“Don’t be selfish, Heath. You have a duty to the Fencroft estate. Without Miss Macooish’s fortune we will be utterly lost. How many people will be left in ruin if you do not marry her?”
“The woman would have suited our brother. He always did like brightly feathered birds. From what Oliver had to say about her I believe she is quite freehearted and pretty, and no doubt frivolous. You know me better than to think we would make a good match.”
“That hardly matters. I made a love match and look where that got me. Believe me, little brother, better to set your sights low and not be disappointed. If you won’t think of all the souls Fencroft Manor supports, consider the well-being of your nephew. He might be the one to take over the title one day.”
“If I marry the heiress, her son will inherit.”
“Don’t be silly. American women are notoriously infertile. They will be the ruin of the aristocracy. It’s what everyone says.”
Life had certainly spun Heath about and dropped him on his noble head. Unless he wedded Madeline—wasn’t that her name? Truthfully, until this moment he’d given his future sister-in-law little thought, but unless he wedded her, there would be nothing for Victor to inherit. His hardworking tenants and all of Fencroft Manor’s trusted servants would be cast out onto the street.
For all that he longed to leap off the couch and dash off a telegram to Macooish, he sat there long after his sister kissed his cheek and went to bed. He watched the dying flames until the room finally went dark.
London, nine weeks and a dozen and a half ball gowns later...
“Loyal to a fault,” Clementine muttered while sitting on the balcony of the apartment Grandfather had rented and gazing down at the midnight stillness of the garden below. “Exceedingly and preposterously loyal.”
Excessive was what it was. She had never considered herself to be a weakling, but surely any woman with a backbone would have refused to even consider Grandfather’s scheme.
And yet here she was, sleepless in London, with a notebook on her lap and a lantern glowing on the table beside her. Grandfather’s handwriting on the pages blurred before her eyes. The more she stared at the instructions on how to address the titled, the wavier the letters became.
From down below, she heard the soothing tap of water in a fountain. Squinting through the dark, she could see how large it was. It might rightly be called a pond.
This building was vastly elegant, as was the garden that separated it from Fencroft House on the other side. In fact, Grandfather had rented this apartment because of its proximity to the Fencroft place. Perhaps he thought she would fall in love with the environs and look favorably upon the man.
That remained to be seen, but the garden did look appealing by moonlight. The landlord had told Grandfather that the garden was shared space between the apartment and the town house.
If she looked hard she could see the outline of the three-story brick building across the way.
As late as it was, even the servants were abed. No one would be the wiser if she slipped outside.
Within fifteen minutes she was sitting on an ornate iron bench three stories below her balcony.
Fresh, cool air washed over her face, a welcome change from the stifling yellow fog that had clung to everything earlier in the day.
Truly, there had been moments when it hurt to breathe. She’d felt great pity for those forced to go about their daily business muddling through it.
Thankfully, at about sundown a fresh wind had blown it away, allowing the moon to shine down, to cleanse and bless everything with its pure, cold light.
The thought was quite poetic and it made her smile. She hoped she would remember it when she went back upstairs and took her pen and paper out of the secretary.
She might not, though, since she was in no hurry to leave this tranquil spot. It would be nice to sit here until the first rays of morning light peeked over the rooftops, but she was fairly certain it would be forbidden.
Given that Grandfather had cautioned her to observe every social rule, appear beyond reproach in everything she said or did, she doubted she ought to be down here by herself for even a moment.
Still, who was to know that she sat here blissfully listening to the rustle of tall shrubbery in the breeze, and the tinkle of the fountain?
Not a single soul. She was free to sit here and wonder what she was doing in London in the first place, why she had even considered Grandfather’s outrageous request—not demand. She was free to sit here and wonder what she was doing in London in the first place, why she had even considered Grandfather’s outrageous request—not demand.
And yet here she sat, somewhat contentedly listening to the sound of pattering droplets hitting the surface of the large pond when she ought to be seething in indignation.
But it was soothing, and while not as dramatic as the crashing waves of the ocean, it was lovely in its own way. Perhaps if she viewed events as an adventure, at least until she made up her mind about them, she could find a bit of peace within herself.
To that end she must make a point of sneaking out every night.
Solitude was something that even Grandfather’s fortune could not purchase. Closing her eyes, Clementine listened to a symphony of frogs accompanied by the twitter of a nightingale. London might be a pleasant place after all. In time she might—
“Curse it!”
A man’s exclamation cut the peace of the moment. He sounded startled more than angry. The sudden rustling of brush gave way to a husky gasp.
She leaped off the bench, ready to flee. Who would be creeping about in the hedge at this hour unless he was an intruder up to no good? Perhaps a thief or a pillager?
A cat dashed across the walkway at the same moment the dark-clad figure tumbled into the fountain. She could not be certain, but she thought he hit his head on a stone going in.
Oh, dear!
The pond was only knee-deep, but the man was floating facedown in it.
It was possible that he was a villain, or equally possible that he had a very good reason to be out here, the same as she did. In any case, she could hardly let him drown.
Running, she came to the edge of the water, stepped into it, slippers and gown forgotten—but not forgotten enough not to feel horrible for the servant who would have to make them presentable again.
Reaching for the man’s shoulders, she had to kick aside the long black coat he wore because it floated about him, getting tangled in her skirt and restricting her movement.
Giving a solid yank, she managed to get him on his back. Mercy, but he was heavy and, oh, my—
If he was a villain, he was a dashing one, with dark hair and a sweep of black, seductive eyelashes.
