Chapter Seventeen

"H arriet Hamilton to see the Countess of Lichfield." Harry stepped into the reception hall of the St. James's Square mansion. I hadn't expected it to be so elegant.

"This way, Lady Harriet; the countess is expecting you." The maid took her cloak, and led the way upstairs. By the time Harry reached the top step, Barbara Anson was there to greet her. "I'm so glad you accepted my invitation, Lady Harriet."

Harry curtsied. "I am delighted to meet you, Lady Lichfield."

"Oh, please, no curtsies. Let us be informal." She led the way to the drawing room.

"Would you like a glass of wine?"

"I'd love one." Bugger and balls, perhaps that was some sort of test. Oh well, too late now. She watched the countess pour two glasses of sherry.

"Thank you." Harry took the glass and sat down facing her hostess. She wondered if Thomas had asked his mother to invite her.

As if Barbara Anson could read her mind, she said, "Thomas is unaware that I asked you to dinner. He's always absent on Friday evenings—that's why I chose it."

Harry tried not to stare at the attractive woman across from her. She was as dark as her son, with an olive complexion and black curly hair, streaked with silver, drawn back into a large bun. Harry detected a lilting accent that she couldn't quite place.

"You have a rare beauty, Lady Harriet. 'Tis easy to see why my son is drawn to you."

Harry smiled with delight. "You are Welsh!" she blurted as she recognized the lilt.

Barbara returned her smile. "Indeed I am. I was brought up in Pembrokeshire. If I tell the truth, and I invariably do, I much prefer Wales to England."

Harry raised her glass. "I have a great deal of respect for the truth, my lady."

"Good. I would like there to be truth between us, at all cost."

At all cost—whatever do you mean?

Again, as if she had read Harriet's mind, she said, "I shall be perfectly honest with you, and I ask no less of you in return."

Harry drained her glass to give her courage. "I pledge you the truth, my lady."

"London thrives on gossip. Have you heard the rumors about me?"

Ohmigod, do you really want the truth? Harry said hesitantly, "Yes . . . I have."

"My father, Nathaniel Philips, had a sugar plantation in the West Indies. Because of my extremely dark coloring, it is rumored that I am half-caste. Gossips insist my father had a mistress in the islands who gave birth to me."

Harriet's mouth went dry at the sheer bluntness of her words.

"Here is the truth. I haven't the faintest notion. My blood could be Celtic—Welsh—or it could very easily be West Indian."

Looking at you, it is impossible to tell. You could be either.

"My son has told me that he asked you to marry him. You told him perhaps. I would like you to tell me the truth. Is your hesitation because of my blood?"

Harry was shocked. "I swear on my life that it is not!"

Barbara Anson closed her eyes. Her relief was evident, but she wasn't finished.

"Then do you hesitate because your family disapproves of you marrying my son?"

Harry licked her lips as she searched for the truth. "My father likes Thomas, and has made it clear that the choice of a husband is mine." After a moment she continued. "My mother hoped I would marry D'Arcy Lambton, Earl of Durham. I refused to become his wife because I didn't love him, and discovered that he didn't love me. Now my mother's fondest wish is that I'll marry William Montagu, Earl of Dalkeith. I am fond of Will, but I won't become his wife because I don't love him either."

Oh God, her next question will be, "Do you love Thomas?"

Harry said quickly, "The reason I hesitate to marry Thomas is quite simple. I need proof that he loves me."

Barbara nodded. "Marriage without love is abhorrent. I know firsthand, my dear."

"I am so sorry."

Barbara shook her head. "You need not be. My purgatory is about to end. I can literally smell the freedom of Wales beckoning."

"You won't remain in England when you are widowed?"

"I hate London, and though Shugborough is lovely, it holds too many unhappy memories for me. I shall return to Slebech Hall, Pembrokeshire. I have kept it secret from my husband that my father bequeathed it to me. It is held in trust, since the law says I cannot own it."

"That is a law that must be changed. I have joined the suffragists who campaign for women's rights. Once I marry, I shall become a member of the Married Women's Property Committee. Perhaps you would be willing to add your name to a petition?"

"I would be proud to sign a petition. What you are doing is most commendable. It won't just be an uphill battle, you know. It will be a bloody one. Men will wage a fierce war to keep women in their place."

Barbara looked up as a maid approached. "Dinner must be ready. The dining room is this way, Lady Harriet."

"What a lovely room." Harry gazed at the oversized Welsh dresser that held a display of china. "I've never seen a more beautiful dinner service."

"It is a prized collection of Chinese porcelain. The treasure was acquired by a renowned ancestor, Admiral George Anson, who sailed around the world on his ship, the Centurion ."

"I saw the figurehead of the Centurion in the library at Shugborough this summer!"

Barbara was surprised. "You were at Shugborough this summer?"

"We were on our way to Ireland and our family stayed overnight in Stafford. I couldn't resist revisiting Shugborough Hall. I attended the auction sale when I was a child, and the place enchanted me."

"Thomas was there in August."

Harry smiled. "Yes, he caught me trespassing and gave me a tour of the house."

"My son has a deep and abiding love for Shugborough. He treasures it above all else. It is meet and right that it will soon be his."

The maid wheeled in a tureen and ladled the first course into Harry's porcelain dish. Harry realized it was part of the prized Chinese collection. "You honor me."

"I have decided you are a lady of discerning taste, who can appreciate the aesthetic beauty of such a rare treasure."

"I appreciate the food as well. These prawns are delicious. I can taste curry, but I cannot name the other flavors."

"They are West Indian spices—red chili, cumin, ginger. I made this dish myself."

Harry smiled. "My compliments to the chef. Thomas claimed that he could cook. Now I'm inclined to believe him."

Before the meal was over, Harry knew she liked the Countess of Lichfield. She was direct and truthful, and appreciated those traits in others. Now that I've met her, it is evident that Thomas takes after his mother.

Though Barbara Anson had had an unhappy marriage, Harry could tell that she did not feel sorry for herself. One thing is certain: She has no intention of becoming an intrusive mother-in-law to her son's wife.

When the food was cleared away, they had one last drink together, and then Harry thanked the countess for her hospitality and bade her good-bye.

Later, as she lay abed, reliving the evening, she thought about how Barbara Anson had invited her to find out if her hesitation to marry Thomas was because his mother might be half-caste. It horrified Harry to think the countess could harbor such a suspicion. She thought of Thomas. Lord God, I hope he doesn't think that's the reason I hesitate.

Harry thumped her pillow. If Barbara Anson had asked me if I loved Thomas, I would have had to admit the truth and tell her that I love and adore him. Words that her uncle John had said, when she was contemplating marrying D'Arcy Lambton, floated in the air. "If you are in love, you must let nothing stop you, Harry." She smiled as she drifted into sleep.

Earlier that evening, Thomas had dined with Solange.

He had known the young woman since she worked for his father at Ranton, the sporting estate where she helped lure the nobility to gamble away their fortunes.

When Thomas learned that the sixteen-year-old Solange was his father's mistress, he hated and detested her. Then his father was financially ruined, and ruthlessly abandoned the young girl. When Ranton was burned, Solange was left without even a roof over her head, and Thomas's hatred turned to pity. Like him, she was a victim of the brutish, profligate Earl of Lichfield.

Thomas took her to London, found her a job as a lady's maid, and occasionally checked on her while he was at Oxford. Solange hadn't lasted long as a lady's maid. Her beauty did not please the noblewoman who employed her.

Much to Anson's consternation, Solange took a job in a gambling hell utilizing the skills she possessed. When he realized her only alternative was prostitution, he had tempered his condemnation.

Today she was a self-sufficient woman, who leased her own town house near Shepherd Market. The fashionably dressed, elegant blond beauty, who had an air of mystery about her, turned the heads of males when she passed, and caused females to whisper about her behind their fans.

At Brown's Hotel on Albemarle Street, Thomas held a chair for Solange, then took his own seat across the table.

"We seldom dine together, m'lord. You must have an ulterior motive."

"I do." He ordered Dover sole for both of them, selecting an expensive wine for her and ale for himself.

"At Ranton, you often put money in the safe for my father. Do you happen to remember the combination, Solange?"

"Zounds! That must be twelve or thirteen years ago. Though I have a head for numbers, they are usually on playing cards."

"Yes, it seems a lifetime ago. But think hard; I need the combination to his safe."

"How do you know it's the same safe he had at Ranton?"

"Knowing him as I do, the safe would have been removed long before the place went up in flames."

"I remember the combination consisted of five numbers. Perhaps they will come back to me, if you give me a little time."

"I'd like to say take all the time you need, but I cannot."

Solange sipped her wine. "His death is imminent, then?"

"It is."

She smiled. "The curse I put on him is finally working."

He changed the distasteful subject. "Brown's serves the best Dover sole in London."

Solange sat pondering as she ate. When she was finished, she set down her knife and fork. "I remember the first two numbers were ten and twenty, but the other three numbers completely elude me." She shook her head. "I could sit here till doomsday and not recall them. They've vanished with the sands of time."

His brows drew together in concentration. After a few minutes of silence, he smiled a rare smile. "Thank you, Solange. I know what the other three numbers are."

"How on earth?"

"I know my father's egotistic way of thinking."

"Here's some more good news. I found out that the Duke of Devonshire just acquired some statues for Chatsworth that came from the Shugborough collection."

"Old Devonshire is a fanatic when it comes to acquiring neoclassical sculpture. I knew sooner or later, Shugborough's statues would end up at Chatsworth. Good work, Solange. I truly appreciate the information."

She pushed back her chair. "Thank you so much for dinner. Time to go back to work. There are some plump partridges to pluck tonight."

Will Montagu walked across the floor of the House of Commons to speak with his friend before the session opened. He was a Tory—or Conservative, as they were called these days—and Thomas was a member of the opposition Whigs, now known as Liberals. "Congratulations, Thomas."

"If congratulations are in order, I'm unaware of it, Will."

"I escorted Lady Harriet to the ballet on Saturday evening. She told me that you had made up your quarrel."

"Yes, I am wooing her. I have asked her to marry me, but as usual, Harry is being evasive. Unless she accepts, your congratulations may be misplaced."

"She may be evasive, but she made it crystal clear that you are the one she has set her heart on."

Thomas's hopes suddenly soared. "Thank you for passing that along, Will. I know you wanted to engage her affection."

"Well, it's no secret how I feel about her, but I am thoroughly convinced that I cannot compete with you, old man." His expression was rueful. "No man breathing can accept a woman's disinterest. She considers me a good friend ."

Thomas left the session early and made his way to 61 Green Street. He rang the bell and when Hobson, the footman, answered the door, he handed him his calling card. "Lord Thomas Anson to see Lady Harriet Hamilton."

"Please step inside, my lord, while I see if Lady Harriet is receiving."

The footman did not return. Instead, Harry appeared at the top of the stairs. "Come up, Thomas." Rather than take him to the drawing room, where their guests were usually entertained, she took him to her father's library and closed the door.

Before he sat down in the Regency brass-mounted armchair, he said, "These chairs came from Shugborough Hall."

"I didn't know that. No wonder I love them so much."

"I know you love Shugborough, but do you love me, Harry?"

"You expect me to confess my love for you, before you declare your undying love for me? Bugger and balls , you are an audacious devil, Lord Anson!"

"I am, and I have no intention of declaring my undying love. You don't care for my declarations, and you already informed me that words could not convince you."

"I also informed you that I needed proof that you loved me."

"Harry, you know how much Shugborough Hall means to me. By asking you to be my wife, I am offering to share it with you. I would not make that offer to any other lady. I warrant that is irrefutable proof of my love." His eyes glittered silver. "This is the last time I will ask you to marry me."

Her heart began to thud. I do know how much Shugborough means to you. Offering to share it with me does prove that you love me. Her resolve wavered, then disappeared completely. "Yes, I will marry you, Thomas!" He was so darkly handsome, her knees felt like wet linen at the thought that he would be her husband.

He did not sweep her into his arms. "There can be no delay. My father is dying."

If your father dies before we marry, you will be in mourning and the wedding will have to be delayed. This will be the third rushed marriage. Mother won't be pleased. "I will speak with my parents and explain the circumstances."

Thomas closed the distance between them and enfolded her in his arms. He looked into her eyes and brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek. "I will try to make you happy, Harry. I'll make a formal call on your father tomorrow evening."

"Mother, may I speak with you in private?"

The duchess had just returned from taking the younger children for a drive in the park. The weather was still lovely and warm, but she knew that by the end of September, the leaves would turn color, and by mid-October, the winds usually denuded the trees.

"On Friday evening I was invited to dine with the Countess of Lichfield."

"You never mentioned it, Harry."

"No, I thought you might object."

"What made you think I would object?"

"You once told me people gossiped about Barbara Anson being half-caste."

"I was only informing you what people whispered—I didn't say I believed it."

"Well, I'm glad you don't believe it. She was born in Pembrokeshire. The lady is Welsh. It is Celtic blood that accounts for her dark coloring." I don't give a fig if she has West Indian blood, but you might. "Lady Lichfield was quite frank with me. She knows very well the rumors that circulate about London."

"Ah yes, an intelligent woman usually learns what the gossips have to say. My dear sister Rachel was devastated when she heard the rumors about her birth, and I'm sure Lady Lichfield was deeply hurt over the scandalous gossip as well."

"I was horrified that she might think that was the reason I hadn't accepted her son's proposal. I'm sure she believed me when I assured her otherwise, but then she asked if it was because my parents objected."

"So, Harry, you are telling me that Thomas Anson asked you to become his wife, and you turned him down?"

"Yes and no, Mother."

"Don't be cryptic, darling."

"Yes, Thomas asked me to become his wife, and no , I didn't turn him down. At first I said perhaps. I told him I wanted proof that he loved me. This afternoon he came and told me the irrefutable proof that he loved me was offering to share Shugborough with me. He swore that he would not make that offer to any other lady, and I believe him."

"So, you accepted his proposal?"

"Yes, I did. The only trouble is that it will be another rushed wedding. His father is dying, and his death would mean a mourning period."

Lady Lu sighed with resignation. "I suppose if you prefer Thomas Anson over Will Montagu, it must mean that you are in love with him. I hope the attraction is more than physical, Harry."

"I cannot deny that it's physical. But there is the added attraction of Shugborough."

Mother and daughter began to laugh. "You are an outrageous baggage, Harry."

"I warrant I take after you."

"Well, there's nothing for it but Jane must marry Will Montagu. I absolutely insist that one of you get to occupy Montagu House so that I can visit regularly and descend that magnificent staircase with the dramatic flair it deserves!"

"You too are an outrageous baggage!"

"Thomas will ask your father for your hand?"

"Yes, he said he would come tomorrow evening. He's giving me a chance to break the news gently."

"Then I'd better send Abercorn a note to make sure he will be home."

"Lady Harriet has agreed to marry me," Thomas told his mother.

"Oh, I'm so pleased. I like her very much."

"I wondered when you were going to let me know you had entertained her."

"There's not much that gets past you, Thomas. I don't know if you are clairvoyant or simply shrewd."

"Perhaps both, but as a boy, I learned to be vigilant. I dislike surprises, and I hate to be blindsided. I've trained myself to be one step ahead of my enemies and my friends. But it was Norton who told me Lady Harriet Hamilton came to dinner on Friday night. I told him to be sure to pass the information on to Father."

"Ah, there's method in your madness. Did you hope to put a stop to his badgering?"

"No, I don't expect pears of an elm tree. I simply didn't wish to discuss Harriet with him. Did the doctor come today?"

"Yes. He told me there is little time left. The doctor said he'd return tomorrow."

"Tomorrow evening I shall ask Abercorn for his daughter's hand. Until then, our betrothal isn't official."

"What is Abercorn like?"

He is everything that my father is not. He is trustworthy, moral, compassionate, noble, and his love for his wife and children is absolute. Thomas's lips formed a half smile. "Abercorn is magnificent."

Thomas retired, and as he waited for midnight, when the house would be in darkness and the last servant asleep, he jotted down the combination to his father's safe. If Solange is correct and the first two numbers are 10 and 20, I warrant they stand for October 20, the day he was born. Since the year was 1795, it follows that the next three numbers are 17, 9, and 5.

Two hours later, he silently opened his father's bedchamber door and went inside. The smell of camphor assailed his nostrils, and he schooled himself to stop his gorge from rising. He shuddered when he picked up the lamp. Though it was turned down low, the fear of fire was always there, lurking beneath the surface. As he carried it to the iron safe, his ears were alert for any change in his father's labored breathing.

He turned the safe dial right to 10, then left to 20, and heard the tumblers fall into place. He turned it right again, almost a full circle, and stopped on 17. When he heard the tumbler, he knew he had guessed the combination correctly. He deftly turned it left to 9, right to 5, and slid open the heavy iron door. He took out all the papers inside, and sure enough, his instincts had been correct. As in the Anson file at Fowler's office, there were two wills, along with a signed affidavit declaring him bastard, and a letter stating the affidavit and the second will were to be destroyed if Thomas wed before the earl died.

He put the original Last Will and Testament, naming him heir and bequeathing him Shugborough Hall, back in the safe, firmly closed the door, and spun the dial back to where it had been before he touched it. He picked up the papers and put the lamp back on its table. Thomas silently looked down at his father, and his heart mourned for what might have been.

He returned to his own wing, locked the door of his bedchamber, and sat down to examine the items he had removed from the safe. He set aside the Last Will and the signed affidavit, and picked up the other papers. He was amazed to see that they were IOUs made out to his father for gambling debts incurred by some prominent men. A couple of the nobles were now deceased, but one of the two remaining was from none other than the immensely wealthy Duke of Devonshire. He concluded his father must have fallen ill before he could collect what was owed to him.

His eyes glittered silver. It was an unwritten law that gentlemen always paid their gambling debts. He anticipated with relish Devonshire's reaction when he presented the note for payment. Thomas locked the notes in his desk drawer.

He dropped the will and the signed affidavit into his metal wastebasket and burned them, as he had done with the documents he had taken from Fowler's files. When the papers turned to black ash, he felt as if the weight of an anvil had been removed from his shoulders. He strode to the window, threw it open, and took several deep breaths of clean, fresh air. He had successfully removed his father's ruinous threat, and the feeling of freedom that surged through him was euphoric.

Thomas reveled in the knowledge that he would inherit Shugborough along with the title Earl of Lichfield without impediment. The decision to marry would be entirely his. I am free to exercise my own will, and swear to do so for the rest of my life!