The Impossible Earl

Would nothing deter her?

He smiled on a sudden thought. “You have not yet seen the accommodations, Miss Vincent,” he reminded her.

“Nor have I inspected your gambling hall,” she returned with patently false affability. “At what hour do you close?”

“At three in the morning, Miss Vincent.” His lips twitched with quite irrepressible amusement. “You are determined to stay? It would be highly improper of you to do so.”

The Impossible Earl

Sarah Westleigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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SARAH WESTLEIGH

has enjoyed a varied life. Working as a local government officer in London, she qualified as a chartered quantity surveyor. She assisted her husband in his chartered accountancy practice, at the same time managing an employment agency. Moving to Devon, she finally found time to write, publishing short stories and articles, before discovering historical novels.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

1816

“A legacy?”

The faint frown which appeared between Leonora’s well-defined brows served only to emphasise her excellent complexion and its general freedom from lines. Her eyes, grey liberally flecked with blue and green within a dark outer rim, widened on the elderly solicitor, who had written for an appointment and undertaken the long and tiring journey from London to Buckinghamshire especially to see her.

Mr Warwick wiped the lenses of his spectacles and put them back on his bulbous, large-pored nose, winding the wires of the frame about his ears.

“Did you not expect it, Miss Vincent?” he asked, his watery blue eyes, set beneath white brows, surprised. “Mr Charles Vincent did not inform you of his intention to name you as his heir?”

“No,” said Leonora. She made a quick gesture with her hands. “He was kind to me as a child, but I have not seen or heard from my great-uncle for many years. I had supposed that my uncle the Earl would have benefited upon Uncle Vincent’s death.”

She sat on a sofa in the morning room of Thornestone Park, her feet together, her hands folded neatly on the dove-grey muslin of her gown. On no account must she show the excitement, the elation growing inside her. Her Uncle Vincent, the Honourable Charles Vincent, younger brother to her grandfather, who had been the Earl of Chelstoke, had not been rich, but as far as she knew he had not been stricken by poverty either.

There should be something to come—unless, of course, he had died heavily in debt, like his nephew her father. That disaster had left the Honourable Peregrine Vincent’s wife and daughter homeless and penniless. His wife had not possessed the strength of character to survive and had speedily followed her husband to the grave.

Leonora, on the threshold of life, made of sterner stuff and valuing above everything her independence, had come here, to Thornestone Park, as governess to Mr and Mrs Hubert Farling’s two daughters. She had not thought to be trapped for seven long years but now, suddenly, when she was almost at her last prayers and faced with the problem of finding another, most probably uncongenial, position, the prospect of freedom seemed something too precious to be hoped for.

“As I understood my client’s mind, Miss Vincent,” went on the lawyer in his dry voice, “he remembered you with great affection. Knowing that you had not been offered a home with your uncle the Earl and had not yet found a husband to provide for you, he sought to ease your situation with this legacy.”

“My uncle did offer me a home,” said Leonora honestly.

“But you did not accept?”

“No. I would rather earn my living as a governess than live as a poor relation at the beck and call of Lady Chelstoke and her brood.”

A faint smile touched the whiskery lips of the lawyer. “I see. I believe my client understood something of the kind. He…er…he held Lady Chelstoke in some dislike.”

“So.” Leonora drew a breath and grinned wryly. “I have become an heiress, but rather too late in life to hope my good fortune will lure a gentleman of consequence to offer for me.” Her neatly folded hands gripped each other as she sought to hide her overwhelming anxiety to know. “How much am I to inherit?”

“My client left everything to you, Miss Vincent, apart from a small sum which is to go to his valet, a man who had been with him for many years.”

Mr Warwick made a show of consulting a sheaf of papers on his knee. He was sitting on an upright chair opposite Leonora, with a table by his side. He cleared his throat and reached out for the glass of Madeira he had been offered on his arrival. Leonora quelled her growing impatience, making herself take inaudible but deep, calming breaths as she waited for him to continue.

He took a sip of the wine and then, at last, went on. “There is a house in Bath, a substantial residence not far from the Abbey. You know Bath?”

Leonora shook her head. He said, “I am informed that it is an older property, but superior in size to the fashionable terraced buildings designed by John Wood and his son. It is near the Pump Room and Baths and the shops in Milsom Street are within easy walking distance. A conveyance would be required to reach the Upper Rooms, where the Balls and Assemblies are held. The property would be worth a fair sum if you cared to sell it.”

Leonora stirred and he went on quickly, as though he wished to continue without interruption. “At the moment the ground and first floors are let to a friend of the late Mr Vincent, who himself occupied the rooms on the floor above. The gentlemen shared the kitchen and servants’ facilities in the basements and attics.”

The frown, which had disappeared from Leonora’s brow, reappeared. “Would this tenant expect to remain?”

Mr Warwick looked uneasy and coughed slightly. “That I cannot say, but he holds a sound lease which does not expire for another five years.”

“I see. But unless he goes, I cannot hope to sell the property immediately at its full value?”

Mr Warwick took another sip of wine to cover his hesitation. “Possibly not, Miss Vincent,” he allowed. “But in addition to the property, my client had investments, mostly in the five percents, and some cash in the bank. There were, of course, a few debts to be settled and the valet’s legacy to find, but the residue of the investments and cash together will total around three thousand pounds.

“Not a great fortune,” he added hurriedly, anticipating Leonora’s disappointment, “but, together with the interest on the investments, the rent Lord Kelsey pays would provide you with a comfortable income should you decide to move into your great-uncle’s apartment. Or you could increase your competence by letting that as well.”

Leonora was not disappointed. How could someone who had nothing be disappointed to inherit somewhere to live and enough rent and interest on capital to enable her to set herself up in modest style? In grand style for a period, were she prepared to hazard the capital in an attempt to secure a suitable gentleman’s hand in marriage.

An idea was forming in her mind. At five-and-twenty she might be almost at her last prayers, but women older than herself did wed. And, to be quite honest, she longed for an establishment of her own. An establishment with a nursery and an agreeable husband who might, were she lucky, love her and, in turn, win her love.

She said, “I should like to see the place before I make up my mind.”

Mr Warwick nodded. “Very wise.”

Rosy pictures of her future flew into Leonora’s mind and drifted out again as she forced herself to listen to Mr Warwick’s further information; but he had little more of moment to impart. It was arranged that, when she was ready to visit Bath, he would ask a colleague with chambers in the city to represent her interests.

She signed some papers, which were witnessed by himself and the footman stationed by the door. He rose, preparing to take his leave, only to be intercepted by Mrs Farling, who, full of curiosity, must have been hovering nearby. She was not prepared to allow her governess’s visitor to depart without being quizzed.

Her round cheeks flushed, her bosom heaving, “Surely you are not returning to London today, Mr Warwick?” she exclaimed, fluttering her hands and with them the gauze scarf draped about her dimpled elbows.

Mr Warwick bowed. “No, madam. I shall find accommodation at the nearest hostelry and make the return journey tomorrow.”

“You would think us poor creatures to allow you to lie overnight at an inn, sir! You must, of course, accept our hospitality!”

“Indeed, madam, you are most kind. I gladly accept but I must dismiss the post chaise and order it to return in the morning…”

“Bennett will do that,” said Mrs Farling imperiously. She turned to call out the order to the butler, who appeared in the doorway, bowed and departed on his mission.

Mr Warwick would be happy to enjoy the comforts of the quite extensive country residence of Thornestone Park instead of lying in a possibly louse-infested inn, Leonora knew. But it meant that she would be called upon once again to add the cachet of her presence at the dinner table. On this occasion, though, she resented less than usual the way her employers used her breeding to add to their own consequence. Mr Warwick was here because of her.

But the exclamations, the questions, when Mrs Farling discovered the reason for his visit, were almost beyond bearing. Leonora wanted privacy in which to come to terms with her good fortune but was not allowed the privilege.

Mr Warwick, it transpired, had never had occasion to visit his client in Bath and so had no idea of the exact nature of the residence Leonora had inherited, or of the circumstances and person of the lord who was now her tenant. No amount of questioning or speculation could tell Mrs Farling more than Leonora already knew.

“I must tender you my notice,” Leonora said. “Perhaps I could plan to move to Bath in two weeks’ time? Would that be convenient to you, Mr Warwick?”

“Indeed, Miss Vincent, that will give me ample time to arrange for Mr Coggan to place himself at your disposal.”

“You wish to leave us so soon!” cried Mrs Farling. “How my girls will miss you! Husband, persuade dear Miss Vincent to remain with us until everything is quite settled!”

Her stout husband, a gentleman who had as little to do with the womenfolk in his household as possible, wiped his greasy lips with his napkin and grunted. “I suggest you allow Miss Vincent to do as she pleases,” he declared.

The Earl of Kelsey, who seldom made use of the quizzing glass suspended from his elegant buff waistcoat, raised it to study the broad, open face of the young lawyer, not much older than himself, facing him over the office desk.

“This female now owns the premises?” he enquired, a forbidding frown drawing deep grooves between the straight lines of his dark brows.

“Indeed, my lord. The late Mr Vincent left her everything, apart from a bequest to his valet. Mr Warwick informs me that Mr Vincent’s fortune was not great, but the lady will be able to live in some comfort on the income from it and the yield from this property.”

“Hmm.” His lordship’s slate grey eyes became thoughtful. He’d known Vincent was only modestly wealthy, but had never discovered exactly what the fellow had been worth. This lawyer would never tell him. He asked, “How much would this place sell for?”

“On the open market, my lord? With yourself as a sitting tenant?” On Kelsey’s nod the lawyer, whose name was Coggan, named a figure.

“And without myself here as tenant?”

Coggan thought for a moment and suggested a larger sum.

“As I thought,” mused the Earl. “She should be glad to be offered a figure somewhere between the two. I cannot have her living in the rooms above. Such a circumstance would be quite beyond the tenets of decency.”

“Indeed, my lord. To have a lady walking through your part of the property would be most—” Coggan sought just the right word “—unseemly.”

“It cannot be allowed. You must inform her so.”

“I would, my lord,” said the lawyer deferentially, “but there is little time. Mr Warwick only instructed me yesterday. I am retained to represent her interests on his behalf, my lord, until she arrives in Bath and claims her inheritance. She is due on Wednesday, and proposes to occupy the late owner’s rooms. Since Mr Warwick was not aware of your lordship’s activities in the part of the house you occupy, neither is Miss Vincent.”

“Is she not?” Kelsey placed a long finger against his pursed lips as he thought. “The day after tomorrow, you say?”

He abandoned his stance by the window and began to pace the floor. He possessed a finely proportioned figure set off to perfection by the cut of his buff trousers and the fit of his green cut-away coat. He wore immaculate linen and his neckcloth had been tied with subtle flair.

He stopped and stood tapping the long fingers of one hand with the quizzing glass he held in the other. The frown left his face as he turned to the lawyer. The skin about his dark eyes crinkled and his firm, shapely mouth curled upwards at the corners. But it was not a friendly smile.

“Then I shall have to receive her and tell her myself. The sooner she is appraised of the situation the better. I shall persuade her of the impropriety of her proposal to occupy the rooms so recently vacated, and offer to purchase the building.”

Her worldly possessions packed neatly into two trunks, Leonora arrived in Bath. She had persuaded her friend the local Rector’s daughter, Clarissa Worth, to accompany her as companion and seduced Dolly, one of the maids at Thornestone Park, to transfer to her employ. To her surprise and relief Mr Farling had insisted that she make use of the family chariot, drawn by post horses, and had sent a footman with them to make all the arrangements for the necessary overnight stay at an inn along the way.

Winter’s early dusk was beginning to fall as the chariot entered Bath. The tower of the Abbey caught Clarissa’s attention while Leonora was entranced by the warm, creamy-yellow colour of the stone used for the buildings. Dolly, perched between them on the pull-out seat, simply gazed with her mouth open.

The chariot threaded its way through streets thronged with rigs of every description—barouches, curricles, chaises, phaetons, gigs, wagons and hand-carts—while uniformed men carried the gentry about in sedan chairs. Pedestrians—the expensively and modishly dressed along with liveried attendants, a few officers in red coats or blue pea jackets, merchants in more sober cloth and workmen in threadbare coats and breeches and holed hose—sauntered or hurried along according to their need. The infirm, she noted, were pushed in wheeled chairs and wrapped in rugs against the February cold.

It was a different world, an exciting world. Bath in 1816, after this first winter of true peace, was full of people. The ton, as usual, was there in force to take the waters before embarking on the exertions and excesses of the London Season.

The post boy seemed to know the town. He turned the carriage into a short street forming one side of a leafy green square surrounded by buildings and drew up before a large, double-fronted house standing on its own between two narrow alleys.

Fancy ironwork fenced off basement areas on each side of a causeway that led to the front door. Three pairs of windows rose on either side of the front entrance, with single windows set between above it. Leonora, scarcely aware of her silent companions, drew a steadying breath as the footman jumped down from the box to lower the step and open the carriage door.

She descended to the pavement and waited, studying the building, while Clarissa and Dolly followed her down. A carved lintel and pediment, with “Morris House” inscribed on it, topped the single front door, which opened expectantly to reveal a footman, garbed in good but unostentatious livery in two shades of grey.

Leonora crossed the causeway and halted before the step. “Miss Vincent,” she announced herself. “Lord Kelsey is expecting me.”

A second person had come forward, dressed in excellently tailored black worn with some elegance. In contrast, his immaculate neckcloth, the high points of his collar, the frills of his shirt, all gleamed starkly white.

“Indeed he is, madam,” said this individual, taking the place of the footman, who retreated into the hall where his powdered wig gleamed in the semi-darkness. “Allow me to introduce myself. Digby Sinclair, at your service.”

He bowed. Leonora, not certain of the person’s standing, acknowledged his words with a nod. Clarissa had come to join her while Dolly and Mr Farling’s footman, who wore a tall hat rather than a wig, waited patiently beside the chariot.

“His lordship understands that you wish to occupy the late Mr Vincent’s apartments,” went on the individual smoothly.

Impatient at being kept standing on the doorstep, Leonora retorted with some asperity. “For the time being, at least. Please allow me to enter.”

“Of course, madam.” He made no attempt to let her past. “But his lordship requests that your boxes be taken round to the back entrance and carried up the stairs there. It will be more convenient.” He looked beyond her. “Perhaps your maid would accompany them? You will then find her installed in the apartments when you have spoken to his lordship and follow her up.”

Leonora frowned. Enter by the back stairs? Not if she had anything to do with it. “His lordship is at home, I collect?”

“Oh, yes, madam. He is awaiting your arrival.”

“Excellent. I look forward to meeting him. And you are?”

“His manager, madam.”

Manager? Leonora kept her curiosity to herself. Perhaps the Earl was too old to manage his own affairs. It had crossed her mind that, were the Earl available, he might be pleased to acquire a wife and with her the ownership of this property. She was open to offers from any reasonable quarter. None of those she had received over the years had been appealing enough to tempt her into giving up her freedom, limited as it had been. Governesses, however well connected, seldom received offers from gentlemen.

She turned to speak to Dolly. “Wait there with the chariot,” she instructed briskly, “until it is decided what is to be done about our luggage.” She turned back to Sinclair. Now, perhaps you will announce me to his lordship.”

Who might be an earl, but she was an earl’s granddaughter.

“But, madam—”

Leonora lifted an imperious eyebrow. Sinclair bowed.

“If you will follow me, madam?”

“Do you want me to come with you?” asked Clarissa.

Leonora eyed her friend and decided that her presence would serve to hinder rather than help her in the coming interview. Some five years her senior, Clarissa Worth had never been further than Buckingham in her life and although perfectly capable of dealing with her father’s parishioners, Leonora doubted whether she had ever learned how to confront a member of the nobility.

“No,” she said. By this time they were in a large vestibule with doors on either side and the main staircase, wide and curving, facing them. It was furnished with a small table holding a silver salver, a bench and a number of rout chairs. The muffled sound of male voices came from somewhere above. She speculated momentarily as to who the gentlemen might be and then ignored the sound. She indicated the chairs and said, “Sit down while you wait for me.”

Sinclair, knocking on a door on the left near the foot of the stairs as he opened it, announced, “Miss Vincent, my lord.”

His tone was deferential yet there was an undercurrent of amusement in it that told Leonora that this man, a personable creature approaching the age of forty, she imagined, was on intimate terms with the Earl. He turned to usher her in and she could see something else in his blue eyes, something she had come to recognise over the years. He found her pleasing.

She did not care whether the man Sinclair found her pleasing or not. Her business was with his employer. She lifted her pretty, firm jaw and sailed past him into the lion’s den.

The manager withdrew, closing the door behind her. A tall youngish gentleman rose languidly from behind the desk, where he had been sitting perusing some papers, and stepped out to make his bow.

“Miss Vincent.”

He made no attempt to be more than civil. Leonora dipped a polite curtsy and acknowledged the greeting. “My lord.”

They studied each other. Leonora saw a tall, lean, but well-built gentleman of some thirty years—certainly he was a deal younger than his manager—with short brown hair arranged in the latest careless style, who wore his well-tailored garments with easy elegance. The hair framed a face whose individual features would have been difficult to criticise—a broad forehead; slate-grey eyes set beneath brows of a lighter hue than his hair and fringed by enviable lashes; a straight nose and shapely mouth.

Only his chin gave her cause for concern. It looked formidably firm and determined.

To Blaise Dancer, Earl of Kelsey, heir to the Marquess of Whittonby, Miss Leonora Vincent looked the epitome of a strait-laced governess well beyond her youthful prime. The way she dressed, the way she held herself, the severe expression with which she was attempting to intimidate him, told the tale. But, despite her years, he could not fault the perfection of her complexion, the accumulation of fine features that gave her an appearance of classical beauty which, given the matching stoniness of her expression, he did not find attractive.

Light brown hair tending towards fair strayed from beneath the brim of an elderly velvet bonnet trimmed with wilting silk flowers. It matched the colour of the brown pelisse he could glimpse beneath the enfolding cloth of a grey travelling cloak. Her skirts, by what he could see of them, were of a lighter colour, a dull buff muslin sprigged with brown and green. Her eyes, an interesting mixture of grey, green and blue, were narrowed between gold-tipped lashes with something suspiciously like vexation. He allowed himself a secret smile of satisfaction.

“You,” said Leonora at length, quelling the dismay she felt at having so young a gentleman occupying the rooms beneath hers, “are Lord Kelsey, my tenant?”

“I am, madam.” They were still standing. He waved her to a seat facing his desk and, once she had settled herself, sank back into his own chair. “Naturally,” he went on easily, “I am devastated by the death of Mr Charles Vincent. We dealt well together. That he had left his property to a great-niece came as a surprise to me. Not to say a shock.”

“And to me, my lord. I had not seen my Uncle Vincent for many a year. Not since my mother’s death.”