Miss Westlake's Windfall Page 2

  Just when Ada was about to reach for the toast, Jane murmured, “I hear that Ashmead spent the night in an alehouse.” Jane had an intricate network of informants, with her personal maid on intimate terms with every footman in the neighborhood, it seemed.

  “I am sure it is no concern of ours where Lord Ashmead spends his nights, or days, for that matter. He is a grown man of seven and twenty. Surely he is entitled to his privacy.”

  Her repressive tones did not faze Jane one whit, who had seen her third birthday with a zero in it some few years ago. Lady Westlake did not intend to see her fourth decade celebrated in the country, in reduced circumstances, especially not when some stubborn, willful chit of one and twenty could rescue them all with two words. Since “I do” were the only words she wished to hear from Ada’s lips, Jane continued as if her sister-in-law had not spoken at all. “An alehouse where he got as drunk as a, well, as a lord, in low company.”

  Ada’s cup clattered on its saucer. She put the bread back, having lost her appetite. “Chas is not a drunkard.”

  “He never used to be, before you drove the poor man to drink.”

  “I say, Ashmead’s a rich man. what? That’s the whole point, ain’t it?”

  Jane ignored her uncle, too. “In fact, you ought to be sorely ashamed, Miss Too-Good-for-a-Viscount, breaking the poor man’s heart that way.”

  “Oh, pooh. Chas’s heart is as hard as his head. It was only his pride that was injured.”

  “Oh, and I suppose you didn’t toss his heirloom engagement ring at his head?” It had been a huge ruby, surrounded by diamonds. Jane could have lived in London for a year on its worth. She pursed her lips.

  “I might have, but it only left a tiny scratch.”

  Jane dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Besides, a gentleman’s pride is no small thing. Why, having his suit rejected so adamantly might lead a man to any number of indiscretions, such as a barroom brawl.”

  Uncle Filbert nodded his agreement. “Steals his manhood, by George. Makes a chap want to prove himself. Young bucks butting heads, don’t you know.”

  “Chas was in a fight? Is he ... ? That is, was anyone injured?”

  “I’d say your concern for Ashmead comes a little late, wouldn’t you, Miss Holding-Out-for-a-Hero?”

  “Was he hurt, by Heaven?”

  Jane raised her perfect nose in the air. “How should I know? I do not gossip with servants.”

  At Ada’s “Hah!” Jane did admit to making sure that his lordship was well enough for visitors. “Which is why we assumed you’d gone to call this afternoon, to see for yourself, to bring a restorative or some such.”

  What they’d wished was that Ada’s senses were restored. Her hopes dashed once more, Jane asked her uncle to pour her a wee sip of his own brew, for her nerves.

  Ada was certain she was the last person Chas would wish to see today, especially if he was feeling below par. Of course servants’ gossip always made mountains out of molehills, especially when it concerned the gentry acting beneath their dignity. Likely Chas had shared a drink or two with some of his tenants, then took part in a friendly bout of arm-wrestling or some such physical proof of prowess men were so prone toward. Charles Harrison Ashford, Viscount Ashmead, was not a sot, nor did he need to prove his worth to anyone. For certain, his heart was not broken. Ada doubted if that organ was even slightly bruised.

  The sight of the bottle in Mr. Johnstone’s hands, however, a bottle that held no excise label, reminded Ada of her own news. “Although I did not have converse with Viscount Ashmead this afternoon,” she began, “I did accomplish something better. I gathered a decent quantity of apples. Mrs. Cobble is paring some now, so we should have a lovely pie for dinner.”

  “An apple pie is better than a parti?” Jane snapped. “Better than a peer with deep pockets? Is this whole family dicked in the nob?” She took a swallow of brandy. Perhaps it was not her first of the afternoon after all, for she went on: “One brother thought he could ride a wild horse, while the other one believes his presence on the Peninsula is the only thing keeping the Corsican from overrunning the Empire. This chit turns her back on the best offer she is ever likely to have, and the other... ? It’s a madhouse, that’s what this is. Bedlam at Westlake.”

  Now Ada might silently agree that her elder brother Rodney had been cork-brained, getting on an unbroken stallion and wagering the already mortgaged town house on his ability to stay aboard, besides. She would never have spoken such sentiments aloud, though, since Rodney had paid the ultimate price for his folly, but if his own widow wished to label him lunatic, Ada could not argue the point. She would not even debate the wisdom of Emery’s insistence that his duty lay with the Army, when his inheritance was going to hell in a handcart. For herself, she’d been teased with Addled Ada so many times she took it as a pet name, a sign of affection for her independent ways. No one, however, no one at all, was permitted to question Tess’s sanity, not while Ada had breath in her body.

  “This is my family’s home,” she said, “Tess’s home, and she will not be insulted here, sister. If you are so disappointed in your relatives by marriage, I am sure we will be pleased to help you pack.”

  “You forget yourself, miss. I am Lady Westlake, and until your rattle-pate of a brother returns from playing soldier, I am mistress of this establishment. I have let you deal with the servants and the estate, since dear Rodney seemed to think you could manage, but I shall not be pushed aside, not without my annuity, I won’t.”

  “Rodney used the marriage settlements to buy you furs and gems. You know there is no money in the account or, by heaven, I would have given it to you long ago.”

  “Hmph. Well, I would have remained in the London house if you had not sold it from under my feet.”

  “I didn’t sell it, Lady Westlake. May I remind you that the bank reclaimed it to pay the mortgage. Everything else, including the blasted unbroken stallion, went to pay gambling debts. If you and Rodney had managed to live within your means, we would not be in this fix now, and no one would care if I married the linen-draper, much less Lord Ashmead.”

  “Now, now, girls, no need to be pulling caps. We’ll come about, see if we don’t.” Uncle Filbert brought the bottle, to tip some brandy into Ada’s cold tea. She put her hand over the cup with a gruff “No, thank you.” He shrugged and poured it into his own glass instead. “Aye, we’ll manage. We’re not doing so badly, what with an apple pie, a fine bottle of brandy—”

  “That never saw the customs collector.” Ada got up and retrieved her red scarf from the corner table. She untied the knot and dumped the contents onto a hard-backed chair no one ever sat in. “I found this in the orchard, too.”

  Jane moved faster than the time Tess brought her herpetology collection to the breakfast room. “Oh, my!” She started counting: “One new fan, two bonnets, three pairs of gloves...”

  “No, Jane. We will not be spending the money.”

  “What, not spend all of this lovely brass? You mean to pay off more of those tiresome debts with this windfall? I won’t have it, I tell you, Ada. I’ll go speak to the trustees myself. I’ll—”

  “No, I mean the money is not ours to keep. I will be returning it to its rightful owners as soon as possible.”

  Uncle Filbert was leaning over Jane’s shoulder, nearly licking his lips. “I say, finders keepers and all that, what?”

  “No, I do not believe the money was accidentally misplaced. I believe it was left there in our orchard as payment for the use of our land by smugglers.” She pointed at the bottle in Filbert Johnstone’s hand. “And I believe I know who made the arrangement.”

  “Nonsense. You cannot think that we would traffic with such ruffians.” Jane grew indignant, but her uncle was sputtering, dribbling brandy down his floral waistcoat. Now he looked more than ever like a bed throw in a bordello.

  “How could you, sirrah?”

  Filbert was trying to find a place out of Ada’s sight to hide the telltale bottle.
“It’s just the one bottle, I swear. I don’t know a thing about the brass.”

  “You don’t know about sympathizing with the French? About aiding and abetting the enemy?”

  Now he went pale. “I didn’t... You can’t...”

  “Oh la, Ada, you are making too big a thing out of this. What’s it to you if someone crosses our boundaries, when they pay so handsomely?”

  “Rather ask my brother Emery what it is to him when the French have more cannons and more ammunition, warmer uniforms and better rations.” She started to gather the coins into the kerchief again, prying Jane’s fingers away from the ripped leather pouch. “The money goes back, and that is final.”

  Jane managed a smile without taking her eyes off the disappearing coins. “Well, I am sure you may try, Ada, but it is not as if smugglers place signs over their doorways like bootmakers or booksellers, advertising their trades. Nor will they step forward if you place a notice in the daily Journal. So do try to return the purse, if that’s what it takes to satisfy your so-sincere scruples. Then we can spend the money.”

  Ada snatched the scarf away. “We will never spend it. It is soiled money; don’t you see? Besides, everyone knows smugglers kill people who interfere with their business. Do you want us all to be murdered in our beds? I will donate it to charity before spending one shilling.”

  Jane moaned and fumbled in her pocket for her vinaigrette. She gave up looking and grabbed the bottle of brandy out of her uncle’s nerveless fingers.

  Ada glared at him. “I know better than to ask for the names of your confederates, but you can pass on my warning: if Westlake land is ever used for such a purpose again, I will go straight to the magistrate’s office, then the excisemen and the sheriff.” She took the bottle from Jane, opened the nearest window, and poured what little remained out onto the lawn. “And yours will be the first names I give them for questioning.”

  Chapter Three

  Charles, Viscount Ashmead, swore that he would never touch another drop of Blue Ruin as long as he lived—if he lived through the day. The way he felt at this moment, such an outcome was neither likely nor necessarily desirable. Moaning took too much effort. Breathing took too much effort. That was the ticket, Chas told himself, he could stop breathing and put himself out of his misery. No, dying took too much effort.

  He whimpered. Either that or his damned dog was mourning him already. The sound kept pounding at his head, as if some barbaric blacksmith was shoeing every blessed horse that ever ran at Epsom Downs. “Blast you, Tally, shut up before I shut you up.”

  Since his lordship could not possibly get up, his threat was an empty one. Since he hadn’t actually opened his mouth, his threat came out more like a gurgle. It was enough for whomever was on the other side of the viscount’s door, for the door creaked open—or was that the inside of his skull?— and a voice shouted, “Here you go, milord. Drink this and you’ll feel right as a trivet in no time.”

  If feeling like a stiff, lifeless trivet was the best he could do, Chas would decline. When he opened his mouth to do so, however, that same fiendish torturer poured down his throat a noxious brew that promptly returned. The fortunate placement of a basin reminded Chas as to why he usually avoided overindulgence, as if he needed such enlightenment while in his extremities.

  “Begone, you ghoul,” the viscount groaned. “Let me die in peace.”

  “Tsk, tsk, milord. We are in a sorry state, aren’t we?”

  We? Chas hadn’t noticed Purvis casting up his accounts. In fact the deuced valet looked fresh as a damned daisy, from what Chas could see through bleary, bloodshot eyes. “You’re fired. Now get out.”

  “Very well, milord. I’ll come back in an hour or so when you feel more the thing, shall I?”

  “If you come back before dinnertime I’ll have your guts for garters, I swear.”

  The valet wrinkled his long nose. “Dinner is in an hour, milord.”

  “Dinner tomorrow. Go.”

  Purvis bowed, unseen by Lord Ashmead, who had collapsed back onto his bed. “Very good, milord. But before I leave may I add my sympathies to those of the rest of the staff. We all regret that Miss Westlake has turned down your latest offer.”

  Chas pulled a pillow over his head and groaned. Oh, Lord, he swore as his memory reluctantly returned, he would have been better off dead after all. At least his vow never to overindulge would be easy to keep, because he was never going to offer for Ada Westlake again. Once a month, for as long as he could recall, he’d made her a proposal in form. Once a month, she’d turned him down, for some fardling reason or other, and every month he’d had a few glasses to ease the disappointment. He must have had a few bottles this time instead, but damned if he could remember anything between slamming out of Ada’s house and waking up in his.

  Never again, the viscount promised himself before he fell back asleep. Never again. No woman was worth this agony, not even Ada.

  * * * *

  When the viscount next awoke—in itself a miracle of the body’s will to survive—his memory was stronger, but so was his agony. Lud, no amount of drink could have made him this wretched. He ached not only with the hurt of Ada’s rejection, and the entire shire’s knowing of it, but also with more physical injuries. Chas tried to take stock by the faint glow of the fireplace embers, which meant he must have slept an entire day away, then. It wasn’t enough.

  He had the devil’s own headache, for one, not surprising considering the quantities of cheap spirits he’d imbibed at Jake’s Mermaid Tavern. His right eye felt swollen and sore, likely from the brief melee at the same venue. One of the dive’s denizens had accused another of cheating at cards, at which fists and furniture had gone flying. Chas had ducked, but obviously not fast enough.

  His left cheek burned as though he’d been shaved with a butcher’s knife—by a blind barber. He tried to feel under the bandage there, but his left hand would not move, strapped as it was between two boards. Zeus, was his wrist broken, then? Perhaps he’d been concussed by the airborne bar stool after all, before Jake settled the argument with a belaying pin, and that was why Chas could not recall being knocked out, half scalped, and trampled. For sure at least one of his ribs must be broken, his lordship reasoned, since he was having so much trouble breathing.

  No, that was Tally. The blasted bitch was lying smack on top of the viscount’s chest. At least one female held him in affection. Nevertheless, Chas shoved the mixed-breed hound off the bed with his good hand, complaining, “Lud, you stink.”

  No, that was him. He recognized the odor from the last time his groom had doctored a bruised pastern—on a horse. What the deuce had happened to him?

  He started to review the previous evening in his mind, skipping the argument at Westlake Hall, which was far more painful than the other aches and far more lasting, Chas feared. He began instead with his arrival at Jake’s Mermaid Tavern, on the seaward outskirts of Lillington village.

  Chas had gone to meet an old friend and sometime business partner, Leo Tobin. Both natives of Lillington, they’d been acquainted since boyhood, although they were from far different classes and circumstances. Chas had been born to wealth and privilege, while Leo had been raised by hardworking fishing folk. The heir to the viscountcy was educated at the finest institutions; the heir to his father’s ketch was taught by the local vicar and schooled by experience.

  Still, they dealt well together, from days of cricket on the village green, and rowing races near the shore. They even resembled each other in looks, each being tall and dark and broad-shouldered, although Leo had a swarthier complexion from his days sailing, and a few more years in his dish. Now that his new shipping business was so successful, it was Leo who dressed in the first stare, a diamond winking from his cravat, while Chas had donned his oldest riding coat and a spotted cloth tied loosely at his neck. In the murky light of the Mermaid Tavern, a stranger would be hard-pressed to name which was the aristocrat, which the smuggler.

  Sitting quietly in a secl
uded corner, they’d been awaiting the arrival of a third man, but Prelieu had never arrived. According to Tobin, the rest of the expected shipment of goods had been delivered ashore earlier that evening, but not the Frenchman. Disturbed by the hitch in his plans, to say nothing of the wound to his heart, Chas had stayed on at the tavern, drinking the swill that passed for ale, then switching to the stomach-corroding Blue Ruin.

  “Said no again, did she?” Leo had taunted with the unmerciful callousness of an old boyhood chum. With his sources, Leo likely knew of Ada’s answer before Chas did. Then again, Chas and Ada had been yelling like fishwives, so it was no wonder the turning down of his tenderly tendered troth was so quickly common knowledge. But the viscount wasn’t going to think about that now.

  Leo had gone on to tease about monthly curses, and how Ashmead had found the only female in the kingdom who was not fickle. “Damned if your Miss Westlake isn’t the steadfast sort.”

  He’d ignored the viscount’s muttered, “She’s not my anything.”

  Leo’d grinned. “Didn’t want you last month. Doesn’t want you this month. Won’t want you next month. I admire a woman who knows her own opinion and sticks to it, don’t you?”

  Chas hadn’t bothered mentioning that there would be no next month, that addlepated Ada had made him swear not to ask again. He’d just gritted his teeth and called for another bottle, trying to distract his now-former friend with speculation as to the Frenchman’s whereabouts. Had he missed the boat? Found another way across the Channel? Changed his mind about selling his information to the Crown?

  Trying to find a more comfortable spot against his pillows, Chas tried to make a mental note to ask his valet about the sack of coins that was to be Prelieu’s payment. He knew he’d had it at the alehouse, because he’d made sure the purse was tucked away when the fight had broken out.

  Nursing what he was sure would become a lurid black eye, Viscount Ashmead had started riding for home on his young chestnut gelding, Thunderbolt. Try as he might, his lordship could not recall meeting up with the Frenchman or being set upon by thieves. If Purvis hadn’t taken the pouch of coins from Chas’s pocket, then the small fortune must still be in his saddlebag. Leo was the only one who’d known of the planned payment, besides Prelieu, of course, and Chas trusted the smuggler with his life, if not with his pride.