The Earl's American Heiress Page 4

  None of that mattered now. There was a crown pressing on his head and the legacy Willa had unknowingly bequeathed him burdening his heart.

  It hurt his brain to think about everything all at once. He’d rather let his mind wander to Cinderella. He’d come out tonight, half hoping to see her again. Thoughts of her had interfered with his daily duties; they’d even invaded his nighttime dreams.

  If he could only see her one more time, discover who she was.

  He glanced the length and width of the garden. While he’d been woolgathering, fog had rolled in. The vapor swirled brown and ugly in the light given off by a gas lantern beside the gate.

  A movement caught his eye. A woman stood beside the fountain dabbing her eyes with a white apron. He heard her softly weeping.

  She was not the lady he sought, but a chambermaid who worked on the third floor. He recalled seeing her hustling about her duties.

  Since he could not turn away from a weeping woman, he approached her.

  “Miss?” He spoke softly but still his voice must have startled her, because she jumped.

  “Oh, Lord Fencroft, sir,” she sniffled. “I beg your pardon for being out here but, but I—”

  “May I be of help, Miss—?”

  “Oh, I’m Betty, sir. And no one can help, I fear.”

  “Is there a problem with your employment?”

  She shook her capped head, and her breath shuddered when she inhaled. “No, not that—I shouldn’t trouble you about it.”

  “As Fencroft, I’m the one you ought to trouble about it.” Maybe he could not help in any way but to listen, but perhaps he could.

  “It’s to do with my cousin, sir. She’s a sweet and trusting soul but gullible to go with it. Well, the poor wee girl trusted the wrong man. She gave birth to a child and now has no way to support it. No one will hire a fallen woman. She’s gone to leave the baby at Slademore House. Not to speak ill of the sainted charity—they’ll care for the wee one fine enough—but I fear the grief of the parting will send my cousin headlong into the Thames.”

  Betty did not know how wrong she was about the charity being “sainted.”

  And why would she? Heath would think the same had he not stumbled upon the truth while searching for Willa’s baby.

  He would have been as blind as the rest of society, believing that Slademore House was exactly what it appeared to be.

  Living luxuriously was easier, he supposed, when one thought one’s donations went to ease the lives of those who did not. It was the only reason he could think of that no one ever looked beyond what their eyes saw when it came to the place—or the man.

  Slademore House might appear to be a haven for the hopeless, but in truth it existed for the purpose of feeding the baron’s lust for wealth and prestige.

  In Heath’s opinion, the baron put on a display of opulence to disguise the fact that his social position was a few steps below that of a duke or a viscount.

  The fellow drew attention wherever he went. Even the small dog he toted about wore jewels on its collar.

  Where everyone else seemed to see an angel in Slademore, Heath saw the devil. Who else would house children in poverty while keeping the gifts of the wealthy to benefit himself? What kind of man would allow a sick child to die before he would spend money on a doctor’s visit?

  Or might it not be giving up a few pounds so much as having a doctor suspect the conditions in which the children really lived?

  Well, he would not get away with it forever.

  “I will keep your cousin in my prayers, Betty. And if there is anything I can do to help, you may call upon me.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I only fear things have gone too far by now.”

  After a quiet moment, Betty nodded and hurried across the garden, her image weaving in and out of the fog. He heard the door to the back stairs of the town house open.

  The door hadn’t closed before he dashed for the stables.

  Chapter Three

  “It’s the devil’s own night, my lord,” stated Charles Creed, the only coachman Heath trusted to accompany him on the night’s errand.

  “Not so different from any other night so close to Whitechapel,” he answered, tugging the brim of a black hat low over his brow. He withdrew the dark mask he was about to tie over his face and gripped it tight in his fingers.

  “It’s just that the fog is so yellow and foul. An evil presence is what it is. Who can tell what wickedness it’s hiding.”

  “It’s hiding us.”

  “And a lucky thing. Looks like the baron is getting worried. There’s two guards by the back door tonight.”

  Heath would ask if Creed wanted to wait a few streets away but he already knew the answer would be no.

  They sat side by side, pretending to be laughing at some ribald joke as they passed the door. The guards glanced up and then away.

  “Wish we knew when the girl was bringing the baby,” Creed whispered when they rounded the corner of the building. “It’s not safe business circling the block.”

  “Nothing about this is safe.”

  “Which is why you should quit and leave it to me,” the coachman said.

  No doubt Creed was correct. Heath was a man under great obligation.

  “It takes two of us to get the children safely away.”

  “I’ll be right relieved when we can expose the blackguard for good and all.”

  Exposing a supposed saint would be a difficult thing to do, especially in this case.

  The baron had several benefactors of high rank. He was highly respected by all of society. His good deeds were touted in the newspaper on a regular basis. Even his cousin was a judge of much influence in London.

  No, anyone who went to inspect Slademore House would see what Heath had when he’d first gone to ask for Willa’s baby: well-cared-for children doted upon by a loving staff, and fed tarts and treats on a regular basis. They would be gratified to see their generous donations being put to good use.

  But they would not have seen what Heath had when, his mind full of questions, he’d gone looking further.

  Clearly no one suspected a man who sat in the first pew at church every Sunday to be a greedy soul.

  “Don’t you wonder, Creed, why no one ever questions how Slademore manages to dress in such riches? Why that little dog he carries about wears real jewels in his collar?”

  “Oh, aye, many times. I think folks are just blinded by him being so angelic-looking.”

  Yes, and hadn’t Satan been reputed to be the same?

  Leaping off the bench to the ground, Heath nodded up at Creed.

  “We have help, though,” Creed said. “There’s our informer. It’s not only us to help the children.”

  Without this mysterious ally, they could do nothing. Heath could only assume it was the person who had left the door unlocked for him when he’d rescued Willa’s daughter.

  Without the notes Creed received, they could not do this.

  While Heath climbed into the interior of the carriage, Creed changed his coat and his hat. The same pair of men in the same coach would draw the attention of the back-door guards who would be on alert since they had been here only nights ago—the very night he had met Cinderella in the garden.

  Drawing back the curtain, Heath spotted the bent figure of a woman clearly weeping while she made her way to the back door of Slademore House. She appeared to be carrying a bundle close to her chest.

  Creed must have noticed her, too, for the carriage slowed down.

  Heath snatched up a pewter-tipped cane. The thing was a weapon as much as a prop. While the carriage creaked along, he jumped out on the side facing away from the guards.

  With his shoulders hunched, he limped along the cobblestones, his head dipping toward the ground to hide his mask. He hoped he appeared to be no more threatening
than a drunk having trouble maneuvering his way.

  He intercepted the woman when she was but thirty feet from the guards.

  One of them glanced up; the other yawned.

  Heath made a tripping motion and pretended to catch his balance on the lady. He slipped an arm under the baby.

  “Come with me,” he whispered.

  “You’re him—the Abductor!” She opened her mouth to scream but Heath covered it with his palm.

  “It’s him!” called the guard just finishing his yawn. He jerked his coat aside and withdrew a pistol.

  Heath yanked the baby away from the woman, believing she would follow.

  She did, screeching and yanking on the end of the blanket. He snagged her elbow with his free arm and dragged her toward the moving coach.

  “Your cousin, Betty, sent me.” The familiar name silenced her scream.

  A shot rang out. He heard the bullet hit a stone on the street. Because of the fog it was hard to tell how close the pursuing footsteps were. Close enough to raise the hairs on his arms, though.

  “Get inside!”

  Thankfully she made the leap. He handed the infant to her on the run and then dragged himself in after her.

  He heard the whip crack over the horse’s ears, felt the lurch of the carriage when the animals jolted into a gallop. Wood splintered when a bullet connected with the back corner of the carriage.

  It took three blocks for his heartbeat and his breathing to slow enough to reassure the trembling woman that he was not kidnapping her but taking her and her infant to safety.

  Half a mile away from the town house, Creed slowed down to let him out. The coachman continued at a slow, leisurely-looking pace, bearing his charges toward the seashore and the haven of Rock Rose Cottage.

  * * *

  How could she possibly?

  And yet here she sat on the balcony overlooking the very lovely gardens of Fencroft House with the dratted notebook in her lap.

  Her brain nearly ached with the studying she had been doing. If it had not been for pleasant memories of a darkly handsome man flitting through her brain at odd times, she would be completely addle-brained by now.

  Where had he come from—where had he gone to?

  Sheaves of paper fluttered on her lap. The afternoon breeze lifted the scent of roses from below. She shook her head. It didn’t matter about the man.

  She was not intended for him, knew nothing about him. For all that she stared down at the fountain she was not likely to see him again.

  Glancing back at the notebook, she frowned, wanting to rip the pages to shreds and rain them down on the garden.

  She felt part saint for going along with Grandfather’s machinations, also part pawn, and completely a fool.

  If she felt a fool to herself she would appear thrice so to others. She was a foreigner to the ways of the British aristocracy in every way she could be.

  “Correct forms of address,” her grandfather had written in the bold script he always used.

  She had read it so many times that the paper was limp. How did Londoners keep everyone straight? Perhaps one had to be born to it.

  If she closed her eyes and thought hard she recalled that she would address the earl as Lord Fencroft, but only for the first meeting. After that she would call him “my lord” or, perhaps in time, Fencroft.

  But under the stress of a face-to-face meeting she might forget. The American in her might blurt out something like: How pleasant to meet you, Mr. Cavill. Or what if she accidentally called him Mr. Fencroft—or Oliver! That might result in a great scandal.

  But if she became his wife? What did she call him then? Something a bit more personal than his title, she hoped. And if that familiarity was allowed, was she permitted to use it in public or only in private?

  And what would he call her? Madeline? She had urged Grandfather to send a telegram to the earl informing him that it would be Clementine who was coming and not Madeline. He’d only laughed and said it was not necessary because Lord Fencroft was a lucky man to get either of his girls.

  Pressure built in her head, pounding behind her eyes. She could see it all too clearly—after she made a fool of herself and disgraced Grandfather by incorrectly addressing the earl, she would need to address his siblings.

  “Lady Olivia” would be right and easy, or perhaps it was “the Lady Olivia”? She squinted at the note Grandfather had written in the margin. Olivia had married Victor Shaw—the younger son of an earl—which meant she retained her own precedence.

  What did that even mean?

  Does that change what I call her? Would not “Mrs. Shaw,” or Heaven help them all, “Olivia” suffice for most occasions?

  The one thing she did know for certain was that Grandfather was going to regret bringing her here. No doubt he was going to have to take her home a shamed woman without the title he considered so vital to the survival of the Macooish line—which at this moment in time did not exist beyond her and Madeline.

  Lost in puzzling out exactly why she had agreed to cross the ocean in the first place, other than perhaps being a martyr to Grandfather’s cause, Clementine found her mind drifting back to the stranger in the garden—again.

  She was prone to do that far too easily. Truly, she had no business considering marriage to anyone until she could put that dashing fellow out of her head.

  With a sigh she returned her attention to the notebook on her lap and reminded herself that one day she would have to live her life without her grandfather. And how could she possibly do that knowing she had let him down?

  She could not and so here she was.

  But even now all she had committed to do was to seriously consider the marriage. She would need to meet the earl before she would make such a monumental decision.

  While Grandfather had agreed to offer his granddaughter to Oliver Cavill and the earl had agreed to accept her—well, not her so much as Madeline—she, the granddaughter sitting on a balcony in Mayfair needed to know that the man she would spend her life with was someone she could respect.

  Love might or might not follow wedding vows and the marriage might still be adequate. But without respect? No, without that a union could only end in misery.

  Grandfather seemed convinced that she would be content with his choice for her groom.

  Indeed! He’d been confident enough to have invested a fortune in the venture, surely half of it in ball gowns. He would need to succeed in his Scotland venture in order to recoup the cost.

  Since Clementine was not convinced that fluff and satin ruffles would ensure happiness, or even basic contentment, she was withholding her final decision. Or so she told herself.

  Deep down she knew the Earl of Fencroft would have to be quite unworthy in order for her to break Grandfather’s heart.

  So, for now, she had to practice. “It is lovely to meet you, Lady Olivia, or whoever you are in whichever social situation is at hand.” Being alone on the balcony, she allowed a frustrated and unladylike snort to escape her lips. “I’ll need to marry quickly so I can call you good sister and be done with it.”

  “And in the meantime Lady Olivia should suffice nicely.”

  Clementine turned her cheek up for her grandfather’s kiss.

  “Is not your new home grand?” He grinned at the impressively stately building across the way.

  Oh, it was grand, but not so formal-looking as to be unwelcoming. A pretty vine twined up the west side of the house while flowering trees bordered a private patio on the east side.

  Still, to call the town house home was premature.

  “And tomorrow, your season will begin.”

  “What was that?” Absorbed in looking at the town house as she had been, she must have misheard.

  “Your social season. Your coming out, so to speak.”

  “You will recall that I am twen
ty-three years old and a good five years past time for that.”

  “Folderol. I do realize it is late in the season but I still hope to have you presented at court.”

  “No, Grandfather. Perhaps I will wed to your liking, but I will not be paraded about like a blushing innocent. It would be humiliating.”

  “You are an innocent, are you not? And in the moment you are blushing. I’ve got to warn you, my dear, that as an American you will be suspect. As a foreigner sweeping in to claim a plum of a prize you must observe all the customs.” He reached down and swiped a curl behind her ear. “Do not be surprised if you are resented by the families who have raised their daughters to fill the slippers you are standing in.”

  “Well, they most certainly have my blessing because I will not be presented at court. Asking me to quietly marry an earl is one thing, but no one will be better off because I look like—”

  “A good and loyal child who deserves every advantage a title can bring. Just think, Clemmie, your children will never suffer from having been conceived of an accident of birth.”

  “That is one of the most outrageous things I’ve ever heard you say. I don’t know that one can consider being conceived in an adulterous liaison an accident of birth. And do you truly believe I would allow that to happen?”

  “I’m certain my mother did not intend it to happen, and yet it did.”

  And he had lived with the unfair label of bastard because of it.

  She wished she had not rebuked him so flippantly. The lack of a respectable birth had been his burden and what formed his values. Grandfather craved respectability in a way that most people did not.

  And yet she had to point out, “I could marry the corner constable and my children would be respectable.” Was the man in the fountain a constable, perhaps?

  “But not protected against life’s unpredictability. I thought you understood, Clemmie. A title gives you power, protection. And I am convinced you will be happy with the earl.”

  “There is one of us, then. I’ve yet to even meet the man.”