The Impoverished Viscount Read online

  Then there was Toby. He had not attended a university, but some of his schoolmates had, and Rathbone looked about the same age. He would know Toby’s friends, for they all frequented London. It was going to be tricky to build her background as a real person without revealing the truth. She hoped that her mention of her former neighbor, Lord Purvey, would not come back to haunt her.

  The arrival of Rathbone’s groom postponed further conversation.

  “The roads are passable,” Charles reported once the man left. “Mrs. Sharpe, you will ride in the carriage with your maid and my valet. Harriet will ride in the curricle with me and my groom. We must continue this discussion if we are to carry off the masquerade with any hope of success. And I need to see how developed your driving skills are, my dear.”

  She glared at him but offered no response. Insufferable toad! How dare he imply she was guilty of exaggeration!

  He thinks you a country nobody, she reminded herself. Why should he believe you?

  It would be an interminable two weeks.

  Chapter Three

  Harriet sat in silent trepidation as Lord Rathbone tooled his curricle along a muddy road. Second, third, and even fourth thoughts were rampaging through her skull. How had he talked her into this farce? She deplored deceit. She despised greed. Yet she was helping an arrogant lord fraudulently acquire a fortune.

  After an hour alone with him – for the groom perched up behind hardly counted – she’d decided that he was even more odious than Lord Heflin. Admittedly, he had made no move to force attentions on her, but he treated her like a half-witted child who knew nothing of society, or even of polite manners. She bore it as long as possible, reminding herself that he believed her to be a member of the lower classes. It was doubtful he could know how upset she was, since she was wearing an old-fashioned, deep-brimmed poke bonnet that masked her features unless she stared directly at the observer.

  But his condescension finally overcame her always-fragile temper. “You are insufferable, my lord,” she snapped, turning to glare at him in fury. “I am no longer in the nursery. Nor am I ignorant of basic manners. It would be better to use this time to teach me about your grandmother’s household.”

  He stared, then turned on a charming smile. “I am sorry, Harriet. But you made no mention of an aristocratic background.”

  “Odious toad! What did you take me for? A scullery maid? The nobility does not hold a monopoly on politeness, my lord. Only on arrogance and condescension.”

  “Enough!” What a termagant! he thought as she turned her attention to a colt kicking up its heels in a distant meadow. He shook his head, trying to relax before his own temper shattered. His temples pounded as breakfast churned unpleasantly in his stomach. Perhaps appeasement would soften her ire. “We cannot afford to brangle, my dear. We will be there in a couple of hours. Suppose you drive now. I believe I’ve taken the freshness off the horses.”

  “Meaning they are practically dropping in the traces,” she muttered darkly. But she accepted the ribbons, taking a moment to get the feel of his team before setting them to a spanking trot that kept them well into their bits.

  Charles remained poised to grab back the ribbons, but her obvious experience quieted his groom’s muffled protest.

  “Ah, but you’re a bang-up pair of nags,” she murmured. “Jake would have loved you, lads.”

  “Watch the cant,” snapped Charles. “Ladies do not use such language.”

  He remained tense for several minutes, but had to admit that she was a competent whip. Whatever her current situation, she had been taught by a master. He still did not know her background, but decided it didn’t matter. She would never pass as a paragon anyway. Her gestures were too broad and her voice too strident.

  His mind wandered as the curricle bounced over the rutted road. It had been years since he had suffered from too much wine, and he’d forgotten how unpleasant it was. He would have done better to spend the morning in bed. And it had been lunacy to burden himself with the inn’s unidentifiable breakfast.

  * * * *

  Harriet drove for half an hour before reluctantly returning the ribbons to Lord Rathbone’s control. It had been marvelous to handle a quality team again, and equally enjoyable to ride with a competent whip. She had watched his hands when they first left the inn. Rumor of Rathbone’s horsemanship had not been exaggerated, which would have made his accident all the more embarrassing.

  “You had best describe your grandmother, my lord,” she said now, turning to look at him. “Tell me whatever you would expect your betrothed to know on a first visit.”

  “You must practice calling me Charles,” he reminded.

  “Yes, Charles.” She sighed. “But such familiarity is difficult, especially toward one I don’t particularly like.”

  She saw his anger at her words, but had no time to repent before his face blanched. He looked so much like Mr. Crawford had on that night at Drayton Manor that she gasped.

  “Here!” He jerked the team to a stop, thrust the ribbons into her hands, and vaulted to the ground. He had barely disappeared into a copse when the sound of retching wafted back on the breeze.

  Harriet shrugged at the groom and signaled him to help his master. She had eschewed breakfast, not liking its very peculiar taste. Now she wished she’d mentioned her suspicions. It had probably been tainted. Was Bea all right? They had outdistanced the baggage coach some time ago.

  Harper helped Rathbone back to the curricle.

  “You drive,” he moaned, slumping into the seat and closing his eyes. He looked like death.

  Half an hour passed in silence.

  “Your grandmother?” she prodded when he appeared to perk up.

  “She was a beauty in her youth, undoubtedly one of the reigning diamonds of her day” he began. “Tall, with blue eyes and glorious golden hair. I’ll show you her portrait tomorrow. It is the most arresting picture in the gallery. Age has been kind, though her health has deteriorated over the last two years. She has been a loving person all of my life, supporting me even when she disapproved my actions.”

  “I take it you are prone to deplorable escapades,” she commented curtly.

  “No more than anyone else,” he denied. “Her marriage to Lord Lanyard was her second. The first husband was a wealthy businessman. As they had no children, she inherited his fortune, tied up so that even remarriage left her in control. Lord Lanyard was also very wealthy. His left his fortune to their only son, for they’d agreed that hers would ultimately go to their only daughter, my mother. Within the year, my mother died. Grandmama had never liked my father, so she announced she would leave the money directly to me.”

  “Why?”

  “If you mean why did she dislike him, the man had a positive genius for funding ventures doomed to failure.”

  Harriet wondered if he were different, but did not ask the question. His financial acumen was none of her business.

  “Describe her household, please,” she commanded instead.

  “She still lives at Lanyard Manor, occupying a separate wing from my uncle. He has four children, of whom two nominally live at home. But only fifteen-year-old Edith is sure to be there. You must remember that you are supposed to be seventeen and out of the schoolroom. Don’t get too chummy with her. She is the worst sort of prattlebox.”

  Where did an uncle come from? She stared at him in trepidation. His white face told her better than words that his concentration was elsewhere. Already he was confusing his stories. He had claimed only a cousin as an alternate heir, yet he now admitted to an uncle and at least four cousins. How many other relatives would turn up?

  Harriet added lying to Charles’s already long list of foibles – drunkenness, greed, arrogance, condescension, questionable intelligence, debauchery. He had probably fudged other details to convince her to help him. Lords cared for nothing beyond their own desires.

  But just now he was suffering from the tainted breakfast. Four more times Harper helped him out of sight
. Between stops she tried to learn as much as possible, for it was likely he would be confined to bed for a few days. They discussed her fictional background again, reviewing the names and relationships, and expanding the details of their February meeting. By the time she turned his curricle through the impressive stone gates of Lanyard Manor, she felt almost as nervous as if she really were meeting a prospective husband’s family.

  The park was beautiful, displaying the stamp of Capability Brown, though Charles claimed the landscape was actually designed by an assistant. Not until some minutes later did they top a rise and see the house.

  Harriet gasped. At least three times the size of Drayton Manor, the Elizabethan central block was flanked by Palladian and Jacobean wings. Despite their contrasting styles, the whole was harmonious, nestling into a valley that was protected by a row of hills from the nearby coast.

  Wealth was everywhere evident, from the manicured perfection of the park, to the extensive gardens, to the house, which glowed with care. It made her feel the untutored rustic Lord Rathbone had assumed. But at least he would not find her a cringing schoolroom miss. Years of running Drayton Manor had built the confidence to carry off this impersonation, despite her misgivings.

  The carriage pulled up behind them as the groom ran around to take the horses’ heads.

  “Chin up, my love,” Charles murmured as they mounted the steps to meet an imposing butler.

  “Of course.” She pasted a false smile on her face.

  “Masters.” Charles nodded at the butler. “Is my uncle about?”

  “He is with the dowager, my lord.”

  “I will see him as soon as I have cleaned up. This is my betrothed, Miss Harriet Sharpe, and her aunt, Mrs. Sharpe. Am I in my usual room?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Not a flicker of his eye expressed surprise at the unexpected guests.

  Charles turned to Harriet. “As soon as you are refreshed, have someone show you to the crimson drawing room. I will meet you there and introduce you to my grandmother.”

  “Thank you, Charles.” She smiled, then escaped upstairs. How long would Rathbone be? His white face was again covered with cold sweat, the now-familiar anguish blazing from his eyes.

  Her blue-and-gold room held the most comfortable bed she had ever seen. Bea occupied an adjacent room done in green and gold, with a connecting door that would make consultation easy. A maid bustled in with hot water, followed by Betsy and two footmen carrying luggage. Her shabby valises contrasted sharply with her surroundings.

  “Are you all right, Bea?” asked Harriet, joining her cousin once she had washed and changed into her best dress. “Breakfast was tainted.”

  “I know.” Bea sighed, stretching out on a couch. “But I should be fine. And you?”

  “I did not eat it, but Rathbone is suffering.”

  “That explains how we arrived together.”

  “Fate is punishing us. I should never have agreed to this farce,” moaned Harriet. “How can I be a party to defrauding these people?”

  “We’ve had this out before, Missy,” countered Beatrice. “Have done with it. And it has already improved our lot. Can you imagine being on that stage after a tainted meal? There is no reason to back out unless we discover that someone is being hurt. So far, there is no evidence of that.”

  “He never mentioned his uncle,” pointed out Harriet. “And the unmentioned uncle has four very-much-alive children.”

  Bea frowned. “Betsy will discover how the family is situated,” she said at last.

  “His new story is that the uncle inherited a fortune from his father, allowing Lady Lanyard to leave hers to the sister, Lord Rathbone’s mother.”

  “We will see.”

  “And Bea, do you remember that scandal in February involving Lady Willingford?” asked Harriet, pacing nervously before the fireplace.

  “Vaguely. I paid little attention, as I do not know them. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Lord Rathbone was the gentleman who seduced her.”

  Bea frowned. “I see what you mean. But we need a place to stay. When you meet this grandmother, see if you can discover her real feelings. I cannot believe anyone in full possession of her senses would make these demands. Despite his lordship’s denials, I suspect something havey-cavey. But whether by her or him, I do not know.”

  “Yet another level of deception.” She sighed. “I only hope I do not slip and allow them to discover who I am. My reputation would never recover.” Leaving home without her guardian’s permission was enough to tarnish it, she silently conceded, despite that she was accompanied by a maid and a widowed cousin. But there had been no alternative.

  She rang for a servant and was soon entering an elegant Adam drawing room. Scarlet silk blazed from wall panels separated by gilded moldings. Each panel displayed a painting or formed a backdrop to a statue. Elaborate cornices framed an Italian ceiling, its pattern mirrored in the carpet. Scarlet and blue cushions decorated chairs and couches.

  Rathbone stood near the fireplace, looking almost drab, despite his blue coat, gold striped waistcoat, and buff pantaloons that disappeared into gleaming Hessians. His face showed a little color. With luck, they could complete this introduction before he succumbed to another bout of illness.

  “You’ll do,” he shrugged, noting that she had changed into gray and loosened a few wisps of hair to soften her face. The dress lacked style and was poorly constructed, but it was better than the lavender. Explaining how he had become attracted to this girl would prove difficult. She would make a perfect governess if she was not still a child herself.

  “Here.” He dropped a small emerald ring into her hand. “If we are betrothed, you must wear a ring. This is hardly worthy of anyone, but Grandmother cannot expect my finances to stretch very far.”

  “Where did you find a lady’s ring?” she asked, shoving it onto her finger, where it fit surprisingly well.

  “It belonged to my mother and was still in her old room. I only hope that Grandmother does not recognize it.”

  There was nothing she could say. Reluctantly placing her hand on his arm, she let him lead her away. They traversed several corridors in silence before he drew in a shaky breath and rapped on the double doors of a large suite.

  “Uncle Andrew.” Charles smiled at the imposing gentleman who answered the door.

  Lord Lanyard’s hair remained gloriously golden, in marked contrast to his dour expression. “Welcome, Charles. It took you long enough to get here,” he complained.

  “I could hardly drag Harriet through the mud,” Rathbone answered calmly. “You know what the weather has been like. We had not planned to introduce her to the family until she is out of black gloves, but Grandmother’s illness gave us no choice. Harriet, this is my uncle, Lord Lanyard. Uncle, my intended wife, Miss Harriet Sharpe.”

  “My lord,” murmured Harriet, curtsying properly.

  “Miss Sharpe.” He was blatantly staring, a disbelieving frown marring his face. “And how long have you known my scapegrace nephew?”

  She ignored his rudeness. “Since February, my lord. He had the misfortune to lame his horse near our house, and crack his head.”

  Lord Lanyard’s eyes relaxed slightly. Evidently he knew of the accident.

  “Is Grandmother able to receive visitors?” interrupted Charles.

  “Yes. She is anxious to see you.”

  “You will excuse us, then.” He patted Harriet’s hand and smiled into her eyes. “Come, my love.”

  Lord Lanyard frowned as they disappeared into the next room.

  Harriet’s first impression of Lady Lanyard was of weak frailty. While Charles voiced greetings and expressed disbelief that she would dare succumb to a mere chill, Harriet examined the lady whose decree had prompted this deception.

  The classic bone structure that had made her a diamond in her youth still lent beauty to her face, but her hair was now as white as her lacy cap. Her skin varied, stretched thin in some spots, falling in parchment
folds in others, its translucence a product of age and illness. But it contained fewer wrinkles than one would expect of a woman approaching eighty. The eyes were a pale, wintry blue. But when they turned on Harriet, the girl nearly gasped. They were not the eyes of terminal illness, muzzy and filled with pain. Intelligence flared in their depths. And calculation. But what dominated their expression was anger.

  It required little thought to know why. Lady Lanyard was angry at the appearance of her grandson’s betrothed, though she had demanded that he marry. Harriet doubted it was anything personal, despite her uninspiring appearance. Her ladyship knew nothing of her.

  Perhaps Beatrice was right. If Lady Lanyard’s demand had been designed to test Rathbone’s worthiness, anger would indicate that he had failed. It served them both right, though. Neither was behaving honorably.

  Brushing her own fury aside, Harriet straightened. Whatever their faults, she must carry out her own promise with the honor her birthright demanded.

  “Grandmother, may I present Miss Harriet Sharpe, my intended bride?” Charles’s voice dragged her attention back to the niceties. “Harriet, Lady Lanyard.”

  “My lady,” murmured Harriet.

  “And how long have you been betrothed?” the dowager demanded immediately.

  “It will not be officially announced until my mourning period is concluded after Christmas,” answered Harriet steadily. “But we have been unofficially promised since the end of June.”

  Calculation thrust the anger from her eyes. “And how long have you known my grandson?”

  She repeated the story of their meeting.

  “Is that supposed to be a betrothal ring?” she asked sharply, holding Harriet’s hand up to the light.

  “No.” Charles injected an amazing amount of charm into his voice. “Merely a small token of my affections, given on the acceptance of my hand. She will receive the Rathbone ring in December.”