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Synopsis
From beguiling New York Times bestselling author Jane Feather comes this classic tale brimming with intrigue and passion.
A quirk of fate has made Sylvester Gilbraith the heir of his sworn enemy, the earl of Stoneridge. But there’s a catch: To claim his inheritance, he has to marry one of the earl’s four granddaughters. The magnetically handsome nobleman has no choice but to comply with the terms of the will, yet when he descends on Stoneridge Manor prepared to charm his way into a fortune, he finds that the lady who intrigues him most has no intention of becoming his bride. Maddeningly beautiful and utterly impossible, Theodora Belmont refuses to admit to the chemistry between them, even when she’s passionately locked in his embrace. But soon the day will come when the raven-haired vixen will give anything to be Sylvester’s bride—and risk everything to defend his honor . . . and his life.
Release date: November 4, 2009
Publisher: Fanfare
Print pages: 448
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Valentine
Jane Feather
Chapter One
London—June 1810
“MARRY ONE OF them? Good God, man, don’t be absurd.” Sylvester Gilbraith, fifth Earl of Stoneridge, stared incredulously at the nervous little man sitting dwarfed behind the massive desk in the lawyer’s office on Threadneedle Street.
Lawyer Crighton cleared his throat. “I believe his lordship was very fond of his granddaughters, my lord.”
“What has that to do with me?” demanded the earl.
The lawyer shuffled the papers on his desk. “He wished to ensure they were well provided for, sir. Their mother, Lady Belmont, has her own substantial jointure and requires no additional provision. She will, of course, remove to the dower house as soon as you are ready to take up residence at Stoneridge Manor.”
“The mother doesn’t concern me,” the earl commented curtly. “Be so good as to explain in words of one syllable the precise conditions of my cousin’s will. I feel sure I must have misunderstood you.”
The lawyer regarded his client unhappily. “I don’t believe so, my lord. There are four granddaughters, the children of Viscount Belmont and Lady Elinor….”
“Yes … yes … and Belmont was killed at the Battle of the Nile twelve years ago, making me, by virtue of the entail, Stoneridge’s heir.” The earl began to pace the room, his large stride eating up the narrow space from window to door. “Get to it, man.”
Lawyer Crighton decided that the new Earl Stoneridge was even more intimidating than his predecessor, the crusty, gouty fourth earl. Sylvester Gilbraith’s clear gray eyes were uncomfortably penetrating in his lean face, and the white scar slashing across his forehead lent a menacing cast to his well-bred countenance. His mouth was a taut line of impatience, one characteristic he obviously shared with his late cousin.
“Perhaps it would be best if your lordship were to read the conditions for yourself,” he suggested, selecting one of the papers in front of him.
A glint of sardonic amusement enlivened the cool eyes. “Afraid to be the presenter of ill tidings, Crighton?” His lordship extended a slim white hand and twitched the paper from the lawyer’s grasp. He flung himself into a chair, crossing one buckskin-clad thigh over the other, and began to read, flicking all the while at his top boots with his whip.
The long case clock in the corner ticked, a fly buzzed indolently at the open window, and the shout of a costermonger rose on the June air from the street below. Lawyer Crighton swallowed nervously, and the sound seemed magnified in the tense stillness of the room.
“Good God!” Stoneridge flung the paper onto the desk as he sprang to his feet again. “It is iniquitous. I inherit the title, Stoneridge Manor, and the London house, but not an acre of land or a penny of the old curmudgeon’s fortune unless I marry one of these girls! This couldn’t stand up in a court of law, it’s the will of a lunatic.”
“I assure you, sir, the will is perfectly legal. His lordship was in sound mind, and I witnessed it myself, together with two members of this firm.” The lawyer pulled his chin. “Only the title and the two properties are entailed. His lordship had the right to do as he pleased with the rest of his fortune.”
“And he’s left it to a gaggle of girls!”
“I believe them to be very personable young ladies,” Crighton ventured. The earl’s expression indicated he found the observation less than reassuring.
The lawyer cleared his throat again. “Lady Emily is twenty-two, my lord, and I understand she is betrothed. Lady Clarissa is twenty-one, and I believe unattached. Then there is Lady Theodora, who is approaching twenty. And Lady Rosalind, who is still a child … not quite twelve.”
“So I seem to have the choice of two,” his lordship said with a grim smile. “If I refuse to make such a choice, my cousin’s fortune is divided among his granddaughters, and I am left with an empty title and not a feather to fly with.” He swung toward the fireplace, resting an arm on the mantel, gazing down into the empty grate. “The bastard was determined to be revenged for that entail somehow.”
The lawyer cracked his knuckles, and the earl raised his head, casting him a look of powerful dislike. Hastily, Crighton rested his hands on the desk. The violent estrangement between the Gilbraith and Belmont branches of the Stoneridge family was as well-known to him as it was to the London ton … but its genesis was lost in family memory.
The fourth earl had never been able to reconcile himself to the fact that his distant cousin’s family would come into the title. It had added gall and wormwood to his bitter grief at the death of his only child.
“I don’t believe it’s as simple as that, my lord,” the lawyer said diffidently. “There is a codicil.”
The earl’s clear eyes sharpened. “A codicil?”
“Yes, my lord.” Crighton drew out another piece of heavy vellum. “The young ladies and their mother are not to be informed of these conditions of the will until one month after you have been notified.”
“What?” A sharp crack of disbelieving laughter broke from the earl. “For one month they are to believe they inherit nothing? And you say the old man was fond of them?”
“I believe, my lord, that his lordship wished to be fair … to give you a fair chance,” Crighton said. “There will be some incentive for one of the young ladies to favor your suit … should you, of course, decide to press it.”
“And just how am I supposed to pay court immediately after his death to a young lady in deep mourning for her nearest male relative?” The earl’s eyebrows disappeared into his scalp. “I’d look an egotistic fool … but perhaps that was my cousin’s intention.”
Lawyer Crighton cleared his throat yet again. “Lord Stoneridge instructed his relatives that there was to be no formal mourning period. They are forbidden to wear mourning or to refrain from their usual pursuits.” He scratched his head. “If you knew his lordship, sir, you’d understand that such instructions were quite in character. He was not a conventional man.”
“And why is he going to such lengths to give me a fair chance, as you put it?” The earl shook his head in disbelief.
Crighton was silent for a minute before saying, “His lordship would not care to see Stoneridge Manor go to rack and ruin for lack of funds to maintain it, and I also believe he wished it to remain in the hands of a member of his son’s family.”
“Ah.” The earl nodded slowly. “One could almost feel sorry for the devious old devil … torn between loathing the idea of a Gilbraith in residence and ancestral pride.”
He drew on his York tan gloves, smoothing the fine leather over his fingers, a deep frown between his chiseled brows, wrinkling the scar. “A union between a Gilbraith and a Belmont would be something indeed.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“I give you good day, Crighton.” Abruptly, his lordship strode to the door.
The lawyer bounced up to bow his client from the room and down the narrow flight of stairs to the street door. He waited politely as the earl mounted the glossy black being held at the door by a street urchin and rode off down Threadneedle Street toward Cheapside.
Lawyer Crighton returned to his office. It was to be hoped the young Belmont ladies hadn’t heard the scandalous accusations dogging the heels of the Earl of Stoneridge. Such rumors would hardly endear a prospective suitor, particularly one of Gilbraith parentage—surely sufficient a disadvantage.
Sylvester rode back to his lodgings on Jermyn Street. Two years ago he would have gone to one of his clubs and sought companionship, port, and a game of faro. But he could no longer bear that instant of silence as he walked into a crowded room, the averted eyes, the stiff acknowledgments of his onetime friends. Never the cut direct—except from Gerard. He’d been acquitted, after all. But he’d not been exonerated.
Cowardice was a charge that clung like slime.
London—June 1810
“MARRY ONE OF them? Good God, man, don’t be absurd.” Sylvester Gilbraith, fifth Earl of Stoneridge, stared incredulously at the nervous little man sitting dwarfed behind the massive desk in the lawyer’s office on Threadneedle Street.
Lawyer Crighton cleared his throat. “I believe his lordship was very fond of his granddaughters, my lord.”
“What has that to do with me?” demanded the earl.
The lawyer shuffled the papers on his desk. “He wished to ensure they were well provided for, sir. Their mother, Lady Belmont, has her own substantial jointure and requires no additional provision. She will, of course, remove to the dower house as soon as you are ready to take up residence at Stoneridge Manor.”
“The mother doesn’t concern me,” the earl commented curtly. “Be so good as to explain in words of one syllable the precise conditions of my cousin’s will. I feel sure I must have misunderstood you.”
The lawyer regarded his client unhappily. “I don’t believe so, my lord. There are four granddaughters, the children of Viscount Belmont and Lady Elinor….”
“Yes … yes … and Belmont was killed at the Battle of the Nile twelve years ago, making me, by virtue of the entail, Stoneridge’s heir.” The earl began to pace the room, his large stride eating up the narrow space from window to door. “Get to it, man.”
Lawyer Crighton decided that the new Earl Stoneridge was even more intimidating than his predecessor, the crusty, gouty fourth earl. Sylvester Gilbraith’s clear gray eyes were uncomfortably penetrating in his lean face, and the white scar slashing across his forehead lent a menacing cast to his well-bred countenance. His mouth was a taut line of impatience, one characteristic he obviously shared with his late cousin.
“Perhaps it would be best if your lordship were to read the conditions for yourself,” he suggested, selecting one of the papers in front of him.
A glint of sardonic amusement enlivened the cool eyes. “Afraid to be the presenter of ill tidings, Crighton?” His lordship extended a slim white hand and twitched the paper from the lawyer’s grasp. He flung himself into a chair, crossing one buckskin-clad thigh over the other, and began to read, flicking all the while at his top boots with his whip.
The long case clock in the corner ticked, a fly buzzed indolently at the open window, and the shout of a costermonger rose on the June air from the street below. Lawyer Crighton swallowed nervously, and the sound seemed magnified in the tense stillness of the room.
“Good God!” Stoneridge flung the paper onto the desk as he sprang to his feet again. “It is iniquitous. I inherit the title, Stoneridge Manor, and the London house, but not an acre of land or a penny of the old curmudgeon’s fortune unless I marry one of these girls! This couldn’t stand up in a court of law, it’s the will of a lunatic.”
“I assure you, sir, the will is perfectly legal. His lordship was in sound mind, and I witnessed it myself, together with two members of this firm.” The lawyer pulled his chin. “Only the title and the two properties are entailed. His lordship had the right to do as he pleased with the rest of his fortune.”
“And he’s left it to a gaggle of girls!”
“I believe them to be very personable young ladies,” Crighton ventured. The earl’s expression indicated he found the observation less than reassuring.
The lawyer cleared his throat again. “Lady Emily is twenty-two, my lord, and I understand she is betrothed. Lady Clarissa is twenty-one, and I believe unattached. Then there is Lady Theodora, who is approaching twenty. And Lady Rosalind, who is still a child … not quite twelve.”
“So I seem to have the choice of two,” his lordship said with a grim smile. “If I refuse to make such a choice, my cousin’s fortune is divided among his granddaughters, and I am left with an empty title and not a feather to fly with.” He swung toward the fireplace, resting an arm on the mantel, gazing down into the empty grate. “The bastard was determined to be revenged for that entail somehow.”
The lawyer cracked his knuckles, and the earl raised his head, casting him a look of powerful dislike. Hastily, Crighton rested his hands on the desk. The violent estrangement between the Gilbraith and Belmont branches of the Stoneridge family was as well-known to him as it was to the London ton … but its genesis was lost in family memory.
The fourth earl had never been able to reconcile himself to the fact that his distant cousin’s family would come into the title. It had added gall and wormwood to his bitter grief at the death of his only child.
“I don’t believe it’s as simple as that, my lord,” the lawyer said diffidently. “There is a codicil.”
The earl’s clear eyes sharpened. “A codicil?”
“Yes, my lord.” Crighton drew out another piece of heavy vellum. “The young ladies and their mother are not to be informed of these conditions of the will until one month after you have been notified.”
“What?” A sharp crack of disbelieving laughter broke from the earl. “For one month they are to believe they inherit nothing? And you say the old man was fond of them?”
“I believe, my lord, that his lordship wished to be fair … to give you a fair chance,” Crighton said. “There will be some incentive for one of the young ladies to favor your suit … should you, of course, decide to press it.”
“And just how am I supposed to pay court immediately after his death to a young lady in deep mourning for her nearest male relative?” The earl’s eyebrows disappeared into his scalp. “I’d look an egotistic fool … but perhaps that was my cousin’s intention.”
Lawyer Crighton cleared his throat yet again. “Lord Stoneridge instructed his relatives that there was to be no formal mourning period. They are forbidden to wear mourning or to refrain from their usual pursuits.” He scratched his head. “If you knew his lordship, sir, you’d understand that such instructions were quite in character. He was not a conventional man.”
“And why is he going to such lengths to give me a fair chance, as you put it?” The earl shook his head in disbelief.
Crighton was silent for a minute before saying, “His lordship would not care to see Stoneridge Manor go to rack and ruin for lack of funds to maintain it, and I also believe he wished it to remain in the hands of a member of his son’s family.”
“Ah.” The earl nodded slowly. “One could almost feel sorry for the devious old devil … torn between loathing the idea of a Gilbraith in residence and ancestral pride.”
He drew on his York tan gloves, smoothing the fine leather over his fingers, a deep frown between his chiseled brows, wrinkling the scar. “A union between a Gilbraith and a Belmont would be something indeed.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“I give you good day, Crighton.” Abruptly, his lordship strode to the door.
The lawyer bounced up to bow his client from the room and down the narrow flight of stairs to the street door. He waited politely as the earl mounted the glossy black being held at the door by a street urchin and rode off down Threadneedle Street toward Cheapside.
Lawyer Crighton returned to his office. It was to be hoped the young Belmont ladies hadn’t heard the scandalous accusations dogging the heels of the Earl of Stoneridge. Such rumors would hardly endear a prospective suitor, particularly one of Gilbraith parentage—surely sufficient a disadvantage.
Sylvester rode back to his lodgings on Jermyn Street. Two years ago he would have gone to one of his clubs and sought companionship, port, and a game of faro. But he could no longer bear that instant of silence as he walked into a crowded room, the averted eyes, the stiff acknowledgments of his onetime friends. Never the cut direct—except from Gerard. He’d been acquitted, after all. But he’d not been exonerated.
Cowardice was a charge that clung like slime.
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