “Of course not. But I never thought to marry, you know. I never thought my reputation mattered, so I went my own way. Is it too late, do you think?”

  Ada told her sister it was never too late. Now, alone in the dark with her lumpy pillow and thoughts of Chas, she prayed her words were true.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The first of Lady Ashmead’s guests arrived the next day, early by design. The design was lovely. Lady Esther Wrentham, daughter of the Earl of Ravenshaw, was a regular china doll of a young miss, petite and perfect with blond ringlets, wide blue eyes, and nary a blemish. There was nary an ounce of intelligence in that pretty package, either.

  “Mother, she lisps!”

  Lady Esther was resting after her arduous journey into Kent, a journey made longer and more tedious by the frequent stops. The delays were necessitated by rain, the lady’s travel sickness, her duenna’s dyspepsia, and a damaged wheel on the baggage coach. This cumbersome carriage contained the lady’s wardrobe, abigail, and assorted knickknacks without which, the lady lisped, she would feel too, too homethick.

  One of those knickknacks happened to be a cat. Not a china cat to match Lady Esther’s porcelain beauty, but an ugly old striped tom that was spoiled, surly, and sprayed the front step to mark his territory. Thweet William, it was announced, had to have free reign of the house, for he would shred the bedroom upholstery if confined. Since Lady Ashmead had directed the servants to give her prospective replacement the best guest chamber, the one with the family shield elaborately pieced and appliquéd on the bed-hangings by Lady Ashmead herself, Thweety was not confined.

  Tally, Chas’s dog that he’d rescued from a watery grave as a pup, who followed him everywhere, whose comfort and contentment consisted of sleeping with her head resting on Chas’s foot. Tally was consigned to the stables. The grooms all made much of her, handing her tidbits so she would not throw her head ba
ck in her lonely baying howl. Chas sneaked her into his bedroom at night, of course, and his office when he could shut the door, and took her along in his curricle when he drove around the estate. His own pet’s banishment for a curmudgeonly cat still rankled, though not as much as the scratch marks on the back of Chas’s hand rankled, from when he’d tried to make friends with the beast.

  “You said you would be polite to my company,” was all the sympathy he got from his mother.

  “I did not say I would toss my dog out in the cold for her.”

  Lady Ashmead did not bother looking up from her needlework. “Dogs do not belong in the house.”

  “Cats do? Wait until Thweety plays havoc with your yarns.”

  Lady Ashmead closed the lid on her workbasket, and on the topic. “Lady Esther seems a prettily behaved chit.”

  Good behavior did not involve turning one’s host’s household upside down. Chas did concede that she made a pretty curtsy.

  “Nor can you find anything to complain of in her looks, I would wager.”

  Of course he could; she did not have freckles. Out loud, Chas said, “She is short.”

  “They called her a Pocket Venus in Bath.”

  “Who wants a woman in his pocket? The chit barely comes to my shoulder. Why, helping her down from the carriage, I was afraid I might break her bones, she appears so fragile.”

  “I daresay she will prove sturdy enough to bear sons.”

  “Thons. She will hear thons, Mother.”

  Lady Ashmead’s eyes narrowed. “Are you belittling a gently bred female because of a handicap? I thought I raised you better than that.”

  “You did not raise me, Mother; Nanny Kitching did. And that lisp is no affliction; it is an affectation, though why the deuce any chit thinks men might find it attractive is beyond me. Your little lady does not need any artifice to make her appear younger. I swear if the chit were any more childlike I would offer her a glass of milk instead of sherry.”

  “Give over, Charles. You said you did not want any brittle polished beauties. Lady Esther is a lovely girl, with an even lovelier dowry. She will grow on you.”

  “Whiskers grow on me, ma’am. I shave them off.”

  “Give the lady a chance, Charles. Get to know her. You owe me that much.”

  So he took Lady Esther thight-theeing.

  * * * *

  His curricle was handsome, but could he not drive so fast, please.

  The lane was lovely.

  The weather was clement.

  The fishing village was picturesque.

  The home farm was orderly.

  The viscount was exhausted from trying to make conversation. The chit had less to say than the stable boy he was forced to carry up behind them as tiger, for propriety’s sake. Young Ned, at least, whistled when his lordship feathered his corners. Lady Esther silently clutched the side rail.

  She had taken half an hour to don half her wardrobe, it seemed, dressing as though they were exploring the frozen tundra instead of the nearby farms. Her hired bear leader, a Mrs. Morton, came out to make sure the chit had her fur-lined mantle, a blanket tucked around her knees, hot bricks at her feet. Meanwhile, his horses had been kept waiting in the cool air. Chas could not even tell if the woman—he had to keep reminding himself not to call her a girl—was enjoying herself now, for she kept her face averted, what he could see around the fur-lined hood, anyway. Was she so shy, then, afraid of him? Perhaps the sight of his scraped face offended her. Or else, oh lud, she was going to be ill!

  “I know, why don’t we pay a call at the closest neighbors? Get down and stretch a bit, have a cup of hot tea? Sir Emery is with the Army, but you will enjoy meeting his sisters. Miss Westlake and Miss Ada Westlake, and his widowed sister-in-law, Jane. They are some few years older than you”—zounds, even young Ned was older than Lady Esther—“but you will appreciate knowing other ladies in the neighborhood, I am sure.” Chas was not sure if her father would appreciate his well-dowered duckling being introduced to the likes of Algie Johnstone, but he’d worry about that later.

  Lady Esther nodded, so Chas turned the carriage in the direction of Westlake Hall. Then he recalled that while such a sheltered miss might have come upon spindle-shanked and skitter-witted schoolboys before, chances were Lady Esther had never met anyone like Tess.

  “Tess, that is, Miss Westlake, for she is the elder, is an artist of some repute.” Chas did not say that Tess was reputed to be rowing her boat with one oar.

  “I paint in watercolors.”

  “Do you? I am sure you and Tess will have a great deal in common, then.” His dog had more in common with Tess; Tally was a better conversationalist. It was Ada he was counting on, at any rate, to welcome Lady Esther to the neighborhood. Ada might be as prickly as a cactus and as stubborn as a mule, but she was never at a loss for words.

  Ada was not in sight, though, nor was Jane or her dirty-dish dependents. Tess was in the front parlor, painting. Leo was in the front parlor, posing.

  Chas supposed he couldn’t blame Lady Esther. If he saw a half-naked man with a dagger clutched between his teeth and a scimitar in his hands, he might have panicked also. He doubted he would have cast up his accounts at the bare-chested berserker’s feet, but it did the trick. Leo dropped the weapons and grabbed for his shirt, while Tess went to Lady Esther’s assistance. Chas was too busy laughing to help any of them, which earned him the enmity of all three.

  Once the earl’s daughter was restored, revivified, and reassured, Chas asked after the other members of the household.

  “As if you care where Jane or Algernon have taken themselves,” Tess said, still angry at him for interrupting her artwork with an ailing heiress, then acting like a looby when the poor puss announced she was going to be thick.

  It was Leo who told him, “Ada’s out, gone to the orphanage near Folkstone.”

  “The devil you say! Is she going to... ?”

  Leo shrugged. “I don’t know if she took the money. She did take the gardener with her.”

  Why, to help the orphans plant potatoes? Chas had to go. There was no telling what Ada would do at the orphanage, not with Prelieu’s purse in her hands. Chas was as generous as the next man, more so than many, and he believed his mother was even one of the orphanage’s benefactors, but that particular money was Ada’s now, and he meant to keep it hers. Unfortunately, little Lady Esther was expecting him to play her escort for the rest of the afternoon.

  “I, ah, don’t suppose you’d like to see our local foundling home, would you?” he asked her. “My mother helps oversee the orphanage, and a problem has arisen that I really should address.”

  Now it was Leo’s turn to grin, and Tess snickered. “Taking the lady to all the scenic spots, are you, Charlie? Waterfalls, churches, children’s hospitals ...”

  “Many great ladies do hours of charitable works,” Chas reminded her, impatient to be gone.

  “Ada and I have been knitting hats and mittens all fall for the orphans’ Christmas. Lady Esther can help us with that.”

  Knitting? Lady Esther had thought that only the lower orders knitted. She had as much interest in learning how as she did in visiting an orphanage. Dirty, smelly places, they were, filled with ragged children. Why, she’d rather encounter another naked, sword-wielding savage, especially one with broad shoulders and a nice smile, who was not being proposed as a prospective husband.

  Chas was about to suggest that Leo see Lady Esther back to the Meadows, with the groom present, of course, when he caught the girl’s speculative look at his handsome half-brother. The Earl of Ravenshaw would have his head for certain, if Tess didn’t.

  “I’ll drop you off back at the Meadows, then, miss. My mother will be glad of the company.” That was her excuse for inviting the hare-brained heiress; let her try to entertain the chit.

  “No, I shall go with you, my lord. I am sure I know my Christian duty as well as any lady.” Esther also knew Lord Ashmead had been as close to being engaged to Miss Ad
a Westlake as possible without a formal announcement. His own mama had told her, and Mrs. Morton had confirmed the fact, from the servants’ gossip. The man might be ill-tempered and intimidating, he might even have laughed at her, but he had a title. The unwed dukes were ancient or infants, and earls were scarcer than hen’s teeth. All the marquises she knew of were married, and Papa insisted on a title, which left this highly valued viscount.

  Lady Esther was not going to lose her chance at snabbling up the most eligible parti on the marriage market, not with her father threatening to contract a marriage for her with a foreign prince who did not even speak English. She was not, therefore, going to let her viscount encounter Miss Ada Westlake on his own if she could help it.

  “No, my dear, the trip is too far, and too cold,” Chas said as he handed her into his curricle and tucked the lap robe around her. “You might be sorely affected by the sights there, too.”

  He almost dropped the reins when the ninnyhammer next to him, who had not said boo to a butterfly, announced, “I am going with you. Thpring ‘em.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  On Ada’s previous visits to the Lillington-Folkestone Foundling Home, the children had been lined up, freshly scrubbed, smiling sweetly at their benefactress. Lady Ashmead had handed each orphan a hat, scarf, and mittens at Christmas, new shirts and aprons at Easter, all knitted and sewn by the ladies of the area. Lady Ashmead then presented a check to the superintendent and his wife, the Kirkendals, who bowed and curtsied while the children chorused, “Thank you, Lady Ashmead, and God bless you.”

  Ada supposed the check went a lot further than her puny, lumpy efforts, but writing a check—or having one’s son do so—seemed a lot easier to her. When Ada could, she put a ha’penny in each sock or mitten. When she couldn’t, she put in a peppermint candy.

  Today she had nothing but a troublesome sack of money she was determined to get out of her house and put to good use. No one was going to claim it, she acknowledged, except sneakthiefs like the chandler’s boy, who tried to tell her that he’d lost his father’s deposit money on his way to the bank. In an apple tree? She sent him away with a flea in his ear, telling him—and everyone she knew would get wind of the tale—that the money was being held by her man of business pending its rightful owner’s return. Ada was beginning to fear that her house would be broken into next, if word of her windfall passed beyond the boundaries of her own neighbors.