Revealed (53 page)

“Really, Francesca, that show of spirit was entirely unnecessary.” Alva Winthrop signaled one of the dozen servants standing about for just such an occasion to search for her ball at the rocky base of the cliff, before feigning laughter for the benefit of the other society matriarchs watching the match. “Most women would be positively thrilled to learn they were about to marry a duke.”

“Most women have at least met the man they are to marry, or had a say in the selection,” Fran replied, careful to keep her voice low and her smile in place.
Never show emotion, or else risk the scorn that follows.
She’d been fed those words in infancy along with her pabulum. An only child, raised in a lonely edifice to enormous wealth, she learned her lessons well. A tear, a stutter in public earned her a slap across the face from her mother in private. Thus to the others in the game, Francesca Winthrop maintained a calm façade. Deep inside, however, she screamed her protest.

“I won’t do this, Maman.” She glanced away, bracing herself for her mother’s anticipated reprimand. “I’m . . . I’m in love with someone else.”

“Nonsense.” Alva smoothed her hands over her white muslin skirts. “Love has little to do with the stewardship of great families. You’ve known since birth that your destiny was to bring a title to the Winthrops. With your father’s money and your new husband’s title, you’ll be received into the best households on both continents.”

“No, Maman, with the influence of your new son-in-law,
you’ll
be the one received in those
best
households,” Fran said, trying to ignore the stabbing pain caused by her mother’s lack of consideration. Yet, it had always been that way. Her opinion in matters of her own future were . . . insignificant. Reality constricted her throat, making words difficult. “I shall be the one tied to a man I don’t know and whom I don’t love.”

“We all make sacrifices, dear. You’ll learn to adapt. He’ll arrive in two days. We’ll announce your engagement at the costume ball this Saturday.”

Three days! Her mother had been planning that ball for two months, and Fran had been dreading it for at least as long. Now she would not only have to find the fortitude to face a room full of people but an unfamiliar fiancé as well. Dread, as hard and as solid as one of her painted croquet balls, fisted into a tight knot in her stomach.

Fran forced words past her constricted throat. They emerged in a harsh whisper, a testament to the unexpected blow dealt to her future. “Why now, Maman? You must have known of this earlier. Why not wait to tell me in private?”

Alva Winthrop stopped and turned, her glance stern and sharp. “Do try to aim for the wickets, dear. It’s the winning that matters, not the course one takes to get there.”

Fran stood paralyzed. For a moment, she contemplated hitting her bonus ball directly toward her mother’s heel. The resulting injury might give her pause over the injury she was causing her daughter. In her saddened heart, however, she knew that it would be a worthless gesture. Her mother was impervious to another’s concern.

Not only had her mother not asked about her love interest, she hadn’t even acknowledged the difficulty and reluctance Fran had experienced in sharing that information. Obviously, her only daughter’s personal desires were of less import than the advantageous placement of a croquet ball.

Fran gazed beyond the lawn to the familiar tranquil Atlantic. A few sails billowed in their escape from Narragansett Harbor. The Fall River steamer, a tiny spot on the deep blue horizon, chugged along on its daily foray between Newport and Long Island.

Facing the vast expanse of the ocean, even her father’s gift of height failed to protect her from feeling small, insignificant, and utterly alone. Three days! What if she couldn’t abide the Englishman? Her mother might not have cared about such things, but this was not her mother’s life. She must take action. She must formulate a plan.

William Chambers, Marquess of Enon and most recently Duke of Bedford, sat beneath a potted palm in the eloquent parlor of the Fall River steamer anticipating imminent death. After all, death would put an end to the turbulent discord in his stomach, fueled by every rise and fall of the steamer’s hull. The eight-day trip across the Atlantic Ocean had proved less than comfortable, but to add insult, he was ushered aboard this steamer with no time for recovery. His stomach rolled again, bringing the taste of bile to his throat. Could any woman, even one as rich as Midas, be worth this hell on water?

“Chambers. Chambers, old fellow, is that you?”

William forced one resistant eye open to focus on the opulent form of Henry Twiddlebody. Just when he thought he had sunk to the bottom of the barrel, life provided assurances in the form of Twiddlebodys of the further depths possible. Hesitant to move, for fear it would encourage the vile mixture in his innards to vacate its contained premises, William simply nodded to Henry. Unfortunately, the fool apparently assumed the gesture to be an invitation as he pulled a chair practically to William’s knees.

“I say, old fellow, you’re looking a bit green about the gills. I take it you’ve never held a commission in Her majesty’s fleet, ey?”

Damnation! Trapped by a Twiddlebody and too ill to make an exit. Life couldn’t get worse. William pressed his lips tightly together while the man chuckled at his own wit.

“I’m sorry to hear about the passing of your father, my boy. He was a good man.” He looked askance at William, a smile tilting his lips under a full, wily mustache. “I guess I should be calling you ‘Your Grace’ now that you head up the estate.”

William could almost feel what was coming next. Ever since he had discovered how his father had hopelessly squandered the family’s estates with gambling debts, the most unsavory characters had found reason to approach him for an audience.

“I hadn’t thought to see you this far from London, but it is fortunate indeed.” Twiddlebody shifted his corpulent mass in the groaning chair to sidle closer to William’s ear. “I hold some of your father’s paper, you know. I wouldn’t mention it normally, but as the old Duke has gone on to his just rewards, I thought perhaps you could redeem the marker. It’s my missus, you see; she’s been feeling poorly and—”

“Enough,” William interrupted. “My solicitors have assured me all debts will be resolved shortly. I’m sure once you return to London, the matter will be settled.”

Twiddlebody drew back, his eyes round with surprise. “You’ve uncovered some money then. I was led to believe . . .” His eyes narrowed and he leaned in closer, spewing a foul breath in William’s face.

“Just what are you doing so far from home, Your Grace? You’re not planning on ducking out of your father’s responsibilities, are you?”

Anger bubbled up from William’s gut, blacker than the poison churning in his innards. Perhaps his face reflected a bit of his fury, as Twiddlebody pulled back, a bit of horror reflected on his face as well.

“I apologize, Your Grace, I didn’t mean to imply . . . I mean to say, there isn’t a more honorable man in London than yourself, a gentleman in every sense of the word, a member of the Jockey Club, a man known for his charitable support. Even your father admitted as much. If you say the debt will be paid, then I’m as sure as I’m an Englishman that it will be.”

If the steamer hadn’t taken that moment to pitch suddenly to the left, William would have chanced his uncertain legs to carry him away from the insulting bugger. But if he stood, he was liable to be tossed into Twiddlebody’s lap, a more demeaning hell he could not imagine.

“Which brings me back to the issue of why you’ve ventured out on the high seas,” Twiddlebody continued. “You say there’ll be sufficient funds to cover your father’s . . . er . . . misfortunes.” He hid his mouth beneath his hand as if in deep thought, which William believed was highly unlikely. “This steamer is headed to Newport, a known vacation spot for the rich, and away from New York City, the American business capital.” Twiddlebody’s eyes lit up, and he sat back, a grand smile spreading from ear to ear. “Why, you’re going to catch yourself a wealthy bride, aren’t you?”

He chuckled to himself while William plummeted into deep mortification. The heat in his face would be mixing with the aforementioned green to render a shade only his artist brother could fathom.

“Wait till I tell the missus,” Twiddlebody prattled. “London’s most eligible catch o’ the day is hunting for a fat purse in America. Hearts will be breakin’ back home, you can bank on that.” He issued a hearty laugh as William lamented that his upholstered chair wasn’t deep enough to swallow him whole. “You always were the responsible one. I had thought to present my markers to that younger brother of yours, but I’ll take them to your solicitors first thing upon my return.” Twiddlebody stood to take his leave, then shook his head. “Wait till I tell the missus.”

William scowled at the thought of their father’s debts being presented to Nicholas. Wouldn’t he enjoy that? After all the years William had preached about obligation and responsibility to his black sheep brother, it would be more than humiliating to have men of Twiddlebody’s ilk chasing after Nicholas in pursuit of payment for debts their father had incurred. Obviously William should have spent those years preaching to his father instead of Nicholas. Now that his brother had found his muse in that schoolteacher, his successes mocked William’s competence as the head of the family. William’s scowl deepened, just another item on a long list of his own shortcomings.

Not that he wasn’t happy for his brother. Wasn’t it William’s actions that directly led to the discovery of Nicholas as a great artist? Of course his brother did not exactly appreciate his methods, nor did he appreciate his overtures to the schoolteacher. William grimaced. Naturally, he would not have suggested the things he had if he’d known about their relationship.

Still, Nicholas appeared quite content with his new respectable life, while maintaining a similar degree of respectability, in the face of his father’s defaults, was costing William a small fortune. Only the threat of insolvency could have forced him to take this drastic measure. He had sworn never to remarry after his previous wife’s death. However, thanks to the old Duke’s lack of control, severe and even hurtful remedies had been required.

His fingers reached to rub a spot on his shoulder, a reminder of one of those hurtful remedies. If Deerfeld Abbey went on the auction block, proof of his family’s ruination would be rampant. Even Nicholas would be drawn into the fray. William’s pride as the oldest would not withstand that blow.

Thus he’d marry the woman suggested by his solicitors and keep the beggars from running off to Nicholas. After all, what did Twiddlebody call him? The responsible one? Was he being responsible marrying a stranger for the sake of her money, or was he merely being lazy? Was it honorable to sacrifice one’s future happiness for the sake of the family, or was it foolish and lacking in respect? At one time, marriages arranged to enhance the family fortune were commonplace. Why then did this very circumstance make him feel lower than . . . a Twiddlebody?

The steamer mercifully docked before William could slip further into his maudlin thoughts. Although loathe to navigate the slightly swaying deck without benefit of a handrail, the lure of stationary dry land proved too much to ignore. He joined the crowd of men, women, and children funneling down the gangplank.

He searched the landscape before him. In New York, a gnarled old attorney had met him at the gangplank of the
Britannic
and rushed him to the Fall River steamer for the second leg of his voyage. Now, however, there didn’t appear to be anyone—

“Your Grace?”

William turned sharply, a bit too sharply for his poor stomach to reconnoiter. He had a brief glimpse of a tall man in a white linen suit before he felt the blood rush from his head down to his toes.

“Whoa, steady there.” The man grabbed his arm. “Take a moment to find your land legs.”

It wasn’t his legs that presented the problem, William thought glumly. Still, he preferred the stranger believe that misconception.

“Promise me that you aren’t here to take me to another boat,” William gasped.

The man laughed. “I have a rig tied up across the way. Once we collect your luggage—”

“I have no luggage,” William interrupted, starting to feel human once again. “That is to say, I haven’t any luggage here. There was some difficulty with unloading my trunk off the
Britannic
. My man stayed behind to ensure its safe arrival in Newport.”

The man nodded. Now that William could focus on something other than his own discomfort, he could see the stranger wasn’t much older than a student still at a university. He looked gangly, but comfortable in his white linen, far more comfortable than William felt in his frock coat and tails.

The stranger presented his hand. “Stephen Young, esquire. I’ve been sent by Whitby and Essex to welcome you to Newport, Your Grace.”