An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

Lucinda hesitated, then nodded.

Em noticed; her eyes sharpened, then flicked to Heather. Lucinda saw—and hastened to explain. “The Ridleys weren’t exactly happy to have me. They only agreed to house me, thinking to use my talents as governess to their two daughters and then to broker my marriage as soon as maybe.”

For a moment, Em stared. Then she snorted. “Doesn’t surprise me. That Cora was ever out for her own gain.”

“When I was sixteen, they arranged a marriage with another mill-owner, a Mr Ogleby.”

“Ugh!” Heather looked up from her soup to shudder artistically. “He was a horrible old toad,” she blithely informed Em. “Luckily, my father heard about it—Lucinda used to come and give me lessons. So he married Lucinda instead.” Having done her bit for the conversation, Heather returned to her soup.

Lucinda smiled affectionately. “Indeed, Charles was my saviour. I only recently learned that he bought off my relatives in order to marry me—he never told me.”

Em snort

ed approvingly. “Glad to hear they’ve some gentlemen in those parts. So you became Mrs Babbacombe and lived at…the Grange, was it?”

“That’s right.” Heather had finally relinquished the soup; Lucinda paused to serve herself from the platter of turbot Fergus offered. “To all appearances Charles was a well-to-do gentleman of moderate estate. In reality, however, he owned a considerable collection of inns up and down the country. He was really very wealthy but preferred a quiet existence. He was close to fifty when we married. As I grew older, he taught me all about his investments and how to manage them. He was ill for some years—the end was a relief when it came—but because of his foresight, I was able to handle most of the work for him.”

Lucinda looked up to find her hostess staring at her.

“Who owns the inns now?” Em asked.

Lucinda smiled. “We do—Heather and I. The Grange, of course, went to Charles’s nephew, Mortimer Babbacombe, but Charles’s private fortune wasn’t part of the entail.”

Em sat back and regarded her with frank approval. “And that’s why you’re here—you own an inn in Newmarket?”

Lucinda nodded. “After the will was read, Mortimer asked us to vacate the Grange within the week.”

“The blackguard!” Em glared. “What sort of a way is that to treat a grieving widow?”

“Well,” Lucinda held up a hand. “I did offer to leave as soon as he wished—although I hadn’t thought he’d be in such a hurry. He’d never even visited before—not really.”

“So you found yourselves out on your ears in the snow?” Em was incensed.

Heather giggled. “It really turned out most fortuitously in the end.”

“Indeed.” Lucinda nodded, pushing her plate away. “With nothing organised, we decided to remove to one of our inns—one a little way away from the Grange, a place we weren’t known. Once there, I realised the inn was far more prosperous than I would have guessed from the accounts our agent had recently presented. Mr Scrugthorpe was a new man—Charles had been forced to appoint a new agent a few months before he died when our old Mr Matthews passed on.” Lucinda frowned at the trifle Fergus placed before her. “Unfortunately, Charles interviewed Scrugthorpe on a day he was in great pain and I had to be in town with Heather. To cut a long story short, Scrugthorpe had falsified the accounts. I called him in and dismissed him.”

Lifting her gaze to her hostess’s face, Lucinda smiled. “After that, Heather and I decided that travelling the country getting to know our inns was an excellent way to see out our year of mourning. It was exactly the sort of enterprise of which Charles would have approved.”

Em snorted—this snort clearly signified her appreciation of Charles’s good sense. “Seems to have been a very able man—your father, miss.”

“He was a dear.” Heather’s open face clouded and she blinked rapidly, then looked down.

“I’ve appointed a new agent—a Mr Mabberly.” Lucinda smoothly covered the awkward moment. “He’s young but extremely efficient.”

“And goes in awe of Lucinda,” Heather offered, looking up to help herself to a second scoop of trifle.

“As he should,” Em replied. “Well, Miss Gifford as was—you’ve certainly done your parents proud thus far. A capable lady of independent means at what—twenty-six?”

“Twenty-eight.” Lucinda’s smile was crooked. There were times, such as today, when she suddenly wondered if life had passed her by.

“A very fair achievement,” Em declared. “I don’t hold with women being helpless.” She eyed Heather’s at last empty plate. “And if you’ve finally finished, miss, I suggest we retire to the drawing-room. Do either of you play the pianoforte?”

They both did and gladly entertained their hostess with various airs and sonatas, until Heather fell to yawning. At Lucinda’s suggestion she retired, passing the tea trolley in the doorway.

“Indeed, we’ve had an adventuresome day.” Lucinda sat back in an armchair by the fire and sipped the tea Em had dispensed. Lifting her gaze, she smiled at Em. “I can’t thank you enough, Lady Hallows, for taking us in.”

“Nonsense,” Em replied with one of her snorts. “And you could please me by dropping all the ladyships and just calling me Em, like everyone else in the family. You’re Melrose’s daughter and that’s close enough for me.”