The Unknown Heir: Book Nine in the Regency Romps Series Read online

  Delby held out a hand, motioning for the big man to sit back down a moment.

  "Please, don't you wish to know how much I'm willing to settle on Cordelia, should the marriage go ahead?"

  Henri shrugged. "That's none of my business, and I suspect Jacques will demand that it's kept in a trust for her future. His sisters have given him a soft heart, you see, and he's strongly of the belief that the fairer sex should have a say in their own destinies. That's probably my mother's fault. Some of the tribes are led and governed by the womenfolk, and it gives them some peculiar notions."

  "Please do not introduce her to my sister-in-law," said Delby, shuddering at the thought of Mrs Manning learning that there were societies out there where women were considered equal, or even superior to men. "Still, I will be settling ten thousand on Cordelia when she marries, not to mention an additional portion from her mother, so she will not come to the union penniless."

  His guest nodded as though the amount was acceptable, rather than the fortune that had lured more than one unsuitable rogue after another to sniff about his children.

  Delby decided he rather liked Henri, and understood why his friend had been so taken with the man.

  "The Shropshires think my own daughters will be popular with the Ton," said Henri, his heavy brows knitting together. "You're a leader in that society."

  "I like to think so," he replied politely.

  "The Douglas boy; Cottingham's brother," said Henri. "What do you think of him?"

  Delby leant back in his chair, smiling as his new acquaintance shared the common fear of fathers all over the world. He decided he owed it to both Henri, and to the memory of John Cartwright, to be honest in their dealings.

  Besides, said a quiet voice in the back of his head, your son may take a shine to one of Henri's daughters, and a man who regards ten thousand as an adequate portion is likely to have settled much more on his girls.

  "There is nothing about young Christopher to offend, and indeed, a great many of the younger set find him to be a delightful companion. I expect in a decade or so, he will be an amiable gentleman that I would not object to courting a member of my family. Like a niece, or cousin."

  Henri met his gaze, the dark eyes dancing with humour. "As I thought. Well, I appreciate your candour, Delby, and I'm glad that we will be leaving the Cottingham's home shortly and settling in with the Shropshires instead."

  This time Delby did not prevent the man from standing, but he did extend a hand across the table. Henri's grip was strong, and the shake firm.

  "I hope our paths cross again soon, Henri, both in celebration, and in the opportunity to reminisce about our mutual friend."

  Henri grinned, and it occurred to Delby that any youth applying to this man for permission to court one of his daughters would need to have a constitution of pure iron.

  "You will enjoy meeting my wife, I think. John confessed more to her than even I knew about!" he chuckled, but his smile was meloncholy. "I miss the man, truth be told."

  "But you've done him proud with his boy," Delby assured him.

  Henri straightened up, that wicked grin that bared all of his teeth returning to his face.

  "I have done, haven't I?" he said, and then took his leave.

  An hour later, when his butler came to announce that Monsieur Gautereau was requesting an audience with him, Delby did not make the same mistake of assuming he knew which member of the family was calling on him. He half expected to meet the eldest of Henri's sons, but was relieved when it was none other than Jacques who was shown into the study.

  The young man was immaculately dressed, and carried a package wrapped in brown paper beneath his arm. His wild brown locks, so reminiscent of his father, had been tamed and smoothed by an expert hand, although Delby secretly thought he preferred them in the state of disarray they'd been in at Kelwick Manor. Jacques was nervous, but he disguised it well.

  "My Lord Delby, thank you for receiving me," he began in a well-rehearsed speech. "I'm sure you know why I would like to speak with you and have many questions of your own."

  Delby wondered if, somewhere, John was looking down on this scene, and laughing.

  "You want to marry my daughter, which I personally think is an excellent idea, if you can convince her to accept your proposal," he said, leaning back in his chair again. "As for questions: no, I don't think that I do. I know you are heir to the Marquis of Shropshire, even if Cordelia does not. I knew your father, and I know you have... an adequate fortune in your own right. All that remains is for you to convince my girl that you are the one to make her happy."

  He almost felt sorry for Jacques, but the young man quickly overcame his shock and rallied quickly.

  "Merci, Delby. You may know that Lady Cordelia is upset with me following a disagreement."

  "You should probably get used to that," confided Delby. "Even the happiest of unions are marked by occasional disagreements. Is that a gift to help smooth the waters? An exellent notion, but I would caution you not to do it too often, or else you'll find yourself getting into disagreements whenever your wife wishes you to purchase a hideously expensive frippery."

  Jacques was momentarily diverted from his mission by this comment and cocked his head to the side. "I do not think, Monsieur Delby, that your wife needs to go to such measures to obtain whatever her heart desires, whenever her heart desires it."

  Delby raised a single brow in an expression known to make the pretentious cower. Jacques did not even flinch.

  "Observant, aren't you?" he said with a smile. "Very well! But do not ruin my image as a tyrant, if you please. I have a son and two more daughters to marry off before my work is done, and it helps if potential spouses and their families quake at the mere whisper of my name. Here, let me send a message to my daughter and you may have ten minutes with her in the dining room to make your peace."

  "Thank you, Monsieur Delby. I can now stop shaking in terror of you having me thrown from the house."

  "Insolent boy," said Delby, before summoning a footman and asking him to pass his message on to Cordelia.

  "What is the gift for my daughter?" he asked when they were alone again. "Forgive the natural curiosity of a father."

  "Paints, and a sketchbook that the shopkeeper assures me is used by the professional artists," replied Jacques, holding out the package as though Delby could see through the string and brown paper. "I have not had the privilege of seeing many of Cordelia's paintings, but she speaks of it with enthusiasm, and everyone speaks of her talent and ability."

  Delby gave an approving nod, the gesture enough to convince him that the young man before him had more understanding of Cordelia than any of the callow youths or fortune hunters who had sent spray upon spray of exotic flowers in a bid to win her heart.

  The footman knocked softly on the door before entering, a troubled expression on his face. He glanced briefly at Jacques, and then approached Lord Delby to whisper his tidings directly into the Earl's ear.

  "I see, thank you," he said, waiting until the servant had left the room before telling his guest the news.

  "It seems my daughter has taken to her bed with a headache, and will not stir for anyone," he said. The boy's shoulders visibly drooped, and expression despondent.

  Better than angry, thought Delby with even more approval. He is hurt and worried, but there is no demand, no shouting, no expectation of her attention. Ah, John. Your boy is more of a man than either of us were at that age.

  "I understand, Monsieur. May I ask that you present her with my gift when Mademoiselle Cordelia feels better? Tell her... please tell her it is my way of apologising, and..."

  "and what?" asked Delby when the silence drew on too long to be comfortable.

  Jacques scratched at the back of his neck and looked rueful. "It is but a thought of mine, one that may render me the fool if I am incorrect, but if you think, perhaps, her upset with me stems from earlier today rather than the picnic, please tell her that the two pretty girls she saw in
my company were my sisters, Thérèse and Helene. My family arrived unexpectedly in the night you see, and I have not had the opportunity to tell her."

  Had the boy not looked so concerned, Delby would have let his usual guard drop and laughed out loud at the folly of youth. Instead he gave a grave nod as he accepted the gift for his daughter.

  "If I feel it appropriate, then I will," he promised. “Here, take these letters of mine to Shropshire, if you please. He will understand what they are.”

  Not three minutes after his inevitably soon to be son-in-law had left the house, his wife came tripping into the office, breathless with anticipation

  "Well?" she demanded.

  "It is as you and the ladies of his family determined," he said. "The poor boy is as in love with the girl as she is with him."

  "So why isn't Cordelia down here? Why aren't we wishing them happy?" she said, practically bouncing on her toes. "I cancelled all our engagements for today the moment I heard that Monsieur Gautereau was here to see you - although I admit your first guest was not the one I expected! Was that Jacques' stepfather? Why did he come here? Did his son send him?"

  "Slow down, my dear!" he said, standing up and coming around the desk so that he could hold her. "Come, let us have a glass of wine together, and I will explain everything."

  Lady Delby listened to his accounts in almost perfect silence, interjecting only once to squeal "how much?" when he told her of the accounts provided by Henri Gautereau. Her expression turned increasingly thoughtful, although she did shake her head in despair at the announcement that Cordelia had seen Jacques in the company of two very pretty girls when she had been on her way to apologise to him.

  "Well now I understand why she made her way up to her room in such a dramatic fashion," sighed his wife. "Young people can be very stupid when it comes to love."

  "No more than we were," he said softly, and was rewarded with a tender smile from the woman who he'd long ago come to depend upon. "The question is how much we should tell her."

  "Nothing at all," declared his wife with surprising conviction. "Darling, she has almost realised that she loves that boy even if he is her feared foreign nobody, and that she would be willing to leave us all behind if it means they would be together. If she does not declare that love before learning that he both intends to remain in England and that he is Shropshire's heir, she'll doubt herself for the rest of her life."

  "She'll hear about it sooner or later," Delby remarked. "The arrival of twelve colonials from Lower Canada, spanning three generations and related to a Peer of the realm is not going to be secret for long. In fact, I suspect half the Ton knows about it already."

  "She won't leave the house tonight," said his wife, looking thoughtful. "She is not ready to face this without a good night of sleep to calm her heart, but she needs to be steered in the right direction."

  "I wish you luck," he said, but the hand she placed on his arm revealed her true intentions, and he groaned.

  "She idolises you," Lady Delby explained, a pleading note in her tone. "Take his gift up to her, and just be you. It will be enough!"

  "If I manage to sort out Cordelia's future happiness, then I consign the fate of our other three children entirely into your hands," he grumbled as he got to his feet.

  His wife smiled with faux innocence. "Darling, if you're right about the fortune of Henri Gautereau, I fully intend to have you marry the other three into the family as well."

  *

  Cordelia was not so dramatic as to have locked her door, but she was still surprised when it opened without any voice announcing the presence of her maid. She sat up, about to apologise to the poor girl for her earlier behaviour, but stopped in surprise as no other than her father entered the room, a package wrapped in brown paper and string tucked beneath his arm.

  "Your mother said you had a headache," he explained as he closed the door behind him, "but I have a suspicion that it is your heart that hurts."

  She tucked her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms about her legs.

  "Why would you think that?"

  He gave a meaningful look at the spencer and shako-style hat that she'd discarded onto the floor several hours earlier.

  "No matter how ill you found yourself, you would be unable to treat such prime articles of fashion with indifference. In my experience, the only force powerful enough to make a Delby careless with their clothing is a broken heart."

  She glanced up at him, unconvinced. "I can't believe that either you or mother have ever been careless with your clothing."

  "That is where you are wrong," he said as he came to sit on the edge of her bed. "Your mother assures me that she actually tore the lace trim of her opera dress the first time she lost her temper with me."

  Cordelia, who knew far more about that incident and the dancer who has caused it, years before her own birth, opted to remain silent.

  "As for me; well, when your mother was ill after your brother's birth and we were worried she would not pull through, I ruined three neckcloths and several shirts while insisting I help care for her."

  She couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. "Three neckcloths!"

  He nodded gravely. "Your mother has always maintained that was the moment she knew I truly loved her, for I did not so much as tug on my cuffs when we lost the election."

  She laughed softly, the sensation strange in a throat swollen with unshed tears.

  "I'm afraid I made rather a hash of things, Father," she confessed.

  His smile was gentle. "Well, you wouldn't be a Delby if the path of true love had been without a few twists, but I don't think things are as bad as you fear."

  "I gave Jacques the Cut Direct," she said.

  There was a brief pause.

  "Ah," he said. "That explains much."

  She looked up, intrigued by this odd statement, but her father's attention had already passed on to other things, and life had long ago taught her that Lord Delby did not return to prior topics willingly.

  "I have something for you," he said, and handed her the package.

  She unfolded her limbs, leaning over the large bundle of brown paper as he motioned for her to open it.

  She pulled at the string knot, and then gasped as her eyes fell onto the beautiful watercolour paper and the set of truly exquisite paints.

  "Papa!" she breathed, "you did not have to buy me such a gift!"

  "I'm well aware that I didn't" he said, which seemed to amuse him greatly. "I do, however have a request to make."

  "Anything," she replied, running her fingers over the precious gift.

  "A portrait of my best friend," he replied. "Of John Cartwright. I do not know why I did not think of it sooner, but I find that I am wistful for the past. If I describe him to you, would you paint him for me?"

  "Of course," she said, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her.

  She was not a fool. She knew exactly what was behind her father's request, and yet she found that she loved him all the more for it. Sometimes he just understood things, and knew how to help her fix her mess without making her explain it all in excruciating detail.

  She fetched the box containing her painting things, and then topped up a small glass from the pitcher of water on her dresser. Lord Delby, leaning back against the wall with his hands behind his head, began to reminisce about his youth, sharing some adventures that she'd never before heard as he told her all about boy John who'd grown into a man beside him. At some point her maid came into the room with a brace of candles, while another brought in a tray of food for them both. Her mother slipped in at some point, taking the chair beside the fireplace where she set to work on her embroidery, pausing only when she added some colour to her husband's memories.

  It was late when she finished, turning the paper so her father could inspect it.

  "Ah, Cordy, you have captured him exactly," he said softly, "right down to the haphazard way he powdered his hair."

  He stared at it in silence,
smiling. She tried to pass it to him, tell him to keep it, but his gentle refusal forced it to remain in her hands.

  "You know this was not for me, dear one. Tomorrow morning, far before the fashionable are out of their beds, you can take it to him yourself."

  She looked at the portrait she'd created, wondering what the man looking back at her would have thought of her treatment of his son.

  "I do not think he will forgive me, even with this," she sighed, feeling as though she would cry for the first time.

  She did not expect the sound of her father's amusement at the disclosure, or of her mother scolding him gently for his mirth.

  "What is so funny?" she demanded, a tiny spout of anger splitting through her misery.

  Her father kissed her on the forehead and then got to his feet.

  "I don't believe he would have gifted you that paper and those paints if he did not wish for a reconciliation, my silly, foolish, girl."

  "Jacques bought me these?" she squealed, fighting the impulse to fling them away. "Oh no, I cannot accept such a generous gift, not after my behaviour!"

  "You can hardly return them used," said her mother as she packed away her embroidery. "I think it's time for you and your young gentleman to stop squabbling, Cordelia, for it is obvious that you both wish to put this quarrel behind you. Now, your maid is on her way to help you undress, and I have instructed her to use my distilled water of pineapples on your face, so your complexion will have recovered by the morning. Do make sure that you sleep, my dear. There would be nothing worse for you than attempting a reconciliation while looking haggard."

  Her mother kissed her firmly on the cheek whispered that she loved her very much, and then left the room.

  "I'll see if one of the staff can get the picture mounted for you before you set out in the morning," promised her father, only now leaning over to pick up the painting. "Footmen are remarkably brilliant about such unorthodox requests if there is a coin or two involved."

  "Take it from my pin money, please," Cordelia said faintly as two maids entered to tidy the room and then help her prepare for bed.