The Unwanted Heiress (The Archer Family Regency Series) Page 8

  Relenting, Nathaniel invited him to take a seat.

  Clark gratefully sank down on the edge of a nearby chair. However, he couldn’t seem to relax enough to lean back. “Thank you, Your Grace. An honor, I am sure—”

  “I am a busy man. Get on with it.”

  “About last night, Your Grace, I was hoping as you could recall the events again, just as you remember them.” He slipped his black occurrence notebook out of his pocket. Wetting a pencil stub on his tongue, he poised it above a fresh page and waited.

  “I’ve already given you all the details I remember.”

  “Indeed, yes, but after a peaceful night it is possible you might have remembered something fresh, is it not?”

  Clark’s voice rose in a hopeful question. “If you would just capitulate the events as you recall them, I would be grateful Your Grace.”

  Capitulate? Nathaniel wanted to throw a dictionary at him and tell him to look up ‘recapitulate.’ With a great deal of patience, he complied.

  “Is that all?” Clark asked, finally.

  “Yes. As I said, I have no new information for you.” Nathaniel stood up. “However, if I should remember anything, I will certainly send word.”

  Mr. Clark remained seated. He nodded and said, “That would be of great service, Your Grace, and one for which I would be properly grateful. Just one more question, if you don’t mind.”

  “What is it?”

  “You did not hear about some little bob of a thing, some ornament perhaps, one of the guests might have lost, did you? Or perhaps find something of that nature?”

  Nathaniel stilled. “An…ornament? What kind of ornament?”

  “Mayhap a fob or object of that kind?”

  What did Clark suspect? Had Bolton found Nathaniel’s lapis fob?

  Nathaniel replied casually, “No. Am I to understand someone found a trinket near Lady Anne’s body?”

  The detective shook his head and stood. “No, Your Grace. Rumors is all. At the moment, I only have rumors.” His sharp eyes watched Nathaniel with curiosity.

  He smiled. “I shall certainly let you know if I hear, or find, anything. Now if you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend this morning.”

  Bowing, Mr. Clark stuffed his small leather notebook into his pocket and obsequiously professed his undying gratitude for the duke’s generosity in allowing him an interview. It took all of Nathaniel’s patience to keep smiling as his butler led the detective to the door.

  “One more—” Mr. Clark stopped in the doorway. Carter thrust him outside.

  “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?” Carter asked, shutting the door with a smart snap.

  “No.” He wanted to say he felt that was quite enough for seven in the morning. However he feared if he complained now, the day would only get worse as punishment for his foul temper.

  Mr. Clark’s visit concerned him. Where was his missing lapis fob? If someone found the fob near Lady Anne’s body, he would have difficulties explaining it.

  Suspicions about Nathaniel could not only ruin him socially and politically, but could damage the Archer family, as well. They could end up ostracized over a misplaced piece of jewelry.

  “Oh, and I beg your pardon, Your Grace. There is one more item.”

  Nathaniel groaned.

  “Today is your uncle’s birthday. You did ask to be reminded,” his butler said.

  “Thank you, Carter.” His mood lightened. At least he could put off thinking about last night for an hour or so. “Did the fob I ordered come in yet?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. It is in your bed chamber.”

  “Splendid! And you took care of Archer’s bills?”

  “Those that were in the bundle you found. Mr. Cooke saw to them yesterday.”

  He laughed. “With Uncle John’s recent winnings, paying a few of his bills does not seem like such a brilliant gift, but he will enjoy the fob. Let us hope he does not berate me for wasting good money paying off his tradesmen. Thank Cooke for me, will you?” Nathaniel strode off and climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  Halfway up, he remembered his uncle’s ward, Miss Haywood, and her laughing eyes. Your Horrible Highness….

  He stumbled and nearly cracked a shin on the edge of a step. The last thing he needed to do was think about a woman.

  After the adventures he might have experienced last night if he had actually returned home, he needed to keep his mind off of the fairer sex. In fact, he loathed females, especially unattached ones. All they wanted to do was to trap him so they could marry a duke.

  Perhaps he truly was a misogynist.

  And although his uncle’s ward was beautiful, she was still an unattached female and an American, as well. Everyone knew Americans loved titles, although they claimed not to believe in them. Most likely she longed to be a duchess just like every other woman in England.

  He tripped again and banged his knee on the treads.

  “Damn!” He stopped to rub his leg and swear. The chit wasn’t even here, and she was causing him pain. A more superstitious man might be positively nervous, particularly after losing his lucky lapis fob.

  As it was, he straightened and carefully negotiated the remaining steps before climbing the second flight of stairs. When he arrived at his bedroom intact, he decided things might not be so bad after all.

  The danger of seeing Miss Haywood again might be worth it, and Uncle John would only turn forty-seven once. Nathaniel found the present for John Archer carefully wrapped in brown paper and slipped it into his pocket, trying not to think about Miss Haywood’s gleaming blue eyes.

  Chapter Nine

  Note.—In cases of fresh pursuit when the offender escapes…the constable or person having the warrant…may follow the offender to the distance of seven miles… — Constable’s Pocket Guide

  Distracted by the noise of visitors coming and going, Charlotte finally turned to her new maid, Betty, and asked, “What is all the fuss about?”

  The activity flustered Charlotte. Were the Archers as stringent as the Westovers? The Westovers had kept strict visiting hours. They only deigned to accept guests from eleven in the morning until noon and then again from three until four. After four, the Westovers retired to prepare for supper.

  Charlotte had once told them it was unnecessary to be so exacting. They rarely had enough visitors to impress with such rules. The careless remark caused Lady Westover to collapse in a fit of vapors and refuse to see anyone for two days.

  Nervous about walking into a crowded room of strangers, Charlotte could finally understand Lady Westover’s perspective.

  “It is Mr. Archer’s birthday, Miss.”

  “Mr. Archer’s birthday?”

  “Yes, Miss. He is forty-seven today.”

  “Oh, dear.” Charlotte eyed her locked trunks and bandboxes. A sudden impulse seized her to give something to Mr. Archer. She could not forget Lady Victoria’s off-hand generosity in allowing her to wear her pearl necklace. “Open that large trunk, Betty.”

  “Will you be unpacking, then? I will have your things tucked away neat-as-you-please if you would just allow me—”

  “No.” Charlotte shook her head and smoothed the skirt of her green bombazine. She wore the same outfit today as she had worn yesterday to walk from the Westover’s to the Archer’s house. Feeling a sense of inevitability, she had donned it this morning, convinced the Archers would demand her immediate departure once they learned what she had said to their nephew.

  Despite her sadness, she wanted to give Mr. Archer something to remember her by, something precious to her.

  “It is unnecessary to unpack completely,” Charlotte said. “There is a small wooden box in my trunk. Please help me find it.”

  As the maid bent over the trunk, Charlotte adjusted the length of creamy silk wound around her throat in the manner of a man’s stock, trying not to refine too much on her fear of a set-down. Staring into the mirror, she fidgeted with her pale scarf, wondering if she looked too mas
culine in the severely tailored lines. She was not full-figured like Lady Beatrice and never would be.

  Turning away, she tucked the ends of the silk into her jacket. At least it would keep her neck protected from any draughts when they sent her away in their carriage. If they let her use their carriage.

  Where would they send her? She stood still, stunned by momentary panic. Where could they send her? By now, she had to be running short of relatives….

  “Is this it, Miss?” Betty stood up and held out a tiny chest, just eight inches by five.

  The small box cunningly echoed the shape of the huge ironbound trunk resting on the floor. There were even two thin strips of iron riveted over the curved, ornately carved top.

  Charlotte’s father had given it to her—or at least that is what her aunt claimed. It had been so long ago, Charlotte couldn’t remember.

  A puff of cotton, still clasped by its dried sepals, rested inside along with the remains of an aromatic tobacco leaf. Both served as reminders of the cotton and tobacco trade which formed the solid foundation of the Haywood fortune. Since her father passed away when she was barely three, Charlotte had no memory of him to associate with the small casket, but she had kept it as a reminder of home.

  Looking at it, she felt a familiar rush of pain and sorrow for times and love lost. It had been so long since she had felt comfortable with anyone or truly at home. She had a sudden, vivid memory of her aunt adding milk and sugar to a cup of tea and then blowing on it to cool it before handing it to Charlotte. The small gesture had made Charlotte feel special and cosseted. Now, she could not bear to drink tea with milk and sugar. It reminded her too much of her aunt, and the memory remained too raw, too painful, despite the intervening years.

  “Yes, that is it,” Charlotte said at last, suppressing an intense pang of homesickness. “Thank you, Betty. Just lock the trunk again, will you?” She waited while the maid rearranged the dresses and scarves inside, and then let the heavy lid drop.

  After turning the key, the maid handed it back to Charlotte.

  “Where is Mr. Archer?” Charlotte asked.

  “In the front sitting room,” the maid said. “Anything else, Miss?”

  “No. Thank you, Betty.”

  The girl dropped a curtsy and left, closing the door behind her.

  Charlotte went through the room, checking for any stray belongings. She didn’t want any awkward delays if she was obliged to leave. Her eyes rested on the comfortable furnishing and thick quilt on the bed.

  Lady Victoria had been so thoughtful and Charlotte had repaid her kindness by being rude to her nephew.

  Why was she such a fool? The more she tried to control her impulsive comments, the more blunders she made. It made her wonder how she had enough sense to keep from drowning when it rained.

  Well, she couldn’t hide up here all day, trying to put off the inevitable. She would present Mr. Archer with the box. If he liked it, perhaps it wouldn’t go so badly. The Archers might find some pleasant situation for her. A place buried in the country with a reclusive and quite deaf maiden aunt who wouldn’t mind having Charlotte live with her for the next three years.

  After that—please, God—let me leave this forsaken country and find someplace sunny and warm.

  Could she leave now? Her heart fluttered. She had hoped to wait until she had full control of her fortune before she traveled to Egypt, however being passed from guardian to guardian for the next three years held very little appeal.

  Cairo, the pyramids of Giza, the Valley of Kings…. The hot, blazing sun scorching the sand in countries she had only dreamt of as a child, curled into a tight, shivering ball, trying to sleep in her cold bed at boarding school. Egypt beckoned her with the warmth of a winter fire.

  Soon. She’d be there soon.

  The chest in her hand reminded her that she couldn’t delay any longer. She went down the stairs gripping the gift in one hand and clutching the smooth wood of the banister with the other. Her fingers were stiff with cold despite the balmy May breezes coming in through the open windows. As she neared the sitting room, she heard voices and laughter.

  “Oh, Your Grace, she said what?” Mr. Archer asked, his voice broken with laughter.

  Charlotte paused, her hand on the door.

  Eavesdroppers rarely hear good things about themselves.

  Light-headed and mouth dry, Charlotte opened the door. As she passed through into the sun-lit room, she tried desperately not to shiver.

  They were discussing her, deciding her fate.

  “Miss Haywood,” Lady Victoria called, holding out her hand. “Come in! I understand you have already meet His Grace—our nephew—the Duke of Peckham. You naughty child! You should have told us! We were just talking about the ball.”

  “Yes,” Charlotte replied. She knew what they were discussing very well—her entirely inappropriate levity at the expense of His Grace.

  When he turned to face her, his rich blue eyes held hers a trifle too long. Caught in his gaze, her body slowed. She stood motionless, her heart pounding. The bright sunshine streaming through the window tipped his soft brown hair with gold and as she stared, a slow smile tugged at his lips. He looked like a depraved angel standing there, filling the room with heat.

  Then, she realized where she was and what she had done last night. With angry fervor she wished she stood in ancient Pompeii instead, mouth hanging open while the volcano spewed white-hot ash all over her. A peaceful death was vastly preferable to His Grace maliciously repeating the awful things she had said just so he could watch her squirm in embarrassment.

  No wonder his eyes twinkled so demonically.

  “We met at Lady Beatrice’s ball,” she confirmed fatalistically.

  “Did you enjoy yourself?” the duke asked. An engaging grin twisted his mouth and somehow emphasized his square chin.

  Her hand clenched with the desire to slap him for being so attractive and yet so impertinent. Of course she had enjoyed herself—at his expense, no less—as he had certainly informed everyone already. Her fingers felt numb with cold until he reached over and pressed them briefly between his warm palms.

  His touch made her catch her breath. Her heart beat so loudly she felt deafened by the pounding.

  “Lovely ball,” Charlotte murmured at last, ignoring the sting of unshed tears. Why was he being kind to her? She blinked to clear her vision, feeling low enough to slip under the carpet.

  “What a unique little box,” he commented, his gaze catching sight of her left hand.

  Her eyes followed his. She realized she still clutched the miniature sea-chest.

  She ought to knock him silly with it.

  He had most assuredly arrived early just to tell Mr. Archer about her dreadful behavior and watch her suffer, the horrid beast. Why did he even pretend to be kind?

  And why did she want to continue gazing into his eyes, holding her breath until she felt dizzy?

  “Miss Haywood,” Mr. Archer interrupted. “Have a look. My nephew has given me the most clever gift.” A golden fob dangled from his fingers.

  Well, so the duke had arrived early to tell them about her dreadful behavior and to give his uncle a birthday gift. How terribly thoughtful of him.

  She took the fob between her fingers and peered at the design, smiling despite herself at its cleverness. The golden object was shaped like several playing cards held in a fan by a tiny hand. An even closer scrutiny revealed the cards to be the ace, king, queen, jack and ten of diamonds. Each card had a tiny, sparkling diamond showing the suite.

  “What a thoughtful present,” she said at last, releasing the chain into Archer’s hand. “Happy birthday, Mr. Archer.”

  “And what is that box you are holding, Miss Haywood?” the duke repeated.

  “Oh, I am sorry. I was so intrigued by your gift that I utterly forgot….” She handed the box to Mr. Archer. “I thought you might like this for your birthday.”

  When she caught the duke’s brilliant gaze on her, she flushe
d. What an utterly witless pea-hen! Of all the inane things to say. He must be dying to order the Archers to get rid of her.

  Without warning, Mr. Archer grabbed her around the waist and planted a kiss with a resounding smack on her cheek. Mortified, she glanced over at his wife. She smiled indulgently, and then amazed Charlotte by laughing. When the duke’s deep chuckles joined his aunt’s, Charlotte felt a blush cascade over her cheeks, burning her skin like the sun.

  “My dear, if you could see your face,” Lady Victoria said, hiding her laughter behind a fluttering handkerchief. “Don’t mind my husband. No one else does.” She paused before casting an affectionate glance at her husband. “At least, no one with any particle of sense.”

  As his wife spoke, Mr. Archer opened the small box. His long forefinger poked at the cotton and crinkly tobacco leaf with curiosity, releasing the dry, pungent scent of tobacco.

  “How extraordinary,” he muttered. “Cotton and tobacco—what is their significance? Where did you get such a clever item?”

  “My father,” Charlotte said, her voice abrupt from suppressed emotion. Suddenly she felt uncomfortable with her impulsive gift, as if it put all her sharp, raw emotions on display.

  Why had she wanted to share something so intimate with the Archers? They were virtually strangers…. And yet she so longed to stay here and be part of their family, even if only for a few years.

  “Your father?” Lady Victoria asked.

  “Yes. He gave it to me when I was three. I don’t really remember. He died shortly thereafter, in September. Both my parents, actually. They were coming home from England and their ship was just off the coast of North Carolina when a hurricane hit. Their vessel went down.” Her abrupt retelling of the tale made her feel even more vulnerable. She waved away their expressions of sympathy, although the soft click of Lady Victoria’s tongue made Charlotte take a deep breath to hold back the tears. “The box was supposed to be a sort of miniature sea-chest containing cotton and tobacco, symbolic of the foundation of our family fortune, my aunt said. I thought you might like it, Mr. Archer.”