An Unusual Bequest

An Unusual Bequest
Mary Nichols

Widowed Lady Charlotte Hobart and her two young daughters have lived comfortably under her father- in-law's roof, but everything changes on his death. The new Lord Hobart fills Easterley Manor with his disreputable friends and treats Charlotte with contempt. With no money, and nowhere to go, she feels suddenly bereft–and not a little frightened.Viscount Stacey Darton wants to protect Charlotte, and to do that he has to pretend to be as bad as the rest of the unwelcome houseguests. It's obvious to Stacey that this tall, elegant lady is no light-skirt but a true gentlewoman. She is also proud, so whatever he does to help her must be done in secret.

An Unusual Bequest

Mary Nichols

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Contents

Cover (#uf69725b4-4f7c-5d2a-9394-f27ebb59c7ca)

Title Page (#u4abc9042-0c4c-5b9e-98e0-aeeb744c8ce2)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#u814ebcf5-caa2-506e-80da-0b63f368f620)

Early 1817

Charlotte watched as the last of the mourners climbed into their carriages and were driven away. There had not been many of them because Lord Hobart had been old and had outlived most of his contemporaries and in the last four or five years had become something of a recluse, receiving few visitors and never going out beyond the boundaries of Easterley Manor grounds, which stretched from the tiny village of Parson’s End in one direction and the lighthouse on the cliff in the other.

‘My lady, a sad day.’

The parson’s voice brought her back from the contemplation of the sodden garden and the last coach disappearing round the bend in the drive. ‘Yes, Reverend, it is. I shall miss him.’

‘What will you do?’ The Reverend Peter Fuller was a tall man, as thin as some of his half-starved parishioners, and Charlotte often wondered how much of his own food he gave away and how often he waived the tithe from some farmer who had been beset by disaster. He was a true Christian gentleman and they often worked together to alleviate the plight of the poor in the village and in trying to bring a little schooling to the children.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why, my lady, your father-in-law was a very old man, you must have given a thought to what might happen when he died. He has another son and he will surely be coming back to take over.’

‘He is in India where his father banished him, as I am sure you know, Reverend. No one has secrets in this village.’ Cecil Hobart, younger son of his lordship, was the proverbial black sheep of the family. He had been an inveterate gambler in his youth and his father had stood buff for him on so many occasions, paying debts amounting to thousands of guineas, that in the end he had said ‘enough is enough’ and packed him off to India to make his own way in the East India Company. At the time his older half-brother, Charlotte’s husband, had been alive and the banishment had presented no problems of succession. But Grenville had been killed in Portugal in 1809, leaving Charlotte a widow and the mother of two daughters. There was no male heir but the absent Cecil.

Even after Grenville’s death, Lord Hobart had not recalled his younger son and Charlotte and her two daughters continued to live in the family home, which Charlotte ran with commendable efficiency. In the last two years she had been nurse as well as daughter and housekeeper.

‘He will come back just as soon as he hears the news that he is the new Lord Hobart,’ the Reverend went on. ‘And if he has not changed…’ He paused, wondering how much he dare say. Cecil Hobart’s reputation was such that he feared for any lady living under his roof. He did not know exactly how old she was, but guessed it was less than thirty, and she was still a very attractive woman with a tendency to believe the best of everyone in spite of evidence to the contrary. It would be easy for a ruthless man to pull the wool over her eyes.

Charlotte turned to face him, her soft aquamarine eyes betraying her sadness at the loss of the man who had been a second father to her and whom she had dearly loved. She knew that her calm, well-ordered life was about to change, that was inevitable, but she didn’t want to think about it while grief filled her mind to the exclusion of everything but day-to-day tasks and shielding her two young daughters as far as possible. ‘I wrote to Cecil several weeks ago when I realised the end could not be far off,’ she said. ‘In spite of the estrangement, I know his lordship wanted to see him again before he died. Alas, it was not to be, but perhaps he is on his way now. I must look after everything until he arrives. He may wish me to carry on as I have been doing.’

‘And if he does not? Have you no family you can apply to?’

‘None, except Lord Falconer, my mother’s uncle, and I have never met him. He succeeded to the title when his brother, my grandfather, died, but he quarrelled with Mama when she wanted to marry Papa and said he washed his hands of her.’ She smiled briefly. ‘His dire warnings that she would regret marrying a nobody of an Irish sea captain were ill founded; my parents were blissfully happy until Papa was killed at Trafalgar. My mother died of a fever less than a year later. Great-uncle Joseph did not write and offer condolences and I assumed the rift was complete. By then I had married Sir Grenville…’ She stopped, remembering how bereft she had felt on learning of her husband’s death eight years before. Coming so soon after her parents’ demise, it had been a terrible blow, but Lord Hobart had been a great comfort. And now, he too, had gone. She had never felt so alone.

‘I understand, but, my lady, I strongly urge you to write to your relative. Time may have healed the rift and you may have need of him.’

She smiled wearily. ‘I thank you for your concern, Reverend, but I will not go cap in hand to someone who has never even acknowledged my existence. Besides, I do not want to leave Parson’s End. I have commitments here. I cannot leave the house and servants with no one in charge, or the village children who rely on me for their schooling.’

She had started the school after Grenville died to give her something to take her mind off her grief and what had begun as a kind of balm for her grieving heart had become a passion to see the education of the poor improved.

‘That may be so,’ he said, smiling indulgently. ‘But that is not reason enough to stay if life becomes intolerable, is it?’

‘There is no reason to suppose it will be intolerable and Fanny and Lizzie are upset enough over the death of their grandfather without dragging them away from the only home they have known.’

He had said his piece and there was nothing more he could do for her, except keep a fatherly eye on her. He took his leave and set off at a brisk walk down the drive, his gown flapping out behind him. Charlotte watched until he was out of sight and then turned back indoors.

It was an ancient house, with irregular rooms, uneven floors, heavy old furniture that had been in its place for generations. Some rooms, like the late Lady Hobart’s boudoir, and the drawing room, had been decorated in the modern fashion with light, stylish furniture and colourful drapes, but much of the rest predated the Civil War. But she loved it, old and new. She loved its huge fireplaces, commodious cupboards and chests, its long deep windows overlooking the gardens, impeccably kept and bordered by pine woods on one side and the cliffs and the North Sea on the other. She did not want to leave it.

Old Lord Hobart had been confined to his bedchamber for the past two years, but, even so, the house seemed empty without him. His presence had always filled it, even when he was not actively engaged in the running of it. He had been a big, much loved man, especially by Charlotte and her daughters, but the servants, too, had admired and respected him. He had been a stern employer, but a fair one, and because Charlotte had his unswerving confidence and support, they had obeyed her as if it were the master of the house himself who had issued the orders. Charlotte did not expect anything to change in that respect, not until the new master arrived and took over. After that, she did not know what would happen. The Reverend had not said anything that had not already crossed her mind.

Cecil Hobart was the son of his lordship’s second marriage and several years younger than Grenville. She had met him once or twice when she and Grenville had first been married, but the brothers did not get on well together and Cecil spent most of his time in lodgings in London and only came to Easterley Manor when he needed funds. She had not been present in the room the last time he had visited, but she had heard the angry words even through thick closed doors. Afterwards Lord Hobart had sent his younger son not only from his house, but from the country.

‘Ten thousand, he owed,’ Grenville had told her later. ‘And not a hope of recouping. Father threatened to let him stew in his own juice, but of course he could not do that. He has paid his debts and undertaken to make him a reasonable allowance, so long as he stays in India.’

‘For the rest of his life?’ she had asked.

‘One must suppose so, unless he can produce evidence he is a reformed character, but I cannot see that happening.’

‘What will happen when your father…when his lordship dies?’

‘Then, my dear, the responsibility will rest with me. I shall do whatever my father asks me to do.’

Nothing more had been said, but how was he to know, how was anyone to know, that Grenville would decide to go off on that ill-fated mission to Spain in 1809 and get himself killed alongside General Moore at Corunna? Charlotte, mother of two daughters, Elizabeth, then three years old and Frances, fourteen months, had begged him not to go, that as his father’s heir he need not, but Grenville had a strong sense of duty and adventure and seemed convinced of his indestructibility. ‘General Moore needs experienced officers,’ he had said. ‘The Spaniards are brave men but ill disciplined and against Napoleon won’t stand a chance without our help. I could not refuse to go. We shall be home again in no time.’

She could not dissuade him and he had set off full of hope and enthusiasm, never to return. Lord Hobart had taken the loss of his son and heir very badly and, though they had comforted each other, it had been the beginning of his downhill slide into senility.