Double Deceit (4 page)

Ten-year-old Jon had moved to Linden Park after the death of his parents. Tony had welcomed him, delighted to have a playmate only a year his senior. Despite their differences – Jon was quiet, conformable, and avoided trouble – they had become closer than brothers. Tony had been the leader, his insistence drawing Jon into numerous pranks. But Jon had never complained, just as Tony had never begrudged Linden’s preference for Jon’s quiet obedience or the way he held Jon up as a pattern card during every lecture. Only the boys knew how often Jon covered up Tony’s escapades.

The closeness remained. Jon continued to protect him by keeping his secrets. He was the only one besides Torwell’s single servant who knew the antiquarian. That was a secret even Lady Linden did not share.

“Tony!” exclaimed Jon when he arrived on the vicarage doorstep. “I did not expect you here until Christmas.”

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?” Jon sent his housekeeper for refreshments, then ushered him into the library.

“Father lost the estate in a dice game.”

Jon choked. Tony had to pound him on the back before he could breathe again. “D-dice?”

“He also lost everything else.” He explained. Jon’s shock matched his own.

“What will Aunt Mary do?”

“I will have to provide for her.” Tony shrugged.

“Living with Uncle Thomas will land you in Bedlam in a week.”

“Exactly, which is why I must recover the estate. But Sir Winton will never allow me near his daughter – which is why I need your help.”

“You want me to court the girl?” Jon blanched.

Tony grimaced. Jon’s adherence to Linden’s puritanical demands had left him unusually innocent. How was he to find a wife when he had no experience of the fair sex? But that was a problem for later.

“No. I won’t put you through that. But you must assume my identity at Vale House. She cannot find out who I am until I have won her heart.”

Jon again choked.

“You have to help me,” said Tony firmly. “And not just for Mother’s sake. What will happen to the tenants, the villagers, even the staff if a fortune hunter gains control of the Park?”

“Dear Lord above.” His face was now stark white. “They would be ruined.”

Tony nodded. “A fortune hunter would not care that they have served the Lindens for centuries. He would strip the estate of every penny, raise rents to exorbitant levels, and dismiss anyone who objected. He might even remove you – the bishop would never keep a vicar over the objections of the principal landowner.”

“But why must I impersonate you? Can’t you approach her in secret?” Jon’s voice squeaked.

“Father claims she is deformed – quoting Sir Winton, I’ve no doubt, since he can’t know the wench – so she is probably secluded.”

Jon nodded. Locking up the imperfect was common among the great families.

“When Father offered my hand, Sir Winton turned it down, citing my reputation. So he would hardly allow me to court her.”

“That damnable reputation!” Jon snorted. “How many times have I begged you to redeem yourself?”

“Society does not easily admit fault.” He shrugged. “There is little I can do about it at the moment, and time is of the essence. Sir Winton demands that we leave within the month.” He paused while the housekeeper delivered cakes and a pot of tea. “The plan is simple. You will be the depraved Tony Linden. To protect her virtue, Miss Vale will naturally stay close to the soft-spoken vicar. Sir Winton probably knows me by sight, but only from a distance, so you should pass easily enough. Once she is firmly caught, I will reveal the truth, but by then it will not matter.”

“This cannot possibly work,” protested Jon. “How can you court a woman under false pretenses?”

“I’m not. I must lie about my name, but everything else will be the exact truth. My reputation is false, as you well know. Why should I allow rumor to condemn me without a hearing?”

“It sounds too easy. You can’t have thought this through. Remember what happened with Squire Perkins?”

“I was only twelve. Of course I overlooked a few details.” But he grinned, remembering the red-faced squire’s indignation. The man was nearly as disapproving as Linden.

“Take time to think, Tony.”

“I have. It will be easy. We will stage an accident near the gates. Sir Winton can hardly refuse us refuge – reputation aside, Tony Linden outranks him. And he will be accompanied by a vicar, who can keep his baser instincts under control. Miss Vale must be starving for company. She is already six-and-twenty, but I’d never heard of her, so Sir Winton must keep her incarcerated. Attention from an infatuated gentleman will warm her heart. A day or two should see the matter finished.”

“Very well. Aunt Mary has always treated me as her son. I have to help her. But I cannot believe this will work. No matter what face you put on the matter, you plan to deceive the girl. I despise dishonesty.”

“But it is occasionally necessary.” He thrust his conscience aside. “I will use the name Torwell to prevent confusion. I am accustomed to wearing it and doubt anyone at Vale House knows it. Two Lindens might raise questions.”

Mounting his horse an hour later, he headed home, details circling his mind. This was the only way he could protect his mother, he reminded himself as regrets pricked at his resolve. They surged into a stab of pain as he passed a copse of trees where a young couple swayed in a passionate embrace.

The intensity of those regrets took him by surprise, spawning a wave of yearning. He would never know love now, thanks to his father. But he had no choice. His course was set. Turning back would make it impossible to live with himself.

He stiffened his spine, setting heels to his horse. The copse was soon far behind. But though regret dutifully followed conscience into oblivion, he couldn’t quite banish his loneliness.

* * * *

“Sir Winton has returned,” announced Murch when Alex reached the house. “He wishes to speak with you in the library.”

“I thought he went back to London,” she muttered, frowning. She was covered in mud from working on the temple. Digging so soon after a deluge had not been her brightest idea, but she’d wanted to make up for the time she had lost during his last visit. Winter was fast approaching, which would put a halt to further excavations until spring.

“His coachman claims he went to Lincolnshire.”

“There and back in a week? What was he doing?” Even with ideal traveling conditions, he couldn’t have spent more than a few hours at his destination. And why return to Gloucestershire instead of London?

“The hip bath is in your room, Miss Alex. As is hot water.”

She heard the warning in his voice. Murch had been more of a father than Sir Winton. It had been Murch who’d summoned a doctor when she broke her arm; Murch who’d protected her the time Sir Winton tried to blame her for the horse he’d lamed in a drunken rage; Murch who kept her excavations secret and persuaded the staff to do likewise. He had offered comfort, support, and even advice when she was unsure how to deal with Richard, and he’d detected the vicious nature Richard’s first tutor had successfully hidden from her, allowing her to replace the man before serious damage was done.

But he never forgot his place, so the warning note in his voice was a shock. Whatever awaited her in the library would not be good.

Half an hour later, Alex approached her father.

“Congratulations, my dear.” Sir Winton actually smiled. “You will make your bows to London next spring.”

“What absurdity is this?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes. He’d cursed for years because she was unmarriageable. A come-out was thus a waste of money. He’d even forbidden a visit to Bath, claiming she would only embarrass herself by flaunting her failings before the world. How could he drag her to town when they both knew that advanced age added a new fault to the list? She’d been on the shelf for years, as he frequently reminded her. Did he mean to make her into a laughingstock?

For once he read her face. “You need not fear failure, for your dowry is large enough to guarantee success. Gentlemen will beg for your hand. And about time, too. I thought I’d never find a way to get rid of you.”

“Dowry?” she asked suspiciously, even as pain from this new proof of his disdain stabbed her heart.

“Forty thousand pounds and a productive estate.”

Her eyes widened until she feared they would bounce onto the floor. “And how did you acquire so much?”

“Dice.” He shifted to avoid her accusing stare. “Is it my fault the man is a poor player who demanded throw after throw when he began to lose?”

“What man?”

“Lord Linden.” He shrugged.

“You will return every shilling, for I do not want a Season.” She glared at him. Did he actually expect gratitude for forcing her to fend off every fortune hunter in the country? The man was a bigger fool than even she had believed.

The usual frown snapped onto his face. His eyes glittered. “The fortune is already in your name, in trust for your husband. You will participate in the next Season, and you will do nothing to discourage suitors. I will bar you from Vale House if you try to return unwed. I’ve had enough of your appalling manners and vicious spite. And I’ve had enough of your scheming. Don’t think belligerence and swearing will continue driving gentlemen away in the future. No one will care. Unless you marry, I’ll see you stripped, tossed into a taproom, and wed to whoever has a strong enough stomach to ravish you.”

The subject was closed. Alex stumbled to her room, furious to find tears streaming down her cheeks. She never cried. Doing so over a man who wished she’d never been born was absurd.

She should have expected something like this. Now that Richard was in school, he need no longer put up with her reminders of his duty as a landowner. So he’d concocted this scheme.

She shivered. Tossing her to a pack of desperate men was beyond her worse nightmares. She had to find an escape.

Could she return the dowry? Something must have been wrong with the game. He won and lost enormous sums so often that fortunes meant nothing to him. So why had he refused to meet her eyes when he mentioned this one?

“Damnation!” She slammed a fist onto her bed. He must have fleeced Linden. “How could even he stoop so low?”

But the idea gave her hope. All she had to do was prove his dishonor.

“You have known Father most of your life, haven’t you?” she asked Murch when he brought her dinner tray. She refused to eat in the dining room.

He nodded.

“Does he know how to cheat at dice?”

Murch froze, but finally nodded. “He once owned a fine pair of uphills, though he swore he never bet with them – gentleman’s honor, you know. I thought little of it, for his usual game has always been cards. But he could make them do just about anything.”

“That is what I feared, though how can I prove it to Linden’s satisfaction?”

“Linden?” His gaze sharpened.

“What do you know of Linden?”

Murch sighed. “Not much, but Sir Winton knew a Linden at school – he used to brag about winning his allowance every quarter. The lad was a terrible card player who could be goaded into betting wildly. Apparently he viewed gaming, drinking, and wenching as proof of his manhood.”

“Any idea where those dice are now?”

He shook his head. “I’ve not seen them in twenty years or more, Miss Alex.”

Alex nodded, having expected that answer. Retrieving them might explain her father’s first unexpected visit – he usually passed autumn at a series of hunting parties. Perhaps his week-long stay had given him a chance to recover his skill.

It was a nice theory, but worthless. Conjecture proved nothing. No one had seen the dice in years. Even if the game had been crooked, she could guarantee that there were no witnesses. Without evidence of cheating, Linden could not demand restitution. The trust would prevent her from returning the winnings outright.

A sleepless night brought no solutions. Women had no rights even without the complication of a trust, though she had to try. The moment he left for London, she summoned her carriage.

But her solicitor dashed any hope. Sir Winton had tied up the trust so she could touch nothing. The moment she wed, everything transferred to her husband. In the meantime, it was administered by a London banker, whose instructions could be modified only by Sir Winton – and even Sir Winton could not withdraw a shilling.

She was powerless, lacking even the authority to permit Lord Linden to remain in residence. They were both victims of a cunning she had never suspected.

She cursed all the way home.

Chapter Three

Alex vigorously brushed a twisted piece of bronze. Two weeks of daily scrubbings alternating with vinegar soaks had finally removed the centuries of grime, but she was far from satisfied.

Wrapping her hand around the ridged handle, she stared. What the devil was it? A rod protruded from each end, terminating in a flattened finger. Both rods and fingers were oddly bent. Were they supposed to be that shape, or had something deformed them?

She turned her fist, scrutinizing the piece from every angle. The handle fit too comfortably to be meant for anything but gripping. The silver inlays spoke of wealth. If it was a tool, its owner must have been high-ranking. But what could a tool like this do? The fingers were too blunt for piercing, too sharp for crushing, and too flat to use as spoons. Besides, why would anyone attach two, at opposite ends of the handle? Surely that would be awkward to use.

Perhaps it was a door pull – yet she could detect no way to attach it.

“Damn all men to perdition,” she muttered, pacing her workroom.

Identifying this was impossible. None of her meager references described anything like it. Sending a sketch to Lord Mitchell was too risky, for if it were truly unique, he would send someone to investigate – or at least demand further details. Admitting that she had an artifact of silver-inlaid bronze confirmed that this was a rich site that might contain other treasures. Most excavations unearthed little beyond stone, bits of pottery, and an occasional coin. Metal objects were usually corroded or smashed beyond recognition. Only gold survived unscathed, but it was rare.