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‘Miss Venables!’ Maitland exclaimed, standing stock-still in the doorway. ‘I beg your pardon. I had no idea that there was anyone here.’
‘I fear that you have found me out, Mr Maitland,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘I had a sudden urge to get away from all the hullabaloo for a few moments’ peace and quiet on my own.’
‘And here I am, depriving you of your well-earned rest!’ Maitland grimaced, turning to go.
‘No, please don’t go, sir!’ begged Georgianne, leaping to her feet. ‘There is more than enough room for the two of us here.’
‘Your hair appears to have come somewhat adrift, Miss Venables,’ he pointed out softly, lifting up his hand in an attempt to tuck one of the curling wisps back behind her ear.
Almost as if she had been stung, Georgianne started back in alarm. ‘Yes, I know,’ she acknowledged breathlessly. ‘I had intended to deal with it before going back to the house.’
‘Pity,’ he drawled, her sudden reticence not having escaped his attention. ‘It suits you much better that way.’
Dorothy Elbury lives in a quiet Lincolnshire village—an ideal atmosphere for writing her historical novels. She has been married to her husband for fifty years (it was love at first sight, of course!), and they have three children and four grandchildren. Her hobbies include visiting museums and historic houses, and handicrafts of various kinds.
Recent novels by the same author:
A HASTY BETROTHAL
THE VISCOUNT’S SECRET
THE OFFICER AND THE LADY
AN UNCONVENTIONAL MISS
Dorothy Elbury
MILLS & BOON
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Chapter One
‘The vultures are gathered, I perceive!’ wheezed Roger Billingham, momentarily raising his consumptive body from his pillows, only to fall back in weary resignation as he gave way to another helpless fit of coughing.
‘Try not to distress yourself, Roger,’ his sister Eleanor beseeched him, motioning to the elderly manservant to mop the beads of perspiration from his master’s brow. ‘I have merely followed Hornsey’s instructions—only those he named have been summoned—my son Jeremy, Jane’s sister Marion and her son…’
She stopped as the old man struggled once more to rise.
‘Young Maitland’s here?’ His bleared eyes eagerly raked the group at the foot of his bed.
‘I’m here, Uncle.’
Will Maitland stepped forwards, his tanned and pleasant face full of concern as he bent over Billingham’s bed.
‘Got back without a scratch then, I see?’ croaked his uncle, with a twisted grin, putting out his hand and gripping the younger man’s. ‘Ye’ll do something for me, lad?’
‘Of course, sir, if I can,’ replied Maitland instantly and, without removing his hand, he lowered himself into a bedside chair. ‘What is it that you require of me?’
Billingham flicked a glance at the listening group before carefully studying his nephew’s open countenance. ‘I have to put right a terrible wrong I’ve committed,’ he cried, gasping for every breath. ‘Otherwise there will be no peace for me beyond the grave! But answer me this, lad—are you prepared to forfeit your inheritance?’
Will Maitland frowned. ‘I’m not after your money, Uncle Roger,’ he said stiffly, his colour rising. ‘Aunt Jane would have wished us to come—and you did have Hornsey send for us,’ he gently reminded the old man. ‘Now, what is it that you would have me do?’
As Billingham struggled to speak, he broke into another paroxysm of coughing. Just then another figure stepped forwards from the group.
‘You may be assured that I, too, would be most happy to be of service to you, Uncle Roger.’
The Honourable Jeremy Fenton approached Billingham’s bed, his handsome features carefully concealing the fastidious distaste he was feeling as he contemplated his uncle’s death throes. He remained standing, his tall, rather too-slim figure meticulously attired in the current fashion, albeit that the calves within his buff-coloured pantaloons had been assisted with a little padding, as had the shoulders of his exquisitely cut, blue kerseymere jacket. Nervously fingering his intricately arranged neckcloth, he feigned a sympathetic smile at his dying relative.
Billingham took a sip from the glass that Maitland was holding to his lips and eyed his eldest nephew with undisguised contempt.
‘Needn’t tell me why you’re here,’ he snorted. ‘In Queer Street again, shouldn’t wonder—well, you’re not getting at it without a bit of effort…’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Uncle,’ said Fenton, with a pained expression on his face. ‘Mother considered it my duty to attend—as your eldest heir…’
‘Idle wastrel!’ The old man struggled to rise, brushing away Maitland’s attempts to pacify him. ‘Already planning how to fritter away my hard-earned cash, are you? Well, let me tell you, you’re in for a shock—all of you!’
He glared at the assembled company, then, twisting himself to face Maitland, he entreated him in urgent tones.
‘Find the boy—please, Will—find Melandra’s brat—if he lived! Help me make proper restitution for my sin—do this for me, lad—I know I can rely on you!’
At his nephew’s puzzled but quite distinct nod, the old man’s face contorted as he gave a little whimper and, breathing his last, he slumped back heavily on to his pillows.
Maitland laid his fingers over his uncle’s face, gently closing the eyelids over the now sightless eyes before bowing his head in silent prayer. He then rose swiftly to his feet as Marion Maitland approached her brother-in-law’s bedside. She stroked back the white, unkempt hair before bending to press her lips upon his brow.
‘Poor Roger,’ she said sadly. ‘At peace, finally.’
‘I’m somewhat confused, Mother,’ frowned Maitland, standing back as one by one the rest of the little group came to pay their last respects to their dead relative. ‘What is it Uncle Roger wants me to do? He mentioned Cousin Melandra—but she died over twenty years ago, surely? I can barely remember her.’
‘Mr Hornsey will doubtless explain,’ said Mrs Maitland. ‘We are to attend him in the drawing-room—Eleanor tells me that Roger had instructed him to provide us with whatever information is available.’
They watched in silence as Ralph Sadler, the attendant physician, finally drew the sheet over Billingham’s face and, at Lady Fenton’s nod, Maitland turned to escort his mother from the room, followed by the small retinue of assorted cousins and elderly retainers who had also been present.
Jeremy Fenton caught up with them as they reached the door to the drawing-room and, grabbing his cousin by the arm, he said urgently, ‘Got some bee in his bonnet, hadn’t he—brain probably gave up at the end, shouldn’t wonder. Think he’s really changed his will, coz?’
Maitland shrugged. ‘It’s of very little interest to me what he’s chosen to do with his money, Jerry—but no doubt you’ll hear soon enough if you care to curb your impatience.’
‘Yes, you can mock,’ Fenton exclaimed hotly. ‘Always the blue-eyed boy! Sucking up to him all these years…!’
‘Allow me to remind you that I’ve been out of the country for the past five years,’ returned Maitland drily, handing his mother into a seat. ‘I haven’t laid eyes on Uncle Roger since Aunt Jane died—so I’d say you’ve had a pretty clear field, if you’d a mind to curry favour. And, in case you had not noticed, I hasten to draw your attention to the fact that, unlike your own azure orbs, dear coz, my eyes are merely a nondescript shade of grey.’
‘But I’m the eldest, by God!’ Fenton scowled. ‘My mother is the last of the Billinghams—this lot—’ he gestured to the rest of the group behind them ‘—they’re only distantly related through marriage.’
‘As I, myself, am,’ Maitland pointed out, with a grin. ‘Aunt Jane having been my mother’s sister.’
‘Precisely!’ returned Fenton triumphantly. ‘Nary a blood relative present, apart from Mama and me—surely the old skinflint won’t have left it out of the family?’
‘Let’s hear what Hornsey has to say, shall we? He seems very eager to begin.’
Fenton swivelled round to fix his eyes on the elderly man of law, who was purposefully shuffling a sheaf of papers in his hands, apparently waiting for the subdued hum of conversation to cease.
‘Well, get on with it, man!’ he snapped, flinging himself into a chair. ‘Are you going to sit there all day?’
Mr Hornsey eyed the heir-presumptive sourly, experiencing at the same time a feeling of unholy joy at the prospect of bringing the arrogant young dandy to his knees.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said primly, adjusting his half-spectacles. ‘I shall endeavour not to detain you any longer than necessary.’
Then, having declaimed that the document he held was, indeed, the last and completely valid testament of one Roger Billingham, Esquire, he proceeded to disburse generous annuities to Billingham’s long-time servants and assorted bequests to the parcel of distantly related cousins who were also in attendance.
‘—to my sister Baroness Eleanor Fenton, I leave our family home, Fetterfield, to dispose of as she sees fit, and to my sister-in-law Mrs Marion Maitland I pass on all of her sister Jane’s jewellery, in grateful thanks for the loving care she devoted to my dear wife during her final illness.’
Here the lawyer paused and, after clearing his throat, he laid the set of papers down on the desk and looked over the top of his spectacles at the still expectant faces in front of him.
‘At this point I am required to clear the room of all persons present, apart from the following…’
Then, in clear and precise tones, he proceeded to name Lady Fenton and her son Jeremy, followed by Marion and William Maitland. Then, having waited patiently until the last member of the departing group had vacated the room, he once again picked up his papers.
No one had spoken during this interval, Maitland merely raising his eyebrows questioningly at his mother, only to receive a puzzled shake of her head in return. Fenton, rapt in his own deep study, stared moodily about the room, impervious to the concerned expression on Lady Fenton’s face as she attempted to catch her son’s eye.
‘This part of the proceedings becomes somewhat unusual,’ Hornsey then continued. ‘Mr Billingham has put me in possession of certain facts, which he wishes to be kept within this small family circle. It concerns the rather delicate matter of his niece and ward, Melandra Billingham, now deceased, and the possible survival of the young lady’s child.’
‘Dear God!’
Lady Fenton let out a gasp and Hornsey’s professionally impassive face suddenly became the focus of attention of four pairs of astonished eyes.
‘Mr Billingham has required me to set in motion a thorough search to establish this child’s existence. He apparently felt himself responsible for having abandoned it at birth and has left instructions that the bulk of his wealth shall be passed to this child should it prove to have survived…’
‘No! No! I will not permit it!’
Fenton had risen to his feet, his face ashen.
‘I shall contest it! The old man must have been insane!’ Thrusting off his mother’s attempts to restrain him, he strode forwards and tried to wrench the paper from Hornsey’s hands.
‘It is quite legal, I assure you, sir,’ said Hornsey, savouring the moment. ‘My client was perfectly sane—his own physician has borne witness. Do you wish me to continue?’
Fenton threw himself down on to his chair and glared at the lawyer.
‘What does it matter—if we’re not to inherit!’
‘There are certain conditions, which may well affect you,’ Hornsey was quick to point out. ‘If the child is not discovered within a twelvemonth of today’s date, the money is to be divided equally between yourself and Mr William Maitland.’
‘And otherwise the damned brat gets the lot!’
‘Not at all. He will receive, as I said, the bulk of the fortune—which I believe now stands in the region of some £500,000, not including the revenues from the plantations—but if you are prepared to make yourself instrumental in the search for the child’s recovery you are to be awarded a one fourth share, as will your cousin Major Maitland, who, I understand, has already given his promise to assist in the search.’
He bowed his head towards Maitland, who smilingly nodded his acquiescence.
Fenton’s eyes narrowed as he considered the lawyer’s words.
‘What you are saying, then,’ he finally managed, ‘is that I stand to get a quarter if this bastard is found now and a half if he isn’t—but for that I will have to wait a whole year—is that it?’
‘That is more or less correct, sir,’ Hornsey said, enjoying this fleeting sensation of power. ‘I believe Mr Billingham was anxious to atone for his having abandoned his young ward in her—how shall I put it—hour of need.’
‘Never mind about that!’ interrupted Fenton. ‘Where is this child now? Good God—hardly a child—it’s over twenty years since Melly ran off with that French tutor chap! D’you mean to tell us that he’d put her in the family way?’
‘Since we’re discussing the possible existence of a son, that would seem to be a fairly obvious conclusion,’ his cousin pointed out, good-humouredly. ‘However, I, for one, would be most interested to hear something of the story—if you could just forbear from interrupting at every turn, Jerry!’
He motioned Hornsey to continue, but the lawyer shook his head dolefully and indicated the single sheet of paper in front of him.
‘Sadly, there is very little known of Miss Billingham’s movements after she absconded with her tutor—Mr Billingham apparently received a plea for assistance some months later. I understand he would have ignored this had it not been for his late wife’s insistence…?’
Seeing both Lady Fenton and Marion Maitland nodding at one another at this point, he invited her ladyship to elucidate.
‘Both Roger and Jane adored Melly,’ she said, ‘not having children of their own. They had brought the girl up since Henry—our older brother—and his wife Patricia were killed in that dreadful carriage accident, along with their two little boys.’
‘They spoilt her dreadfully,’ put in Maitland’s mother, ‘but Jane would have it that the child had, after all, lost her whole family and they were only trying to make up for that—but she became very headstrong, I remember.’
‘She was rather lovely, though,’ recalled Maitland, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes in reminiscence. ‘I can remember when she was about to make her come-out—her first drawing-room appearance, I believe, and Uncle Roger had invited us all to see her in her finery before they left. She looked like a princess in a fairytale—with her beautifully powdered hair, that white-and-silver crinoline and all those diamonds—I swear I fell in love with her on the spot!’
‘You were only six years old,’ his mother laughingly reminded him, ‘but it’s true, she was an exceedingly lovely girl. Unfortunately, she knew it and was terribly flirtatious, too. It’s always been my belief that Étienne never really stood a chance after he set eyes on her, poor man. I am convinced that their elopement must have been Melly’s idea—he wasn’t at all the sort of young man to suggest such a thing.’
‘He was only a miserable tutor,’ said Fenton scornfully. ‘Hardly top-drawer and not a penny to his name—his cuffs were always frayed, as I recall.’
He viewed his own pristine cuffs with pride and flicked a non-existent fleck from his coat sleeve.
‘No, Jeremy, you’re quite wrong there,’ said Mrs Maitland, shaking her head. ‘He came from a most aristocratic family. They had fled the Terrors, of course, and he was forced to make his own way in the world. I always found him to be a perfect gentleman and I was very surprised to learn that he had abandoned Melly.’
Jeremy Fenton leaned forwards impatiently.
‘Let’s get back to that,’ he said. ‘Uncle Roger presumably answered her cry for help?’
His mother nodded. ‘He went off into the wilds of Warwickshire somewhere,’ she explained. ‘Jane had persuaded him to fetch Melandra home—whatever situation he found her to be in—but he returned two days later and told us all that she was dead.’
She paused momentarily, her brow wrinkling in pensive remembrance of the stark, angry expression on her brother’s face as he had curtly informed his shocked family of their niece’s death. ‘He made no mention of a child, however, nor do I recall the whereabouts of his destination. He always refused to speak of it.’
‘His own recollection was merely that the building itself was reached by a long driveway with lime trees on either side,’ offered Hornsey, once more perusing his papers. ‘And, also he believed that the hotel he stayed in was a coaching inn in the market town of Dunchurch—I understand that this town is situated on the London Road, somewhere in the vicinity of Coventry.’
Maitland digested this information.
‘She must have been buried, you know,’ he observed. ‘There will be parish registers. It should not be too difficult to discover her last resting place—she had a most unusual name, remember. There can’t be many Melandra Billinghams recorded as having died in—when was it—1795, I suppose?’
‘You really intend to seek out this bastard, then?’ Fenton, rising, eyed Maitland curiously. ‘Said you weren’t interested in Billingham’s fortune—changed your tune now you know how much there is to gain, eh?’
Maitland also rose to his feet, facing his cousin squarely. The two were of equal height, but Maitland had the weight, his shoulders and limbs needing no tailor’s assistance to fill out his coats and trousers and his clear grey eyes were unspoiled by the reckless dissipation that marred the older man’s.
‘I shall do you the service of ignoring that remark, Jerry,’ he said carefully. ‘I gave Uncle Roger my promise and I intend to do my best to find out what became of Melandra’s child. If you wish to join me you will, of course, be welcome—but I advise you to keep such opinions to yourself, otherwise I may well forget that you are my kinsman!’
Jeremy Fenton’s handsome face flushed slightly as, with a self-conscious laugh, he lowered his eyes.
‘No offence, Will,’ he stammered. ‘Of course I shall accompany you—I bow to your military efficiency—I should hardly know where to begin! When are we to set off on this quest, may I ask? I shall require several days to settle certain—matters—and my man Pringle will need time to see to my wardrobe…’
Maitland burst out laughing and gave his cousin a friendly clap on the shoulder.
‘I don’t intend to drag about the countryside with carriage-loads of your finery, Jerry!’ he chuckled. ‘We can’t leave until after the funeral, of course, but then I mean to take off first thing and ride for Dunchurch—it can’t be more than sixty miles away. If you want to accompany me, you’ll need to keep your baggage to a minimum!’
‘You surely don’t expect me to travel all that way on horseback!’
The Honourable Jeremy was visibly horrified at the idea. Out of necessity he had learned to be a fairly competent rider, in as much as the daily canter in Hyde Park was concerned—for one had to be seen, of course—but the prospect of being in the saddle for several hours at a time appealed to him not in the slightest degree. His expensive riding coats and breeches were cut more for display than practicality and he shuddered to imagine what damage would be done to his new top-boots if he were to subject them to the rigours of country-lane mudbaths. Also, he had to have his man to help him into his jackets and see to his linen! He was no fool, however, and quickly realised that if there were to be any hope at all of maintaining his chosen way of life, he was going to have to make some sort of push to get hold of his share of old Billingham’s money as soon as possible. Recurring visions of the likely alternative helped him to make up his mind.
‘I’m not the cavalryman you are, coz,’ he said, in explanation for his outburst. ‘I’ll have to follow you up in my chaise—I’ll get Pringle to scrabble a few things together and we shan’t be much behind you, you’ll see. Will you order the rooms?’
‘Good man!’ Maitland gladly gave his hand to this arrangement then, turning to the man of law who had been sitting silently listening to this interchange, he asked, ‘Is there nothing else which might be of use to us, Mr Hornsey? There must be hundreds of villages in that area—each with its own church and graveyard, I shouldn’t wonder. No clues to that, I suppose?’
‘You are welcome to copies of the papers,’ Hornsey offered. ‘I was most careful to take down everything in Mr Billingham’s exact words but, of course, the event occurred a great many years ago and his memory was failing. I believe I have furnished you with all the relevant information…’ His eyes scanned the sheets in front of him. ‘He did leave a considerable sum of money for the young lady’s funeral but he said that when the nun questioned him—’
‘Nun! Are you sure?’
Maitland pulled the paper towards him and ran his eyes quickly down the close, spidery handwriting, finally giving an exclamation of triumph when he found the information for which he was seeking.
‘Yes! Uncle Roger quite definitely said “nun”!’ He spun round eagerly to face his puzzled family. ‘Do you see what this means? It must have been a convent, or a priory—Roman, in any event—that will surely be easier to trace!’
‘The young man Étienne,’ said his mother, in growing realisation, ‘he would have been a Roman Catholic.’ She turned to Lady Fenton. ‘What was his name, Eleanor? I’ve been racking my brains trying to recall it.’
The older woman’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Dela”—no—” du” something—or “Des” something…..?’
‘Doubly!’ cried Fenton, in sudden excitement. ‘His name was “Doubly”. You remember, Will—we used to call him “Bubbly Doubly”—after we saw him sobbing away behind the church, that time?’
‘You may have called him that,’ said Maitland shortly, still intent upon scrutinising the lawyer’s scribbled testimony. ‘I remember him only as monsieur. Doubly doesn’t sound very French to me—more likely to have been “D’Arblay” or “de Blaise”.
‘Yes, I remember now!’ cried Mrs Maitland, clapping her hands. ‘D’Arblay! Étienne D’Arblay—I’m sure that was it! Oh, Eleanor! Do you think he could have been there, too—with Melandra?’
There was a heavy silence for a few moments as the two ladies stared at one another, each of them considering the implications of this possibility.
‘Doesn’t look like it.’ Maitland shook his head and indicated some more information he had managed to decipher. ‘Apparently, the nun told Uncle Roger that Melandra had extracted a promise from them that her child would be given its dead father’s name, but when they asked him—Uncle Roger, that is—what he wanted them to do, he informed them that he had no further interest in the matter and that they must place the child in a foundling home—he gave them money with which to give Melandra a decent burial, then he left.’