From American heiress...

...to his convenient countess!

When American schoolteacher Clementine Maccoish rescues a handsome stranger from perilously drowning late at night, she’s stunned to discover he’s actually Heath Cavill—the Earl of Fencroft—and the man she’s conveniently betrothed to! He has a reputation for being a man of mystery, so what was he doing outside so late? Intrigued by his secrets, Clementine wishes to find out the truth before she walks down the aisle to wed him!

CAROL ARENS delights in tossing fictional characters into hot water, watching them steam, and then giving them a happily-ever-after. When she’s not writing she enjoys spending time with her family, beach-camping or lounging about in a mountain cabin. At home, she enjoys playing with her grandchildren and gardening. During rare spare moments you will find her snuggled up with a good book. Carol enjoys hearing from readers at carolarens@yahoo.com or on Facebook.

Also by Carol Arens

Dreaming of a Western Christmas

Western Christmas Proposals

The Cowboy’s Cinderella

Western Christmas Brides

The Rancher’s Inconvenient Bride

A Ranch to Call Home

A Texas Christmas Reunion

The Walker Twins miniseries

Wed to the Montana Cowboy

Wed to the Texas Outlaw

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Earl’s American Heiress

Carol Arens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08918-0

THE EARL’S AMERICAN HEIRESS

© 2019 Carol Arens

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Dedicated to Brielle Mary Iaccino,

our sparkling, happy earth-angel.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

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 Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
Santa Monica Beach, an afternoon in May 1889

One did not need to open one’s eyes to appreciate the majesty of the Pacific Ocean.

It was better, in fact, to keep them closed. Doing so made it easier to ignore the hustle and bustle of high society as it went through its prancing and posing at the Arcadia Hotel, grandly squatted three hundred yards down the shore from where Clementine Macooish stood.

With closed eyes one could better feel the rush of a cold wave across one’s bare feet and the tickle of shifting sand between one’s toes as the salt water retreated into the sea.

“Once the ocean laps at your toes, it will summon you home forever,” she muttered softly, even though no one was within shouting distance. “Or with one’s dying breath—no, not that—with one’s first gasp of eternity!”

That last was a vastly more positive thought. Beautiful thoughts often came to her when her eyes were closed. She would write this one down and share it with her students at Mayflower Academy.

Moist air, the cry of gulls circling overhead... Sensation became sharpened without the distraction of the outrageously incredible vista glittering all the way to the western horizon.

Without sight, what a simple thing it was to draw in a lungful of salty, fish-scented air and imagine being as free and weightless as a pelican gliding over the surface of the water. Free to dip—free to swirl in feathered—

“Clementine Jane Macooish! What in blazing glory do you have on?”

She opened her eyes and turned when she heard the voice she loved above all others approaching from behind.

“Good afternoon to you, too, Grandfather.” She fluffed the gaily dotted ruffle of her bodice. “This is a perfectly respectable bathing gown, and you know it.”

“Respectable for underwear. Cover those bloomers with a proper skirt, girl.”

“Don’t look so shocked. If you walked the shoreline from the hotel you’ve seen this costume a dozen times on other ladies.”

“I came down the cliff steps, every blasted ninety-nine of them.” Her grandfather was trim, fit and in excellent health, so she doubted the stairs had been a burden on him. “Besides, those women are wearing stockings and booties. Your feet are bare as hatchling birds. And your hair! Surely you’ve not come without a hat.”

“It’s around here someplace.” She glanced about and didn’t see it. Perhaps it had tumbled away with the onshore breeze or been carried away by a gull. “Stand beside me and close your eyes.”

She snatched his sleeve to draw him closer.

“Folderol,” he grumbled, but did as she suggested.

She plucked the bowler hat from his head and tucked it under her arm. “Now there, doesn’t the ocean breeze feel lovely gliding over your scalp? The sunshine so nice and warm?”

With a sidelong glance, she noticed a smile tugging one corner of his mouth. Truly, he was far more handsome than most seventy-year-old men. With his gray beard and mustache, neatly trimmed, and dark brows arching dapperly over intelligent brown eyes, it was no wonder he drew the attention of ladies of all ages when he passed by.

“Fine for me,” he said, opening his eyes and pinning her with one arched brow. “I’m bald on top while you’ve the hotel ball to prepare for. I can’t think how Maria is going to do a thing with that thicket of hair, not with salt and sand stuck in it.”

“In that case I might have to stay in my hotel room tonight.”

Of course Grandfather would never permit it, but it was what she wanted to do, and she was duty bound to say so.

“Do not test me, child. You are a well-bred Macooish woman and will represent the family as such. And besides, you are quite lovely, even given the dishabille you are now in.”

Grandfather would think so, of course, since he had been the one to raise her. The truth was, her hair was far too red to be considered fashionable, her eyes green rather than the desired blue. But it was her nose that was her biggest beauty fault, being a bit too sharp. Unless she was smiling, her countenance had a slightly severe appearance, bordering even on arrogance, or so Grandfather had warned.

Her younger and prettier cousin, Madeline, had a nose that looked sweet no matter her mood.

And Clementine’s temperament? She was far too direct and opinionated to be considered socially graceful. Truly, she smiled only when she felt like it, not when it was required. Her smiles were quite genuine, to be sure, but never given away simply to put someone at ease during an awkward conversation. Sadly, on those occasions she tried, the gesture came out more as a grimace.

Madeline was far better at playing the hostess. Indeed, she excelled at charming people. Her cousin was petite, with fairy-blond hair. Her blue eyes were lit from within by a gracious spirit. Madeline had a gift for making a stranger into a friend.

It was why Grandfather had elected Madeline to be the one to cross the ocean and marry a peer of the realm—a lofty earl, no less.

Every morning and night Clementine thanked the good lord that she was not the charming granddaughter.

Which allowed her to be the one who was free to stand on the beach in her bathing costume, wiggle her bare toes in the sand and dream of being a pelican.

Since she was not doomed to become a countess, Grandfather had given his blessing on her desire to become the schoolteacher she had always yearned to be. Truly, she wanted nothing more in life than to direct young minds toward a sound future.

And of equal importance to her, marriage could wait until she was good and ready for it.

“If I do stay in my room, no one will miss me.” She returned her grandfather’s arched brow with one of her own. It must be a family trait, that—putting someone in their place with a lifted brow. Her cousin didn’t share it, though. Only she and Grandfather used the expression. Perhaps her parents and Madeline’s had it, but they had all died so long ago that she knew them mostly as portraits in the formal parlor. “Madeline will make up for my absence.”

“Madeline has run off.”

All of a sudden she could not hear the surf crashing on the sand, and the gulls went silent.

Run off?

“To the dressmaker, no doubt.”

“She’s run away with some charlatan. Left a note admitting it.”

Clementine ought to have suspected that might happen.

While she and Madeline both tended to be freethinking, as Grandfather had raised them to be, her cousin’s temperament sent her flying headlong into adventure.

Clementine was of a settled nature, happy to be at home, cozy and content in the smallest room of the sprawling mansion she had grown up in. Her best nights were the ones when she managed to hide away from Grandfather’s many social gatherings. The back garden had private nooks and lush alcoves where she’d spent many a warm summer evening undetected.

Now Madeline—the intended countess—the one to fulfill Grandfather’s plan for the safekeeping of the family, beyond that which could be found by mere fortune alone, had freely taken wing and fluttered happily away from her duty.

And Grandfather was looking at Clementine in a most peculiar way. She feared the battle of the arched brows was going to end up with her becoming the Countess of Fencroft.

No! No! And no!

But the merciless, twisting knot in her stomach made her suspect that Grandfather would win the battle, because she was, above all things, distressingly loyal.

Drat it.

Near Folkestone, England, at the same moment,
May 1889

The sixth Earl of Fencroft stood on a rock, staring out at the sea. The light of a full moon suddenly emerging from behind a cloud illuminated the crests of unsettled, ink-like water for as far as he could see. It was a violent yet beautiful thing to behold.

And to hear. The forceful crash of waves hitting the rock ten feet below where he stood suited his mood, which, like the approaching storm, was darkly brooding.

Cold wind snapped his cloak about like a pair of wild, flapping wings. Mist from the crashing waves dampened his clothing, soaked his hair and dripped down his face. He felt the sting of salt water in his eyes but didn’t dare to close them.

If he did he would see the fifth Earl of Fencroft’s face, still and pale in death.

In life, his brother’s face had never been still. In spite of a lifetime of ill health that face had always been smiling.

Laughter—not always appropriate laughter, to be sure, but laughter just the same—was what he was known for.

Even though no one had expected Oliver to make old bones, his death had seemed sudden.

The lung condition that had plagued him all his life had grown worse so slowly that it hadn’t been noticeable day to day, not until Oliver slumped over his cards while playing whist with the estate accountant, Mr. Robinson, and died.

No, Heath could not say that he had not known the mantle his brother carried so jovially would fall upon him one day. He had understood it since he was old enough to recognize that his brother lived in a damaged body. Nonetheless, it was shocking and bitterly sad.

Even if sorrow were not perched upon his shoulder, he would not be happy. Believing in a vague way that one day he would replace his brother as earl was a far different thing from actually doing it.

The last thing he wanted was his new title, especially given how grievously he had come by it.

Death certainly had a way of altering life.

His life had been rather ideal when the main requirement on his time was to oversee the estate in Derbyshire. Those rolling green acres of pastureland were paradise.

While his presence in London was often necessary, he had been excused from much of the city’s social rigor.

Now he would be required to attend Parliament in Oliver’s stead.

He’d be required to sit among the nobility, arguing unsolvable issues.

Glancing back over his shoulder and up the stark cliffside, he watched smoke curl out of the chimney of his coastal retreat.

The seaside cottage was as much home to him as the estate in Derbyshire was. Certainly more than the town house in London was.

All the upstairs lamps had been put out. Only the kitchen window remained aglow.

He looked back at the sea, watching the blackish surface peak and foam.

Somehow, knowing that the children slept sweet and safe inside made him feel more peaceful.

He’d get through this, learn to be all he needed to be for everyone who depended upon the Earl of Fencroft for their survival. How many were employed by the estate and the town house?

He didn’t know. Oliver and Mr. Robinson had taken care of everything having to do with the business of running the earldom.

A hail of small pebbles hitting rock rattled from behind.

“Yer Lordship, sir!”

Turning, he saw a boy scrabbling down the steep hillside.

“What is it, Georgie?” The eight-year-old was thin but not as thin as he’d been the first time Heath had encountered him. “You should not be out in the dark. It isn’t safe.”

“Not so dangerous as before in London, sir. And here—”

The boy extended a sheet of paper, already damp and limp with sea spray.

“It’s from the telegraph office, and coming so late as it is, Mrs. Pierce reckoned it must be important.”

Indeed. A message sent at this hour could indicate an emergency. He opened it slowly, half fearing to know what it said.

Brother, come back to London at once. The accountant has fled and left chaos in his wake.

What kind of chaos? It would have been helpful had his sister explained further.

He hoped she was just being overdramatic. Olivia was Oliver’s twin. She had been understandably distraught since his death. Still, getting news that Robinson had fled could not be a good thing.

Heath hadn’t let the fellow go after Oliver’s passing three weeks ago. With the knowledge he had of the estate, he was invaluable and Heath had had every intention of keeping him on.

“Hold on to my hand, Georgie. The rocks are slippery.”

At the cliff top, with the child’s footing secure, he let go of the small fist. “Go tell my coachman we’re off for London at first light.”

There was no point in dragging anyone out into the dark of night. Whatever problems the fellow had left behind would wait until a decent hour.

As it turned out, a full eighteen hours passed before Heath finally entered the study of the London townhome. The servants were abed but a small fire glowed in the hearth, apparently kept in expectation of his arrival.

The weak flames gave off scant warmth and even less light. Shadows hovered in the corners of the room; they swirled about his heart like mist.

It was too easy to imagine Oliver still sitting at the desk, a blanket draped across his shoulders and a cloth close at hand for him to cough into. The scent of cigar smoke lingering in the room made Heath feel that if he but blinked, his brother would be there.

“At last! I feared you would not come.”

His sister’s voice crackled with worry. It hadn’t always sounded so vulnerable, but Oliver’s death so close on the heels of her husband’s had changed her.

Death changed everything. To this day grief for Wilhelmina came upon him at unexpected times. Of course, it was not only his fiancée’s death that haunted him, but the secrets she kept in life.

“We made decent time given the storm.” In fact he would give the coachman extra pay for having to bear the cold and the wet in order for him to get here and deal with Olivia’s perceived “chaos.”

“No doubt you were loath to leave your mistress.”

“I don’t have a mistress.”

“No?” Her bow-like mouth pressed tight. It was hard for his sister to accept that not all men were like her late husband. “So you say, but I think you spend too much time at Rock Rose Cottage not to have one stashed away.”

Everyone faced betrayal at some point in life. His sister had trusted and adored her husband, until the day he passed away in the bed of his mistress. Given all Olivia had been through, Heath tried to smile past her suspicions.

He strode over to where she stood in the doorway, dipped his head and kissed her cheek. “I’d have been here sooner but the roads were complete muck. I’m just lucky my driver was skilled enough to keep us from getting stuck like so many others were.”

“Just remember, brother, a mistress and the devil are one and the same.”

“Let’s sit while you tell me what chaos Mr. Robinson has left behind.”

Since he could not tell her the truth about his business at the seashore, he did not argue further about there being no mistress, even though he was quite weary of her continued accusations.

He sat down on the divan. Olivia eased down beside him with a deflated sigh.

What he must remind himself was that she was a widow, that she and four-year-old Victor were dependent upon him for everything. Truly, a woman without a man to protect her was helpless in society.

Willa’s face flashed in his mind. The helplessness in her sad brown eyes had always made him feel protective of her, even when they were children. In the end that expression had been his undoing.

“Solicitors have been pounding on the door and demanding payment for debts that they claimed Oliver incurred. Three of them two days ago, and one this morning. I sent them away as best I could.”

“With their ears red and ringing, I imagine.”

She shrugged. “It’s no more than they deserved, but I fear the obligations are valid. I loved Oliver—you know I did—but he could be irresponsible.”

“I think he wanted to squeeze as much living as he could out of his failing body.”

“Perhaps, and who could blame him? But really, our brother ought to have hired someone more capable as our accountant. What did Mr. Robinson really have to recommend himself other than being Oliver’s chum from Cambridge? I didn’t think so much of it at the time but looking at it now I ought to have. The pair of them laughed and indulged in spirits when they worked on the ledgers.”

He did not know that, but it hardly surprised him. Oliver sought gaiety above most everything else. No doubt that pursuit had hastened his death. Doctor after doctor had warned him to leave the caustic air of London for the sake of his lungs. He would not consider it because he found country life dull. He used to claim all the charming, lively ladies lived in town and that was where he would reside.

“Our brother did enjoy a good time.”

“I thought,” Olivia murmured with a sigh, “that was the reason he wanted to marry that rich, flighty American, for the thrill of doing something risqué. But I see better now. We’ll need an auditor to know for sure, but I fear we might be bankrupt.”

“I’ll wire James Macooish, let him know that our brother is gone and he need not bring his granddaughter. I suppose I ought to have done it straightaway, but with—”

“You will not. The girl is coming to marry the Earl of Fencroft. Fifth or sixth, it hardly matters.”

“It matters a great deal when you are the sixth.”

“Don’t be selfish, Heath. You have a duty to the Fencroft estate. Without Miss Macooish’s fortune we will be utterly lost. How many people will be left in ruin if you do not marry her?”

“The woman would have suited our brother. He always did like brightly feathered birds. From what Oliver had to say about her I believe she is quite freehearted and pretty, and no doubt frivolous. You know me better than to think we would make a good match.”

“That hardly matters. I made a love match and look where that got me. Believe me, little brother, better to set your sights low and not be disappointed. If you won’t think of all the souls Fencroft Manor supports, consider the well-being of your nephew. He might be the one to take over the title one day.”

“If I marry the heiress, her son will inherit.”

“Don’t be silly. American women are notoriously infertile. They will be the ruin of the aristocracy. It’s what everyone says.”

Life had certainly spun Heath about and dropped him on his noble head. Unless he wedded Madeline—wasn’t that her name? Truthfully, until this moment he’d given his future sister-in-law little thought, but unless he wedded her, there would be nothing for Victor to inherit. His hardworking tenants and all of Fencroft Manor’s trusted servants would be cast out onto the street.

For all that he longed to leap off the couch and dash off a telegram to Macooish, he sat there long after his sister kissed his cheek and went to bed. He watched the dying flames until the room finally went dark.

Chapter Two
London, nine weeks and a dozen and a half ball gowns later...

“Loyal to a fault,” Clementine muttered while sitting on the balcony of the apartment Grandfather had rented and gazing down at the midnight stillness of the garden below. “Exceedingly and preposterously loyal.”

Excessive was what it was. She had never considered herself to be a weakling, but surely any woman with a backbone would have refused to even consider Grandfather’s scheme.

And yet here she was, sleepless in London, with a notebook on her lap and a lantern glowing on the table beside her. Grandfather’s handwriting on the pages blurred before her eyes. The more she stared at the instructions on how to address the titled, the wavier the letters became.

From down below, she heard the soothing tap of water in a fountain. Squinting through the dark, she could see how large it was. It might rightly be called a pond.

This building was vastly elegant, as was the garden that separated it from Fencroft House on the other side. In fact, Grandfather had rented this apartment because of its proximity to the Fencroft place. Perhaps he thought she would fall in love with the environs and look favorably upon the man.

That remained to be seen, but the garden did look appealing by moonlight. The landlord had told Grandfather that the garden was shared space between the apartment and the town house.

If she looked hard she could see the outline of the three-story brick building across the way.

As late as it was, even the servants were abed. No one would be the wiser if she slipped outside.

Within fifteen minutes she was sitting on an ornate iron bench three stories below her balcony.

Fresh, cool air washed over her face, a welcome change from the stifling yellow fog that had clung to everything earlier in the day.

Truly, there had been moments when it hurt to breathe. She’d felt great pity for those forced to go about their daily business muddling through it.

Thankfully, at about sundown a fresh wind had blown it away, allowing the moon to shine down, to cleanse and bless everything with its pure, cold light.

The thought was quite poetic and it made her smile. She hoped she would remember it when she went back upstairs and took her pen and paper out of the secretary.

She might not, though, since she was in no hurry to leave this tranquil spot. It would be nice to sit here until the first rays of morning light peeked over the rooftops, but she was fairly certain it would be forbidden.

Given that Grandfather had cautioned her to observe every social rule, appear beyond reproach in everything she said or did, she doubted she ought to be down here by herself for even a moment.

Still, who was to know that she sat here blissfully listening to the rustle of tall shrubbery in the breeze, and the tinkle of the fountain?

Not a single soul. She was free to sit here and wonder what she was doing in London in the first place, why she had even considered Grandfather’s outrageous request—not demand. She was free to sit here and wonder what she was doing in London in the first place, why she had even considered Grandfather’s outrageous request—not demand.

And yet here she sat, somewhat contentedly listening to the sound of pattering droplets hitting the surface of the large pond when she ought to be seething in indignation.

But it was soothing, and while not as dramatic as the crashing waves of the ocean, it was lovely in its own way. Perhaps if she viewed events as an adventure, at least until she made up her mind about them, she could find a bit of peace within herself.

To that end she must make a point of sneaking out every night.

Solitude was something that even Grandfather’s fortune could not purchase. Closing her eyes, Clementine listened to a symphony of frogs accompanied by the twitter of a nightingale. London might be a pleasant place after all. In time she might—

“Curse it!”

A man’s exclamation cut the peace of the moment. He sounded startled more than angry. The sudden rustling of brush gave way to a husky gasp.

She leaped off the bench, ready to flee. Who would be creeping about in the hedge at this hour unless he was an intruder up to no good? Perhaps a thief or a pillager?

A cat dashed across the walkway at the same moment the dark-clad figure tumbled into the fountain. She could not be certain, but she thought he hit his head on a stone going in.

Oh, dear!

The pond was only knee-deep, but the man was floating facedown in it.

It was possible that he was a villain, or equally possible that he had a very good reason to be out here, the same as she did. In any case, she could hardly let him drown.

Running, she came to the edge of the water, stepped into it, slippers and gown forgotten—but not forgotten enough not to feel horrible for the servant who would have to make them presentable again.

Reaching for the man’s shoulders, she had to kick aside the long black coat he wore because it floated about him, getting tangled in her skirt and restricting her movement.

Giving a solid yank, she managed to get him on his back. Mercy, but he was heavy and, oh, my—

If he was a villain, he was a dashing one, with dark hair and a sweep of black, seductive eyelashes. Until this moment Clementine hadn’t known a man’s lashes could be seductive.

No doubt his villainy consisted of sneaking home from a tryst.

She patted his cheek. “Wake up, sir!”

All at once he lunged, caught her about the hips and dragged her down.

She beat on his forearms. “Why! You great lurching oaf! Let me go before I scream!” Which she could not do without everyone knowing she had come outside in the dark. It would not be well received to be found in the fountain in the slippery embrace of a man.

The most amazing eyes she had ever seen focused on her face. Slowly, as if shuffling through dense fog, the fellow came back from wherever the blow had taken him.

“Wh-what?” he stuttered, wiping his face and then reaching for his hat, which bobbed about on the surface of the water.

“As best I can tell, you were startled by a cat.” She snagged the soggy headwear and handed it to him. “You hit your head after you fell through the bush and into the pond. There is a bit of swelling above your right eye, but so far it doesn’t appear too horrid.”

What was horrid, and funny at the same time, was that she was sitting side by side with a stranger in a fountain, the pair of them blinking away water dripping down their foreheads.

“And who do I have to thank for my rescue?” he asked, swiping the hair back from his face.

Certainly not Clementine Jane Macooish! The scandal would be enormous were anyone to find out about this.

“Jane—Fitz.”

* * *

“Thank you, Lady Fitz.” Heath did not recall anyone by the last name of Fitz among the titled but he had no wish to offend his beautiful rescuer by assuming she was not. Clearly she was an American but she might still be titled if she was married to a peer.

It was difficult to determine the color of her eyes in the darkness. The shade of her curly, tumbled hair was disguised as well, given that it was dripping wet and dappled with moonlight. Fortunately the midnight dousing appeared not to have dampened the lively spirit shining from the lady’s eyes—no, not that so much as lively and serious all in one suspicious glance while she studied him.

“Miss Fitz will do nicely, I think.”

The right thing to do would be to rise from the water and offer her a hand up, but she was gazing at him with her head tipped ever so slightly to one side. He found her fascinating, so all he wanted was to sit here and look at her.

“I believe—” her brows lifted in a slender, delicate arch “—it would be polite to introduce yourself so that I do not decide you are a criminal bent on mayhem.”

“I assure you that I am not.”

That admission did not mean he would reveal himself as Fencroft. How would he explain his reason for dashing through the garden at this hour like a fleeing criminal? Better she thought he was bent on mayhem.

If his business of the evening came to light, lives would be threatened, the Fencroft estate ruined.

“My name is Heath Ramsfield.” The first surname to pop into his mind was his butler’s, so he used it. “You are shivering, Miss Fitz. We should get out of the water.”

He stood, reached for her hand and saw that it was bare, but he clamped his fingers around it anyway. The last thing he wanted was for her to slip and be injured, which would force him to seek help. Anyone he called upon would recognize him.

“I can only wonder, Mr. Ramsfield, are you always so skittish of cats?”

“It did appear rather suddenly.”

He stood a respectable distance from her, although barely, being captivated as he was by moonlight reflecting in the beads of water dotting her face. She had a beautiful nose, not pert as so many desired, but straight and elegant. It might have given her a stern demeanor were it not for the good humor warming her eyes.

“Oh, yes.” She squeezed her fingers around the hank of hair dripping over her shoulder and wrung out the water. “They do tend to do that.”

Water dribbling from their clothing onto the stones chimed with the droplets sprinkling in the fountain. A breeze scuttled through the shrubbery, making him shiver. It would be wise and proper to part company now, but he found he did not want to.

Who was this woman and why was she here in his garden? It was not as though he could come right out and ask, not without admitting he had a right to know.

“I suppose I have ruined your evening, and your gown.”

“Oh, I think not. I’ve never rescued anyone from a fountain in the middle of the night before. It was a riveting distraction.”

He laughed quietly. When was the last time he had done that? “And I thank you. But what did you need distracting from? Perhaps I can help?”

She was silent for a moment, holding him with her gaze, judging to determine if he was worthy of her confidence, he imagined.

The woman seemed as wise as she was attractive. Probably as different from the one he was contracted to marry in every way there could be. It was harsh of him to judge his future bride before he ever met her, but if she appealed to Oliver, he doubted Madeline Macooish would suit him.

“That is unlikely unless you know how a common-born woman would address, well, let’s say an earl or a viscount, in case she passes him in a hallway or on the street.”

Or in a water fountain with the night so close and intimate about them.

“I suspect he might just appreciate ‘Good day.’”

If only he were free to pursue a woman of his choosing! It couldn’t be this woman, a commoner and a poor American—society would never recover from it—but one like her. If there was one like her to be had.

“That sounds delightfully simple. But now that you know why I was in the garden, I’d like to know what you are doing here.”

She spoke to him with boldness and he found it quite appealing. Would she do so if she knew him to be the lordly master of the house next door? He was glad she didn’t know it, since the very thought was as pompous as a strutting rooster.

“There are some things a gentleman cannot reveal. Let’s just say I thought it an inviting path to take on my way home.”

“Yes, until you encountered a cat. I can’t be sure but it appeared to have been a black cat. I hope you do not also encounter a string of bad luck.”

“To tell you the truth, Miss Fitz, tripping over the cat and coming awake in the pond with you was the nicest thing to happen to me all evening.”

The nicest thing to happen to him in a very long time, in fact.

“Being plucked from certain death is nice of an evening.”

“Quite,” he murmured. Then, since he could hardly keep her here shivering all night, he said, “Please, let me pay for your ruined gown.”

“It’s far from ruined, only wet. It will dry out right as rain.”

“I’ll see you home then.” He crooked his arm thinking how silly it must look, two dripping people in the wee hours of the night observing the formal gesture.

“There is no need.” She arched a brow, shaking her head. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“I assure you, I’m not a blackguard, but they are out there.” He waggled his elbow at her. “You saved my life. I will escort you home.”

“As I said, there is no need.” She glanced over her shoulder at the apartments on the far side of the garden. “I am completely capable of walking from here to there.”

But she didn’t walk. She lifted the hem of her drenched skirt, spun about and ran. Her slippers made squishy noises across the stones.

She opened a door mostly used by servants, nodded to him and then vanished inside.

And like a dream in the night, she was gone. Who was this woman? A servant? Not likely, given she was an American. A lady’s companion hired by someone renting one of the apartments across the shared garden? More likely that, or something of the such.

While he stared at the door, a fairy-tale character came to mind. The mysterious Cinderella. Although Cinderella was not seductively dripping but merely missing a shoe.

Leaves rustled. The cat leaped from a bush. It crossed in front of him, tail waving smartly in the air.

Was it good luck or bad luck that he had met the beautiful and self-minded American?

Heath supposed he would never know for certain. In his sphere, the titled and the common people lived side by side but in vastly different worlds.

* * *

Since breakfast was a private affair, Clementine ignored proper etiquette and propped her elbows on the table. She folded her fingers under her chin and stared across at Grandfather.

He seemed distracted, glum. It bothered her to see him so downcast. It was uncommon for him to be anything but cheerfully confident.

She lifted a biscuit from a dainty plate and spread clotted cream on it while she thought how she might best cheer him up.

But given that she was one of the reasons for his frown, it might be difficult.

Surely he must understand that he could not simply decree that she would take Madeline’s place and marry a stranger in a foreign land and expect her to smile blissfully and fall into line with his wishes.

She had wishes of her own—dreams that his ambition had ripped from her—of teaching children, to put a fine point on it. Every day she wondered how her students in Los Angeles were faring with the new instructor. She hoped he would be patient with Billy’s slow speech and Anna’s progressive mind.

Would it even be possible to teach again once she bowed to Grandfather’s demand? She honestly had no idea what a countess was and was not allowed to do. She did know it was a rather lofty position in society, so maybe she could do as she pleased and no one would speak against it. Then again, perhaps everyone would speak against it.

She wished she could ease her grandfather’s mind by agreeing to the marriage before her next bite of biscuit and cream, but she was not quite ready to make that commitment even though she had crossed the Atlantic Ocean to that supposed end.

Indeed, she was less ready this morning than she had been last night.

For some reason the man she’d pulled from the fountain was capturing a good deal of her attention. No matter how she tried, she could not put away the image of water dripping off the corners of his mouth, of the handsome turn of his lips when he smiled or of the easy conversation that sprang so naturally between them.

It was not an easy thing to make a decision to marry a man when another fellow’s face was all one could see. What a shame Mr. Ramsfield was not the earl. Her outlook on the marriage might be slightly different if that were the case.

At the heart of it, Grandfather’s heavy spirit was not her fault. It was Madeline’s. Had her cousin lived up to what she had been groomed for rather than running off, Grandfather would be celebrating an engagement rather than fearing there might not be one. Also, he would not now be fearful that Madeline would come to a desperate end.

Yes, it was all completely Madeline’s fault. Clementine was only here in London facing a decision that might break Grandfather’s heart because of her cousin’s reckless decision.

“Life for a bastard child is—” Grandfather’s voice faltered. “I only hope that Madeline will remember and behave—”

He would know this since he had been one.

The circumstance of his birth was not something he spoke much of—not in words—but the struggles of his young life had formed the man he was.

To his mind, amassing a fortune was vital. At the same time he believed that no amount of money would keep his granddaughters secure.

After all, wealth hadn’t helped his mother. At eighteen she had made a brilliant match, at twenty she had become a widow, a year and a half later her solicitor had squandered her fortune and left her pregnant.

“Madeline will do the right thing, Grandfather. You raised her to be strong and resourceful. She will not make that mistake. I know she will not.”

For all that she said so, she knew her cousin had acted rashly and followed her heart as she tended to do. Clementine wondered if she had given more than a passing thought to what might happen to her by going off with—well, a stranger. No matter what Madeline might feel for the fellow in the moment, he was surely a philanderer.

“Maybe so, but she’s used to having money to rely upon and now she does not. She might cling to the wrong sort of man.”

Was he picturing the faces of the many wrong sorts of men his mother had clung to? If the faraway look in his eyes was anything to go by, he was remembering them.

“Madeline,” she pointed out, “is not your mother.”

“No, but she is a woman and thereby helpless.”

“Well, she does take after you in being resourceful. I’m sure she will be fine.” As long as the Pinkerton agent found her before she was not fine.

“A woman is only as fine as the man in charge of her funds is honest. You’ll know that a part of the reason we are here is because I’m going to earn a fortune in Scotland. You being titled will ensure the venture is a success. But Clemmie, my girl, it won’t be enough. Wealth on its own will not keep you secure.”

“So far it has.”

“Because I’m a man. All I ever earn will be mine. All I give you will belong to your husband. But a title will protect you.”

“But why is this business in Scotland so important to you? Surely there is money to be made back home.”

“Diversification. You’ll recall that I’ve lost a fortune and then gained it back again. By having ventures in more than one country I am not depending upon only one country to be prosperous. I’ll be more likely to stay afloat financially with ventures in other parts of the world.”

“If your business succeeds, I’ll be financially secure on both sides of the ocean and have no need to marry.”

“Did you not hear me when I said money can vanish in an instant? Look at your cousin. She was a wealthy young woman a short time ago, and now? You must marry well, Clementine.”

She must not have looked suitably convinced, for a worried expression flitted across his face, which made her more than uncomfortable.

Grandfather was the most confident man she’d ever met. She had never seen the anchor of the family defeated in anything. His strength had always been her refuge.

Many years ago—she’d been only three then—he had snatched both her and Madeline from certain death while a flash flood washed the rest of the family away. He had held them secure in his strong arms while hell surged all around. He would not give them over to the killer current. She vaguely remembered how his muscles trembled, how he groaned with the effort to keep them locked to his chest. Even though he was being pelted and cut by debris, he’d shielded them and refused to let death have them.

Afterward, those wounded arms had held them through the grief of losing their parents, even while he dealt with his own. Over the years he had kept them fed and clothed, despite being busy rebuilding the fortune he’d lost.

He’d raised them and loved them. Truly she and Madeline owed him complete devotion.

And now he was asking her to give up everything.

While she did owe him everything, could she really pay the price he wanted?

“We’ll have word of a good outcome soon enough,” she said, focusing the conversation on Madeline.

Someone came into the dining room and set a plate of bacon on the table between them.

Grandfather did not speak again until the servant had left the room.

“Do you understand the reason you will marry the earl?”

She understood why he wanted her to. Things from her perspective looked a bit different.

“You cannot assume that I will. I do have a say in it. For all we know the earl might be as greedy as most of the suitors I’ve already crossed paths with. You are aware that they wanted your fortune and not me?”

“I am, indeed. Still, you’ll need to marry someone. And have you forgotten that I’ve met Fencroft? I’d hardly arrange a marriage that was not in your best interest. I will not see you bound to a common fortune hunter.”

“But you would a titled one?”

“Yes, indeed, I would. Please understand that a title is more enduring than money. No matter what, your children will never face one day of humiliation. They will never go to bed wondering about their next meal or what might go bump in the night. The respectability that comes with being a peer will be a hedge about them.”

“My children! Surely you are ahead of yourself. The earl is a complete and utter stranger.”

And surely not half as compelling as the stranger in the garden last night. Given that she was here in London to consider wedding an earl, she was giving far too much thought to the intriguing fellow.

“He’s not a stranger to me. I spent considerable time with him during the negotiations. He’s a decent sort, and while not in the best of health, he enjoys his entertainment. In fact, he would have suited your cousin quite well had she given the union a chance.”

“And you truly believe I would be happy doing so?”

“I do, Clemmie. We would not be here if I thought otherwise.”

“While that assurance might be fine for you, I can’t simply hand my life over to some man! Why, I don’t even know what he looks like.”

“Oh, he has a pleasant face. Fair hair and friendly brown eyes. He’s slight of build.”

Quite unlike the tall, muscular man in the pond whose eyes were—well she didn’t know the color, but they were quite mesmerizing.

“He seems a merry fellow who laughs easily and does not look at life in an overserious manner. He attends all the grand balls.”

“You know I dislike grand balls.”

“Yes, I do know that, Clemmie. The earl would have suited your cousin grandly. It’s why I picked the man for her. But here we find ourselves. Try to look at the good side of this. You will have a fine London town house—there it is. You can see it just out the window across the garden. If you don’t like that there is a lovely country estate, even a seaside cottage, I’ve been told. I’m certain that would be to your liking. A lovely spot by the seashore?”

Truly, there was not much she would not do for the man she loved above anyone else—but this?

How could she possibly?

* * *

As he walked in the garden late at night, Heath’s steps felt heavy. His fate was nearly sealed.

He was to become betrothed, again.

As much as he tried not to think of Willa it was impossible not to, given the turn his life had taken. He’d always been smitten by her, he supposed. As a boy his heart had swelled whenever she deigned to look his way. He’d grown and given his heart to a few others for a time, but he’d never really forgotten her.

Nor would he now. She continued to influence his life in a way he would never have imagined.

Heath walked slowly about the perimeter of the garden, reliving what had happened.

He shook his head. For once the tinkling of the fountain did not bring to mind his former fiancée’s desperate weeping.

Apparently Cinderella in all her dripping glory had replaced the grim reminder with something delightful. She had become a happy vision in his mental angst.

He didn’t often dwell on Willa’s betrayal, but with another marriage looming, it all came back.

It had seemed a miracle at the time: his Willa seeking him out after so many years. They had become engaged within a week—she was in a hurry to marry him. Not for any tender feelings she had toward him, he’d discovered later on, but because she was pregnant. She confessed it before they wed, so he thought she must have come to care for him a bit. Even so, it was not the fact that she was expecting a child that made him break the engagement. He might have accepted it had Willa loved him. But she did not. He’d been broken for a bit by the way she’d used his affection.

Heath sat down on a bench and watched as wispy clouds drifted across the moon.

While he hadn’t gone through with the marriage, he could not find it in him to cast her out. He’d put her up in an apartment away from everyone she knew, so that her shame would not be exposed. He visited her, brought her what she needed to live in comfort. Oddly enough, a friendship had grown between them during that time, a true one. He wanted to confront the cad who had left her in this state, but she would not say who it was.

One day, when he paid his weekly call, Willa was huddled in her bed, weak and feverish. She admitted to giving birth the day before and walking two miles to Slademore House to give her baby over to the charity there, run by Baron Slademore. As soon as she’d done it, she regretted it. She looked in desperate condition, cursing Slademore in her near delirium. Perhaps he was the culprit and that was why she had taken her child to him and not because it was a well-reputed orphanage? Willa claimed it was not true, but still, Heath had wondered. In the end there was nothing to be done but send for the doctor.

Even now, sitting here on the bench, he felt the cold lump that sickened his belly when the doctor reported that Willa would not likely see the dawn. She’d wept, clutching Heath’s shirt, and begged him to bring back her daughter.

That trip to Slademore House had changed his life in a way that nothing ever had before.

It had surprised him when Baron Slademore—a man respected by the highest members of society—denied receiving a newborn. Perhaps Willa, in her fevered state, had imagined she’d come here. If not, the baron was lying. But why? Was Heath correct and the baby his? Was he lying to keep from being caught out?

In any event, he had to try to bring Willa’s baby home. When it seemed the orphanage had gone dim for the night, he’d gone in search of the child. Luckily someone had left the back door open. Indeed, he’d sensed a presence just out of sight, seeming to lead him down this ill-lit hallway and down another until he came to the half-open door that led to a dark, dank room. He found the baby there, wailing in a strident newborn voice. While there was no nurse present, there were other children sleeping on cots with thin blankets offering scant warmth. It was so different a picture from how he’d seen them treated earlier that day.

He’d snatched up Willa’s child, tucked her under his coat and raced back to the apartment. Willa had held her daughter to her heart for an hour before she passed away.

Baby Willa was the first orphan to be kidnapped by the villain whom the papers named “the Abductor,” and the first he sheltered at the seaside in Rock Rose Cottage.

That had all happened two years ago, and now, suddenly, marriage was in his future again.

“Hello, cat,” he said to the feline twining about his trouser leg. It looked a bit like the one that had spooked him in the dark and led to his meeting with his mystery woman.

“What do you think?” he asked the fluffy creature looking up at him with great, dark eyes. “Perhaps a marriage of convenience is for the best. No secrets, no expectations. No heartache, either.”

No passion, no love. Eyes wide open. The cold, formal circumstances of this union were for the best.

The cat, in apparent agreement, gave a hollow meow and then went on his way toward the fountain.

Earlier today he’d gotten word from James Macooish that he was in London and prepared to present his granddaughter at Lady Guthrie’s intimate gathering a few days hence.

From past experience, he knew that the intimate gathering would be grand rather than cozy. He wondered if his future bride was any more prepared for this meeting than he was.

As vibrant and socially accomplished as he understood Madeline Macooish to be, he could not help guessing that the duchess’s soiree would be different than what the American would be accustomed to. For all that the lady was admired in America, England was a vastly different place. He feared she might be shunned by the other women because she was an outsider. And not just any outsider, but one who threatened to dash their ambition of gaining a titled marriage.

Heath pitied his bride-to-be as much as he did himself. He could not imagine why she had agreed to marry Oliver. It was not as though her family would fail without the money like his would. And not only the family of his blood but those he was now responsible for: parlormaids, footmen, butlers, cooks and farmers. Even the merchants Fencroft frequented could suffer if he failed to keep the estate solvent.

If he could choose the direction of his life, it would not be this.

Heath was far better suited to the bucolic life of the estate. Helping farmers tend the land and the livestock—it was all he’d ever needed of life. He’d been grateful to be born the second son.

None of that mattered now. There was a crown pressing on his head and the legacy Willa had unknowingly bequeathed him burdening his heart.

It hurt his brain to think about everything all at once. He’d rather let his mind wander to Cinderella. He’d come out tonight, half hoping to see her again. Thoughts of her had interfered with his daily duties; they’d even invaded his nighttime dreams.

If he could only see her one more time, discover who she was.

He glanced the length and width of the garden. While he’d been woolgathering, fog had rolled in. The vapor swirled brown and ugly in the light given off by a gas lantern beside the gate.

A movement caught his eye. A woman stood beside the fountain dabbing her eyes with a white apron. He heard her softly weeping.

She was not the lady he sought, but a chambermaid who worked on the third floor. He recalled seeing her hustling about her duties.

Since he could not turn away from a weeping woman, he approached her.

“Miss?” He spoke softly but still his voice must have startled her, because she jumped.

“Oh, Lord Fencroft, sir,” she sniffled. “I beg your pardon for being out here but, but I—”

“May I be of help, Miss—?”

“Oh, I’m Betty, sir. And no one can help, I fear.”

“Is there a problem with your employment?”

She shook her capped head, and her breath shuddered when she inhaled. “No, not that—I shouldn’t trouble you about it.”

“As Fencroft, I’m the one you ought to trouble about it.” Maybe he could not help in any way but to listen, but perhaps he could.

“It’s to do with my cousin, sir. She’s a sweet and trusting soul but gullible to go with it. Well, the poor wee girl trusted the wrong man. She gave birth to a child and now has no way to support it. No one will hire a fallen woman. She’s gone to leave the baby at Slademore House. Not to speak ill of the sainted charity—they’ll care for the wee one fine enough—but I fear the grief of the parting will send my cousin headlong into the Thames.”

Betty did not know how wrong she was about the charity being “sainted.”

And why would she? Heath would think the same had he not stumbled upon the truth while searching for Willa’s baby.

He would have been as blind as the rest of society, believing that Slademore House was exactly what it appeared to be.

Living luxuriously was easier, he supposed, when one thought one’s donations went to ease the lives of those who did not. It was the only reason he could think of that no one ever looked beyond what their eyes saw when it came to the place—or the man.

Slademore House might appear to be a haven for the hopeless, but in truth it existed for the purpose of feeding the baron’s lust for wealth and prestige.

In Heath’s opinion, the baron put on a display of opulence to disguise the fact that his social position was a few steps below that of a duke or a viscount.

The fellow drew attention wherever he went. Even the small dog he toted about wore jewels on its collar.

Where everyone else seemed to see an angel in Slademore, Heath saw the devil. Who else would house children in poverty while keeping the gifts of the wealthy to benefit himself? What kind of man would allow a sick child to die before he would spend money on a doctor’s visit?

Or might it not be giving up a few pounds so much as having a doctor suspect the conditions in which the children really lived?

Well, he would not get away with it forever.

“I will keep your cousin in my prayers, Betty. And if there is anything I can do to help, you may call upon me.”

“Thank you, my lord. I only fear things have gone too far by now.”

After a quiet moment, Betty nodded and hurried across the garden, her image weaving in and out of the fog. He heard the door to the back stairs of the town house open.

The door hadn’t closed before he dashed for the stables.

Chapter Three

“It’s the devil’s own night, my lord,” stated Charles Creed, the only coachman Heath trusted to accompany him on the night’s errand.

“Not so different from any other night so close to Whitechapel,” he answered, tugging the brim of a black hat low over his brow. He withdrew the dark mask he was about to tie over his face and gripped it tight in his fingers.

“It’s just that the fog is so yellow and foul. An evil presence is what it is. Who can tell what wickedness it’s hiding.”

“It’s hiding us.”

“And a lucky thing. Looks like the baron is getting worried. There’s two guards by the back door tonight.”

Heath would ask if Creed wanted to wait a few streets away but he already knew the answer would be no.

They sat side by side, pretending to be laughing at some ribald joke as they passed the door. The guards glanced up and then away.

“Wish we knew when the girl was bringing the baby,” Creed whispered when they rounded the corner of the building. “It’s not safe business circling the block.”

“Nothing about this is safe.”

“Which is why you should quit and leave it to me,” the coachman said.

No doubt Creed was correct. Heath was a man under great obligation.

“It takes two of us to get the children safely away.”

“I’ll be right relieved when we can expose the blackguard for good and all.”

Exposing a supposed saint would be a difficult thing to do, especially in this case.

The baron had several benefactors of high rank. He was highly respected by all of society. His good deeds were touted in the newspaper on a regular basis. Even his cousin was a judge of much influence in London.

No, anyone who went to inspect Slademore House would see what Heath had when he’d first gone to ask for Willa’s baby: well-cared-for children doted upon by a loving staff, and fed tarts and treats on a regular basis. They would be gratified to see their generous donations being put to good use.

But they would not have seen what Heath had when, his mind full of questions, he’d gone looking further.

Clearly no one suspected a man who sat in the first pew at church every Sunday to be a greedy soul.

“Don’t you wonder, Creed, why no one ever questions how Slademore manages to dress in such riches? Why that little dog he carries about wears real jewels in his collar?”

“Oh, aye, many times. I think folks are just blinded by him being so angelic-looking.”

Yes, and hadn’t Satan been reputed to be the same?

Leaping off the bench to the ground, Heath nodded up at Creed.

“We have help, though,” Creed said. “There’s our informer. It’s not only us to help the children.”

Without this mysterious ally, they could do nothing. Heath could only assume it was the person who had left the door unlocked for him when he’d rescued Willa’s daughter.

Without the notes Creed received, they could not do this.

While Heath climbed into the interior of the carriage, Creed changed his coat and his hat. The same pair of men in the same coach would draw the attention of the back-door guards who would be on alert since they had been here only nights ago—the very night he had met Cinderella in the garden.

Drawing back the curtain, Heath spotted the bent figure of a woman clearly weeping while she made her way to the back door of Slademore House. She appeared to be carrying a bundle close to her chest.

Creed must have noticed her, too, for the carriage slowed down.

Heath snatched up a pewter-tipped cane. The thing was a weapon as much as a prop. While the carriage creaked along, he jumped out on the side facing away from the guards.

With his shoulders hunched, he limped along the cobblestones, his head dipping toward the ground to hide his mask. He hoped he appeared to be no more threatening than a drunk having trouble maneuvering his way.

He intercepted the woman when she was but thirty feet from the guards.

One of them glanced up; the other yawned.

Heath made a tripping motion and pretended to catch his balance on the lady. He slipped an arm under the baby.

“Come with me,” he whispered.

“You’re him—the Abductor!” She opened her mouth to scream but Heath covered it with his palm.

“It’s him!” called the guard just finishing his yawn. He jerked his coat aside and withdrew a pistol.

Heath yanked the baby away from the woman, believing she would follow.

She did, screeching and yanking on the end of the blanket. He snagged her elbow with his free arm and dragged her toward the moving coach.

“Your cousin, Betty, sent me.” The familiar name silenced her scream.

A shot rang out. He heard the bullet hit a stone on the street. Because of the fog it was hard to tell how close the pursuing footsteps were. Close enough to raise the hairs on his arms, though.

“Get inside!”

Thankfully she made the leap. He handed the infant to her on the run and then dragged himself in after her.

He heard the whip crack over the horse’s ears, felt the lurch of the carriage when the animals jolted into a gallop. Wood splintered when a bullet connected with the back corner of the carriage.

It took three blocks for his heartbeat and his breathing to slow enough to reassure the trembling woman that he was not kidnapping her but taking her and her infant to safety.

Half a mile away from the town house, Creed slowed down to let him out. The coachman continued at a slow, leisurely-looking pace, bearing his charges toward the seashore and the haven of Rock Rose Cottage.

* * *

How could she possibly?

And yet here she sat on the balcony overlooking the very lovely gardens of Fencroft House with the dratted notebook in her lap.

Her brain nearly ached with the studying she had been doing. If it had not been for pleasant memories of a darkly handsome man flitting through her brain at odd times, she would be completely addle-brained by now.

Where had he come from—where had he gone to?

Sheaves of paper fluttered on her lap. The afternoon breeze lifted the scent of roses from below. She shook her head. It didn’t matter about the man.

She was not intended for him, knew nothing about him. For all that she stared down at the fountain she was not likely to see him again.

Glancing back at the notebook, she frowned, wanting to rip the pages to shreds and rain them down on the garden.

She felt part saint for going along with Grandfather’s machinations, also part pawn, and completely a fool.

If she felt a fool to herself she would appear thrice so to others. She was a foreigner to the ways of the British aristocracy in every way she could be.

“Correct forms of address,” her grandfather had written in the bold script he always used.

She had read it so many times that the paper was limp. How did Londoners keep everyone straight? Perhaps one had to be born to it.

If she closed her eyes and thought hard she recalled that she would address the earl as Lord Fencroft, but only for the first meeting. After that she would call him “my lord” or, perhaps in time, Fencroft.

But under the stress of a face-to-face meeting she might forget. The American in her might blurt out something like: How pleasant to meet you, Mr. Cavill. Or what if she accidentally called him Mr. Fencroft—or Oliver! That might result in a great scandal.

But if she became his wife? What did she call him then? Something a bit more personal than his title, she hoped. And if that familiarity was allowed, was she permitted to use it in public or only in private?

And what would he call her? Madeline? She had urged Grandfather to send a telegram to the earl informing him that it would be Clementine who was coming and not Madeline. He’d only laughed and said it was not necessary because Lord Fencroft was a lucky man to get either of his girls.

Pressure built in her head, pounding behind her eyes. She could see it all too clearly—after she made a fool of herself and disgraced Grandfather by incorrectly addressing the earl, she would need to address his siblings.

“Lady Olivia” would be right and easy, or perhaps it was “the Lady Olivia”? She squinted at the note Grandfather had written in the margin. Olivia had married Victor Shaw—the younger son of an earl—which meant she retained her own precedence.

What did that even mean?

Does that change what I call her? Would not “Mrs. Shaw,” or Heaven help them all, “Olivia” suffice for most occasions?

The one thing she did know for certain was that Grandfather was going to regret bringing her here. No doubt he was going to have to take her home a shamed woman without the title he considered so vital to the survival of the Macooish line—which at this moment in time did not exist beyond her and Madeline.

Lost in puzzling out exactly why she had agreed to cross the ocean in the first place, other than perhaps being a martyr to Grandfather’s cause, Clementine found her mind drifting back to the stranger in the garden—again.

She was prone to do that far too easily. Truly, she had no business considering marriage to anyone until she could put that dashing fellow out of her head.

With a sigh she returned her attention to the notebook on her lap and reminded herself that one day she would have to live her life without her grandfather. And how could she possibly do that knowing she had let him down?

She could not and so here she was.

But even now all she had committed to do was to seriously consider the marriage. She would need to meet the earl before she would make such a monumental decision.

While Grandfather had agreed to offer his granddaughter to Oliver Cavill and the earl had agreed to accept her—well, not her so much as Madeline—she, the granddaughter sitting on a balcony in Mayfair needed to know that the man she would spend her life with was someone she could respect.

Love might or might not follow wedding vows and the marriage might still be adequate. But without respect? No, without that a union could only end in misery.

Grandfather seemed convinced that she would be content with his choice for her groom.

Indeed! He’d been confident enough to have invested a fortune in the venture, surely half of it in ball gowns. He would need to succeed in his Scotland venture in order to recoup the cost.

Since Clementine was not convinced that fluff and satin ruffles would ensure happiness, or even basic contentment, she was withholding her final decision. Or so she told herself.

Deep down she knew the Earl of Fencroft would have to be quite unworthy in order for her to break Grandfather’s heart.

So, for now, she had to practice. “It is lovely to meet you, Lady Olivia, or whoever you are in whichever social situation is at hand.” Being alone on the balcony, she allowed a frustrated and unladylike snort to escape her lips. “I’ll need to marry quickly so I can call you good sister and be done with it.”

“And in the meantime Lady Olivia should suffice nicely.”

Clementine turned her cheek up for her grandfather’s kiss.

“Is not your new home grand?” He grinned at the impressively stately building across the way.

Oh, it was grand, but not so formal-looking as to be unwelcoming. A pretty vine twined up the west side of the house while flowering trees bordered a private patio on the east side.

Still, to call the town house home was premature.

“And tomorrow, your season will begin.”

“What was that?” Absorbed in looking at the town house as she had been, she must have misheard.

“Your social season. Your coming out, so to speak.”

“You will recall that I am twenty-three years old and a good five years past time for that.”

“Folderol. I do realize it is late in the season but I still hope to have you presented at court.”

“No, Grandfather. Perhaps I will wed to your liking, but I will not be paraded about like a blushing innocent. It would be humiliating.”

“You are an innocent, are you not? And in the moment you are blushing. I’ve got to warn you, my dear, that as an American you will be suspect. As a foreigner sweeping in to claim a plum of a prize you must observe all the customs.” He reached down and swiped a curl behind her ear. “Do not be surprised if you are resented by the families who have raised their daughters to fill the slippers you are standing in.”

“Well, they most certainly have my blessing because I will not be presented at court. Asking me to quietly marry an earl is one thing, but no one will be better off because I look like—”

“A good and loyal child who deserves every advantage a title can bring. Just think, Clemmie, your children will never suffer from having been conceived of an accident of birth.”

“That is one of the most outrageous things I’ve ever heard you say. I don’t know that one can consider being conceived in an adulterous liaison an accident of birth. And do you truly believe I would allow that to happen?”

“I’m certain my mother did not intend it to happen, and yet it did.”

And he had lived with the unfair label of bastard because of it.

She wished she had not rebuked him so flippantly. The lack of a respectable birth had been his burden and what formed his values. Grandfather craved respectability in a way that most people did not.

And yet she had to point out, “I could marry the corner constable and my children would be respectable.” Was the man in the fountain a constable, perhaps?

“But not protected against life’s unpredictability. I thought you understood, Clemmie. A title gives you power, protection. And I am convinced you will be happy with the earl.”

“There is one of us, then. I’ve yet to even meet the man.”

Judging by the wide smile on his face, Grandfather was confident that all would go as he willed it.

“I told you the truth about him. He’s a fine fellow—an outstanding chap. You will get along well together.”

Oh, she didn’t hope for that much. Only that they would share a mutual respect.

* * *

If Lord and Lady Guthrie’s casual gathering was this grand, what would one of their famous balls be like? It would glitter to the heavens, Clementine figured.

The Macooish mansion in Los Angeles was lovely, a well-known gathering place, but it did not glow with half the formal elegance of this home.

She clenched her fingers on Grandfather’s coat sleeve. As long as she remained attached to him she might get through this—this presentation, this being shown off like a new variety of flower, or bug.

But really, she was far from the first American lady to invade the aristocracy in order to save a peerage from financial ruin.

“How is it that you got us invited to this ‘little gathering’—isn’t that what you called it?” Clementine glanced about the ballroom that Grandfather escorted her into. There had to be a hundred people or more milling about in lively conversation.

And one of them was very likely the fellow expecting to marry Madeline.

She feared the poor earl was in for a disappointment. Grandfather had touted a bride who was as pretty as a butterfly and as lyrical as a sweet melody.

Clementine was neither of those things. The earl was bound to be dissatisfied with her if a woman like her cousin was who he wanted.

“The duke is interested in the Scotland business.” He shot her a wink. “Nothing like a good financial bond to open doors that would have remained closed.”

Money had always been Grandfather’s greatest tool. At least Fencroft would not be disappointed in that part of the bargain. The Macooish fortune in ironworks was beyond respectable.

And yet, Grandfather did not trust that alone to ensure the family’s security.

“Do not be surprised to find other men competing for your attention tonight since no one knows of the arrangement I made with Fencroft. But keep in mind that I have made a bargain with him.”

“As long as you keep in mind that I have yet to agree to anything.” Of course, she would not be here if she did not seriously consider his wish, would she? “Is the earl here?”

Grandfather shook his head. “I don’t see him, but perhaps he is in the parlor, where the gents are gaming.”

If only Oliver Cavill’s absence was not as much relief as it was disappointment.

Also, it did weigh on her that if he was in the parlor it meant he was a gambler. She would feel better about the man had he not been gaming. She hoped there would be other things about her potential intended that she would come to respect.

But it could not be denied that one thing she would have respected was to see him waiting to greet her instead of going into further debt.

“Do you not think a more formal meeting would have been appropriate, Grandfather? It is all rather haphazard, having us meet so casually.”

“To my mind, it’s more comfortable this way.”

As if there could possibly be anything “comfortable” in any of this.

Walking under a huge, exceptionally glittering chandelier, she was aware of people staring at her, the women from under veiled lashes and the men with ill-disguised interest.

“They’ll have heard that you are an American.”

“They aren’t staring at you.”

“I’m not an heiress come to snatch up a peer. I’m sure the debutantes and their mothers are quaking in their dancing slippers wondering who you have set your sights upon.”

“Sneering behind their smiles, more to the point.”

He turned her chin with his fingertips, pulling her gaze away from the frown of a middle-aged woman peering at her through a huge arrangement of orange-and-yellow chrysanthemums. “Clemmie Macooish, keep your chin up just so, and don’t forget that you are the most beautiful woman in this room. It’s no wonder some of them are jealous of you. Why I’ll wager your gown cost more than three of theirs put together.”

Heaven help her, it was probably true. Being a man, Grandfather would not realize that the extravagance gave them even more reason to be resentful of her.

“Put on your best smile. Our hostess approaches.” He patted her fingers where they clamped onto his arm. She suspected that under her gloves, they were as bone white as the lace was.

“Your Grace?” she asked under her breath. This was where it would be revealed whether her studying had been for naught.

Grandfather nodded, his smile bright for the approaching duchess.

If other women’s smiles at Clementine seemed forced, the duchess’s did not. Lady Guthrie was clearly gifted at making a guest feel welcome.

Clementine prayed that her return smile would indicate that she was pleased to be here, especially given that she was not.

While Grandfather led the way with formal pleasantries, Clementine gazed over Her Grace’s shoulder at the garden beyond the open doors. If she became overwhelmed, she would escape to that torchlit paradise and find a private place to catch her breath.

Perhaps once she met her earl the flutters in her belly would settle. What she needed to bear in mind was that the opinions of daughters and mammas did not matter so much in the end. If Fencroft approved of her all would be well.

If she approved of him, all would be very well. For all that she struggled against Grandfather’s insistence that she become a countess, she did want to give him what he wanted most, if it was within her power to do so.

This man she owed everything to had been horribly betrayed by one granddaughter. If she could ease his grief over it, she would. Of course, she had yet to meet Fencroft, so she could not say for certain.

But she would try. She did know that much.

“Come, let me introduce you,” Her Grace declared.

Grandfather’s arm fell away from under her hand.

She prayed that her lips formed a bright and twittering smile.

Grandfather walked toward a group of gentlemen engrossed in lively conversation across the room. She was utterly on her own.

Even though the duchess was leading her to a gathering of women near the garden doors, sanctuary felt miles away.

* * *

Heath strode into the grand entry hall and handed off his black coat, hat and gloves to the servant standing in waiting.

“Thank you, my good man,” he said with a nod.

The fellow returned the nod but did not speak. Now that Heath was Fencroft, life was more formal. He’d been set on some blamed pedestal that kept some people at arm’s length. At the same time other people who had barely spared him a glance in the past attached themselves to him.

His mind returned to the woman in the pond. She didn’t know who he was and so she showed him no deference. It was almost as though he was simply Heath Cavill, second son again. What would he not give to be strolling on a moonlit path at the estate in Derbyshire instead of traversing these marble floors?

What would he not give to hear his brother’s congenial laugh one more time? But death changed everything and so he would not.

By custom, he ought not to be here. He was still in mourning. But in mourning for Oliver. His brother would encourage him to laugh and enjoy his first meeting with Madeline Macooish.

It wasn’t likely that any of the women here would object to his break with tradition. They would think he was looking for a wife, which, in fact, he was.

Going into the ballroom, he felt the gazes of a dozen blushing girls settle upon him. Then again, not him so much as the Earl of Fencroft.

Somewhere among this assembly was a vivacious, blue-eyed heiress who assumed she was about to meet a fellow who was as fun-seeking as she was.

One of the ladies milling about this room was willing to give up life as she had known it for the honor of being called countess.

He rather thought she might regret that choice. Chances were the lady did not understand the restrictions that would be put upon her. Not by him so much as by the rules of polite society.

Other American ladies had made the same choice and later regretted it. The gossip sheet was full of their marital misery.

He would do his best to see that his wife did not suffer by giving herself and her fortune to him, but there was only so much he could do in the face of social opinion.

There was also the matter of surrendering his heart to a wife. He’d done it once, given it quite freely to a fiancée who only pretended to cherish it. He did not wish to go through that despair again.

Which, it suddenly occurred to him, made a marriage by arrangement appealing. While he would be committed to his wife in being faithful to her and providing her with a comfortable life, she would not expect him to invest his heart in the agreement. There was every possibility that she would not want to invest hers, either.

A marriage of convenience suddenly seemed a fine thing.

“Lord Fencroft!” For a split second, Heath expected to hear his brother’s voice answering the greeting of the matron chugging toward him, her freshly presented daughter in tow.

“Lady Meyers,” he answered, cringing at the gravity in his tone while recalling the genuine pleasure Oliver took in making the acquaintance of a debutante. It was the job of an earl to make people feel welcome in his presence. If the half-panicked expression on the girl’s face was anything to go by, he was failing miserably. “What a pleasure it is to see you tonight. I hope you are well.”

“Quite well.” For some reason her smile sagged. “As well as a mother can be when her son goes into trade, I suppose. But here, please meet my daughter, Emily. I’m sure she will find a match to make us all proud.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Emily.” He bowed over her hand, certain he felt the heat of her blush through her glove.

“As it turns out, Emily has one dance free on her card—the next one in fact. It would be a lovely chance for you two young people to get to know one another.”

The right and decent thing to do would be to refuse the dance given that he was here to meet the woman he would marry.

But he’d been neatly boxed in by the matron. Unless he wanted to insult them both, there was nothing to do but graciously agree, or appear to at any rate.

He danced with Lady Emily, half embarrassed by the furious blush reddening her cheeks through every step of the waltz. The last note had barely sounded before she nodded, turned and fled from the dance floor.

Emily’s mother might think her daughter ready for marriage, but the person Heath saw was still a child.

While the girl hurried over to half a dozen young ladies whose heads were bent in apparent gossip, Heath scanned the room for a blond, elegantly coiffed head. He’d learned from Oliver that Miss Macooish was a confident sort, a lady whom he imagined would dance until her feet blistered.

Still in mourning for his brother, Heath would have been excused from dancing, certainly. But mothers continued to come forward asking to put his name on their daughter’s dance card.

While he had no intention of waltzing until his toes blistered, he would dance to honor his brother. Sitting in a dark corner would not serve that purpose. If Oliver were looking down upon the gathering, he did not want him to be frowning.

Debutante after debutante came into his arms, every one of them sweet and pink-cheeked. He could barely tell one from another. A proper earl, like Oliver, in fact, would know every name, what rank and family they came from.

Once or twice, through the whirl of dancers he caught a brief glimpse of a red-haired lady on the arm of an older gentleman.

She was not the one he was looking for. Somewhere there was supposed to be an older man, James Macooish, with his lively blonde granddaughter on his arm.

He would ask his hostess who she was, but how would he explain his interest in her? The arrangement with Macooish was private and he would prefer to keep it so.

He did not see anyone matching Miss Macooish’s description.

Ah, but he spotted the red-haired lady standing with the duchess and being introduced around.

She was new to society, he thought. He would recall that shade of hair had he ever met her. She stood out as a red rose in a bouquet of pink.

He nearly chuckled out loud at the poetic thought because it was something his brother might think. And then, just like that, in a blink, he wanted to weep.

After two hours he no longer felt poetic and the weeping had to do with the blisters he had vowed to avoid.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted Lady Meyers snatch up Emily’s hand and begin an advance upon him.

With the garden doors standing open and only a few feet to his left, he rushed—no, hobbled—through them into the cool sanctuary of the night.

Music faded as he walked along the torchlit path, making his way deep into the garden.

* * *

Clementine sighed and leaned back against the garden bench. Everything smelled green and as soothing as it did in the Los Angeles garden. A good bit cooler, though.

Gazing up, she was reassured to see that the night sky looked the same wherever one traveled.

Misty-looking clouds raced across the face of the moon, making it appear ethereal, fairy-like.

She hadn’t told Grandfather she was escaping to the garden. She should have: it was quite improper to be out here without a chaperone.

The wonderful solitude would not last for long. Knowing her as well as he did, Grandfather would quickly figure out where she’d be.

Even when he did, it would take him a long time to locate her given how very deeply she had wandered along the path and how many secret places the garden hid.

Judging by the rustle of shrubbery and a hushed sigh she had heard while walking along, she assumed she was not as alone out here as it seemed.

She had to admit it was a lovely, late-summer night, just right for romance.

At least it would be for a little while longer. A cool breeze rippled along the stones and made the leaves in her private spot whisper. The hem of her skirt fluttered. She glanced up to see a dense bank of clouds move slowly across the face of the moon.

How quickly did storms advance here in Mayfair? At home one had hours of warning before rain began to fall, which it rarely did this time of year.

But yes, just now, the scent of the air changed. She felt its moist hand brush her skin. And there in the distance? She was fairly certain she saw a flash and, seconds later, she heard the faint rumble of thunder.

This was exciting, since she could not recall the last time she had heard thunder. Two years ago, or three?

In considering whether or not she could be happy in England, she had not anticipated the wetter climate. Rainy days were her favorite.

So, to the positive side of her mental list of reasons she should wed the earl, she added rain. She saw the word in her mind right there beneath afternoon tea and cakes, and strangers in fountains. Since this was merely a mental list, she allowed the handsome stranger to remain on it.

But his inclusion in the list created a problem on the “reasons to sail for home” side of the list. She had liked the fellow, for all the little she knew of him. He reminded her that liking one’s spouse was paramount. At this point she did not know that she could even tolerate the earl—a man who did not show the common courtesy of leaving the gaming room to meet the woman who had the funds to save him from financial ruin.

Even though she held no illusions that the earl was going into the marriage for any reason but monetary gain, she was disturbed by the contrast between the behaviors of the pair of men who were lately on her mind. One of them had gallantly offered to walk her home in the wee hours of the night, while the other had ignored her presence.

Marriage implied a particular kind of intimacy. She did not think she could allow free access of her body to a man she did not at least think highly of.

Recalling how appealing she had found Heath Ramsfield for those few moments she spent with him, she wondered if perhaps she ought to stand firm for a love match.

Wondered until she recalled how Grandfather’s arms had held her through that flood. Held on with a love so fierce she had not been swept away.

That memory, and everything else he had done for her, weighed heavily in her decision.

If only there was someone she could speak with—a trustworthy confidant. Once again, she sorely missed her cousin, even though if she saw her this moment she would chastise her.

Footsteps crunched on the path.

“Excuse me, my lady,” said a deep voice from the shadows. “I did not realize this space was occupied.”

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