Miss Westlake's Windfall Read online

  Chapter Five

  So who was he going to marry? Chas knew he’d have to wed in the near future, to provide heirs to the Ashmead estate and titles. That and nurturing his properties and dependents were his raisons d’etre, according to his mother, drummed into him since birth. Begetting more little blue bloods was one of the prime obligations that the country demanded of its nobles.

  The viscount wouldn’t even mind having children, little lace-capped infants, sturdy sons to trail after him about the estate, dainty moppets who would look just like their mother. The problem was, he could put no face to this future bearer of his heirs.

  Chas had spent most of his life—since thinking he would become a pirate—thinking that he would marry Ada Westlake, when the time was right. He’d believed she was his, his friend and companion, his laughing bride, the loving mother to his children, when the time was right.

  He’d thought wrong. That time was never going to come.

  Still, he could not retire from the world, nursing his broken dreams along with his perhaps broken wrist. His mother would nag him to death, for one thing, and his father’s memory would haunt him. Uncertain of their futures, his many dependents would feel betrayed. And his house would grow quieter and emptier, like a museum or a mausoleum. No, he would have to marry.

  Chas could not, however, think of a single woman he wished to spend the evening with, much less eternity.

  So what was he going to do? For one thing, he was going to retrieve Monsieur Prelieu’s parcel, in case that well-placed and thus highly valuable gentleman ever managed to get himself and his information out of France. The leather pouch was not on Lord Ashmead’s dresser, nor in the stables, confound it, which meant that Chas’s inebriated imaginings were less fanciful and more likely fact. He cursed all castaway clunches and pot-valiant visionaries. At least the money was his own and not the Crown’s, the government having other odd notions as to the obligations of its more wealthy citizens. They were delighted to have him oversee the small espionage trade from Lillington, at their request but at his own expense. Now he would only have to explain the loss of a Frenchman to the Foreign office, not a fortune.

  Telling his concerned valet that he needed to clear his still muddled mind, Chas donned his most comfortable boots and tossed a cloak over his shoulders, so he would not have to disturb his injured arm, now in a sling. He also accepted from his anxious butler a packet of bread and cheese to sustain him.

  Chas thought he might be able to manage a horse with one hand, if Coggs was willing to saddle one for him, which he doubted. He believed he could handle the curricle, if the bays were not eager to run, which he also doubted. He refused to be driven in one of his mother’s carriages, or trundled around the estate like a sack of grain in one of the carts. Besides, he had no intention of letting anyone know exactly how big a fool he’d been. So, whistling jauntily, Viscount Ashmead strode smartly down the ash tree-lined carriage path, his dog for company. Tally, whose actual name was Tally-ho, since she was always so keen to be running, as usual refused to be left behind.

  As soon as he was out of sight of the windows and outbuildings where Chas knew his devoted retainers kept watch, his step faltered and the whistle turned to ragged breathing, as every muscle in his body protested this new jarring. The blasted dog kept circling back to him, looking up accusingly with those big, brown hound eyes, wondering why he wasn’t keeping up. Chas fed her the bread and cheese.

  When he hobbled off the carriage drive and onto the lane that led to Westlake Hall, the Viscount couldn’t help thinking of all the times he had walked or ridden this way, to Ada. He sighed loudly enough that Tally came back from whatever scent she was investigating to rub against his leg. Or to look for more bread and cheese. Chas sighed again. Those times were past.

  Perhaps he should let his mother fill the house with her friends, as she’d been threatening, complaining of loneliness for female companionship. It went without saying that all those friends would have marriageable daughters in tow. The chits would all be pretty, and presentable to polite company. Knowing his mother, they’d all come from exalted families and have extensive dowries. Any one of them would satisfy his mother.

  None of them would satisfy Lord Ashmead. He didn’t want any well-bred London miss, a pattern card of demure behavior. He couldn’t bear a blushing bud, with neither confidence nor conversation, nor a dasher like Sir Rodney’s widow, more interested in fashion and flirting than family. Charles Harrison Ashmead was not about to worry over cuckoo birds landing in his nest. He did not want an acknowledged belle, either, a woman who’d demand attention and adoration, and would never be content in the country.

  No, what Chas wanted in a bride was a woman who was intelligent and loyal, who could share the simple country pursuits he enjoyed, who accepted him for what he was. When he tallied those qualities, he realized he’d just described ... Tally.

  If his mother was lonely—a loneliness he was certain could only be assuaged by a daughter-in-law—he would encourage her intentions to hire a companion instead of turning the Meadows into a Marriage Market. He could also try once more to convince his single-minded mother to return to her cronies in Bath, although Lady Ashmead had insisted that she would not leave the Meadows until Chas was wed, which made taking a stranger to wife a tad more appealing.

  If his mother managed to keep a companion longer than the first quarter day, unlike the previous poor relations or unfortunates in her employ, she’d have someone else to commiserate with over a son’s failures. A gentlewoman could also take on chatelaine duties her ladyship found onerous, although to Chas’s certain knowledge, the only bits of household chores his mother managed were seat cushions and menus, both of which she changed constantly, to the staff’s distress.

  Having another gently born female in the house was not without complications of its own, since the poor lady was always about, not quite family, never a servant. Still, Chas had offered to pay the woman’s wages, as the cost of the coffee stain on the infant cap, a stain, incidentally, which only Lady Ashmead could see. He’d vowed to be polite to the companion and do the pretty, and not even complain when his mother held a few small entertainments for the female, dinners and such, to introduce her to the neighborhood. For what that stain was going to cost Chas, he could have bought a coffee plantation.

  By now he had reached the abandoned Westlake orchards, where withered apple trees loomed ahead of him, row upon row of identical, indistinguishable trees. “Come on, Tally,” he called to the dog, “there are only a hundred or so.” There were only a thousand or so niches where a pouch could be stashed by a drunken dunderhead who could barely recall the orchard, much less the chosen branch.

  He held a duplicate leather purse out to the hound for sniffing, then had to hide the thing back in his pocket before the delighted dog ate it or buried it. “It’s not a present, dash it, you useless mutt, it’s something to go find.”

  Without high expectations, the viscount was not too disappointed when Tally located a half-rotted glove, a stick suitable for tossing, a surfeit of spoiled apples, and an angry squirrel. Always trying to please him, she’d laid them all at her master’s feet, except, of course, the squirrel, but not for lack of trying.

  Chas had been searching too, looking beneath the trees for any sign of disturbance where something—or someone— might have fallen from one of the cursed trees. The stiff autumn breeze had ruffled the fallen leaves, though, and the excited dog’s tearing around had disturbed any other possible evidence.

  Close to dusk, Viscount Ashmead had to concede defeat. As far as he was concerned, the orchard was as empty as his own future.

  * * * *

  Ada was on a search that afternoon, too: she was looking for a smuggler. The farms and villages around Lillington were rife with them, according to rumor. The apothecary’s assistant might be in the gang, or the blacksmith’s son. No matter. They wouldn’t talk to Miss Ada Westlake about the illegal trade, and she was not interested in
any of the henchmen anyway. She wanted the head of the operation, the ringleader, the dastardly Leo Tobin.

  How did she know the mastermind behind the local free traders was Leo Tobin? Because everyone said so. Because he could not have gotten rich with his father’s fishing boat. Because he dressed like a gentleman. That’s what everyone said, at any rate.

  Ada was not, naturally, acquainted with Mr. Tobin. He might be wealthy, but he was not accepted in the polite circles of Lillington society. If the heathen even bothered to attend church, it was not Ada’s own St. Jerome’s where he put his ill-gotten gains into the poor box. He did not subscribe to the local assemblies, and he did not frequent the Misses Hanneford’s lending library. He neither strolled the village streets, nor patronized the shops. Still, Ada knew where to find her quarry. The so-called Gentlemen gathered at a low tavern on the edge of town. Everyone said so.

  Never one to shirk her duty, Ada hitched old Lulu to the pony cart and pointed the old mare in the right direction, alone with her thoughts since Westlake Hall could afford neither groom nor maid to accompany her. Since she was already breaking every tenet of proper decorum for an unwed miss by entering a thieves’ den, Ada could not worry about being unchaperoned on the journey. Her sister-in-law refused to travel in the pony cart, but would have lain down in front of it before she let Ada return the sack of coins. As for Tess, Ada’s sister was inspired today to study the worms in the apples.

  Ada might be alone, but she did have her brother Rodney’s old dueling pistol for protection. The thing was empty, but would look impressive to the raff and scaff she expected to encounter at Jake’s Mermaid Tavern. At least Ada hoped it would.

  She herself was not impressed with the dilapidated building. The roof sagged, the single window was grimed with smoke, and the mermaid painted on the unevenly hung sign outside was naked! Ada supposed mermaids usually were, but, goodness, they could have added a bit of seaweed for modesty’s sake. This woman made Jane look like an undeveloped schoolgirl.

  Eyes lowered, Ada tied Lulu to the post, adjusted her shawl, marched into the building, and announced to the barkeep that she had come to see Mr. Leo Tobin, and she was not leaving until she had done so.

  “Bless you, ma’am, but Leo ain’t here.”

  Ada crossed her arms over her chest. “Then find him.” She peered around the murky, low-ceilinged room. “You there, Fred. What are you doing here in the daytime when you should be out fishing?”

  Fred nervously shuffled his feet. “Tide bein’t right, Miss Ada. But you hadn’t oughtta—”

  “Then you should be home with your wife, helping with the babies. And you, Sam Findley, didn’t you promise to build a new pen for your mother’s pigs? I nearly ran one over on my way here.”

  In no time at all, Jake’s clientele had dwindled to one old salt asleep in the corner. Ada tapped her foot. Jake spit on the floor, but he sent a boy with a message.

  * * * *

  No one had said how handsome Leo Tobin was. His dark hair and eyes reminded her somewhat of Chas, but the smuggler had a rakish, dangerous, devil-may-care quality about him that some women—not Ada, certainly—would find attractive. Ada preferred Viscount Ashmead’s open, good-humored countenance. Chas never wore such form-fitting coats, though, nor such clinging pantaloons. The gossips never mentioned that, either.

  The smuggler cleared his throat. “You wished to see me, Miss ...?”

  Ada could have kicked herself for blushing, for looking, for seeing far more than was proper. “No. That is, yes, I did wish to see you.”

  “I am honored, to be sure, Miss... ?” he prompted once more.

  Ada blushed again at her lack of manners. The man might be the devil’s own disciple, but she was a lady. “Miss Westlake. Miss Ada Westlake,” she added, not to be confused with Tess, although in this instance even Ada was worried as to which sister had her wits about her.

  “Aha,” was all he said, unhelpfully. He did smile, which did not settle her suddenly racing pulse at all.

  “Yes, and I have come to give you this.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the pistol.

  His eyes widened.

  “I beg your pardon. I meant this.” Ada gave him the gun to hold while she reached into her other pocket. Missing Tobin’s grin, she held out the sack of coins, repaired with her neat stitches. “From my apple tree.”

  “Oh?”

  “You may as well take it, Mr. Tobin, for I will not accept it, nor your nefarious trespassing.”

  “No?”s

  “A thousand times no. I will not permit my land to be used to support the French cause. You may not be aware, sir, but my brother is a soldier, fighting to defend our shores while scum like you profit by undermining his efforts.” She noticed his raised eyebrow, the same affectation Chas employed just before he called her Addled Ada. Perhaps she had been a shade overzealous, considering she was practically alone in an alehouse with a known criminal, and he still held her pistol. At least it was unloaded; she wasn’t that much of a peagoose. “That is, I am sure you are a fine man. Everyone says so. You must simply find another route to ply your trade than through my apple orchard.”

  “Or?”

  “Or I shall be forced to ... to report you to the magistrate.” Who must be hand in glove with the handsome villain, she realized, that he’d gone so long unapprehended. “Or else I shall have my good friend Viscount Ashmead make sure you do not use Westlake property again.”

  “How good?”

  “How good?” At least no one ever said he had a silver tongue. “Oh. Very good.” If Chas’s name and title had the fellow quaking in his boots, then she’d use them for all they were worth. Silently apologizing to Chas and wishing more than ever that her words were true, she added, “Viscount Ashmead and I are very, very good friends.”

  “Very good.” Leo handed her the pistol and took the pouch, listening for the satisfactory clink of coins.

  “Yes, that’s what I said. Lord Ashmead is a close friend.”

  “No, miss, I meant very good, Westlake Hall is out of bounds to the Gentlemen.”

  Ada was so relieved she held her hand out to shake the smuggler’s, but he raised hers to his lips, the scoundrel. Blushing again, or still, Ada recaptured her hand and fled through the door to Lulu and the waiting cart.

  Leo tossed the pouch, the familiar pouch—for hadn’t he seen it just recently?—in the air, whistling. “Ah, Charlie, my boy, I can see why you’re so smitten. It’s a merry dance that little minx will lead you.”

  Chapter Six

  When Chas returned to the Meadows, a red phaeton with gold wheels was drawn up by the stables, where the grooms were rubbing down a pair of showy but narrow-chested grays. The flashy cattle looked fine as fivepence, but Chas’s expert eye told him they’d be winded before they reached Lillington. At least Leo had had the sense to park them out of sight of the house. Chas could not imagine what his mother would think about the gaudy equipage, but he well knew what she’d say about the ill effects of associating with the lower classes. In her estimation, none came lower than Leo Tobin.

  The viscount hurried into the stables, where Leo was throwing dice with the head groom, Coggs, by the day’s last light. Chas looked around, knowing only something of import would have led Leo to visit where he’d never been invited, and never would be invited in this Lady Ashmead’s lifetime. “Did our friend arrive then?” he asked, peering into the shadows but spotting nothing except immaculate stalls and his own highbred horses.

  “No such luck.” Leo put the dice back in his pocket and came closer to the entry while Coggs went off to the tack room, giving the two men privacy. Leo’s brows raised when he caught sight of the viscount’s battered visage, that had been barely nicked just two nights ago. “Good grief, man, what the devil happened to you?”

  “Fell off my horse.” No one believed him about the rabbit hole, so why bother? Leo would not swallow the bar-fight fustian, not when he’d been in the same brawl.

&n
bsp; “You? The best rider in the county? With the best trained nags?”

  Chas shrugged. “Yes, well, mishaps happen. I suppose that’s why they call them accidents.”

  Leo shook his head, but took the money pouch out of his coat. “I suppose this must have fallen out of your pocket when you parted company with your horse, then.”

  “By Jove, I am happy to see the deuced thing! I’ve been searching half the afternoon, dash it. And, yes, I’d wager that was precisely what happened. I lost the purse when I fell. Too dark to see it at the time, of course.”

  “It would be dark as Hades, I’d guess, in Miss Westlake’s orchard. That’s where the brass was found.”

  “What were you doing—? That is, yes, it was quite dark. Foolish of me to take the shortcut through the orchard, I know. But as long as the blunt’s recovered, no harm done.” Chas motioned toward his injured wrist. “Well, no permanent harm, at any rate.”

  “In an apple tree.”

  Chas didn’t know whether to pray for quick death, or for strength enough to wipe that knowing grin off Leo’s face. He went on the offensive. “What the deuce were you doing in Ada’s orchard?”

  “I? Whoever said I was ambling about the apples? No, your little lady found it.”

  “She’s not my anything.”

  “And brought it to me. At Jake’s.”

  Now Chas knew what to pray for this Sunday, at any rate: patience not to murder the both of them, the smirking smuggler and his once would-have-been wife. If he ground his teeth any harder, they’d be down to nubs. “No lady goes into Jake’s.”

  “This one did.” Leo tossed the purse from hand to hand. “She seemed to think the brass belonged to me, ill-gotten gain from the French trade.”

  The viscount snatched for the pouch with his one good hand, and missed. “Well, it doesn’t and it isn’t.”

  “Aye, but who does it belong to, then? You? The little angel?”

  “To Prelieu, if he gets here. The man will need it to make a new life for himself. And don’t call Ada an angel.”