The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

“Marcus does have pure blood, Fanny,” Gweneth said, her voice sharp. “It’s just that it isn’t your papa’s blood, such a pity.”

“I hope nothing is wrong with the Duchess,” Antonia said, oblivious of almost everything except her novel, effectively camouflaged by a tome of Dr. Edwards’s Daily Sermons. “Two months alone. You don’t think she went back to Holland, do you, Aunt Gweneth?”

Her twin sister, Fanny, identical down to the split thumbnail on her right hand, put down her embroidery, and said, “If Papa were alive, he would have provided her a Season in London to find a husband. He would have provided her with a dowry. Do you think she went back to Italy, Aunt Gweneth? She isn’t from Holland, Antonia.”

Aunt Gweneth shook her head, even as she said, pain and anger deep in her voice, “Your papa was most unfortunate in his choice of mounts. The brute killed him.”

“The brute was his only mount for eight years, Aunt,” Fanny said. Her lower lip trembled as she added, “Papa loved that horse. I remember once when it started raining and he took care of his horse before he took care of Antonia and me.”

Gweneth didn’t doubt that her brother had done exactly that, not for a moment. He rode to the hounds all the time, and took risks that made even Spears raise an eyebrow, but nothing had ever happened to him, not even a fall, until six weeks ago. He’d turned in his saddle to shout insults to a long-time friend riding behind him when he struck his head on a low-hanging branch of an oak tree—since cut down in a spate of reprisal—knocking him off his horse, killing him instantly.

Within three weeks of the fatal accident, Marcus, twenty-three years old, stationed in the Peninsula with his army battalion, was informed that he was the new earl of Chase. The VIII earl of Chase. Gweneth wondered if Marcus still felt like he was walking in his uncle’s shoes, treading down his uncle’s huge ornate central staircase, gliding across his uncle’s rich Turkey carpets—in short, if he still felt like an intruder.

“I wonder if Marcus will give the Duchess a dowry and a Season to find a husband,” Fanny said as she rose, shook out her skirts, and walked to fetch a scone from an exquisitely formed silver tray service.

Antonia snorted. “She doesn’t need a dowry, just a chance for the gentlemen to see her. All of them will be on their knees, begging for her hand in marriage. This heroine in Mrs. Radcliffe’s novel is ever so beautiful and kind and sweet and good, but she’s as poor as a church mouse. There are already three gentlemen who hold their hands over their hearts when she passes by.”

What drivel, Gweneth thought. If there was ever a gentleman with his hand over his chest, it wasn’t from undying love but from indigestion after imbibing too much brandy. “Fanny, you will eat just one scone and when you chew on it, don’t converse with us. Maggie remarked to me the other day that your gowns were getting a bit snug around your waist. You and Antonia are near an age where you should begin shedding your baby fat, not anchoring it on. As for you, Antonia, I sincerely doubt that Dr. Edwards’s sermons include gentlemen eyeing young ladies. Mrs. Radcliffe, indeed. Your mama wouldn’t have liked that at all.”

Antonia’s lower lip trembled. Gweneth sighed. “Why don’t you read a passage aloud for Fanny and me?”

PIPWELL COTTAGE, SMARDEN, KENT

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JUNE 1813

Marcus pulled his raw-boned bay stallion, Stanley, to a halt in front of Pipwell Cottage, as it was called by all the locals, dismounted, and tied the reins to the iron tethering post. He was weary to his bones, angry at the delay, and ultimately, so relieved that at last he’d found the Duchess that he wanted to fling himself to the ground and kiss the dirt, then strangle her for causing everyone such distress, particularly himself.

He’d gone to Rosebud Cottage in Winchelsea over three months before to fetch her, only to find that she was gone, long gone—no one knew where. At least she’d had a servant with her, a man, but surely that was odd, an eighteen-year-old girl traveling alone and living alone with a man, servant or not, old or not.

It had taken him three months to track her down. He wondered if it would have taken three years if Spears hadn’t chosen to involve himself. In ways still mystifying to Marcus, Spears had traveled to Winchelsea, where Marcus had already questioned everyone in the bloody town, offering bribes and making threats. Then he’d gone on to London. He’d stayed in both places for merely two days, then returned to Chase Park, bowed formally to Marcus and gave him a slip of paper that had said simply: Pipwell Cottage, Smarden, Kent.

She’d been alone, except for that man servant, for nearly six months.

Marcus calmed himself. He’d found her. At least Pipwell Cottage wasn’t a slum property. It looked charming in its early summer plumage, and there were at least a dozen oak trees and lush, green maple, larch, and lime trees as well. The small yews lining the path leading to the front door were neatly trimmed, the granite slab path itself smooth and firm beneath his feet. There were myriad plants behind the yews and set in symmetrical beds as well, roses and dahlias he recognized, but others too, huge blooms and giving a riot of color. The cottage was painted white, the window boxes white as well, trimmed with red paint. It was a very snug little property. Too snug, too prosperous.

However did she pay for it? He again dismissed the recurring thought that she, like her mother, had a protector. No, he thought, not the Duchess. Too much pride in that girl, much too much.

He realized as he strode to the front door, with its window boxes on either side dripping with roses and hydrangeas and primroses as purple as the black eye he’d given to Jimmy Watts eighteen years before, that all he wanted was to find her healthy and well fed.

He knocked and continued to pray.

Badger opened the door and stared at the young gentleman who was staring back at him.

Marcus blinked in confusion, and said slowly, “You live here now, sir? You are the owner of the cottage? The Duch—Miss Cochrane has moved away?”

“Aye, I live here,” Badger said, not budging an inch from the doorway.

Marcus cursed, earning a spark of interest from Badger.

“You were in the Peninsula then, sir?” Badger said.

“Yes, but now I’m a damned earl and I had to sell out.”

“May I be allowed to ask your lordship which damned earl you would be?”

“Chase, the earl of Chase.”