Marrying His Cinderella Countess. Louise Allen

had made it her business to find out the identity of the grey-eyed man whom Francis had idolised. William Blakestone Pencarrow, third Earl Hainford, was twenty-eight, owned lands in Hampshire, Yorkshire and Northamptonshire, a London townhouse of some magnificence in Berkeley Square and a stable of prime bloodstock.

      He was also in possession of thick black hair, elegantly cut, a commanding nose, rather too large for handsomeness, an exceptionally stubborn chin and eyes that were beautiful even when bloodshot. His shoulders were broad, his muscles, as she was now in a position to affirm, superb, and he easily topped Francis’s five feet eleven inches.

      To Francis, silently worshipping, he had seemed a god—a non-pareil of style, taste and breeding who must be copied as closely as possible, whatever the cost.

      Altogether Hainford had seemed the perfect hero for her book. It did not matter in the slightest that in real life he had proved to be impatient, arrogant, self-centred and shameless.

      Something fell onto her clasped hands. She looked down at the fat drop of water that ran down to her wrist.

      Poor Francis, she thought, feeling sympathy for her stepbrother for the first time in her life. He deserved something more than one tear from her. He deserved that she exert herself for this final time for his comfort and dignity. He hadn’t been able to help being his father’s son, and probably hadn’t been able to help being insensitive and foolish either.

      ‘Polly, please see that the front room is cleaned thoroughly for when the...for when the master is brought home. The blinds and drapes must be closed in all the rooms. And then we will look at mourning clothes.’

      * * *

      Gradually the shock wore off. In a strange way it was a relief to feel loss as well as anger, and to cling to the rituals of death that Society prescribed. The black ribbons on the door knocker, the drawn blinds, the hasty refurbishment of the mourning blacks last worn when her stepfather had died—all occupied Ellie’s time.

      A letter had arrived from the Earl, informing her that the inquest had been arranged for the next day. It seemed surprisingly prompt to Ellie, and she was grateful for the Coroner’s efficiency until she realised that it was probably due to Hainford’s influence.

      The undertaker he had selected called on her, sombre and solemn as he delicately discussed the funeral details.

      ‘The Earl did not want you to be troubled with any tiresome detail, Miss Lytton.’

      ‘How kind,’ Ellie said thinly.

      Managing, autocratic, domineering... Or perhaps he is feeling guilty, as he should.

      The day of the funeral passed in a blur, until finally she was able to join Mr Rampion, the family solicitor, in Francis’s study. He seemed ill at ease—but perhaps he rarely dealt with women. He stood when she entered the study, as did the man sitting to one side of the desk.

      ‘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