Bless Thine Inheritance Read online

  ‘You are my heir. I am not as young as I was, and we need to discuss your nursery.’

  ‘My what?’ The viscount choked over his port. ‘Good God, Father, even if you had notice to quit, which I doubt, having seen you enjoy a more than sufficient dinner, there is no urgency for that. I am not yet seven and twenty.’

  ‘You never know how long you have. Look at your poor brother.’

  ‘There are no guarantees, I will concede, but Laurence’s lifestyle is not mine. I say again, there is no rush for me to get myself leg-shackled.’

  ‘There is every need. I will not disguise from you that the state of our finances is … weak. A good marriage will bolster our position, keep the creditors from the door.’

  ‘From your door, sir. And I thought that Laurence’s debts had been paid off.’

  ‘Since then luck has not been on my side.’

  ‘You mean that after all that we went through, you have not curtailed your own … entertainments?’ Lord Levedale looked horrified.

  ‘Don’t come over all puritanical, Levedale. A man must have distractions, especially after the misery of bereavement.’

  ‘Not if they make a dire situation even worse.’

  ‘It is academic why we have reached this position. Suffice to say if you make a good match the bank will hold back on any foreclosures.’

  ‘That far gone? And stop saying “we”. This is your mess.’

  ‘And you are all the family remaining to me, so it is “ours”. I had thought of remarriage myself, but the thought of some chit maundering about the place trying to change everything is too much.’

  ‘So you expect me to go heiress-hunting like some cheap fortune-hunter.’

  ‘No need to hunt. I have found the ideal girl for you, and she is the heiress to a cool fifty thousand. You should applaud my foresight. I met with Sir Thomas Burton and discovered his daughter is to be one of a house party at Mardham’s place, from next Wednesday. Got you an invitation. She is considered a good-looking girl, so I am not making things difficult for you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, for that. Not that you would have held back if she were cross-eyed and bald.’ Lord Levedale was not appeased by this information.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I would not expect you to marry a freak. And for that matter nor would I have suggested a cripple, even if she had a good sum coming with her.’

  ‘A cripple?’ Lord Levedale frowned. This seemed very specific.

  ‘Yes, Mardham’s girl. All I ask is you turn up at Meysey, do the decent by the Burton chit, and she will accept you. You don’t possess Laurence’s good looks and charm, but you are not ill-favoured and you are the heir to an earldom. Her father is mighty keen to see her go up in the world.’

  ‘If she is so pretty, why wasn’t she snapped up during her London Season?’ Levedale was now suspicious.

  ‘She wasn’t presented.’ Lord Curborough did not look his son in the eye.

  ‘You mean her Papa is some cit.’

  ‘Sir Thomas Burton is a Member of Parliament.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop him being a cit.’

  ‘And your grandfather married the heiress to a “tin baron” so I do not know that you should turn your nose up at money. Besides, the girl has been raised properly. She won’t disgrace you and smell of the shop, you know.’

  Lord Levedale’s brain was reeling. He had no inclination to marry for several years yet, and here was his father, not only demanding he marry, but lining up the prospective bride.

  ‘I won’t do it. It is the outside of enough. Economise, sir, and the bank will …’

  ‘The bank won’t, I tell you. You may not care if I am dragged off to a debtor’s prison, and everything is sold off, but would you have our name dragged through the mud, the Earls of Curborough become landless objects of ridicule?’

  ‘Pity you did not think of this earlier, sir,’ remarked Levedale, running his hand through hair. ‘Why you didn’t show some sense after Laurence died I will never know, and do not spout that “diversion” flummery at me again. If you had but made an effort, kept things steady, it would have saved a lot of trouble.’ He sighed. Whilst he might harangue his father for his stupidity, he could not improve matters except by doing as he requested. Like it or not, and he liked it not at all, he was in a difficult position. ‘Alright. I will agree to go to Meysey, and I will see if this Miss Burton and I could make a match of it, but I make no promises, mind you, none at all. I’ll be damned if I marry a woman I have not the slightest tendre for, simply to save your skin.’

  ‘You’ll be saving your own, and that of your own heir, and without a good match you are damned too, my boy.’ Lord Curborough gave a grim half-smile.

  The sad truth was, he was right.

  Chapter 3

  Lady Mardham had known Maria Wombwell from the time of their first Season, and if her friend had not married a title, then she had certainly married a gentleman with lineage and money. The two ladies were frequent correspondents, though they met less often. Mrs Wombwell had withdrawn from Society upon the untimely death of her husband a dozen years previously. She had been a devoted wife, and had thereafter channelled all her energies into being an even more devoted and doting mother. Her son, at an age where doting parents of either gender were a source of embarrassment, had taken full advantage of her ever open purse whilst simultaneously doing as many things as possible to prove he was not the paragon she fondly imagined. He went about with a rackety set, of which the then Lord Levedale was a member, but his fondness was not for cards, or blue ruin, but rather the fair sex. He ran a succession of expensive mistresses in the way many gentlemen ran a string of racehorses, and interspersed this with leading eligible young ladies into falling head over heels in love with him, only to disappoint them at the last. He had developed a reputation as ‘dissolute and dangerous’, but, as his mama wrote to her ‘dear friend Pamela’, all he needed to steady him was ‘a good sort of girl who would not expect too high a degree of permanent devotion’. Lady Mardham thought Celia sensible enough to see him for what he was, and grasp any opportunity that presented itself.

  It was shortly after luncheon on the eighth that Mr Wombwell, with what his parent described as a sick headache, and Lady Mardham privately considered to be ‘in a bad mood’, arrived at Meysey. Mrs Wombwell arrived in a very stylish travelling carriage and he was driving his high perch phaeton. He was scowling, his thick, dark brows beetling, and his lips compressed in a pout, and his mother glanced at him with patent concern even as Lady Mardham advanced, smiling, to greet them. Fortunately for Mrs Wombwell’s nerves, her son could not resist getting even matchmaking mamas eating out of his hand, and the scowl was replaced with a charming smile as he bent over his hostess’s hand.

  ‘Lady Mardham. How kind of you to invite me. I am sure I will have a perfectly splendid time.’ Voice and look won her over, and she actually blushed. She seemed quite unconscious that he had cut his parent out of the greeting entirely.

  ‘I hope we may entertain you, Mr Wombwell, tolerably well. There is quite a young set here, so you need not fear to be kicking your heels among the older generation. My son is coming down with Lord Deben and Lord Pocklington, and my dear Celia has her cousin Miss Clandon, and her friends Miss Burton and Miss Darwen coming to stay.’

  ‘Then both entertaining and charming company is assured, ma’am.’ His eyes danced, and as they worked the magic he expected, Lady Mardham was blissfully unaware that it was not from delight but the knowledge that she was ignorant of his deception. He was some four or five years older than the other young gentlemen and of a very different set. He considered himself far more polished, and a proper man of the world whilst they ‘paddled’ at the edge of excitement. They would bore him. He also had little doubt his Mama had persuaded him to join her so that she could parade another line of mediocre and simpering maids before him. Any young woman worth noting he had already seen during the Season. None of the four young ladies named conjured up any image
in his mind.

  He would not have come, had it not been prudent to remove himself from London and his creditors until after Quarter Day, and remaining with his parent obviated the need for any day to day expenditure. Furthermore, if any tradesman sought to dun him, they would find the trail very cold if he and his Mama were not at home. She would, of course, pay up, but the sighs and Tragedy Jill looks were always so very wearing. He had come into his inheritance upon reaching full age, but although it had been ample it had been frittered away, so that whilst he had initially complained at how large a jointure his Father had reserved for his Mama, he now had reason to be very grateful for it.

  Celia, who had been showing her cousin to her allotted chamber and generally trying to encourage the very shy Sarah Clandon to look less as if she wished the ground would swallow her up, appeared at the head of the stairs with that damsel. Mr Wombwell looked up, and was dazzled for a full half-minute, right up to the point where Celia laid her hand carefully upon the bannister and began to descend, one stair at a time. His amazement turned to fascinated horror, and Celia reddened. Miss Clandon, waiting to come down a little behind her cousin, frowned. It seemed very rude to stare in that manner.

  Fortunately for Celia, it was at that moment that hearty voices were heard outside, and distraction arrived in the form of her brother and his two friends. They had spent two days on the road, breaking their journey at Speenhamland, and had engaged in a light hearted ‘race’ between Lord Deben and Mr Mardham, who was driving himself and Lord Pocklington. Lord Deben had won by the slimmest of margins, and the other two gentlemen were trying to declare it at worst a draw, since their vehicle had been carrying the greater weight. It was three very jolly young men who entered the hall, with Mr Mardham leading the way, and greeting his Mama with more affection than politeness, giving her not only a peck upon the cheek but thereafter an exuberant hug, and complimenting her upon her looks.

  ‘We had a fine run down, Mama, and here are Deben and Pocklington come to eat you out of house and home.’ He waved an arm in the direction of his friends, who came forward more respectfully, and bowed over her ladyship’s hand with words of thanks and assurances that their appetites, whilst healthy, would not lead to this calamity.

  As they did so, Celia came down the stairs unobserved, as she thought, but Lord Deben, in advance of Lord Pocklington, looked to her and smiled.

  ‘Miss Mardham, your servant, ma’am.’ He bowed. She made the sketchiest of curtsies, for it was something else she could no longer do with grace, and then extended her hand. He came to take it in a firm clasp. He had an open, pleasant countenance, and spaniel brown eyes that were twinkling.

  ‘I trust we find you in tolerably good health. The weather has been quite stultifying up in Town and if it has been so here, then you might feel a little jaded.’

  ‘Ah, but my lord, in the country it is a little cooler. We have more breeze.’ She dimpled, and added, ‘Had you not been “loitering” in the Metropolis, you would have discovered this.’

  Lady Mardham frowned, but his lordship laughed, comprehending the bantering tone.

  ‘Got me there, ma’am. I cannot deny it, but I can blame Mardham. If he had not remained, then I would have bolted for the verdant pastures.’

  ‘Hey, don’t lay the fault on me!’ Mr Mardham grinned at friend and sister and then held out both hands to Celia. ‘You look very well, my dear. Shall I apologise straight away for bringing Deben to tell you faradiddles?’

  ‘Not at all, Richard. I believe every word he tells me.’ Her eyes danced. ‘Unlike yours.’

  ‘Dash it, I didn’t expect to return to the bosom of my family and be abused.’ He feigned horror.

  ‘No?’ Her eyebrows rose further, and he laughed.

  Lord Pocklington, still engaged in pleasantries with his hostess, looked across to the source of laughter. Having been told by his friend Mardham of his sister’s situation, he was surprised by how she could be so at ease. The poor girl must be virtually housebound, and he could think of nothing worse.

  Mr Wombwell, who found himself, most unusually, not the centre of attention, interrupted the sibling exchanges, and Celia retreated instantly within her shell of cool politeness. He made his bow with grace, said all the right things, but she was distant, even vaguely disapproving. This took him by surprise. He was used to young women doing everything to encourage him, whatever their mamas might have warned. To find one patently uninterested dented his pride. How dare she treat him in such a manner. He scarcely listened as Lady Mardham invited her guests to divest themselves of their travelling raiment and meet in the drawing room for tea.

  Whilst Lord Pocklington, a tall, rather loose-limbed young man, lacked Mr Wombwell’s grace, his introduction thawed Miss Mardham’s iciness. Miss Clandon, who had made a very good attempt at being invisible, was introduced, and the arrivals were conducted upstairs. Lady Mardham escorted Mrs Wombwell herself, wanting the opportunity to speak with her friend in private.

  Celia looked at ‘Cousin Sarah’. Miss Clandon looked rather overawed.

  ‘Shall we await everyone in the drawing room, Sarah?’

  ‘Yes. Cousin Celia, I do not think Mr Wombwell liked the way you … I mean he seemed a bit put out that …’ She stumbled over how she might phrase her thought.

  ‘I confess I have not met anyone quite like him before, but if he expects everyone to admire him, then he is in for a sad shock. Did you like him?’

  ‘Oh no. But then it does not really matter what I think.’ Miss Clandon did not sound perturbed by this, but Celia frowned. ‘Mama told me that she “did not think anything would come of it”, my visit she meant, and that I was to learn, and observe, and be grateful.’

  ‘Goodness, that makes you sound like “the poor relation”.’

  ‘But that is exactly what I am, Cousin.’ Sarah gave a twisted smile.

  Celia, who had thought her very shy relative was simply one of those girls who were naturally excessively self-effacing, felt a wave of shame rise to her cheek. Sarah might be quiet but she was not lacking in understanding.

  ‘I am sorry. Since I do not consider you in that light, the thought had not occurred to me.’

  ‘You can be sure Mr Wombwell will. I could tell from his manner at our introduction. It was dismissive. But I disliked him before that, for the way he stared at you coming down the stairs.’

  ‘He did. I can only suppose Mrs Wombwell had not warned him in advance.’

  ‘He should not need “warning”. You are not some freak of nature to frighten him. I far preferred your brother and his friends. They seem much nicer, true gentlemen.’

  Celia could not but giggle at her brother as a ‘true gentleman’, but acknowledged that the three friends compared very favourably with the polished Mr Wombwell.

  ‘And we still have the “delights” of Lord Levedale, and, oh dear me, Sir Marcus Cotgrave, who, I must warn you, sees in me an image of his late-lamented wife.’

  ‘ Oh.’ There was not much else Miss Clandon could say to this, so she simply added, ‘And Miss Darwen and Miss Burton are yet to arrive.’

  ‘Yes, the fair Marianne.’

  *

  The gentlemen appeared in the drawing room a little before her ladyship, and Celia assumed the temporary role of hostess, ringing for tea even as her brother suggested something ‘less brown’.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry, should you wish for wine?’ Celia felt a little foolish. She was not au fait with the requirements of gentlemen.

  ‘Not at all, ma’am. Tea would be just the thing.’ Lord Deben quelled the look of disbelief on his friend’s face. ‘Long journey and all that. Very … invigorating, is tea.’

  Richard Mardham, having never offered his friends any non-alcoholic beverage other than coffee, nearly choked. Lord Pocklington, taking his lead from Lord Deben, avowed himself equally delighted to take tea with the ladies, and when Celia then asked her brother if he would take wine or tea, he gave in with a show of nonchalance.

>   ‘Oh tea will do very well. I forgot we are not in Town.’

  ‘It must be so difficult, when one looks out of the window too. Vastly similar views, no doubt.’ Celia bit her lip.

  ‘You ought not to roast me. I am your older brother and deserve some respect, miss.’ He strove to sound serious, and failed.

  ‘My Grandmama will not drink any tea but that which she blends herself, as though it were snuff,’ mused Lord Pocklington. ‘Not that she sniffs up tea leaves, you understand. Whenever she travels, and it is rarely these days, she takes her tea with her, like her dressing case, and her own china.’

  ‘My Aunt Augusta always takes her own sheets. In fact my Mother claims she takes an entire linen cupboard with her.’ Lord Deben, following his friend’s lead, thought this would be a suitable topic to discuss in front of young ladies ‘taking tea’. He did not possess sisters, and was not one for the muslin company. In fact he generally found the fair sex a little daunting. Miss Mardham was perhaps the only damsel who did not cast him in a fluster, and that had been because when he had met her at New Year she was scarcely more than an invalid still, and he had fallen in with her brother’s easy manner with her, trying to make the abnormal situation seem normal.

  The exchanges upon the vicissitudes of elderly female relations continued until Lady Mardham and Mrs Wombwell joined them, thereby embarrassing Lord Pocklington, who was at that moment giving a mildly exaggerated impression of a deaf and addled old relative who kept pointing at guests and asking why they had come, even if she had invited them. His lordship straightened up, colouring.

  ‘I … er …’ Words were not his strongest point, and now they eluded him completely.

  Mrs Wombwell, with a wave of maternal understanding, stepped nobly into the breach.

  ‘I had hoped Stephen would be downstairs also by now. Perhaps it was too hot whilst he was driving. I did ask him to come in my carriage, but he says that being driven, rather than concentrating upon the road himself, makes him feel unwell.’

  Lady Mardham sought a sympathetic phrase, and her lips parted. What she had been about to say was lost, however, as the door was opened to admit Miss Marianne Burton. Her ladyship was transfixed, and simply stared. Her son let out a long admiring breath; Lord Deben whispered something unintelligible; Lord Pocklington’s jaw dropped, and he blinked several times.