Australia: In Bed with Her Groom. Emma Darcy

FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

       CHAPTER FOURTEEN

       CHAPTER FIFTEEN

       Author’s Note

       Copyright

Mischief and Marriage

      Dedicated to my beloved husband, Frank, who shared all the stories of great love with me

       CHAPTER ONE

      IT was a butler’s duty, George Fotheringham assured himself, to remind the master of the house of his duty. It was a touchy subject, a highly touchy subject, but after this last near fatal incident, the matter had to be raised.

      It wasn’t that Master Harry was irresponsible. He had a good heart. If Miss Penelope hadn’t succumbed to her tragic illness, everything would have been quite different. Nevertheless, the indisputable fact that Master Harry now took life far too lightly could not be ignored any longer. It was three years since Miss Penelope’s sad demise. It was time for this frivolous recklessness to stop.

      ‘May I point out, sir, you could have been killed in the avalanche,’ George began with portentous emphasis. ‘To risk skiing in uncertain conditions…well, it is improvident, sir. It may not be of any concern to you, sir, but there is the matter of an heir to be considered. I wondered if you might give it some thought.’

      Harold Alistair Cliffton almost sighed. He remembered his cracked ribs in time and eyed his butler wearily instead. ‘Sorry, George. I’m not up to getting married at the moment.’

      Not up to anything, he thought, staring broodingly into the huge log fire that kept the chill of winter at bay. The winter of my discontent. Impossible to remove that chill deep within his soul.

      Having been rendered immobile with a broken leg, not to mention the damaged rib cage and some internal bruising, boredom was fast setting in. And depression. It had been a bad choice to convalesce at Springfield Manor. It conjured up too many memories of Pen and their last months together when each day had been so precious. Now…he didn’t care if he saw another day.

      ‘I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to do, sir. I merely propose that you consider possible outcomes,’ George persisted, determined on raising Master Harry’s awareness of what would result should he die prematurely.

      There was no response.

      George frowned. He had to focus Master Harry’s attention on the future. It was a matter of position and positioning. The agreement between the Cliffton family and his own was extremely significant to George, and to his mind, Master Harry had a solemn duty to fulfil his part of it.

      The connection between their two families dated back to the Battle of Flodden in 1513, when Henry Cliffton had joined the Earl of Surrey in fighting the invading army of James IV of Scotland. In a violent melee with the Scottish pikemen, it was George’s brave ancestor, Edward Fotheringham, who had saved the life of Henry Cliffton, fighting off the fierce attackers from where the nobleman lay wounded. It was promised then and there, from that day onwards, Edward Fotheringham and his descendants could always find employment in the service of Henry Cliffton and his descendants.

      In today’s uncertain world with its shifting values, security was not to be scoffed at. George thought of his two sons, fine boys both of them, doing well at school. They had their expectations, and rightly so. He cleared his throat and pressed his case.

      ‘We do need an heir so that the family traditions can be maintained. An heir, sir, is not so much an obligation, but a duty,’ George stated with the gravity due to such an important issue.

      The words must have penetrated. Master Harry looked up, cocking a quizzical eyebrow. ‘What precisely are you suggesting, George? I doubt that any of my charming female acquaintances would care to have a child out of wedlock in order to ensure that your heirs and assigns have continuing employment for the next few generations.’

      George took a deep breath, apprehensive about giving offence, yet deeply conscious of all that could be lost. For centuries, a distinguished line of butlers from his family had served the Cliffton family at Springfield Manor. For that long line of honourable service, and all its concomitant advantages, to be now looking at an uncertain future was unacceptable.

      Besides, Master Harry needed an interest, a serious interest that would involve him in a very real sense of continuity again. Having children and bringing up an heir to take over from him would give him a purpose for living.

      George played his master card. ‘I have taken the liberty, sir, of investigating the Australian branch of your family.’

      Harry looked startled, then threw his head back and laughed. ‘How enterprising of you, George! Better a descendant of the Black Sheep than no heir at all.’

      ‘Absolutely!’ George fervently agreed, the burden of having taken such an initiative considerably lightened by Master Harry’s amused response. ‘It would, of course, be a preferable resolution were you to marry, sir, if only a marriage of convenience for the purpose of…’

      ‘My sense of duty doesn’t stretch that far,’ Harry said dryly. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me the fruits of your investigation. Were there any fruits?’

      At least he had sparked some interest, George observed with satisfaction. Hope burgeoned in his heart. Master Harry must surely begin to appreciate what had to be done.

      ‘As I recall the story,’ Harry mused, ‘our Black Sheep was a shameless rake. It was his scandalous affair with the Duchess of Buckingham that led to his being disinherited and exiled.’

      ‘Quite right, sir.’ To George’s mind, the unworthiness of this branch of the family had to be glaringly evident. ‘He was a cad and a bounder. He kissed and told. A disgrace to the escutcheon, sir.’

      The point didn’t seem to have the desired effect. Master Harry appeared enthused. ‘There must be a veritable host of heirs we could call upon Down Under. A hundred years of going forth and multiplying should have produced…’ He grinned. ‘How many, George?’

      ‘The 1917 influenza epidemic wiped most of them out, sir. One could say we are as much at the end of the line in Australia as we are in Britain. There is a boy, sir. A nine-year-old schoolboy. Such a young child is hardly a safeguard against the ultimate calamity. It will be many years before he can father a child himself, whereas you…’

      ‘But