An Heir of Uncertainty (2 page)

Though Mr. Channing looked to be only a little older than Mr. Niven, the two were physical opposites. Mr. Niven had a suave, fastidious air, while Mr. Channing was dressed in the rumpled tweeds and well-worn top boots of a country squire. He was big and broad, almost Win’s height, with rough hands and a weathered complexion.

The lawyer waved Win toward an armchair. “Please, have a seat. We’ve a good deal to discuss.”

Win sat. “From the look on your face, it can’t be good news.”

“Unfortunately, you have the right of it.”

“I’ll stand,” Channing said as Mr. Niven chose one of the two chairs facing Win. “I’ve a bad back, and sitting does it no favors.”

Mr. Niven met Win’s eyes and sighed. “I’m afraid there’s no welcome way to say this. When I wrote to you, I was convinced you were the rightful heir to the late Lord Radbourne’s title and dignities. You and he share an ancestor in the fourth earl, and I could find no closer claimant in the male line.”

Win tensed. “I sense a ‘but’ coming on.”

The lawyer gave a sharp nod. “Indeed. You were contacted too precipitously. At the time, I believed that the late Lord Radbourne died with no legitimate issue of his own, with no
hope
of legitimate issue. But it appears his widow is increasing.”

The letter Win had received from Mr. Niven had been full of categorical language like
the recent decease of his brother
and
died childless.
Nowhere had they mentioned that the late earl even had a widow. “You’ll forgive my frankness, Mr. Niven, but it’s more than 250 miles here from Bishop’s Waltham, and I’ve just traveled the distance in a closed carriage with a small child and a restive nineteen-year-old. I’m not the kind of man who uproots himself at the drop of a hat. You might have determined whether there was a baby on the way before you informed me I was the heir.”

Mr. Niven’s lips pursed slightly. “Yes. Yes, you’re absolutely right. I apologize for that. I should have waited longer before attempting to contact you. But I’d been assured that Lady Radbourne had explicitly ruled out the possibility of a baby.” He threw a dark look at Mr. Channing that made it clear who his informant had been.

Mr. Channing bristled. “She told me she wasn’t increasing. Told me flat-out that there wasn’t a chance! And it’s not as if I could question a new widow about her...er, female symptoms. She gave me to believe she had no doubt.”

“But there
is
a baby on the way,” Mr. Niven said. “Or, at least, Lady Radbourne informed us five days ago that she believes there is.”

Mr. Channing looked as if the news had left a bad taste in his mouth. “Aye, though whose baby it may be, God only knows.”

Win blinked in surprise. “Do you mean to say there’s some doubt about the child’s paternity?”

“More than
some.
” Mr. Channing paced the figured carpet in restless dissatisfaction. “Even while her husband was alive, Lady Radbourne was far too friendly with the local doctor—and him coming and going at all hours too. Most of the neighborhood remarked on it. I wouldn’t put it past her to get with child as soon as she learned her husband was dead, expressly to keep her claws in the Radbourne fortune. After all, she was a Douglass before she married.” He spoke the last sentence as if it were all the evidence he needed.

Win shifted in his chair. “You forget, I’m not from around here. What does being a Douglass have to say to the matter?”

Mr. Niven looked pained, but Mr. Channing’s face set in a fierce expression. “Why, her mother had five brats by three different fathers, and there never was a
Mister
Douglass, if you take my meaning.”

Win doubted anyone could miss his meaning. So Lady Radbourne’s mother had been an adventuress—and to judge by Channing’s manner, the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

“Lady Radbourne’s mother and three of her siblings have since died,” Mr. Niven said, his tone far more diplomatic. “She’s half sister to the other surviving girl.”

Mr. Channing nodded. “Like chalk and cheese, those two—the one dark-haired and as bold as brass, and the other so fair and sickly.”

Win wondered which of the two sisters Lady Radbourne was, the bold one or the sickly one. He supposed she must be the former, if she’d been carrying on with another man behind her husband’s back.

Mr. Niven’s expression turned grave. “Unfortunately, there’s no way to prove Lady Radbourne’s baby was conceived adulterously, and even if there were, the law doesn’t concern itself with whether the late Lord Radbourne is the child’s father, but only with whether he could have been. Legally, any baby born within a reasonable gestation after his death must be considered his posthumous child.”

“A reasonable gestation?” Win said. “How long is that?”

“It’s not precisely fixed in statute. As a rule, any birth occurring within ten months of the father’s death is deemed legitimate.”

“Ten months...” So he might remain in limbo until October.

“Perhaps longer. When the legitimacy of a child is in dispute, most juries are loath to stain a widow’s name and disinherit a fatherless child.” Mr. Niven shrugged. “You do have one recourse, Mr. Vaughan.”

Mr. Vaughan.
Win was glad now he’d chosen not to use the title when giving his name to the butler. “What’s that?”

The lawyer leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers. “You could obtain a
writ de ventre inspiciendo.
It would allow you to have Lady Radbourne examined to determine whether she’s truly with child. If she is, you could keep her confined to some fixed place and have her examined regularly until her delivery, then have witnesses present at the birth.”

Win’s jaw dropped. “My God. That’s really the law?”

“It’s not often executed these days, but yes, as heir presumptive you have that right. The writ would prevent her from introducing a supposititious child—that is, from feigning pregnancy and attempting to pass off a foundling as the rightful heir.”

Good Lord, was Lady Radbourne really that devious? Whatever her character, Win knew his own conscience. “No. I’m not going to subject my cousin’s widow to an examination. I’m certainly not going to keep her confined like a common criminal.”

Mr. Niven’s slightly hooded eyes held an approving glint. “A wise course, if you’ll permit me to say so. Whatever the result of such an examination, Lady Radbourne is still the dowager countess and a dependent of the estate.”

“She’ll always land on her feet, that one,” Mr. Channing said with a dour look.

Win heaved a sigh. He’d looked on Mr. Niven’s letter as divine intervention. Hamble Grange wasn’t entailed, and Win’s father had mortgaged the estate years before to pay for his sons’ education and to put a new roof on the house. The crops had suffered in the cold summers of the past few years, and though Win was a careful manager, he was falling behind on the mortgage payments. He’d already had to pull Freddie out of Cambridge—not that Freddie minded, but Win certainly did. If he didn’t find some way to satisfy the bank, he was going to lose the Grange.

Then there was the added boon of Julia’s growing up a nobleman’s daughter instead of the child of an obscure and cash-strapped gentleman farmer.
Lady Julia Vaughan.
Just when Win had begun to hope he might finally keep his word to Harriet...

He rubbed his chin. “So where does all this leave me?”

“Unfortunately, if Lady Radbourne’s baby should be a boy, his birth divests you of the title and estate. Of course, it’s quite possible the baby will be a girl.”

“Or Lady Radbourne could miscarry,” Mr. Channing said.

Both Win and Mr. Niven winced at his oddly optimistic tone, though the lawyer inclined his head smoothly in agreement. “Yes, that’s also a possibility. So you see, your odds are actually a little better than even, Mr. Vaughan. And even if the child should be male, you’ll remain next in line until such time as the boy fathers a son of his own.”

“But for now, I really have nothing.”

“What’s that?” Freddie’s voice came from the doorway, sharper than his usual absent-minded tone. “What do you mean, you have nothing?”

Win glanced over his shoulder to find his brother peering owlishly at the tableau he and the other men presented. “It looks as if I may not be the new earl after all.” He spoke as lightly as he could manage. “Our cousin left a widow behind, and it appears she’s in an interesting condition.”

Freddie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re joking.”

“Unfortunately not.” Win made the necessary introductions, then gave Freddie a brief and expurgated version of what Mr. Niven had told him.

For once, Freddie actually seemed interested in a matter that had nothing to do with pigeons. Though he didn’t precisely stare at the lawyer—Freddie had a bewildering tendency to look off into space when addressing someone—his brows drew down in a disbelieving frown. “So we’ve come here on a fool’s errand?”

“Yes and no,” Mr. Niven said. “At this point your brother can’t prove his right to the title, so he can’t apply for a writ of summons or take a seat in the Lords. But for the time being, he’s the legal heir. While the trustees of the estate won’t allow him to run it into ruin, he’s entitled to the use and occupancy of the property, at least until Lady Radbourne’s delivery. The rest depends on the countess and her baby.”

Still frowning, Freddie dropped into a chair. “Well, that’s something, anyway.”

Yes, it was something—it was uncertainty and delay and confusion. Win didn’t like to let his disappointment show, especially in front of Freddie, who knew nothing of the financial problems facing the Grange. Still, it was a bitter pill to swallow. He’d closed up his house in Hampshire, torn Julia away from her beloved Nurse Drew, and carted Freddie across the length of England, all for naught. He’d spent thirty-one pounds to get here, thirty-one pounds he could ill afford. He’d have to spend thirty-one more just to get back home.

Of course, he could stay and familiarize himself with the estate, but if he did and Lady Radbourne’s baby turned out to be a boy, he was going to look a proper ass when he crawled back to Hamble Grange with nothing to show for his months of absence. Not only that, but he’d look unfittingly grasping if he lingered here, his brother and daughter in attendance, breathing down the widow’s neck until her confinement.

He wasn’t even sure how much hung in the balance. He threw a questioning glance at Mr. Niven. “I don’t like to appear crass, but the question must be asked, if only in the spirit of stewardship—how much is the estate worth?”

The lawyer looked vaguely uncomfortable. “It’s impossible to put a price on the house, the land and the family heirlooms, and besides, they’re all entailed. But I can tell you that the rents and other income come to some thirty thousand a year.”

Win gasped—a reaction he hastened to mask with a dry cough.

Freddie wasn’t so tactful. He lunged forward in his seat. “Did you say
thirty thousand?
”

“About that, yes, with the colliery and the shipping interests.”

Win felt curiously light-headed. Taking the title into account, he’d estimated between eight and twelve, had hoped for as much as fifteen. In his most fanciful moments, he’d dreamed of a princely sum like twenty. But
thirty?
Hamble Grange brought in scarcely two thousand a year, and that was with a good harvest. Even Harriet’s family, as wealthy as they were, could boast no more than seven.

Thirty thousand. And such an enormous sum might be his—or it might not. It all depended on the countess and her baby.

“Gad,” Freddie said. “I wish you’d never asked that question, Win. To come so close to a title only to have it pass one by would be bad enough, but to have thirty thousand pounds slip through one’s fingers...”

“There’s no sense despairing yet,” Mr. Niven said. “The countess’s condition may pose a mere delay, nothing more.”

Wearily, Win rose from his chair. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Niven. My brother and I have had a long journey, and my daughter is sleeping upstairs. I can decide in the morning what to do from here.” There was only one thing more he wanted to know. “When do we meet Lady Radbourne?”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” Mr. Niven assured him. “She’s removed to the dower house with her sister. She won’t trouble you.”

“No,” Mr. Channing said, breaking into a smile. “She cleared out before she decided she was increasing. The one bit of good news you’ve had since you got here, eh, Mr. Vaughan?”

Chapter Two

Sometimes, only one person is missing, and the whole world seems depopulated.

—Alphonse de Lamartine

“I wish I were a hedgehog,” Lina said, sitting in the window seat and gazing out at the frosty morning. “Or a dormouse. Then I could hibernate through every winter.”

Cassandra set down her teacup, looking surprised to hear such talk coming from her sister. “I’ve never liked winter either, but I wouldn’t want to sleep away that much of my life.”

Lina sighed. “No, I suppose not.”

Except for this year. Though she had no wish to worry Cassie, this was one stretch of her life she wouldn’t mind sleeping away. If she could curl up and hibernate for the next two months, perhaps she would wake to find she no longer missed Edward so acutely. It would be spring already, and she’d be sitting in the sunshine, beginning to grow round with child, instead of queasy and cold and worrying whether she might still be mistaken about her condition.

But that was cowardice, and feeling sorry for herself, and shying away from a new adventure. Those were all things Edward would have hated. For that matter, he’d be horrified to see her now, dressed in an old woolen gown, her hair in an unbecoming braid. For most of her life, her looks had been the only thing of value she possessed, the one asset she’d prided herself on in even her lowest moments. Lately she could hardly bring herself to care if she got dressed in the morning.

“You shouldn’t sit by the window,” Cassie said. “Aren’t you always telling me that’s the chilliest spot in the house?”

Lina didn’t immediately reply, her attention caught by the cloaked figure of a young woman making her way across the park, milk pail in hand. “Here’s the dairymaid. She’s late this morning. Sarah’s already left to do the marketing.”

She made to rise, but Cassandra held out a hand in a staying gesture. “No, don’t get up. I’ll take care of it this once. Perhaps she’ll even have some gossip for us.”

Lina smiled her thanks, watching as her sister went to meet the girl. She wished she had Cassie’s open manner and angelic looks. Cassandra was the sociable one, the lively romantic, everyone’s confidante, while Lina—Lina had always been the purposeful one, the realist, the voice of practicality and responsibility. It came from being the oldest child, and having to look out for the younger ones.

Perhaps that was why the past month had been so difficult. Since Edward’s death, all of the drive and determination had gone out of her. She hadn’t even had the backbone to challenge Mr. Niven when she’d told him her news and he’d given her that
look.
He might have said he was happy for her, the way Cassie had been, or at least maintained a neutral air, as a good professional ought. Instead a flash of irritation had crossed his face—a fleeting scowl of disapproval—as if she’d conceived a child precisely to complicate his life and make some unwarranted claim on the estate.

Lina expected such opposition from the village scandalmongers, those closed-minded gossips who’d looked down on her for as long as she could remember. She was the daughter of a fallen woman and a faithless scoundrel, and she’d grown up knowing that most of Malton’s gentry held her in contempt. But on each of the previous occasions when she’d met Mr. Niven, back when Edward was alive, he’d bowed and smiled and bowed again, patently eager to please.

That look the lawyer had given her wasn’t fair. She hadn’t done anything wrong.

Well, she’d show him, when her baby came. She’d have a boy and that boy would be the new earl and then she’d have the pleasure of giving Mr. Niven the sack.
What a pity, Mr. Niven, that after your years of hard work your services will no longer be required.
She was convinced her baby would be a boy, if only because she’d had more than enough of being poor and looked down on and she refused to believe God wanted her to raise a child that way.

Cassandra came back in and resumed her seat without a word.

Lina searched her face. “What is it, Cassie? What did the dairymaid say? I know something is wrong when you turn oysterish on me.”

Her sister sighed. “Very well, but you mustn’t let it upset you.”

“I won’t,” Lina promised, as if one really could agree to blithely shrug off life’s slights and misfortunes. She sat forward.

“Apparently the abbey is all abuzz. The cousin arrived last night.”

The cousin.
Instinctively, Lina’s hand went to her still-flat abdomen. Perhaps she had done something wrong after all, however unwittingly. “I suppose they told him...?”

“I’m certain they had to.”

Yet another scowling adversary to add to her list, and she’d never even met this one. “What’s he like?”

“A widower with a young daughter. Martha says he’s in his early thirties and a fine figure of a man, while Mrs. Phelps knew at a glance that he’d been in the war.”

“How?” Lina said airily. “Did he lose part of his anatomy to a cannonball?”

“I expect she meant he has a military bearing.”

Lovely. He was probably used to barking orders, then. And Martha was mad for anything in breeches, so in the chambermaid’s parlance,
a fine figure of a man
was the kind of faint praise reserved for thickset gentlemen with craggy faces.

Lina stopped herself. She was being unfair, finding fault when she hadn’t even set eyes on the gentleman. Still, she couldn’t help but feel let down. For some reason she’d imagined the cousin—Edward’s successor—as being very like her husband. They were both Vaughans, after all. But it sounded as if this man possessed none of Edward’s sweetness, none of his elfin charm.

“And there’s more,” Cassie said. “He’s brought his brother with him. His
unmarried
brother.”

That made two new adversaries, then, for Lina couldn’t imagine the brother would be any happier about being consigned to obscurity.

A spark of excitement lit Cassie’s blue eyes. And why shouldn’t she look excited, with an eligible young gentleman arriving in the neighborhood? She was long overdue for a
beau
, and too pretty not to have one. “He’s about my age, Martha told the dairymaid—‘thin, even handsomer than his brother, but a bit of an odd duck.’ What do you suppose she meant by that last part?”

“I’ve no idea. Will we have a chance to meet them?”

“The older brother hasn’t said yet whether they mean to stay until the question of the inheritance is settled or go back to his property in Hampshire, though the feeling below stairs is that they’ll go. The servants are convinced he’s only giving his daughter a short respite before they take to the road again.”

Well, that was something at least. Lina would breathe easier without the heir presumptive lingering in the vicinity, watching like a vulture from only half a mile away, adding a fervent wish to his prayers every night that her baby would be a girl. She might have crossed paths with him now and then, and she couldn’t imagine anything more awkward than having to make polite conversation with the man whose hopes must run so entirely counter to her own.