The Unwanted Heiress (The Archer Family Regency Series)

  The Unwanted Heiress

  By

  Amy Corwin

  Dedication

  To my husband, Thomas, who has suffered much for my art.

  Synopsis of The Unwanted Heiress

  An American heiress nobody wants; a duke every woman desires; and a murder no one expects.

  When Nathaniel, Duke of Peckham, meets Charlotte, he’s suspicious of her indifference. Too many women have sought—and failed—to catch him. Happily, Charlotte is more interested in dead pharaohs than English dukes and laughs at both him and his suspicions.

  Her resistance crumbles, however, when a debutante seeking to entrap Nathaniel gets murdered. All too soon, his reputation as a misogynist makes him a suspect, and Charlotte impulsively comes to his aid.

  Unfortunately, both are unaware that a highwayman interested in rich heiresses is following Charlotte, and that another debutante lies dead in Nathaniel’s carriage.

  Some nights just don’t go as planned.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Other Titles by Amy Corwin

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  1818 London

  False pretences - Obtaining property by. - This offence is distinguishable from larceny, inasmuch as the owner consents to the property being taken out of his possession, though such consent has been induced by fraud. — Constable’s Pocket Guide

  Despite his belief that White’s Club guaranteed Nathaniel Archer, current Duke of Peckham, freedom from the machinations of unmarried women, he could not concentrate on a simple game of cards. He stared at the peculiarly delicate hands of the waiter holding out his glass of port and frowned.

  Weren’t the servant’s hands a little too white, a bit too small for a man?

  He took the proffered glass and glanced up to study the young man’s round, girlish face. Dimples indented the plump cheeks, and a fine haze of reddish stubble shadowed the somewhat weak jaw. Although the hairs glinted in the candlelight, Nathaniel remained unconvinced.

  Many women had downy facial hair. In fact, some ladies actually had moustaches, God help them.

  A sharp Adam’s apple bobbed in the waiter’s throat as he swallowed, his movements nervous and jerky. He edged away and tripped over the edge of the carpet as Nathaniel’s critical gaze followed him.

  “Is that all, Your Grace?” the servant asked in a strangled voice.

  “Yes,” Nathaniel replied, turning his shoulder to the man. He was not going to let his suspicions ruin his evening.

  Damn all women, anyway!

  He shifted in his chair and concentrated at his cards. There weren’t any females in White’s—at least none that anyone had discovered this evening. However, he couldn’t shrug off the feeling that something, or someone, waited in the shadows behind him, leaning over his shoulder….

  It wasn’t the waiter, however. He faded through the darkened doorway when Nathaniel glanced up. Nathaniel took another quick look toward the door—just to be sure—before frowning at his cards.

  “I bid one American,” Lord Westover drawled before pounding the table with the thick bottom of his heavy glass. “Waiter! Where is that rascal?”

  When the waiter stuck his head through the door, Westover signaled for a scrap of paper and quill.

  “An American?” Nathaniel asked, staring down at his own cards. His free hand tugged at the nugget of lapis lazuli dangling from his watch chain. He absently rubbed the cool, twisted surface although his lucky lapis had not held any magic this evening. The hand he held was rubbish. He glanced at Westover’s smug face and added, “An American coin might rate a shilling or two, but it hardly matches the current pot which stands at fifty thousand pounds.”

  Westover shrugged. That left it up to Nathaniel’s uncle, John Archer, to make the final decision. Archer’s estate formed the bulk of the pot. If he decided the novelty of an American dollar was an acceptable match to fifty thousand English pounds, so be it.

  Nathaniel rotated his stiff shoulders and stretched out his legs toward the crackling fire before studying his cards again. They had not changed. He still held two kings, two eights, and the ace of diamonds.

  A glance at Archer’s bland face did not allow Nathaniel to judge the strength of his uncle’s hand.

  As for Archer, he seemed unconcerned about the value of Lord Westover’s bid. He stared off into space, his cards held loosely in his hand, as if in an advanced state of ennui. Maybe their late London nights had finally done the impossible and worn down the indefatigable John Archer.

  The clock chimed two, and Nathaniel shifted again.

  Refuse the insulting wager, he silently urged Archer. Take the pot. For once, take the safe course. Just let this blasted game end so they could all go home to bed.

  Nathaniel rubbed the stubble shadowing his chin and prodded his uncle. “Archer?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Archer asked. He looked startled and glanced around the room with raised brows. “One American,” Nathaniel replied, trying not to yawn. His jaw muscles cracked with the effort.

  “One American? An American dollar? Against fifty thousand pounds? Surely you can do better, Lord Westover. I can match your dollar with a shilling, but only if you can meet the original fifty thousand.”

  Lord Westover laughed and flicked a glance at Nathaniel. “An American heiress, Archer. With rich farmlands and holdings worth over a hundred thousand. Why, last year her income was nearly five thousand!”

  “An heiress? What am I to do with an heiress? I am a married man.” Archer caught Nathaniel’s eye and winked. Both men caught Westover’s quick flickering glance at Nathaniel.

  While Nathaniel might still be in the game, he wasn’t in need of funds or a wife. His recently inherited dukedom kept his hands full for the moment. The last thing he needed was another expensive responsibility like a wife hanging about with mantua-makers and linen drapers, even if she was as rich as Croesus.

  Besides, if she was such a fine asset, why did Westover want to get rid of her?

  Archer eyed the fourth player sprawled in his chair.

  The man fidgeted with a nearly empty glass and avoided Archer’s glance.

  “Too bad you folded, Bolton,” Archer said. “You could certainly use an heiress, couldn’t you?”

  Sir Henry Bolton’s lips twisted, and he shrugged before peremptorily ordering more sherry. After taking a long sip, he replied, “I am not the one betting my country estate.”

  When Nathaniel flicked a cold glance at him, Bolton dropped his gaze back to the table and drummed his fingers. The condescending idiot was Lord Westover’s friend, and against Nathaniel’s better judgment, he had allowed Bolton to join the game. The yel
low-jacketed coxcomb had not contributed much other than an air of scowling superiority and a few snide comments that only Westover seemed to find amusing.

  Lord Westover leaned forward. “But Archer, think what it will mean to be her guardian. You will have over a hundred thousand to control, even if you must spend a few hours managing her funds. Of course, you will also pay her expenses, her upkeep, and so forth out of her portion, but the rest….” He left the tantalizing possibilities to the imagination.

  “Sounds like a disagreeable responsibility, if you ask me,” Archer replied, mirroring Nathaniel’s own thoughts on the matter.

  “You are missing the point. If you are providing her room and board, you must compensate yourself accordingly. From the proceeds of her fortune.”

  “Are you suggesting I steal from my own ward?”

  “No, no, not at all. But you must have some form of recompense for managing the estate and the chit, herself. Believe me, you will earn it.”

  “You’ve nothing else?” Archer asked, sounding unconvinced.

  “That’s the wager, Archer. The heiress against your fifty thousand.”

  Nathaniel shifted irritably. When his uncle glanced at him, he shook his head. Neither of them needed an American heiress.

  “Done,” Archer agreed, winking at Nathaniel. “Your hand, sir.”

  Lord Westover smiled as he lay down a pair of kings, followed by a pair of jacks. “Beat that, if you can,” he said with annoying complacency.

  Face expressionless, Archer turned over his cards, playing them out with fine, dramatic timing. The ace of spades. The ace of hearts. The ace of clubs. Then, finally, the ace of diamonds.

  Silence fell over the room as the four men stared at the cards distributed evenly in a row on the table.

  Nathaniel blanched and felt his heart thud uncomfortably. The cards in his hand felt like coals from the fire.

  Had Archer cheated? Good God, what a mess, and how ironic considering Archer was always so adamant against “manipulating the odds unfairly”—his euphemism for cheating.

  And yet, Archer had to have cheated.

  Perhaps he was senile. Archer was only forty-six but it was the only answer. He had hardly touched his glass of brandy, so he couldn’t possibly be inebriated.

  What the hell was Nathaniel supposed to do with the bloody ace in his own hand? He reordered his cards, putting the ace on the bottom.

  “Your Grace?” Westover asked. “Your cards, please.”

  “Utterly worthless,” Nathaniel said in a calm voice. He placed his cards face down on the table and stretched out a hand to sweep up the stack in the middle. Merging the cards together would disguise his own damning hand.

  Westover grabbed his wrist. “Perhaps, but let us view them, nonetheless.”

  “Certainly.” Nathaniel shook off the implied insult along with Westover’s hand. With a careless gesture, he turned his cards face upward. As he did so, he slid the ace neatly into his sleeve. In a flick of his wrist, he replaced it with another card, deftly removed from the stack in the center.

  The eight of diamonds.

  “Too bad,” Westover said. “I had hoped you might win the hand, Your Grace.”

  “I have no need of a ward or an heiress,” Nathaniel replied, his voice jaunty with relief. He collected the cards and shuffled them. “And certainly no intention of taking a wife. Not yet, at any rate.”

  At twenty-eight, Nathaniel had no great desire or need to rot away in the stifling regularity of domestic bliss. He could think of nothing more dismal than bland routine.

  “Neither do I,” Archer said. “But I’ve got her anyway, the devil take her. Wouldn’t you rather sign over a few horses from that fine stable, Westover?”

  “No.” Westover’s grating laughter sounded almost forced, and he was obviously relieved when he added, “You’ve won her. I will send my man of business over with the necessary papers to your townhouse tomorrow. My wife has taken the girl on a tour of Northumberland churches, but they ought to be back in three weeks. Time enough to get used to the idea, eh? Now, if you will excuse me, I promised my daughter I would be back before three.” He checked the jeweled watch hanging from a chain stretched across the curve of his belly. “Nearly two-thirty—you will have to excuse me.”

  Archer waved him away and methodically collected the coins and scraps of paper from the center of the table.

  Sir Henry shuffled away, following his friend.

  “Uncle John,” Nathaniel said, relaxing back in his chair and draining his glass of port. “Have you thought about your wife?”

  Archer’s quick fingers stilled for a moment. “Indeed. Indeed, yes, I’ve thought of her. Lady Vee always wanted a daughter. After our little Mary passed away—well, perhaps she’ll finally get the chance for all that female folderol and nonsense. Balls, routs, dinners—that business.” He stood and smiled, although his thin face looked haggard in the flickering candlelight. “I am sure she’ll love the chit. Whoever she is.”

  “I hope so. Do you want me to accompany you home?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Perhaps Lady Victoria will not be as pleased as you expect.” Nathaniel’s presence would prevent any loud protests, at least for one night.

  “Nonsense,” Archer said. “She’ll be ecstatic. Besides,

  I’ve three weeks before she needs to know.”

  Nathaniel sighed. “You know her better than I do.”

  “I would certainly think so,” Archer said as he ambled out of the club, forgetting his hat, gloves and greatcoat.

  Nathaniel collected his belongings and accepted his uncle’s items from the porter, as well.

  Then with a deep breath, he strode out into the damp night.

  Chapter Two

  An accessory after the fact. — Any person (except a married woman succouring her husband), who knowing a felony to have been committed, receives, relieves, comforts, or assists the felon. —Constable’s Pocket Guide.

  Charlotte Haywood sat in the Archers’ hallway and wondered uneasily what she had done that was bad enough to make Lord Westover send her away. She thought the Westovers, while not exactly a loving family, were resigned to her presence until she gained full control of her inheritance in three years.

  What had gone wrong this time?

  She shifted uneasily in her chair, trying not to look worried and confused as she waited to meet Mr. Archer.

  Perhaps she had not done anything wrong. Perhaps Lord Westover had grown desperate over the daunting prospect of Charlotte remaining a spinster in his house. He may have pictured her growing ever more honest—and as a result, acid-tongued—as the years passed. He might have sent her to the Archers, hoping they had a wider circle of acquaintances and could marry her off.

  That did seem possible. Lord Westover had always refused to believe she actually desired to remain unshackled. Indeed, she dreamed of a future where there would be no men to scold her, frown at her, or tell her she was a featherbrained lack-wit simply because she didn’t agree with them.

  “You cannot keep her, John. Whatever were you thinking?” A woman’s voice carried clearly through the closed door a few feet away.

  Keep her? That did not sound promising, not at all.

  Did she not have a single relative who wouldn’t mind her presence in their household until she gained control of her inheritance? In less than three years she would be twenty-four and there would be no more necessity for guardians.

  Tensing, Charlotte edged forward on the stiff, brocade seat. She tried not to listen to the conversation being carried on in the room behind her, but it was nearly impossible. The speakers must be standing against the wall from the way their voices reverberated through the plaster.

  “Your cloak, Miss?” a rather imposing, gray-haired butler murmured, stopping in front of her.

  She stood and gave him the cloak. A draft curled around her, and she shivered. Her hands felt icy and numb. With intense regret, she watched the butler carry awa
y her warm wrap. England was a very cold country, extremely damp and frigid. The summers were far too short to make up for the chill that hung in the air the rest of the year. Charlotte could never seem to adapt to the dreary climate.

  Rubbing her arms, she resolutely deepened her breathing, trying to control her nervousness. She glanced around, desperate for a diversion from her anxiety.

  The butler returned to the hallway and, without a glance in her direction, lumbered to the front door. He pulled out a white cloth with a flourish and slowly, methodically began to polish the brass door handle.

  When he caught her gaze, he straightened and said, “They will be with you shortly, Miss.”

  She nodded, smoothing the skirt of her heavy green traveling dress. The fabric felt rough under her fingers, but the severe tailoring and dark color suited her, and she had worn it to shore up her wavering confidence. She wiped her palms on her skirts more vigorously, trying to drive away the chill.

  After a few minutes the butler left again on a mysterious errand. The foyer stretched out around her, hushed and empty. Charlotte sat back, hands clasped in her lap, as she glanced around. A scattering of personal items—a fan left on a chair and a badly folded opera program on a small table—made the hallway seem more comfortable and cheerful than the Westover’s self- conscious orderliness. Charlotte relaxed a bit, smiling as her gaze caught a tangle of silk ribbons. The ribbons ranged in hue from the palest pink to rich rose-red, knotted together on the top of a delicately carved console against the opposite wall.

  Then she heard the murmur of voices, the words indistinguishable this time. She swallowed and rubbed the base of her neck, trying to dislodge the sudden lump in her throat and the fear that she didn’t belong here. Just like she had not belonged with the Westovers or with anyone else in England.

  Straightening, she stared ahead, afraid now of relaxing her guard. However, the more she tried not to notice, the more her curiosity burned. She so desperately wanted to know what the Archers were like, and if they would like her.

  Curiosity overcoming her caution, she studied the hallway. Several soothing landscapes hung on the walls and a pretty little round table with a bowl of blooming narcissus stood in the center of the hallway, the fragrance filling the small area with the welcoming scent of spring.