To Wed an Heiress (23 page)

Eda slipped out of the music room and down the passage to seek the disappointing normalcy of her own chambers. She had never liked waiting for her birthday sweets as a child—until one had seen the colored icing with one’s own eyes, there was always the fear that someone had forgotten and there would be no cake after all. She breathed in deeply. Why should she doubt? Had he given her any reason to question his affections?

She thought back to the day when he had reneged on his promise to ride with her in Hyde Park. And she, foolish she, had retreated behind her wounded pride and let him do so. She had fancied herself in love with him at the beginning of the season, and fancied herself out of love with him again when he deserted her for Arabella. It had taken the cat-clawed taunts of that cold-hearted minx to make her realize that the flames of love were not dead, but still glowing, as red and hot as embers in the hearth. And instead of surrendering Haro, she had made up her mind to fight for him, in spite of his betrothal to another, in spite of the suspicions of murder, in spite of the whispering doubts her traitorous mind entertained.

A footstep sounded in the passageway behind her, and she spun around. It was her cousin the earl following her.

“Oh, it’s you.” Her heart skipped first one, then two, then three beats of its regular rhythm.

“Yes.” Haro’s face was serious.

Eda waited expectantly, feeling small as she tilted up her chin to look into her cousin’s eyes.

“Miss Swanycke,” he said formally. “Might I have the pleasure of an interview with you tomorrow morning at ten o’clock in my study?”

“An…interview?” Eda could barely refrain from laughing. Was this not Haro whom she had known from childhood?

“If you would be so kind,” said Haro, his slight smile also acknowledging the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Of course, my lord,” said Eda, matching formality with formality and dropping a curtsy. “I would be delighted.”

“Thank you,” said Haro, taking her hand and putting it to his lips. “Until tomorrow then.”

“’Til tomorrow,” replied Eda, following him with her eyes as he retreated down the passageway.

H
aro barely slept that night, on the heels of a whole week of insomnia. But whereas the previous nights had been spent in apprehension, this night was spent in anticipation…mostly. He had treated Eda abominably, that he knew, but he also sensed that she was ready to forgive him and that she still—dare he think it?—loved him. He tossed fitfully amidst a storm of bedclothes, heaving a bolster pillow overboard and longing for the daylight.

He recalled the night she had invaded his chambers, clad only in her white nightgown. That was an unmistakable sign of romantic interest, was it not? Although, perhaps it was simply a calculated move to get him into Arabella’s black books.

He sighed. But surely, the unfailing constancy and support she had displayed throughout the murder investigation was proof enough of her feelings? Or perhaps it merely meant that although he had killed any hopes of love, she still held him in brotherly affection.

He left off pretending to sleep at dawn and, knowing that Garth was an early riser, summoned him to dress him.

“And will you be wanting your usual waistcoat, m’lord?”

Haro hesitated. “Which would you advise?”

“If I might be so bold, m’lord, this one is Miss Swanycke’s favorite.” He reached into the wardrobe and held up a waistcoat made of dark blue brocade. Haro’s eyes widened at Garth’s prescience. Did the whole household know that he was having an interview with Eda this morning, an interview upon which hung the whole of his future hopes?

“And I believe it is dark enough, m’lord, to not be wholly unsuitable for mourning wear.”

“Ah, yes. Mourning,” said Haro thoughtfully, extending his arms for Garth to slip the waistcoat onto him. That was another fly in the ointment. Was it even proper for a man mourning his father—and his great-uncle and his fiancée—to propose marriage? If Eda did agree to marry him, the wedding would certainly have to be delayed until his mother was out of blacks.

“Well, Garth, how do I look?” Haro asked after a cravat, a coat, and topboots had completed the ensemble.

A smile split the wiry old man’s face all the way up to his graying sideburns. “I am certain that no young lady could fail to find you distinguished, virile, and handsome.”

“No higher compliment,” said Haro with a grin, and he headed downstairs to break his fast before the most important interview of his life.

***

“You’re looking dapper,” said Torin from a mouth full of sausage. He had been heard to voice upon occasion that the absence of the fairer sex allowed, or even necessitated, the absence of table manners.

“Thank you,” said Haro, toying with the eggs on his plate.

“Whatever for?” Torin eyed the elaborate knot of Haro’s cravat with suspicion. Apparently the news of the earl’s morning plans had not traveled as far as his younger brother.

Haro sent a quelling stare, but Torin refused to be quelled.

“It’s a reasonable question. I don’t recollect hearing that guests are descending on us today. In fact, out of the guests from our last house party, one is dead, one is in the gaol, and one has removed himself to the comforts of the village inn. So the question remains—whatever for?”

“I have an important meeting this morning.”

“With Sir Robert? I would not have suspected an Oriental, or a Gordian Knot, or whatever it is you call that, to impress him.”

“No, not with Sir Robert.” Haro pushed his half-eaten breakfast away and rose from the table.

“Well then, I see you’re determined to be cryptic. Go on then. I shan’t encourage your vanity with more questions.” Torin opened the heavy tome that lay on the table beside his plate, and stuffing another forkful of sausage into his mouth, devoted himself to his reading.

Haro strode into his study and looked at his pocket watch. Still nearly two hours until ten o’clock. He picked up the account ledger that lay on the desk. It was his responsibility now, but he had not steeled himself to look through it since his father’s demise. Mr. Godwin’s news had been too final, too devastating to think that any economies or shrewder management would alter affairs. But still…he had time on his hands, and it would keep his mind from worrying if he could see who had wages owing and how the estate was being run.

A half hour passed, and then another as Haro fished his pocket watch out of his waistcoat at regular intervals. She was a punctual person, although in this case, she might intentionally keep him waiting.

There was only a quarter of an hour left….

A knock sounded on the door. Haro straightened at the desk, prepared to rise. But an unexpected figure filled the doorframe—it was Henry, the first footman. “Beg your pardon, my lord, but there is a special courier here to see you.”

“A courier?”

“Yes, my lord. Come straight up from London this morning.”

“Very good,” said Haro, puzzled at what this could portend. “Send him in.”

And within seconds, the courier had entered, still in his mud-spattered coat and boots, to hand Haro a letter, the direction of which looked to have been written in considerable haste.

***

Eda paused on the staircase. She had been waiting all morning for ten o’clock to come. It was near enough now, although she would doubtless appear over-eager, and she was on her way to visit Haro’s study for the desired
interview
. But instead of a closed door, she saw a muddy and rough-shaven man exiting the study. Who could it be?

She wrinkled her nose and waited a bit, watching the footman show the fellow out the front door.

“Who is that, Henry?”

“Special courier, miss, for his lordship.”

“Ah,” she said, and waited a little longer. Whatever the man had been carrying would be something of an urgent nature. Haro would want to open it immediately.

It occurred to her that it was very well-mannered of her to wait, especially when the butterflies in her stomach were all straining their wings to propel her in through that door…into, what she hoped, were Haro’s waiting arms.

The clock in the entrance hall chimed ten. She rapped her knuckles on the study door and went inside.

Haro was sitting silently in the horsehair-stuffed leather chair behind the desk. His furrowed brow overlooked the sheet of paper in his right hand.

“Good morning!” she said brightly, for it was a good morning—she was willing it to be so, no matter what news that letter contained.

“Eda.” His face put on a smile, but the element of delight was missing from his tone. He rose to his feet. “I had intended to speak to you on one subject, but it appears that a more urgent matter must occupy our conversation. Please,”—he gestured to the sofa near the fireplace—“take a seat.”

He abandoned his chair at the desk to sit closer to her, bringing the piece of paper with him, and once they were both comfortably installed, he cleared his throat ominously. “I have here a letter from Mr. Godwin, our solicitor. It appears that Mr. Pevensey lost no time in calling on him yesterday evening after he had returned to the metropolis and acquainted him, most thoroughly, with the events of the past week.”

Eda squirmed. Why must letters from solicitors always contain unfortunate news?

“Mr. Godwin writes that I am indeed the executor of Harold Harding’s will, in the place of my late father. It is imperative, he says, that I journey to London immediately to receive a full copy of the will. In most cases, he would not forward on information about a will’s contents prior to the executor’s reading of the will, but in this case, knowing our family’s ‘delicate financial situation,’ as he terms it, he will be so bold as to name the primary bequests and beneficiaries of the will in this letter.”

Haro paused and looked over at Eda.

“You seem somber,” she said. “There must be something unpleasant in the bequests.”

“No, not at all,” said Haro. His face relaxed momentarily but then tensed again as he continued. “Mr. Godwin first reveals the amount of money bound up in Harold Harding’s estate….”

Haro named a sum.

Eda gave a shriek.

It was four times the fortune that the late Edward Emison had gambled away.

“Oh, Haro! He always told us that he had stored up treasures on his travels. Did you ever think—”

“Not in the least! I assumed he had collected a few trinkets here and there—mementos from St. Petersburg, artifacts from Egypt. But a fortune of this magnitude? How could we have ever guessed? He wore the same frock coat for twenty years, and I daresay he spent more money on food for his birds than he spent on himself!”

“Does Mr. Godwin say who…?”

Haro nodded and read aloud. “As you are the chief executor of the will, I feel it only right to inform you that the entirety of this fortune is bequeathed to Harold Harding’s great-niece, Edith Swanycke.”

Eda gasped. “To me?”

“Well, we have not seen the official copy of the will yet, but I find it unlikely that Mr. Godwin would be telling us taradiddles.”

Eda did not know whether to laugh or cry. “So this means, I’m…I’m…”

“…an heiress. Yes. And one of the richest heiresses in England.”

At that, she truly did burst into tears. In all her time as Lady Emison’s ward, she had been treated as a daughter; she had never suffered want and never been made to feel as if she were a poor relation. But the knowledge of her true circumstances had always lingered in the back of her mind, and with the loss of the Emisons’ own fortune, that reality had become increasingly unsettling.

And now, what was this that Haro was telling her? That she was wealthy? And, even more importantly, that she was independent and secure?

She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the palm of her hand. “I don’t know what to say—Uncle Harold was a rascal to gammon us all these years. I must tell your mother!” And with that, she leaped to her feet to leave the room.

As her hand touched the doorknob, Eda froze. She looked back. “Haro, what was the other subject…the matter about which you wished to speak to me initially?”

Haro, who had also risen when his cousin left her seat, tossed the letter from Mr. Godwin onto the desk. “Oh, that…I think it is better saved for another time, or perhaps not mentioned at all.”

Eda’s heart fell into her stomach. All the excitement from her newfound inheritance melted like a piece of ice. Her fingers retreated from the handle of the door, and she walked back to face the earl. “Harold Emison, I insist on knowing what you intended to say to me before this letter made its appearance. Out with it, my lord, for I will not be denied.”

***

Haro took a deep breath. His emotions over the last fifteen minutes had run the gamut from eager expectation to shocked amazement to stoic acceptance. How could he possibly, in his straitened circumstances, make Eda Swanycke an offer of marriage just moments after she had been discovered to be one of the richest heiresses in England? He had played the fortune hunter once, and it was not to his credit. How could he ever prove, either to Eda or to the watching world, that his motives in this case were honorable?

“You owe me an answer,” said Eda, those full lips of hers tantalizing him to no end. He could still see the traces of tears on her face, and how badly he wanted to take his thumb and wipe them away from her cheeks.

“I am sorry,” said Haro slowly. “But I cannot in good conscience broach the subject that I had previously intended to.”

Her eyes glinted with irritation, and Haro had a suspicion that she was suppressing the urge to slap him. “Is this because of the money? It is, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course it is. It changes everyth—”

“I don’t see how!”

“Because you haven’t had time to look at it properly. How can I, as your guardian now that Father’s gone, propose such an unequal alliance, the advantage of which would be all on my own side? It would be wrong of me.”

“So you
were
going to make me an offer?”

Everything else he had said seemed to be lost on her.

“Of course I was. You
knew
I was going to make you an offer. But the point is, that I’m not going to do so anymore.”

“But that is ridiculous!” She stamped one of her little feet on the floor, taking a step closer to him so they were less than an arm’s length apart.

“I agree. But there it is.” If he took her face in his hands, he could point those full lips into the air and meet them with his own.

“Haro?”

He paused. “Yes?”

“Why is it that whenever you’re just about to kiss me, we always get into some frightful row?”

It was all the invitation he needed. He reached one long arm around her waist and brought her near. His lips descended on hers, gently at first, then hungrily, pulling her even closer as she responded in kind. How had he never kissed her before? And what madness had inspired him to think any other woman’s kisses could compare to this?

He broke away, finally, to take a breath, and discovered that his idealistic scruples had shrunk as surely as the distance between them. “As your guardian, I would insist that you merely set me an allowance.”

Eda’s dark blue eyes twinkled. “You shall have your pin money quarterly.”

“But you must retain full control of the principal.”

“You shall not touch a penny of it except on my death.”

“And I must be assured that you are obeying your heart in this matter.”

“Yes, of course—although I will say that my chief impulsion would be the title you possess. We are well-matched, my fortune hunter, for I have always aspired to be a countess.”

Haro laughed. “Then, in that case, Edith Swanycke, will you marry me?”

“I will,” she said and stood up on her tiptoes to claim another kiss.

***

Finis