Regency: Mischief & Marriage: Secret Heiress / Bartered Bride. Anne Herries

is someone I fear, but I dare not write his name. He would certainly kill me then. Believe me, cousin, I have done things of which I am ashamed—but I did not know the worst of him when he persuaded me to help him. I want to get away, to start again, but I fear he will not let me go. The debt is another matter and the marquis must be paid. Your father was not the only one to fall foul of Cheadle’s damnable luck. Forgive me for asking if you can help.

      Your wretched cousin,

      Marcus

      What was he to make of the letter? Marcus had sent it to Daniel’s London club and, busy at his estate, he had not received it until he paid a flying visit to town to speak with lawyers about his London property. Now he would have to contact Cheadle and ask for the extent of his cousin’s debt to him. At this moment he was not sure if he could find the money without reference to his uncle, but he would certainly speak to the marquis.

      However, the remainder of his cousin’s letter was a riddle. What had Marcus been trying to tell him? He knew Marcus well enough to be sure that his cousin would not write such a letter without good cause. Who was the man who would not let him go—and, more importantly, had his cousin’s death truly been an accident?

      At the time of the funeral he had not questioned it. The Earl of Standish told him it was a riding accident, and Daniel had accepted his uncle’s explanation without question. Now, his cousin’s letter had made him suspect foul play. Marcus had always been an excellent rider. As young men they had been great friends, though in past years they had grown apart. Daniel had chosen to take up a military career and spent eight years fighting with Wellington in various campaigns. It was during his time away that his mother had died and his father had started to drink and gamble. He blamed himself for not being at home when he was needed, and though he had returned when his father became ill, resigning his commission, it had already been too late.

      The last thing Daniel needed or wanted at this moment was a mystery to uncover. Yet he knew that he could not simply ignore his cousin’s cry for help. Marcus was dead, and perhaps he had done things that would not bear the light of day, but if he had been murdered… Daniel’s mouth thinned. His memories of a young man he had loved as a brother demanded that he seek out Marcus’s murderer and bring him to justice.

      As for Cheadle, well, he would pay a visit to his club that evening and discover if the marquis was in town.

      ‘You said I could come to you, Betty,’ Eliza said when her mother’s former maid opened the door of her cottage that evening. ‘I am sorry to ask, and I will find work as soon as I can—but may I stay here for a few days?’

      ‘Put you out of the cottage has, he?’ Betty shook her head sadly. ‘You’ve no need to ask, my lovely. Come you in and sit by the fire while I make you something to eat. I was afraid Mr Jones would say you couldn’t stop there alone once your dearest mother was gone. It only surprises me that he let you stay this long.’

      ‘It isn’t his fault,’ Eliza said. ‘I know the earl would have told him it was his duty to put me out and take another tenant. I can’t afford to pay the rent now that Mama’s allowance has stopped unless I work—and I shall not find work here. I have asked but no one will take me on. They take one look at my hands and say I’m not suitable.’

      ‘Your hands are not as white as they once were,’ Betty replied with a fond glance. ‘You worked hard to keep your mama neat and clean and do the cooking. It wasn’t easy at the last.’

      ‘Poor Mama. I fear she suffered a great deal,’ Eliza said and sighed. She had grieved for the past six months, but knew now she must put her personal feelings aside and look for work. ‘What do you think I should do, Betty? If I am not suitable as a maid what can I do—should I try for a governess?’

      ‘I don’t think most mothers would take you on, Eliza. You are too pretty and you might tempt their husbands or their older sons.’ Betty looked thoughtful. ‘If I were you I should advertise. Offer your services as a companion to an elderly lady.’

      ‘Yes, I suppose that might answer…’ Eliza sighed. Her mama’s illness had kept her tied to the house for many months, and though she didn’t begrudge her mama a minute of her time, she had hoped for something a little more lively in her future. ‘I suppose I might find it difficult to find work as a governess, for I have no training—except that I know how to make pillows comfortable and how to mix tisanes that ease discomfort and induce sleep.’

      ‘You are also a good little cook, for I taught you myself,’ Betty told her. ‘If you take your time and choose the right position, it might be just the thing for you.’

      ‘Yes, I dare say you are right. I have little choice; there is no one to help me.’

      ‘Are there no relatives of your papa who might take you in?’ Betty asked. ‘You are welcome to stay with me, my love, but it isn’t fitting for you. I am sure your mother would like you to mix with people of your own class. She was the daughter of country gentry, as was your father.’

      ‘Yes…’

      Eliza did not answer fully. Betty had never been told that she was not the birth child of her parents, and therefore had no claim on their families, though there was a letter from Mama’s brother in India. She had found it at the bottom of her mother’s sewing box with the ring. Of course she would not dream of approaching him, for they were in no way related.

      The ring was valuable. Fashioned of a thick band of gold in which a large deep red ruby had been inset, it had an inscription on the gold band. It was a romantic inscription, which made her think that her parents must have loved each other—but why had they given her up? Leaving her behind the altar on a Sunday had ensured that she was found quickly, but the person who placed her there could not have known that the Bancrofts would adopt her. Had the mystery gentleman been so ruthless that he did not care?

      Who had put the ring on the ribbon and hung it about her neck, hiding it beneath her baby clothes? It must have been a woman—her mother? Had she wanted her child to have something of hers—something that Eliza suspected must have been very precious to her?

      Why had her mother given her away? Her mama had had no knowledge, of course, but had told Eliza during one of their last discussions that she believed Eliza was a love child.

      ‘Your mother may have been forced to give you up, Eliza. Indeed, I am sure she was, for no woman would give up her baby willingly. I know that I should not, whatever the consequences.’

      Eliza had tried to brush the subject under the carpet. Her mama was the only mother she had known and she loved her dearly. While she lived, Eliza had given hardly a second thought to who her birth parents were, even if she could not help wanting to know more about her mother. Now her thoughts turned more and more to her true mother and she wondered if she ever thought of her… wished to see her. Yet how could she hope to discover the truth? Living in the country quietly, as she did, she had no chance of meeting anyone who might recognise the ring.

      ‘I shall send my advertisement to the papers in London and Bath,’ she told Betty with sudden decision. ‘The kind of position you suggest may be found amongst fashionable ladies who can afford to employ a companion to run around after them.’

      ‘That is the spirit, my love,’ Betty said and smiled at her. ‘The curate was here earlier. He asked me if I had seen anything of you recently, Eliza.’

      ‘I usually help with the church fête,’ Eliza said and looked rueful. ‘He has been a little too attentive of late and I have tried to avoid seeing him other than on Sunday morning, when it is impossible not to meet.’

      Betty arched her brows at her. ‘Your papa was a vicar, Eliza. Young Mr Stanley will have his own living one day. You could do worse than encourage him. Not that you need think of marriage just yet, of course. You are only twenty this summer and there is plenty of time, but being the wife of a clergyman may be better than a companion’s life.’

      ‘If I liked Mr Stanley, I should think it an ideal life, Betty—but he is too prissy in his ways. Had he been like Papa, I