A Rival Heir (6 page)

“Oh, yes. Mr. Longstreet outlived his wife, and he died several years ago,” Sir Hugh said. “Is their property near yours, Lord Westwick?”

“Perhaps thirty miles distant. We all attended the same assemblies when we were young. Lord, that seems like ancient history!”

Emily looked intrigued. “Oh, do tell us what Miss Longstreet was like as a girl!”

“Not at all the curmudgeon you say she is now,” he assured her. “She and her sister Margaret were pretty as pictures, especially alongside one another.”

“Pretty! How very astonishing. She is all angles and wispy gray hair now. With the fiercest eyes I’ve seen in many a year.” Emily seemed to recall herself, and added, “Sharp as a tack, you know. Nothing escapes her notice. I do love a feisty elderly lady, don’t you, Lord Westwick?”

His lordship regarded her dolefully. “I’m not at all sure that I do, Mrs. Holmsly. My wife was of an entirely different nature—very agreeable and accommodating.  I dare say Miss Longstreet would terrify me if I were to meet her today.”

“Oh, no, no!” protested Emily. “Nothing of the sort. She is merely a fascinating character. I believe you owe it to your past acquaintance and the proximity of your properties in Westmorland to call on her here in Bath.”

“Do you?” The earl turned a quizzical eye on Sir Hugh. “And you, Sir Hugh? Do you recommend that I reacquaint myself with your godmother?”

“I’m sure it is a matter of total indifference to me,” said the baronet, adding firmly, “as it should be of my sister.”

“How can you say so, Hugh? Poor Miss Longstreet is almost without acquaintance here in Bath. It would be unkind in his lordship not to call on her and her niece.” Emily turned to Lord Westwick and said, “They’re in Queen Square, you know. Quite an old-fashioned location, but they’ve let a charming house.  I’m sure Miss Longstreet would be delighted to have you call. And perhaps you could escort them out of an evening.”

Sir Hugh disapproved of this less-than-subtle attempt to manipulate the earl. “Emily, my dear, I’m sure Lord Westwick has better things to do with his time than to wait on my godmother and her niece. I myself have the intention of keeping an eye on the two ladies and seeing that they enjoy their stay in Bath.”

Undaunted, Emily confided to the earl, “Unfortunately, Miss Longstreet is not over-fond of my brother these days, my lord. She considers him something of a callow youth, I think. No doubt she would welcome company of her own generation.”

Lord Westwick looked from one to the other of the two siblings, shook his head and sighed. “I’ll call on her,” he promised. “But she will most likely refuse to see me.”

Chapter Four

Nell had found her aunt slightly indisposed on the day following the visits from Sir Hugh and his sister. The indisposition was due more to an indulgence in her favorite potted viands than to anything else, as witnessed by her gout acting up most painfully. And Miss Longstreet was not an accommodating patient.

“Take it away, take it away!” Aunt Longstreet insisted when Nell tried to wrap her foot in a warm rug. “It does me not the least good, as I have told you a hundred times if I’ve told you once.”

As it was quite true that her aunt had said this many times, Nell removed the rug, but she knew from experience that her aunt would demand its return within the hour. If Rosemarie Longstreet was cranky at the best of times, she was intolerable when her foot throbbed from the gout. But as she would not listen to reason, it was better to retreat from her vicinity.

Thus Nell disposed of the warm rug by setting it on the stool across from her aunt’s chair and announced that she was going to the lending library.

“You’re leaving me alone?” her companion asked in a querulous voice.

“No, I’m leaving you to the tender care of the servants,” Nell told her firmly. “Mrs. Hodges is ready to be of service at the slightest ring of the bell which I have put on the table right next to your chair.”

“Oh, the servants,” her aunt said dismissively. “There’s probably not a one of them in the house.”

“I assure you that there is, including your dressing woman.” Nell picked up her paisley shawl and draped it around her shoulders. “It’s too fine a day for me to stay indoors. I shall find you a book at the lending library, and perhaps I will even bring you back a ginger biscuit from the pastry cook’s.”

“I pray you will not put yourself to so much bother,” Aunt Longstreet sniffed.

Nell laughed and patted her aunt’s cheek. “It is no bother at all, my dear. You’ll be more comfortable without me hovering over you.”

“That is certainly true.”

On her way out of the house Nell consulted briefly with the housekeeper, accepting a basket that good woman handed her, and a list of necessities. While Nell would not have hesitated for a moment to take off with a basket over her arm in the country, she did just feel a twinge of discomfort about doing so in Bath. It occurred to her that she had seen no one else strolling about the sophisticated streets of the town with a basket on her arm. She would look very provincial indeed!

But looking provincial was not the worst fate she could endure, Nell decided as she escaped from the stuffy townhouse. Aunt Longstreet insisted in keeping the rooms over-warm for such a springlike day, and it was delightful for Nell to find herself in the fresh morning air scented by new growth. Stretching her long legs, she set a good pace down the square and across the maze of streets to Milsom. Unfortunately, she found it was too early for the library to be open, so she indulged herself in gazing in the windows of the shops along the street.

If I had a spare guinea, she thought, I would most decidedly purchase that beaded reticule or perhaps the pink slippers. The fact that she had nowhere to wear such items bothered her not in the least. It was merely a game she played, even at the country store where she shopped when in Westmorland. Nell liked pretty things, as her mother had. Margaret Armstrong’s disastrous marriage had made it necessary for her, over the course of Nell’s early life, to dispose of the jewelry she had brought from her home.

Each time a piece had to be sold, she would fondle it for a day or two, telling the young Nell how her Papa had given it to her at her coming out, or her Mama had ordered it specially for this birthday, or her sister had passed on one of her own less favored items. Margaret would pin the brooch to Nell’s apron, or let the necklace rest around her neck for a while. “Someday you’ll have jewelry of your own,” she had assured the girl. “Unless, of course, you are as imprudent as I and marry for love!”

But her parents’ marriage, as imprudent as it had proved financially, had been quite wonderful in other ways. Her father and mother had cared deeply for one another, and had been physically demonstrative all Nell’s life. They had become so accustomed to kissing and touching during the many years they’d spent together before Nell’s arrival, that they were unable to substantially modify their pattern. Having witnessed that emotional and physical satisfaction, Nell longed to know the intimacy of such a relationship herself.

But she understood that she would not marry at all. Her promise to her grandfather on his deathbed was as compelling to her today as it had been at the time. One did not promise a dying man that one would stay with his daughter and take care of her, only to turn around and marry the first man who asked.

There would come a day, of course, when Aunt Longstreet died, but Nell did not delude herself that that day would arrive before Nell became a confirmed spinster, far too old to marry and bear children. And even if her aunt were to die soon, Nell’s lack of a dowry would prevent anyone from being interested in her. Aunt Longstreet might provide some small legacy for Nell in her will if she wished, but her grandfather, as well as Aunt Longstreet, had made it clear to her that Longstreet Manor was destined for Sir Hugh.

Because her aunt was tight with a penny, Nell received an allowance which scarcely stretched to replacing worn out gloves and gowns. There was little chance that she would manage to set aside much for her own old age. And nothing at all if she chose to purchase such fripperies as a beaded reticule, Nell thought with wry amusement.

Down the street she became aware of a young man unlocking the door of the lending library, and she turned in that direction to complete her errand. Finding Aunt Longstreet a book that would hold her attention was no easy task. As Nell approached she realized it was the same young man who had spoken to them the previous day and whom her aunt had now browbeaten on two separate occasions. If he had not already caught sight of her, Nell thought perhaps she would have chosen to retreat.

But he had not only seen her, he was smiling broadly and offered an extravagant bow. “Your servant, ma’am. I see that you are unaccompanied by your aunt. I trust she is well.”

“Not so very plump today,” Nell admitted, smiling in return. “My aunt suffers from the gout and is here to take the waters.”

“There are those who swear by them,” he said, though he sounded rather skeptical.

“You are not one of them, I gather.”

He shrugged. “I doubt they do anyone any harm, but I have yet to see with my own eyes anyone who has greatly benefited from them. Won’t you step inside, Miss . . .”

“Armstrong. Thank you.”

“Richard Bentley, at your service.”

Nell preceded him into the dim interior of the lending library. The vast room looked different without the usual crowd of patrons. Like the study in their rented house on Queen Square, leather-bound volumes filled shelf after shelf. There were also rows of marbled-board-covered books closer to hand, the ones most library patrons would be searching for. Mr. Bentley waved a hand at the closest shelves and said, “Our most recent acquisitions, Miss Armstrong. Perhaps one of them would interest you.”

“Probably,” she admitted with a chuckle, “but I’m here today looking for something for my aunt.”

“Ah, yes, that good woman was interested in the Peerage, I believe. You know, they change very little from year to year. I cannot believe she would find last year’s entries on any given person so different from this year’s. Perhaps you could …”

“My aunt has been supplied with a complete set of the newest Peerage, thank you. What I had in mind was something more lively. But not frivolous! And nothing like sermons or edifying essays, either. She is not an easy woman to choose a title for.”

“I can well believe it,” he said, with a perfectly straight face. “Let me think a moment.”

He wandered off in what appeared to be a purposeless manner, but soon was picking up and replacing volumes from a variety of locations. A very few of them he kept in his hands and at length he motioned Nell over to the counter where he placed them for her perusal.

“A volume of poetry by Cowper rather than Lord Byron might be more appealing to a person of conservative taste. Or perhaps this history of Elizabethan times. Or this novel by Mr. Sterne. Quite a few of our patrons find his work to their liking. If your aunt perhaps does read contemporary novels, she might appreciate this one by ‘a Lady,’ which is most amusing.”

Mr. Bentley  continued through the volumes he’d chosen, offering a word of praise or explanation as he went. Nell could not help but notice that the librarian was a good deal taller than she (a very rare circumstance), and a rather handsome man, too. He had black hair more closely trimmed than was the fashion of the day, and his eyes were a rich and eloquent brown. It seemed to Nell, though she was willing to consider that she was fooling herself, that he (for some inexplicable reason) admired her. His gaze was intent, his smile warm, his interest keen. He even dared to allow his hand to lightly brush hers as he passed a volume across. She almost smiled, pleased to note she felt none of the disconcerting effects of a similar familiarity the previous day. She was not becoming a susceptible ninny after all!

When she had settled on two of the books he had suggested, he added, “There is a particular title which I believe your aunt would enjoy, but it was recently borrowed and will likely not be available for a day or two. If you would permit me to let you know when it is returned…”

“That’s exceedingly kind of you. I’m certain to come by every few days, and if you were to put it aside…”

“Yes, yes. That is what I shall do.”

By this time several other patrons had entered the circulating library. One man was approaching the counter with a determined scowl upon his countenance. Nell gave Mr. Bentley a commiserating grin, thanked him for his assistance, and gathered up her books. She had intended to find something for herself to read, but decided that she had spent quite enough time here for one morning. So she tucked the books into her basket and made her way once again out into the lovely spring morning.

Because Nell was a daydreamer, she easily drifted into romantic thoughts as she strolled along Milsom Street. She pictured herself walking alongside a man, his tall, straight figure overshadowing her own. Or they would be walking in the country, by a stream, with birds twittering. And her companion would have a volume of poetry with him—Lord Byron’s—which he would open as they seated themselves on the bank of the stream. His voice, deep and melodious, would enthrall her as he read poems of love and gallantry.

Her companion in this daydream should have been Mr. Bentley. And at first she had thought that it was. But as she lifted her modestly lowered eyes to meet his—it was Sir Hugh who smiled across at her.

Lordy, that would never do, Nell scolded herself. Way above her touch! Mr. Bentley, at least, seemed to be of a station not dissimilar from her own, given that she was more companion than niece to her aunt. And, crotchety as her aunt was, the older woman had a point about men. They could be unreliable and thoughtless, even the best of them. Nell had to look no further than her own father and grandfather to see that.

She paused in the door of a chemist’s shop, allowing her eyes to adjust from the sunlight to the gloom within. Three of the items on Mrs. Hodges’ list were to be found here, so she stepped briskly into the store, allowing her daydream to evaporate like the morning mist.