An Heir of Uncertainty
Read An Heir of Uncertainty Online
Authors: Alyssa Everett
An Heir of Uncertainty
By Alyssa Everett
Yorkshire
,
1820
Lina, Lady Radbourne, thought being a countess would rescue her from poverty. Unfortunately, her young groom failed to plan for the future, and his drunken accident left her widowed and pregnant. Now Colonel Winstead Vaughan—Win—will inherit her late husband’s fortune...unless she gives birth to a boy. Win is her natural enemy, so why can’t she stop thinking about him?
Win is stunned to learn he stands to inherit a vast fortune. He’s even more surprised to find himself falling for the beautiful, spirited Lady Radbourne, who is the one woman who stands in the way of a life he’d only imagined.
When someone tries to poison Lady Radbourne, suspicion falls on Win. There’s a clever killer in their midst, and if Win doesn’t solve the mystery fast, Lina may perish. He needs to win her trust, but how can he prove it’s she he wants, and not the fortune?
86,000 words
Dear Reader,
I know many of you have been waiting for the next installment of
New York Times
bestselling author Marie Force’s thrilling romantic suspense series.
Fatal Jeopardy
is finally here, and Nick and Sam are as good as ever!
But that’s not all the great storytelling we have in store for you with the March releases. This month, we introduce debut author Matt Sheehan and a book that had the Carina Press acquisitions team in hysterics. Be sure to check out
Helmut Saves the World
, in which there’s magic, fistfights and one-liners with the best, most handsome and, of course, humble detective Helmut Haase and his apathetic sidekick Shamus O’Sheagan.
If you’ve been longing for a great historical romance, we’ve got two this month. Juliana Ross finishes up her erotic Improper trilogy. In
Improper Proposals
, a lonely young widow learns to live—and love—again as she and her ambitious publisher, the most captivating man she has ever met, work on a forbidden guide to sexual pleasure. It’s
An Heir of Uncertainty
by Alyssa Everett and it’s also the answer to Colonel Win Vaughan’s prayers when he learns he’s the heir to the newly deceased Earl of Radbourne—but the beginning of a deadly mystery when he arrives to claim his inheritance, only to discover that the earl’s lovely widow is carrying a child who could displace him.
If you’re looking for something hot, with an unusual hero, Solace Ames releases erotic romance
The Submission Gift
this month. A young husband offers his wife an unusual gift—to fulfill a fantasy she’d always set aside. But what starts out as a onetime session becomes something precious shared between three—one of them a male escort. Solace Ames brings something new to this story and if you love erotic romance, you’ll want to check this out.
Also in the hot category is
Up in Knots
by Gillian Archer. Still bruised over the death of her boyfriend two years ago, Kyla Grant is determined to get back into the kinky dating scene, and bad-boy top Sawyer is just the man to help her. Joining Gillian, Juliana and Solace in the erotic romance category, Nico Rosso’s
Slam Dance with the Devil
, from his Demon Rock series, brings entertainment to a new level. Wild rock star Kent Gaol’s dark past goes back even further than private investigator Nona Harris could’ve imagined, and one night onstage surprises them both by slamming her into his supernatural world.
March shapes up to be a good one for erotic romances because Emily Ryan-Davis brings us the follow-up to
Ménage on 34th Street
, which she coauthored with Elise Logan. In this next installment,
Dial M for Ménage
, it’s a new year and a new way of life for Katrina Holland, who started 2014 by waking up with two men in her bed. Now, she, Owen and Hunter struggle to define, and redefine, their relationships with one another after the first rush of newness fades.
Paranormal romance author Lorenda Christensen follows up her funny, entertaining
Never Deal with Dragons
with the next in the series,
Dancing with Dragons.
If Carol Jenski knows anything, it’s fashion—and it’s in fashion to consort with dragons, even though they’ve coexisted with humans since WWIII. Still, she would never have agreed to take part in a plot against them. Now a dragon lord has called for her head, her boyfriend is MIA and she’s been abandoned in a foreign country.
Stacy Gail’s paranormal romance miniseries, The Earth Angels, comes to an exciting conclusion in
Dangerous Angel
, where the heroes and heroines from all the previous books combine their efforts to avert a demonic apocalypse. In Kathleen Collins’s
Death’s Daughter
, Realm Walker Juliana Norris hunts a serial killer targeting Altered children while an enemy from her past closes in.
This month we have two titles in the science-fiction genre. First, join the adventure
At Star’s End
! A galactic treasure hunter and an astro-archaeologist race across the galaxy in pursuit of the last remaining fragment of da Vinci’s
Mona Lisa
in this space opera romance from Anna Hackett.
And we’re pleased to welcome T.D. Wilson with his debut,
The Epherium Chronicles:
Embrace.
Set in the mid-twenty-second century,
Embrace
is the first book of an exciting new space opera series where Earth’s newest warship, the
Armstrong
, must make contact with fledgling colonies in nearby solar systems amid the threat of an alien attack.
If you’re ready for a cozy mystery to keep you guessing as to whodunit, look no further than Julie Anne Lindsey’s latest release. Most islanders celebrate the reprieve of summer tourism with cider, mums and cocoa, but sharks, birders and a possible serial killer seem intent on ruining autumn for Patience when
Murder Comes Ashore.
Anne Marie Becker returns with another suspenseful installment in her romantic suspense series. In
Dark Deeds
, SSAM security expert Becca Haney is hiding a past that could hurt her ex-lover, NYPD detective Diego Sandoval—but the true threat comes from a “fan” whose conscience urges him to kill.
Coming next month: contemporary romance
Taken with You
from
New York Times
bestselling author Shannon Stacey. Also, sports week and six irresistible sports romances!
Here’s wishing you a wonderful month of books you love, remember and recommend.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Executive Editor, Carina Press
Dedication
For Rowan—my beloved firstborn,
my Aspie, and the kindest young man I know.
Acknowledgments
Asperger’s syndrome runs in my family (my oldest son and my older sister are both Aspies, and my paternal grandfather was undiagnosed but fit all the criteria). While I based the character of Freddie Vaughan on my own experiences with family members, every person on the autism spectrum is unique, and Freddie is no more meant to represent all Aspies than his brother Win is meant to represent all neurotypicals. At the same time, I’d particularly like to thank my son, whose modern-day love of model trains, retro video games and cartoon tropes inspired Freddie’s nineteenth-century passion for pigeons.
I also wish to thank my wonderful editor, Deborah Nemeth, whose patience, encouragement and expert guidance always make me thankful I have the privilege of working with her. I’m lucky to have four talented critique partners—in alphabetical order, Susanna Fraser, Vonnie Hughes, Rose Lerner and Charlotte Russell—whose friendship, advice and knowledge of writing and the Regency have put me back on track more times than I can count. Finally, I wouldn’t be writing without the love and support of my husband, my family and my friends. You’re all appreciated more than you know.
Contents
Chapter One
We inherit nothing truly, but what our actions make us worthy of.
—George Chapman
Yorkshire, Early December 1820
Lina had been married three months and two days when her young husband drank one pint too many at the inn, climbed the church belfry on a dare, and lost his grip in the December cold. The sexton might have buried him in the very spot where he landed, except that the Earls of Radbourne were traditionally interred in the family vault.
Lord Radbourne fell to his death at one o’clock in the morning. At three o’clock, a pounding on Lina’s bedroom door woke her from a deep sleep.
“My lady!” The voice belonged to Mrs. Phelps, the housekeeper. “Forgive me, but you’re wanted downstairs.”
Half asleep and befuddled, Lina sat up. Edward’s side of the bed was still empty. “Downstairs?”
“Yes, my lady. At once.”
With a sigh, Lina climbed out of bed. What had Edward done now? She’d have to ring another peal over his head.
If you’re going to insist on getting into scrapes, you might at least choose a more convenient time, or Really, Neddy, I’d take you over my knee if I weren’t convinced you’d enjoy it.
Though perhaps this time the disturbance wasn’t Edward’s doing at all, but rather an emergency below stairs. Sliding her feet into her carpet slippers, Lina groped in the dark for her wrapper. What if Cassandra was having another attack?
Lina emerged into the passage to find Mrs. Phelps waiting with a branch of candles. “What is it?” she whispered.
“Mr. Channing is here to see you, my lady.”
Mr. Channing? What was the magistrate doing at the abbey at this hour?
Mrs. Phelps turned to lead the way, and Lina followed, the candles flickering before them. How silent and strange the house felt in the dead of the night. They turned the corner and started down the stairs. In the front hall, Mr. Channing was pacing, still in his greatcoat. His eyes swept over Lina as she descended the last few steps.
A flutter of anxiety drove away any last vestiges of sleepiness. She steeled herself for the look she was used to receiving from half the citizenry of Malton—as if he were the king, and she were a bit of dung he was scraping off his boot. She expected it would be especially pronounced this time, since in her haste she’d thrown on the peignoir Edward had bought her on their honeymoon trip, the one that made her look more like a
fille de joie
than a peer’s wife.
But the look never came.
She greeted him with a nod. “Mr. Channing.”
His brows came together in a somber frown. “I won’t mince words, Lady Radbourne. Your husband is dead.”
“What?” It was as if the slate floor had dropped out from under her.
“Dead, in the churchyard,” Mr. Channing said, and then she scarcely heard him at all, though he went on talking—something about the Radbourne Arms and young Ralph Whitacre and a dare. A
dare.
Edward never could resist that sort of thing...
Mr. Channing was still speaking, but Mrs. Phelps took her by the arm. “Really, sir, can’t you see she needs to sit down?”
He trailed after Lina as the housekeeper drew her toward the parlor. “I’ll inform the other trustees. Shall I contact Mr. Niven for you as well?”
Too stunned to pull her thoughts together, Lina allowed herself to be helped along. Not a single fire had been lit yet. Every room in the house seemed unfamiliar in the darkness. “Mr. Niven?”
“Your husband’s solicitor. If you wish, I’ll send word to him as soon as the sun comes up.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.”
“Do you know who’s next in line?”
“In line?” They’d reached the parlor. Lina sat down heavily on the sofa.
Dead.
Edward, who was always so full of life.
“Yes, in line to inherit the title and property.”
“Oh, of course.” How stupid Mr. Channing must think her, the way she kept repeating everything he said as if she were a trained parrot at the fair. “I can’t say. It used to be my husband’s brother, but now... Their father was an only child, and their grandfather the only boy. It would have to be some distant cousin, if such a person even exists. Perhaps Mr. Niven will know.”
Mr. Channing planted himself before her, leaning over her in a posture that was half solicitous, half badgering. “Forgive the indelicacy, ma’am, but the question must be asked. I assume there’s the possibility of a child?”
How could Edward leave her like this? And her last words to him had been
Do try to stay out of trouble.
She was always scolding him, though he’d taken it in good humor. And now he was gone. This couldn’t be real.
But Mr. Channing was waiting. With an effort, Lina dragged her scattered thoughts back to their conversation. What was it he’d just asked?
At her blank look, Mr. Channing’s mouth twisted down, a little of the old contempt creeping back into his manner. “To inherit, Lady Radbourne. Your son would be the next earl. Surely there’s some hope...?”
Her son? What was he talking about? She’d never had a son. Didn’t he know that? She wasn’t even expecting, apparently, not with the spotting she’d had the morning before. “I don’t—no.” She shook her head. “No, I’m quite certain it must be a distant cousin...”
“Ah. Well, then.” Mr. Channing straightened. “I’m sorry for your loss. He was always a spirited lad, your husband, and would have ended up a fine man if he’d had time enough to grow into the role. I’ll be on my way, and Mr. Wilkins should be by to offer you what comfort he can.”
Mr. Wilkins? The vicar, comforting her. Edward didn’t even
like
the vicar.
Lina sat in a fog, hoping this was all a bad dream and in another minute she would wake up, safe and well loved in the feather bed.
* * *
“Merciful heaven, we’ve arrived at last.” Freddie turned away from the window as the carriage rolled to a stop, his long arms and legs making the interior of the chaise feel even smaller and more cramped than before. “Even an average pigeon could have made it here in six hours. A good racer might have cut that time almost in half.”
Win rose, stooping so he wouldn’t hit his head on the roof again. He was disposed to look with indulgence on both the eccentricities and the chatter of his younger brother, but not when they threatened to wake his daughter. “Keep your voice down, you nodcock. Julia’s asleep.”
Fortunately, Julia didn’t even stir, wrapped in a woolen blanket against the cold. It astonished Win that anyone could sleep in a moving carriage, especially with the wretched state of the roads in this corner of England, but he’d slept in some rather uncomfortable spots himself when he was five years old. Besides, it wasn’t far from her bedtime. The late January daylight was waning fast.
Freddie opened the carriage door and hopped out. As gently as possible, Win lifted his sleeping daughter in his arms, settling her head against his left shoulder. Carefully, he stepped down from the coach.
He paused to survey the house before him. If ever a place was likely to be haunted...
“Not much to look at, is it?” Standing at Win’s elbow, Freddie wrinkled his nose. “It’s large enough, but—do you suppose there’s a dovecote? I believe monasteries shared the
droit de colombier
with manor houses, and were allowed to keep their own pigeons.”
“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.” Win’s eyes ranged over the hulking mass of weathered stone. Abbeys generally came in two varieties—soaring Gothic jewels like Westminster, and their squat Norman ancestors. Belryth Abbey fell into the latter category. An entire wing was in ruins—no roof, no windows, just crumbling gray walls—and the remaining structure loomed like a giant overturned bathtub, bulbous and ugly.
But it was his ancestral home, and now he could finally make good on his promise to Harriet. For that alone, he would learn to love it.
Win climbed the worn steps to the front door, his brother trailing after him. There seemed no way to knock quietly with the heavy iron doorknocker, but Julia didn’t even stir. When no one answered, Win banged again, harder this time.
Presently the door swung open to reveal a portly servant of middle age with keen eyes and a slightly receding hairline. He glanced from Win to Freddie and back again. “Yes?”
Win opened his mouth to give his name—and, damn it, how should he introduce himself? It felt presumptuous to march up to the front door and say
I’m Radbourne
to an old retainer, as if he’d been waiting all his life to step into the late earl’s shoes. He hadn’t even known he was next in line to inherit until he’d received the solicitor’s letter. He settled on giving the name he’d used all his life. “Winstead Vaughan from Hampshire, and my brother, Mr. Frederick Vaughan. The seventh earl’s fourth cousins, once removed.”
At the Vaughan name, the butler’s demeanor changed from chilly civility to brisk welcome. “Ah, of course, sir!” He bowed from the waist. “Do excuse me. I was only surprised. Mr. Niven isn’t expecting you until tomorrow, and we weren’t informed you were a family man.”
“A widower.”
Sir?
Win nodded to the child sleeping in his arms. “My daughter, Julia.”
“Welcome, sir. I’m Dyson.” He looked over his shoulder to the footman standing just behind him. “Fetch Mrs. Phelps. Tell her Mr. Vaughan has arrived, and that he’ll require a room for his brother and young daughter as well.”
Sir
again, and
Mr. Vaughan.
Was that the usual protocol so soon after a peer’s death, or was the butler unaware of his reason for coming here? Win could almost believe the letter he’d received nearly three weeks before had been nothing but a practical joke, an elaborate prank one of his old army comrades was playing, except that Dyson had mentioned Mr. Niven by name and the servants were clearly expecting him.
The house was better on the inside—much warmer, and not so dark or closed in as Win had feared. Though the floor of the front hall was slate, the rooms on either side boasted thick Persian carpets—expensive ones, if he was any judge. Their rich colors brightened the interior, dispelling any sense of gloom. Win detected no hint of damp or strong drafts, either, and that was saying a lot for such an old pile.
“Is there a dovecote on the estate?” Freddie asked the butler.
Dyson’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “A dovecote, sir?”
“Yes. You know, a columbarium. A structure for housing pigeons or doves. There are dovecotes in France that have upwards of two thousand
boulins.
”
“Pigeon holes,” Win translated for the butler’s benefit. “My brother has a great interest in pigeons.” Though he’d long since resigned himself to the hopelessness of persuading Freddie to converse on any other topic, at the moment Win wished his brother were a bit more circumspect about sharing his eccentric single-mindedness with everyone he met.
“Centuries before Christ, pigeons were delivering the results of the Olympic games to the city-states of ancient Greece,” Freddie told the butler. “That’s why I give all my pigeons classical names. Admetus and Alcestis, Odysseus and Penelope, Baucis and Philemon—”
Win cut him off. “No need to overwhelm Dyson with the entire list, Freddie.”
The butler’s face remained admirably impassive. “I’m afraid there’s no dovecote on the abbey grounds, sir.”
“Really? Well, dash it. Where might the nearest one be?”
Win had used every tactic at his disposal to persuade his brother to make the trip, including vague intimations that Yorkshire was a pigeon’s paradise. Naturally Freddie wouldn’t rest until he’d sent for his birds. “Let’s worry about that after we’ve seen the rest of—”
He broke off as the housekeeper, younger and more attractive than he’d expected, arrived to show them to their rooms. Win had no intention of dallying with the servants, but discovering that the upper staff wasn’t made up entirely of antiquated old retainers was a welcome surprise.
In the room meant for Julia, the chambermaid was still laying the fire. Win deposited his daughter gently on the turned-down bed and drew the crewelwork coverlet up to her chin, hopeful she’d sleep through the night. It was a large room, and pretty, not at all the cheerless cell he’d feared—though after seven days on the road, any room that didn’t look and smell like a coaching inn was bound to seem inviting.
He emerged back into the corridor to discover that Mrs. Phelps had already shown Freddie to his room. As fond as he was of his brother, Win was grateful to have a moment to himself. Between Julia’s short attention span and Freddie’s obsessive chatter, he’d known scarcely a moment’s peace since leaving Bishop’s Waltham. At least now he knew all there was to know about gauging the health of a pigeon from the look of its droppings.
His own room turned out to be every bit as inviting as his daughter’s, its paneled walls, mahogany bedstead and silk hangings leaving him still more sanguine about the condition of the house. He’d no sooner washed off the dirt of travel, however, than a soft knock came at the bedroom door.
“Excuse me, sir,” Dyson said when he answered, “but Mr. Niven wishes to see you in the parlor.”
He needed the butler’s escort to find the room. It was a large chamber near the front of the house, furnished in what looked like Chippendale, stylish and elegant. Baroque portraits stared down grandly from the walls. Why, Belryth Abbey was downright luxurious.
Win shook his head at the way he kept sizing up his ancestral home like a horse trader inspecting a nag. He’d have to break the habit before one of the servants caught him checking the silver for hallmarks.
Two men awaited him. The first was a trim, dapper gentleman with an unlined face and neat silver hair. Seeing Win, he came hurrying forward with his hand outstretched. “I’m Arthur Niven. I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon.”
Win shook his hand. “I did my best to shave time off the journey. I’ve no taste for being on the road, especially in the winter. I had more than enough of the unsettled life, fighting in Spain.”
Mr. Niven gestured at the larger man standing just behind him. “This is Mr. Channing. He’s asked to be present for this interview.”
“I’m magistrate here,” Channing said, likewise shaking Win’s hand, “as well as one of the three trustees of the estate. I contacted Mr. Niven after the late earl’s death, and I’ve been his eyes and ears here when he’s in York.”
