A Gamble on Love Page 4

  Perhaps Lord Hanley was, after all, the wisest compromise. If she gave him enough to support himself in London in lavish style, he would seldom trouble her . . . beyond the requisite heir and a spare.

  Heir. She had always thought children quite wonderful. As an only child, Aurelia had dreamed of filling Pevensey Park with the sounds of running feet and joyous laughter. Children skipping and tumbling across the expanse of park toward the wondrous world inside the Palladian rotunda, as eagerly as she once had done. But now . . . the thought of children threatened to stop her heart. Though necessarily vague, her concept of how children were made was perhaps a trifle too influenced by being a country girl for all of her twenty years. Her only knowledge of marital matters was confined to the violent mating of barnyard animals and the censorious horror evinced by her housekeeper when one of the maids strayed into the family way. Aurelia could, just barely, imagine herself doing her wifely duty with Harry or Lord Hanley. But with Thomas Lanning . . . ? Her courage would fail her . . . she’d expire at his feet. Drop dead, all of a heap.

  Leaving the miserable Cit in sole charge of Pevensey Park.

  Never!

  “Relia . . . Aurelia!” said Gussie Aldershot. “Another mile of that glum face and I swear I shall scream. How can you have second thoughts? The good Lord has smiled on you. And the Park as well.”

  “But he’s so—so—”

  “Indeed he is! And you may thank Providence for it.”

  “But he’ll never allow—”

  “Allow you to rule? Of course he won’t. Nor would young Harry, for all he’s little more than a nodcock. Nor can I believe my Aurelia Trevor, whom I have known since you were a tot of five, would be fool enough to take a witless boy like Lord Hanley when you could have a man like Thomas Lanning.”

  “I will allow him the visit,” Miss Trevor conceded, rather grandly. “It would be rude to turn him away. And then we shall see.”

  Miss Aldershot regarded her charge with grave concern. “Relia, I do not fool myself into thinking Mr. Lanning will make an easy husband. It will be, I think, much like loosing a jungle tiger on the unsuspecting Kentish countryside. But that is not such a bad thing. You know the old saying about ‘fresh blood’.” Miss Aldershot leaned back against the velvet squabs, a tiny smile curling her thin lips. “And I believe we can be quite certain Mr. Lanning’s blood is very fresh indeed.” The only response Gussie received from Miss Trevor was a swift intake of breath followed by seething silence.

  The ladies were so anxious to be home that they passed through Maidstone without stopping to take a bite to eat or stretch their legs. Home. Miss Trevor thought she well might burst into tears at the sight of Pevensey Park. Was she mad to have risked so much? In spite of Gussie’s words, should she settle for the tried and true? For Harry, the solid English countryman. Or Viscount Hanley, whom she could wind round her little finger . . . or buy off with judicious applications of coin of the realm?

  Should she run far and fast from Thomas Lanning? Who, when he came to Pevensey Park, would be like a fish out of water. A man of the City, lost in the rolling green hills of Kent. Shunned by the landed gentry. While she, Miss Aurelia Trevor of Pevensey Park, would be pitied for having fallen so low. Married to a Cit. A man who worked for his living.

  As did nearly all the inhabitants of the county of Kent.

  Strange. She had not thought of that before. In a sense, her father had also worked for his living, closely supervising his steward, riding his thousands of acres, always keeping a careful eye on the needs of his land and his tenants. Until her mother’s death had sent him on a downward spiral from which he had never recovered.

  Was it so simple then? If a man owned land, he was a gentleman. But if his living was not derived from the land, then he was a Cit? After her meeting with Thomas Lanning, Sir Gilbert had confided that Mr. Lanning’s wealth had been made from “investments.” So what was so heinous about that? Her papa had investments. Not just in consoles, but in more risky ventures as well. So why . . . ?

  Aurelia sighed. Best not to question the way of the world. Nor why she was sitting here making excuses for Thomas Lanning . . . attempting to justify their possible union, even though the thought quite frightened her out of her wits.

  “At last!” Gussie declared, peering out the window. “I see the tops of the oast houses. We are nearly home.”

  Relia felt a rush of tears to her eyes. But by the time they were trotting smartly down the long drive lined with lime trees, augmented with the occasional colorful splash of a copper beech or the exotic silhouette of a Cedar of Lebanon, she had wiped her cheeks, gazing with joy at the splendid panorama of Pevensey Park. Here, she was cocooned in beauty. Surrounded by those who loved her. Safe.

  Illusion, all illusion—as Miss Trevor discovered as soon as Biddeford welcomed her into the house, his butler’s bland mask unable to hide his distress. As Aurelia and Gussie stepped into the intricately tiled front entry, their footsteps slowed, came to a halt.

  “What is happening here?” Miss Trevor demanded, as two footmen heaved a large wooden crate up onto one of several stacks of boxes already piled in the entry hall.

  “Lord Hubert, Miss,” Biddeford choked out. “He’s clearing the bookroom. Says he can’t abide clutter. Sending them all to the attics, he is. But it’s too much for our poor lads. He’s storing them here ‘til he can hire extra help.”

  “Lord Hubert is here?”

  “Yes, Miss. Arrived just after you left for London. And in a rare taking he was to find you gone. Sent for Lady Hubert. And Mr. Twyford.” The elderly butler, looking even more woebegone, announced. “They have moved in, Miss. Taken over the east wing. There was nothing—”

  “Of course not, Biddeford,” Aurelia interjected, appalled by the butler’s obvious distress. “He is my guardian. There is nothing you could do. But as for my father’s books . . .” Miss Trevor, eyes kindling to fury, gazed at the wooden crates, stacked between two elegant white columns. “Biddeford, where shall I find my uncle?”

  “I believe you will find him in the estate room, miss. He said he wished to examine the accounting ledgers.”

  “James, Peter,” Miss Trevor said to the two footmen, who were hovering next to the stack of boxes, clearly waiting for their mistress’s reaction, “You will cease what you are doing and take our portmanteaus upstairs. Then you may report to Biddeford for further instructions.”

  The footmen could not quite restrain their grins as they crossed the entry hall and gathered up the ladies’ luggage, waiting respectfully for Miss Aldershot to precede them up the stairs. Gussie’s gaze, more than a trifle grim, followed Aurelia’s slight figure as she exited the entry hall on a quest destined to be as futile as her encounter with Mr. Tubbs. Miss Augustina Aldershot, with her shoulders slumped and a tear in her eye, trudged up the stairs to her room.

  “My lord,” said Miss Trevor as she entered the estate room. Her tone was arctic.

  Lord Hubert Trevor, a silkily handsome man of considerable height, with a fine head of gray hair topping his still pleasing countenance, had put aside the estate books—if he had ever opened them, Relia thought—and was leaning back in his comfortable chair, looking thoroughly pleased with himself, while the fingers of his left hand toyed with a snifter of brandy. As always when she saw her uncle, Miss Trevor experienced a nasty qualm, for his resemblance to her beloved papa was marked. A resemblance which was, alas, only skin-deep. Lord Hubert rose slowly to his feet, one hand surreptitiously clutching the desk. The brandy bottle, Relia noted, was nearly empty. “If I had been aware you planned to visit me, Uncle, I would have been here to greet you.” Miss Trevor did not curtsey, nor so much as nod in greeting.

  “And where have you been, miss?” Lord Hubert demanded, even as he listed alarmingly toward the desk.

  “As I am certain Biddeford informed you, Gussie and I went to London. I have decided to go into half-mourning and needed to order new gowns.” Aurelia felt only a slight quiver of consc
ience as she had, indeed, spent a goodly portion of her time in town improving her wardrobe.

  “Your aunt and I were most alarmed, Aurelia. When will you understand you are no longer free to do as you please?”

  “Since I did not expect your visit,” Miss Trevor returned in clipped tones, “it never occurred to me my journey might alarm you.”

  “Sit, sit,” Lord Hubert mumbled, swaying rather alarmingly as he waved his niece to a chair in front of the estate desk.

  It was hopeless, Aurelia thought as she clasped her hands tightly in her lap and stared at her uncle. She would be fortunate to get any sense out of him at all. Much of her anger dissipated on a sigh of despair. “Uncle, you know Pevensey Park is mine, to order as I please. Papa made that quite clear in his will. My majority is nearly upon us. You may be trustee of my money for another five years, but this is my estate. My inheritance. You have no right to order the packing up of my papa’s books.”

  “Can’t abide a mess,” Lord Hubert returned, on what sounded suspiciously like a whine. “Nor can Lady Hubert. Books everywhere, don’t you know? Books on tables and chairs, on the floor—some of ‘em stacked as high as a man can reach. Can’t live with that, child. Clutter, my lady wife calls it, and rightly so. Too much to carry to the attics, so I am having it packed off to the stables. Practically empty, they are. Plenty of room for books.”

  “The stables?” Relia echoed faintly. “They’ll be ruined!”

  “Take an army to get ‘em to the attics,” Lord Hubert grumbled. “Can’t expect me to auth—author—agree to such an expense. Wouldn’t be right.”

  Though stunned by her uncle’s high-handed behavior, Miss Trevor realized she was missing something. Something possibly even more vital than the fate of her father’s books.

  “Uncle?” she said as the silence grew heavy. “I fail to see why papa’s books should concern you. You do not live here.”

  Lord Hubert, looking sly and perhaps a trifle uneasy, took a deep gulp of his brandy. “Did not Biddeford tell you?” he inquired. “I was so concerned when I found you gone that I sent for Lady Hubert and Twyford. We have decided we have been remiss in our care of you. Obviously, a young woman of your tender years and noble station cannot live alone. We have, therefore, decided to make Pevensey our home until you are safely married.”

  “Your home?” Relia murmured, wishing, as she heard her feeble echo, that she had managed to imbue her voice with some semblance of outraged indignation instead of simple shock.

  For a moment her uncle’s blue eyes—tinged with gray, as were her own—appeared to sharpen, his mind grasping at sobriety. “It has occurred to me, Aurelia, that Ralph’s books would make excellent tinder for the Guy Fawke’s bonfire.”

  Miss Trevor sat, perched on the edge of her chair, eyes closed, while the safe haven of Pevensey Park crumpled around her. There must be a proper response to all this, but her mind was filled with a whirlwind that refused to disgorge a single coherent thought.

  Escape. She had to escape.

  “And, Relia,” her uncle added as she rose to her feet, “you had best hurry your dressing for dinner. Lady Hubert prefers to dine at six o’clock. That is when you will be expected at table.”

  Miss Trevor glided out of the estate room on a miasma of pain, but by the time she reached her bedchamber, her sharp senses were recovering. She could, she would deal with this situation. Harry Stanton, Lord Hanley, even Oswald Pitney, would be better than this.

  Even a Cit was better than this. For Pevensey Park, for the sake of children yet unborn, she would do anything.

  Except what her Uncle Hubert and her Cousin Twyford wanted.

  That night Aurelia toyed with her food while Lord Hubert sat in her father’s place at the head of the elegant cherrywood table and Lady Hubert presided at the foot. In the place that had remained empty since her mama’s death. Twyford, fortunately, was absent. Dangling after some tavern wench, Aurelia supposed, wishing that each additional pint might project him further into the oblivion of forgetting he was now living at Pevensey Park. Miss Aldershot was close-lipped, choosing to ignore the fact that Lady Hubert treated her as if she did not exist. It was not a pleasant meal, but worse was yet to come.

  Lady Hubert, once plain Miss Eustacia Middlethorpe, had been so enamored with acquiring a title, along with the youngest son of a marquess, that no one except her mama had dared address her by her Christian name since the moment of her marriage. Lord and Lady Hubert carried this practice to the extreme by using their titles when referring to each other. Twyford had once been heard to speculate, when in his cups, that he wondered if his parents continued this affectation into the throes of passion. A wayward thought, immediately vanquished, as, truthfully, Twyford could not imagine passion and his parents in the same room, let alone the same bed. Not even when an equally foxed friend poked him in the ribs and reminded him that his very existence was confirmation of at least some brief moment of connubial bliss.

  Although Lady Hubert’s conversation at table consisted primarily of laments on her son’s continued absence, the moment the ladies had settled themselves in the drawing room, leaving Lord Hubert to yet more brandy, she went on the attack. “Your conduct, Aurelia, is disgraceful,” she declared, sitting primly upright on the striped satin settee, looking down her prominent nose, which was set in a thin face marked by lines inflicted through years of disapprobation over the many—and inevitably malicious—annoyances that had marred her passage through life. “How could you run off to town in such a fashion, leaving us to wonder if you were dead or alive? Set on by highwaymen, kidnapped for ransom—”

  “Ma’am,” Relia interjected, “I believe the road between here and London is one of the best kept and most traveled in the kingdom. And we took two outriders. Truly, there was no danger.”

  “You have no right, child—none at all—to go haring off without informing Lord Hubert. You are headstrong, Aurelia. Your father indulged you to excess. It is high time you fully understand your uncle is your guardian. It is he who says when you may come and go. He who holds the reins of Pevensey Park.”

  Anathema as it was, her aunt was all too correct. Aurelia knew it. She had pushed her independence past what was pleasing when she had gone off to London without at least informing her uncle. Although, with legal age so close at hand, surely the question should be moot. She had only to bide her time and play the dutiful niece, while guarding her tongue and waiting for the plans she had set in motion to develop. But pride is a terrible thing, as was the Trevor temper. “If you think to force me to marry Twyford, you are very much mistaken,” Relia fumed. “I shan’t do it. Never! I’ll marry a man off the streets, a blacksmith, a—a stablehand, the second footman, before I’ll allow Twyford to touch me.”

  “Aurelia!” Gussie gasped.

  Lady Hubert dropped what little pretense of polite conversation that still lingered. “You will marry Twyford and like it. Pevensey Park stays in the Trevor family.”

  Yes, it would, Relia vowed. But only through Miss Aurelia Trevor. Sole heiress.

  Quite suddenly, Mr. Thomas Lanning’s granite strength seemed to take on the glow of polished armor. She would write to Sir Gilbert this very night—sneak the letter to James or Peter for posting in the village. She would take back control of her life. She would.

  Thomas Lanning was dependable. Although he had made his fortune on “Change” with more than a little creativity and daring, his reliability was known the length and breadth of the City. Indeed, renown for his acumen and the excellence of his financial advice had long since overflowed into the esoteric realms of Mayfair. So much so that Mr. Lanning had been termed “Prince of the Exchange” by no less a personage than His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent.

  But to Miss Aurelia Trevor he was a frog—an ugly one, at that—Thomas was certain of it. The arrogant chit was using him, as she would her coachman, to steer her clear of rough roads. Charles might natter on about the girl’s difficulties ‘til he was blue in th
e face. What did he, Thomas Lanning of the City of London, care if some heiress in Kent was being forced to wed her cousin—even if he was known as The Terrible Twyford? The ton condoned, even encouraged, such marriages. Keep the money in the family—was that not the motto lurking behind most Coats of Arms?

  When he had performed his service of rescuing the Fair Maiden, Miss Aurelia Trevor would offer her polite thanks and shoo him back to London. So, in spite of his promise, he would not journey to Pevensey Park. There must be a hundred—a thousand—young men willing to chase off a few minor dragons in order to ally themselves to a lucrative country estate . . .

  He would send his regrets.

  Regrets. The regrets would be his. A fine country estate—the power base he needed, whistled down the wind because he—confound it!—because he hesitated to use a vulnerable young woman as she was using him.

  Analyzing conflicting information was Thomas Lanning’s trade. He was an expert—even adept at conducting arguments with himself. He should, in all conscience, turn his back on the chit. Yet . . . was his personal ambition worth a leg-shackle? How hard could marriage be? From Miss Trevor’s cool indifference, he did not believe she would be a demanding wife. Indeed, quite the opposite. The sooner she saw the back of him, the better.

  Thomas glanced down at the papers on his desk and, just for a moment, discovered they made no sense at all. Hell and damnation, the fiendish chit had scrambled his wits! He slammed open the top right drawer of his desk, seized a fresh piece of parchment, jabbed his quill into the ink, and dashed off a note to Miss Trevor. Mr. Thomas Lanning deeply regrets his inability to keep his commitment to visit Pevensey Park. He is unavoidably detained by—Thomas raised his head, frowned—by an urgent journey to Scotland. There, that ought to be far enough away. No need for the aristocratic witch to know he didn’t plan to leave his desk in London.