The Earl's American Heiress. Carol Arens

suspicions.

      He strode over to where she stood in the doorway, dipped his head and kissed her cheek. “I’d have been here sooner but the roads were complete muck. I’m just lucky my driver was skilled enough to keep us from getting stuck like so many others were.”

      “Just remember, brother, a mistress and the devil are one and the same.”

      “Let’s sit while you tell me what chaos Mr. Robinson has left behind.”

      Since he could not tell her the truth about his business at the seashore, he did not argue further about there being no mistress, even though he was quite weary of her continued accusations.

      He sat down on the divan. Olivia eased down beside him with a deflated sigh.

      What he must remind himself was that she was a widow, that she and four-year-old Victor were dependent upon him for everything. Truly, a woman without a man to protect her was helpless in society.

      Willa’s face flashed in his mind. The helplessness in her sad brown eyes had always made him feel protective of her, even when they were children. In the end that expression had been his undoing.

      “Solicitors have been pounding on the door and demanding payment for debts that they claimed Oliver incurred. Three of them two days ago, and one this morning. I sent them away as best I could.”

      “With their ears red and ringing, I imagine.”

      She shrugged. “It’s no more than they deserved, but I fear the obligations are valid. I loved Oliver—you know I did—but he could be irresponsible.”

      “I think he wanted to squeeze as much living as he could out of his failing body.”

      “Perhaps, and who could blame him? But really, our brother ought to have hired someone more capable as our accountant. What did Mr. Robinson really have to recommend himself other than being Oliver’s chum from Cambridge? I didn’t think so much of it at the time but looking at it now I ought to have. The pair of them laughed and indulged in spirits when they worked on the ledgers.”

      He did not know that, but it hardly surprised him. Oliver sought gaiety above most everything else. No doubt that pursuit had hastened his death. Doctor after doctor had warned him to leave the caustic air of London for the sake of his lungs. He would not consider it because he found country life dull. He used to claim all the charming, lively ladies lived in town and that was where he would reside.

      “Our brother did enjoy a good time.”

      “I thought,” Olivia murmured with a sigh, “that was the reason he wanted to marry that rich, flighty American, for the thrill of doing something risqué. But I see better now. We’ll need an auditor to know for sure, but I fear we might be bankrupt.”

      “I’ll wire James Macooish, let him know that our brother is gone and he need not bring his granddaughter. I suppose I ought to have done it straightaway, but with—”

      “You will not. The girl is coming to marry the Earl of Fencroft. Fifth or sixth, it hardly matters.”

      “It matters a great deal when you are the sixth.”

      “Don’t be selfish, Heath. You have a duty to the Fencroft estate. Without Miss Macooish’s fortune we will be utterly lost. How many people will be left in ruin if you do not marry her?”

      “The woman would have suited our brother. He always did like brightly feathered birds. From what Oliver had to say about her I believe she is quite freehearted and pretty, and no doubt frivolous. You know me better than to think we would make a good match.”

      “That hardly matters. I made a love match and look where that got me. Believe me, little brother, better to set your sights low and not be disappointed. If you won’t think of all the souls Fencroft Manor supports, consider the well-being of your nephew. He might be the one to take over the title one day.”

      “If I marry the heiress, her son will inherit.”

      “Don’t be silly. American women are notoriously infertile. They will be the ruin of the aristocracy. It’s what everyone says.”

      Life had certainly spun Heath about and dropped him on his noble head. Unless he wedded Madeline—wasn’t that her name? Truthfully, until this moment he’d given his future sister-in-law little thought, but unless he wedded her, there would be nothing for Victor to inherit. His hardworking tenants and all of Fencroft Manor’s trusted servants would be cast out onto the street.

      For all that he longed to leap off the couch and dash off a telegram to Macooish, he sat there long after his sister kissed his cheek and went to bed. He watched the dying flames until the room finally went dark.

       Chapter Two

      London, nine weeks and a dozen and a half ball gowns later...

      “Loyal to a fault,” Clementine muttered while sitting on the balcony of the apartment Grandfather had rented and gazing down at the midnight stillness of the garden below. “Exceedingly and preposterously loyal.”

      Excessive was what it was. She had never considered herself to be a weakling, but surely any woman with a backbone would have refused to even consider Grandfather’s scheme.

      And yet here she was, sleepless in London, with a notebook on her lap and a lantern glowing on the table beside her. Grandfather’s handwriting on the pages blurred before her eyes. The more she stared at the instructions on how to address the titled, the wavier the letters became.

      From down below, she heard the soothing tap of water in a fountain. Squinting through the dark, she could see how large it was. It might rightly be called a pond.

      This building was vastly elegant, as was the garden that separated it from Fencroft House on the other side. In fact, Grandfather had rented this apartment because of its proximity to the Fencroft place. Perhaps he thought she would fall in love with the environs and look favorably upon the man.

      That remained to be seen, but the garden did look appealing by moonlight. The landlord had told Grandfather that the garden was shared space between the apartment and the town house.

      If she looked hard she could see the outline of the three-story brick building across the way.

      As late as it was, even the servants were abed. No one would be the wiser if she slipped outside.

      Within fifteen minutes she was sitting on an ornate iron bench three stories below her balcony.

      Fresh, cool air washed over her face, a welcome change from the stifling yellow fog that had clung to everything earlier in the day.

      Truly, there had been moments when it hurt to breathe. She’d felt great pity for those forced to go about their daily business muddling through it.

      Thankfully, at about sundown a fresh wind had blown it away, allowing the moon to shine down, to cleanse and bless everything with its pure, cold light.

      The thought was quite poetic and it made her smile. She hoped she would remember it when she went back upstairs and took her pen and paper out of the secretary.

      She might not, though, since she was in no hurry to leave this tranquil spot. It would be nice to sit here until the first rays of morning light peeked over the rooftops, but she was fairly certain it would be forbidden.

      Given that Grandfather had cautioned her to observe every social rule, appear beyond reproach in everything she said or did, she doubted she ought to be down here by herself for even a moment.

      Still, who was to know that she sat here blissfully listening to the rustle of tall shrubbery in the breeze, and the tinkle of the fountain?

      Not a single soul. She was free to sit here and wonder what she was doing in London in the first place, why she had even considered Grandfather’s