Marrying His Cinderella Countess Page 3

  ‘Lord Hainford is here at my request, Miss Lytton. After he spoke to me earlier I thought it advisable.’

  Tight-lipped, Ellie sat down, fighting against her resentment at the intrusion. No doubt it would all become clear. Something to do with the inquest, perhaps. She needed to be calm and businesslike.

  ‘Very well. Mr Rampion, if you would proceed.’

  ‘The will, as it stands, holds no surprises in its terms,’ the solicitor said, still looking inexplicably unhappy. ‘The baronetcy and the entailed land pass to Sir Francis’s cousin, Mr James Lytton, who resides in Scotland. There are bequests to family retainers, and the residue of the estate to you, Miss Lytton. Sir Francis had, as you know, under the terms of his father’s will, been the sole trustee of your investments.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it will not make any difference that I have no trustee now. I am hardly a wealthy woman with complex affairs to control. I assume I will receive my quarterly allowance as I always have.’

  Mr Rampion took off his spectacles, polished them, put them back, cleared his throat. ‘That is why Lord Hainford is here. Perhaps you should produce the documents, my lord…’

  *

  Blake took the wedge of papers from his pocket. Jonathan, his secretary, had washed the pages, and that had got the worst of the blood out, leaving a pencilled scrawl visible on the wrinkled paper. He had ironed each sheet, smoothing out the ragged edges in the centre where the bullet had passed, and had transcribed what could be made out of Sir Francis Lytton’s frantic calculations.

  ‘These notes were in your stepbrother’s breast pocket, Miss Lytton.’ He felt like a brute for being so direct, but there was no way of edging delicately around this.

  She went pale as she took in the significance of the damage and made no move to reach for them. ‘What do they concern?’

  ‘I believe this is what Lytton wanted to talk to me about. He had, it seems, made major investments in a canal scheme near the Sussex coast. I knew of it—a hopelessly overblown and oversold scheme that has now crashed. The stock is worthless.’

  ‘Why would he have wanted to speak to you about it, Lord Hainford?’

  She had not realised at all what this meant. He could see that. She was still puzzling over the detail.

  ‘He knew I had myself made a success of a series of investments in various canal schemes. I think Lytton had come to suspect that something was very wrong with the one he had put money into, and wanted to ask my opinion.’

  ‘And if he had spoken to you? Would it have made any difference?’

  Miss Lytton was leaning forward. Hearing the question in her voice, watching the thoughts so transparently obvious on her face, Blake realised that this was an intelligent woman who was striving to understand what had happened. Curiosity animated her face and he almost revised his opinion of her as wan-faced and uninteresting. Almost.

  ‘If he had sold the next morning he would have made a small profit or just about broken even. But by the close of business that day things had fallen apart.’

  ‘I see.’

  She met his gaze, her hazel eyes cool and judgmental. She did not have to say the words—if he had left the card game, spoken to her stepbrother there and then, not only would Lytton still be alive but he might have salvaged his investment by making immediate sales the next day.

  Now it only remained to deliver the really bad news and she would go from despising him to hating him.

  The solicitor spoke before Blake could. ‘I am afraid it is worse than that, Miss Lytton. It appears that not only did Sir Francis invest all his available resources in this scheme, but also yours.’

  ‘Mine? But he could not do that.’

  ‘He could,’ Blake said. ‘And he did. He had complete control of your finances. Doubtless he thought it was for the best.’

  She took a deep, shuddering breath, her hands clenched together tightly in her lap, and Blake braced himself for the tears.

  ‘I am ruined,’ she said flatly.

  It was not a question and there were no tears.

  ‘The investments have gone, and this house, as you know, is rented,’ Rampion said. ‘There is nothing remaining of your liquid assets—nothing to inherit from your stepbrother. However, you do own Carndale Farm in Lancashire. It was part of your mother’s dowry, if you recall, and tied up in ways that prevented Sir Francis disposing of. It is safe. That is nothing has been sold and it still brings in rents…although a mere two hundred a year.’

  ‘Lancashire,’ she murmured faintly. And then, more strongly, ‘But there is a house?’

  Any other lady would have been in a dead faint by now, or in strong hysterics, Blake thought. Certainly she would not be wrestling with the essentials of the situation as this woman was. It occurred to him fleetingly that Eleanor Lytton would be a good person to have by one’s side in an emergency.

  ‘Yes, a house—although it has been uninhabited since the last tenant left a year ago. The farm itself—the land—is leased out separately.’

  ‘I see.’ She visibly straightened her back and lifted her shoulders. ‘Well, then, the furniture and Francis’s possessions must be sold to pay any remaining debts. Hopefully that will also cover his bequests to the staff. I will move to Lancashire as soon as possible.’

  ‘But, Miss Lytton, an unmarried lady requires a chaperon,’ the solicitor interjected.

  ‘I will have a maid. I think I can afford her wages,’ she said indifferently. ‘That must suffice. My unchaperoned state is hardly likely to concern the Patronesses of Almack’s, now, is it? Perhaps we can meet again tomorrow, Mr Rampion. Will you be able to give me an assessment of the outstanding liabilities and assets by then?’

  She stood and they both came to their feet.

  ‘I think I must leave you now, gentlemen.’

  She limped from the room, a surprisingly impressive figure in her dignity, despite her faded blacks and the scattering of hairpins that fell to the floor from her appalling coiffure. The door closed quietly behind her and in the silence Blake thought he heard one gasping sob, abruptly cut off. Then nothing.

  ‘Hell,’ Blake said, sitting down again, against all his instincts to go and try to comfort her. He was the last person she would want to see.

  He was trying his hardest not to feel guilty about any of this—he was not a soothsayer, after all, and he could hardly have foreseen that bizarre accident and its consequences—but his actions had certainly been the catalyst.

  ‘Indeed,’ the older man re-joined, tapping his papers into order. ‘Life is not kind to impoverished gentlewomen, I fear. Especially those whose worth is more in their character than their looks, shall we say?’

  ‘Why does Miss Lytton limp?’ Blake asked.

  ‘A serious fall three years ago, I understand. There was a complex fracture and it seems that she did permanent damage to her leg. Her stepfather suffered a fatal seizure upon finding her. I imagine you will want to be on your way, my lord? I am grateful for your efforts to make these notes legible. I can see I have some work to do in order to present Miss Lytton with a full picture tomorrow.’

  ‘I will leave you to it, sir.’

  Blake shook hands with the solicitor and went out, braced for another encounter with Miss Lytton. But the hallway held nothing more threatening than scurrying domestics, and he let himself out with a twinge of guilty relief.

  *

  ‘That is the last of the paperwork concerning Francis Lytton’s death.’ Jonathan Wilton, Blake’s confidential secretary, placed a sheaf of documents in front of him.

  Blake left the papers where they lay and pushed one hand through his hair. ‘Lord, that was a messy business. It is just a mercy that the Coroner managed the jury with a firm hand and they brought a verdict of accidental death. Imagine if we were having to cope with Crosse’s hanging. As it is, he’s skulking in Somerset—and good riddance.’

  Jonathan gave a grunt of agreement. He was Blake’s illegitimate half-brother—an intelligent, hard-w
orking man a few months younger than Blake, who might easily have passed for a full sibling.

  Blake had acknowledged him, and would have done more, but Jon had insisted on keeping his mother’s name and earning his own way in the world. It had been all Blake could do to get him to accept a university education from him. He had gone to Cambridge, Blake to Oxford, and then Jon had allowed himself to be persuaded into helping Blake deal with the business of his earldom.

  In public Jon was punctiliously formal. In private they behaved like brothers. ‘Lytton was a damn nuisance,’ he remarked now.

  ‘What I ever did to deserve being a role model for him, I have no idea.’ Blake made himself stop fidgeting with the Coroner’s report. ‘He irritated me. That was why I was so short with him that evening, if you want the truth. I didn’t want him hanging round me at the club.’

  ‘Not your fault,’ Jon observed with a shrug as he slid off the desk and picked up the paperwork.

  ‘I could have talked to him—made him see he was acting unwisely.’

  He couldn’t shake an unreasonable feeling of guilt about the incident, and Miss Lytton’s courage in the face of bereavement and financial ruin had made him feel even worse. He did not like feeling guilty, always did his rather casual best not to do anything that might justify the sensation, and he managed, on the whole, to avoid thinking about the last time he had felt real guilt over a woman.

  Felicity…

  The woman he had driven to disaster. The woman he had not realised he loved until too late.

  As usual he slammed a mental door on the memory, refused to let it make him feel…anything.

  There was a knock on the study door. Blake jammed his quill back into the standish. ‘Come in!’

  ‘The morning post, my lord.’

  The footman passed a loaded salver to Jon, who dumped the contents onto the desk, pulled up a chair and began to sort through it.

  He broke the seal on one letter, then passed it across after a glance at the signature. ‘From Miss Lytton.’

  Plain paper, black ink, a strong, straightforward hand. Blake read the single sheet. Then he read it again. No, he was not seeing things.

  ‘Hell’s teeth—the blasted woman wants me to take her to Lancashire!’

  ‘What?’ Jon caught the sheet as Blake sent it spinning across the blotter to him. ‘She holds you responsible for her present predicament…loan of a carriage…escort. Escort? Is she pretty?’

  ‘No, she is not pretty—not that it would make any difference.’

  I hope.

  ‘Eleanor Lytton is a plain woman who dresses like a drab sparrow. Her hair appears never to have seen a hairdresser and she limps.’ He gave her a moment’s thought, then added for fairness, ‘However, she has guts and she appears to be intelligent—except for her insistence on blaming me for her stepbrother’s death. Her temper is uncertain, and she has no tact whatsoever. I am going to call on her and put a stop to this nonsense.’

  Blake got to his feet and yanked at the bell-pull. ‘Lancashire! She must be even more eccentric than she looks. Why the devil would I want to go to Lancashire, of all places? Why should I?’

  ‘The sea bathing at Blackpool is reckoned quite good—if one overlooks the presence of half the manufacturers of Manchester at the resort,’ Jon said with a grin, ducking with the skill of long practice as Blake threw a piece of screwed-up paper at his head.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Lord Hainford, Miss Lytton,’ Polly announced.

  So he had come.

  Ellie had known from the moment the idea had occurred to her that it was outrageous. In fact she had been certain he would simply throw her letter into the fire. But she had lain awake half the night worrying about getting herself and her few possessions to Lancashire, about how she could afford it, and how she would probably have to dismiss Polly in order to do so.

  The loan of a carriage would save enough to keep her maid for two months—perhaps long enough for her to raise some more money and finish her book—and an escort would save them both untold trouble and aggravation on the road. She had written the letter and sent it to be delivered before she’d had time for second thoughts.

  ‘Good morning, my lord. Polly, I am sure his lordship will feel quite safe if you sit over there.’

  ‘Good morning. I feel perfectly safe, thank you, Miss Lytton. Confused, yes—unsafe, no.’ The Earl sat down when she did so, and regarded her with a distinct lack of amusement.

  He looks like an elegant displeased raven, with his sharply tailored dark clothes, his black hair, his decided nose, she thought.

  There had been no apparent soreness when he sat, so presumably the bullet wound was healing well.

  ‘Confused?’ Ellie pushed away the memory of the feel of his naked torso under her palm and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

  ‘I am confused by the reference to Lancashire in your letter, Miss Lytton.’

  She had been right—he was not going to be reasonable about his obligations. Not that he would see it that way, of course. Probably he still did not recognise his responsibility in the way Francis had behaved. But why, then, had he called? A curt note of refusal or complete silence—that was what she had expected.

  ‘My lord—’

  ‘Call me Hainford, please, Miss Lytton. I feel as though I am at a meeting being addressed if you keep my-lording me.’

  I will not blush. And if I do it will be from irritation, not embarrassment.

  ‘Hainford. My brother was your devoted disciple. He spent money he could ill afford copying your lifestyle and your clothing. He invested money he most definitely could not afford, and some he had no moral right to, in a scheme inspired by your dealings. And then, when he came to you for help and advice, you turned your back on him and neglected your friend for the sake of a card game.’

  ‘Francis was an adult. And an acquaintance, not a friend. I never advised him on his clothing, nor his horses or his clubs, and most certainly not on his investments.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you implying an improper relationship, by any chance, Miss Lytton?’

  ‘Improper?’

  It took her a heartbeat to realise what he was referring to, and another to be amazed that he would even hint at such a thing to a lady. Probably he did not regard her as a lady—which was dispiriting, if hardly unexpected.

  ‘Polly, kindly go and make tea.’ Ellie got up and closed the door firmly behind the maid. ‘No, I am not implying anything improper, and it is most improper of you to raise such a possibility to me.’

  ‘I am attempting to find a motive for your blatant hostility towards me, Miss Lytton, that is all.’

  ‘Motive? I have none. Nor am I hostile. I merely point out the facts that are at the root of my disapproval of your behaviour.’

  Attack. Do not let him see how much you want him to help.

  It had been dangerously addictive, the way he had stepped in after Francis’s death and arranged matters. She should have too much pride to want him to do so again. And, besides, the less she saw of him, the better. He was far too attractive for a plain woman’s peace of mind—unless one had a bizarre wish to be dismissed and ignored. There was this single thing that she asked of him and that would be all.

  ‘Why do you attempt to recruit me to escort you the length of the country if you disapprove of me so much?’

  He sounded genuinely intrigued, as though she was an interesting puzzle to be solved. The dark brows drawn together, the firm, unsmiling mouth should not be reassuring, and yet somehow they were. He was listening to her.

  ‘I am impoverished thanks to my stepbrother’s foolishness and your failure to him as a…as an acquaintance and fellow club member. To reach Lancashire—where I must now be exiled—I face a long, expensive and wearisome journey by stage coach. The least you can do is to make some amends by lending me your carriage and your escort.’

  ‘Do you really expect me to say yes?’ Hainford demanded.

  He was still on his feet from
when she had got up to close the door and, tall, dark and frowning, he took up far too much space. Also, it seemed, most of the air in the room.

  ‘No, I do not,’ Ellie confessed. ‘I thought you would throw the letter on the fire. I am astonished to see you here this morning.’ She shrugged. ‘I had lain awake all night, worrying about getting to Carndale. The idea came to me at dawn and I felt better for writing the letter. I had nothing to lose by sending it, so I did.’

  ‘You really are the most extraordinary creature,’ Hainford said.

  Ellie opened her mouth to deliver a stinging retort and then realised that his lips were actually curved in a faint smile. The frown had gone too, as though he had puzzled her out.

  ‘So, not only am I a creature, and an extraordinary one, but I am also a source of amusement to you? Are you this offensive to every lady you encounter, or only the plain and unimportant ones?’

  ‘I fear I am finding amusement in this,’ he confessed. ‘I feel like a hound being attacked by a fieldmouse.’

  He scrubbed one hand down over his face as though to straighten his expression, but his mouth, when it was revealed again, was still twitching dangerously near a smile.

  ‘I had no intention of being offensive, merely of matching your frankness.’

  He made no reference to the plain and unimportant remark. Wise of him.

  ‘You are unlike any lady I have ever come across, and yet you are connected—if distantly—to a number of highly respectable and titled families. Did you not have a come-out? Were you never presented? What have your family been doing that you appear to have no place in Society?’

  ‘Why, in other words, have I no good gowns, no Society manners and no inclination to flutter my eyelashes meekly and accept what gentlemen say?’

  ‘All of that.’

  Lord Hainford sat down again, crossed one beautifully breeched leg over the other and leaned back. He was definitely smiling now. It seemed that provided she was not actually accusing him of anything he found her frankness refreshing.