An Heiress at Heart (2 page)

The minister gave Tom an enquiring look. Tom’s impassive face gave little indication of what he was thinking. But Lizzie knew what must be on his mind. Four months had passed since Tom had killed Freddie Hightower in a duel, exacting his own vengeance on the man who had seduced his sister, taken her to Europe, and abandoned her there. The memory of that cold, miserable morning when Tom, still bloody from his duel, revealed to her what he’d done still sent a chill to Lizzie’s heart. Even though Freddie had cruelly mistreated her, she had never wished for his death—certainly not at the hands of her own brother.

“Perhaps after we are settled, you might visit me at church,” the minister suggested to Tom. “Then we might have leisure to discuss these matters more fully.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tom said with a nod of his head. But Lizzie doubted such a meeting would ever take place. Tom had made it clear to her that he felt justified in acting as he had. He had done it “for her sake,” he said, and he would not allow anyone to change his mind. Despite his words, Lizzie knew his actions had left a stain on his heart and given him no real peace. She was in no better condition herself, she reflected bitterly. Her foolish actions had brought on those terrible events. Surely there was no pardon for that.

“It’s for certain the Crown is not so forgiving,” the captain said to Tom. He gestured dismissively toward the convicts. “These men will be paying for their crimes for
the rest of their lives. It’s a fate worse than death. Be glad you’ve come to Australia as a free man.”

The captain could not have known how close he was to the truth. If Tom had been arrested for what he’d done to Freddie, he might well have arrived in Australia in chains. But Tom had escaped. He’d arranged the duel for the morning of their departure for Australia, not telling Lizzie of his plans until the deed had been done. They had been out to sea within hours of the duel, their trail untraceable to anyone who might wish to follow. No one here was aware of the sordid tale that caused their departure from England.

It all seemed as a dream now, as they began moving across the open valley, full in the light of the brightly burning sun. Odd, too, that it was February and yet they were in the heat of summer. Everything was different here. The world she had known was gone.

Would she ever feel at home in this strange new land?

Mr. Smythe had insisted they would. He had seen them as they disembarked from the ship at Sydney harbor, and had immediately worked his way through the crowds in order to meet them, offering work on one of the largest sheep ranches in the Bathurst Valley. He said that he’d been sent by the owner to hire able-bodied laborers from the immigrant ship, whose arrival had been keenly anticipated. With transportation of criminals now limited to other parts of Australia, the region of New South Wales was in dire need of free workers.

“My wife will be overjoyed to meet you,” Mr. Smythe had said upon their agreeing to go.

Lizzie had lost count of how many times he’d repeated this sentiment over the course of their journey.
“Are there no other ladies to keep her company?” Lizzie had asked.

“None have given her the close friendship she craves. But something tells me you two will be very close.”

Lizzie had asked for more particulars, but he would say no more. It would have to remain a mystery until she met this Ria Smythe.

The day was far advanced when they finally reached the town of Bathurst and pulled up to the place where they would lodge for the night. A sign above the door proclaimed this to be the
Royal Hotel
. It seemed far too grand a name for the two-story wooden building. And yet, after three nights of sleeping on the ground, Lizzie was sure it would feel as grand as a palace.

Tom helped Lizzie descend from the oxcart. At the front of the caravan, Mr. Smythe dismounted from his horse and was immediately met by a lovely young lady. “Eddie, you’re home!” she cried happily. She tossed back her bonnet as she ran toward him, giving Lizzie a clear view of her face before the woman threw her arms around him and kissed him.

“Blimey,” Tom remarked to Lizzie. “If that lady ain’t the spittin’ image of you!”

Lizzie could only stare. The woman did look
amazingly
like her. She was a match in so many ways, from her pale blond hair to her face and figure. Lizzie could not see the woman’s eyes from this distance, but she was certain they were blue like her own. She had the oddest feeling she was looking in a mirror.

Tom grinned. “Now I see why Smythe asked us so many questions about our family!”

“It might also explain why he seemed so disappointed
that I had never had a sister,” Lizzie observed. “He must have thought there was a connection.”

Mr. Smythe gently set his wife at arm’s length to get a better look at her. “How well you look. I cannot believe you came all the way to town to meet me. But, my dearest, I fear you have scandalized these good people with your actions just now.” He spoke as if he were chiding her, yet it was clear he was pleased by her enthusiastic greeting.

“Why, Eddie,” she answered, “you know I could not wait even one more day to see you.”

They gazed at each other with such loving affection that Lizzie’s heart twisted in envy. She had once felt love like that. But she had never known such happiness. Falling in love had brought her only ruin and heartache. She would never again dare to open her heart in that way.

“Ria, my darling,” said Mr. Smythe, “aren’t you going to ask me what I brought you from Sydney?”

“Have you brought me a present?” she asked gaily. “What could it be?”

“Come and see,” he said, and began to draw her toward Lizzie. The moment Ria saw Lizzie, she pulled up short. Her mouth fell open and her eyes—blue, as Lizzie had known they would be—lit up with wonder and joy.

“Indeed I have brought you a present,” Edward said with a satisfied smile. “I have brought you a sister.”

                                                          
Chapter 1

London, June
1851

I
f you’ve killed her, Geoffrey, we will never hear the end of it from Lady Thornborough.”

Geoffrey Somerville threw a sharp glance at his companion. The man’s flippancy annoyed him, but he knew James Simpson was never one to take any problem too seriously. Not even the problem of what to do with the young woman they had just accidentally struck down with his carriage.

The girl had been weaving her way across the street, seemingly unaware of their rapid approach until it was too late. The driver had barely succeeded in steering the horses sharply to one side to keep from trampling her under their massive hooves. However, there had not been enough time or space for him to avoid the girl completely, and the front wheel had tossed her onto the walkway as easily as a mislaid wicker basket.

Geoffrey knelt down and raised the woman’s head
gently, smoothing the hair from her forehead. Blood flowed freely from a wound at her left temple, marring her fair features and leaving ugly red streaks in her pale yellow hair.

Her eyes were closed, but Geoffrey saw with relief that she was still breathing. Her chest rose and fell in ragged but unmistakable movements. “She’s not dead,” he said. “But she is badly hurt. We must get help immediately.”

James bounded up the steps and rapped at the door with his cane. “First we have to get her inside. People are beginning to gather, and you know how much my aunt hates a scandal.”

Geoffrey noted that a few people had indeed stopped to stare, although no one offered to help. One richly dressed young lady turned her head and hurried her escort down the street, as though fearful the poor woman bleeding on the pavement had brought the plague to this fashionable Mayfair neighborhood. At one time Geoffrey might have wondered at the lack of Good Samaritans here. But during the six months he’d been in London, he’d seen similar reactions to human suffering every day. Although it was no longer surprising, it still saddened and sickened him.

Only the coachman seemed to show real concern. He stood holding the horses and watching Geoffrey, his face wrinkled with worry. Or perhaps, Geoffrey realized, it was merely guilt. “I never even seen her, my lord,” he said. “She come from out of nowhere.”

“It’s not your fault,” Geoffrey assured him. He pulled out a handkerchief and began to dab the blood that was seeping from the woman’s wound. “Go as quickly as you can to Harley Street and fetch Dr. Layton.”

“Yes, my lord.” The coachman’s relief was evident. He scrambled up to the driver’s seat and grabbed the reins. “I’m halfway there already.”

Geoffrey continued to cautiously check the woman for other injuries. He slowly ran his hands along her delicate neck and shoulders and down her slender arms. He tested only as much as he dared of her torso and legs, torn between concern for her well-being and the need for propriety. Thankfully, nothing appeared to be broken.

James rapped once more on the imposing black door. It finally opened, and the gaunt face of Lady Thornborough’s butler peered out.

“Clear the way, Harding,” James said. “There has been an accident.”

Harding’s eyes widened at the sight of a woman bleeding on his mistress’s immaculate steps. He quickly sized up the situation and opened the door wide.

Geoffrey lifted the unconscious girl into his arms. She was far too thin, and he was not surprised to find she was light as a feather. Her golden hair contrasted vividly with his black coat. Where was her hat? Geoffrey scanned the area and noted with chagrin the remains of a straw bonnet lying crushed in the street. Something tugged at his heart as her head fell against his chest. Compassion, he supposed it was. But it was curiously profound.

“She is bleeding profusely,” James pointed out. “Have one of the servants carry her in, or you will ruin your coat.”

“It’s no matter,” Geoffrey replied. He felt oddly protective of the woman in his arms, although he had no idea who she was. His carriage had struck her, after all, even if her own carelessness had brought about the
calamity. He was not about to relinquish her; not for any consideration.

He stepped grimly over the red smears her blood had left on the white marble steps and carried her into the front hall, where James was again addressing the butler. “Is Lady Thornborough at home, Harding?”

“No, sir. But we expect her anytime.”

Geoffrey knew from long acquaintance with the Thornborough family that Harding was a practical man who remained calm even in wildly unusual circumstances. The childhood escapades of Lady Thornborough’s granddaughter, Victoria, had developed this ability in him; James’s exploits as an adult had honed it to a fine art.

Sure enough, Harding motioned toward the stairs with cool equanimity, as though it were an everyday occurrence for an injured and unknown woman to be brought into the house. “Might I suggest the sofa in the Rose Parlor, sir?”

“Excellent,” said James.

As they ascended the stairs, Harding called down to a young parlor maid who was still standing in the front hall. “Mary, fetch us some water and a towel. And tell Jane to clean the front steps immediately.” Mary nodded and scurried away.

Another maid met them at the top of the stairs. At Harding’s instructions, she quickly found a blanket to spread out on the sofa to shield the expensive fabric.

Geoffrey set his fragile burden down with care. He seated himself on a low stool next to the woman and once again pressed his handkerchief to the gash below her hairline. The flesh around the wound was beginning
to turn purple—she had been struck very hard. Alarm assailed him. “What the devil possessed her to step in front of a moving carriage?”

He was not aware that he had spoken aloud until James answered him. “Language, Geoffrey,” he said with mock prudishness. “There is a lady present.”

Geoffrey looked down at the unconscious woman. “I don’t think she can hear me just now.” He studied her with interest. Her plain black dress fit her too loosely, and the cuffs appeared to have been turned back more than once. Her sturdy leather shoes were of good quality, but showed signs of heavy wear. Was she a servant, wearing her mistress’s cast-off clothing? Or was she a lady in mourning? Was she already sorrowing for the loss of a loved one, only to have this accident add to her woes? “If she is a lady, she has fallen on hard times,” Geoffrey said, feeling once again that curious pull at his heart. He knew only too well the wretchedness of having one’s life waylaid by one tragedy after another.

A parlor maid entered the room, carrying the items Harding had requested. She set the basin on a nearby table. After dipping the cloth in the water, she timidly approached and gave Geoffrey a small curtsy. “With your permission, my lord.”

Something in the way the maid spoke these words chafed at him. He had been entitled to the address of “my lord” for several months, but he could not accustom himself to it. There were plenty who would congratulate him on his recent elevation to the peerage, but for Geoffrey it was a constant reminder of what he had lost. Surely nothing in this world was worth the loss of two brothers. Nor did any position, no matter how lofty, absolve a man
from helping another if he could. He held out his hand for the cloth. “Give it to me. I will do it.”