Never Marry a Viscount Read online

  No, this watcher was farther away. His first thought had been logical—one of his many enemies, looking for a chance to finish him off.

  It wasn’t until he was well into his third glass of Scots whisky that he remembered that his enemies, though virulent, were simply not that numerous. His late wife’s extended family, holding the firm conviction that he’d murdered Jessamine, comprised most of them. Much as he’d longed to strangle his wife on numerous occasions, he had had nothing to do with her precipitous fall from the top floor of the decrepit old manor house that had been his previous residence. Thank God for his brother, who’d stood beside him and kept him sane through that hideous period.

  And now his brother was presumed dead. Everyone was gone, with the dubious exception of Adelia, his stepmother.

  His brother had been his heir and Alexander hadn’t planned on remarrying. Now he was going to have to rethink the matter, and Lady Christabel knew it.

  She was still talking. Lady Christabel was an unending source of conversation, none of it interesting, and yet Adelia seemed to think he’d consider marrying her. He glanced down at her while she nattered on. She was pretty enough, he supposed, though ever since his marriage he hadn’t been fooled by the perfection of a woman’s face.

  If only she’d shut the fuck up he might consider it.

  He didn’t bother to glance up in the direction of the tor. He wouldn’t see anything, and for all he knew he could be going mad. He was convinced the woman watched him while he swam, and whether she was a figment of his imagination or real, it didn’t matter. His instincts told him the watcher was distinctly female, and he’d always trusted his instincts, even if this time he might be completely delusional. He didn’t give a damn.

  “. . . And I think it would be an excellent idea, don’t you?” Lady Christabel nattered on.

  She continued, and he shut out the annoying chirp of her voice, looking at the pool with longing. The dratted woman was clinging to his arm, but he was quite capable of ignoring her existence—the drone of her words, the insistent clutch of her soft white fingers.

  Perhaps he should marry her. It would be convenient to have an available woman under his roof, particularly since it turned out that there was absolutely no need to pay attention to this vapid, talkative creature—she just kept going on by herself.

  For some reason he glanced toward the tor. Was he imagining anger from his watcher, jealousy, even? He had come up with a mental picture of her, a cross between the toothy, horse-mad spinster daughter of the local squire and Adelia’s put-upon companion, Regina Throckton.

  Miss Throckton had as little use for the male of the species as did the horse-loving Miss Clover, though the squire had been making halfhearted efforts to throw her at his head.

  “And I know you agree with me,” Lady Christabel was saying.

  Alexander knew on principle that he didn’t, but he made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat and continued onward, the lady’s gloved hand clamped firmly onto his arm.

  Was the silly creature out of her mind? And what were her parents thinking? They were sending her into the arms of a man who may very well have murdered his first wife, flinging her off the rotting roof of Montgomery Manor? Though he could certainly sympathize with wanting to silence Christabel.

  But such was the way of society, he thought with carefully veiled contempt. Before he’d inherited the title and the small fortune he’d been quickly able to double, he was persona non grata. Now women would travel to the heart of the countryside to fling themselves at him.

  He glanced up at the tor again. Who the hell was up there? He could feel real anger radiating toward him—he hadn’t noticed that before.

  He needed to find out. First he had to get rid of Lady Christabel and the tiresome brother who’d accompanied her.

  And then, by God, he would go after his watcher and beat the truth out of her.

  The thought put him in a much better mood. “Shall we return to the house, Lady Christabel?” he said abruptly and she halted, rattled. He must have interrupted her mid-spate.

  She blinked, her mouth open. She should have expressed her displeasure, but he was rich, single, entitled, and by all accounts good-looking, so of course she ignored his rudeness. The new Viscount Griffiths was known for his eccentricities, his unsettling behavior, his cynical discourse. Clearly she was going to overlook it for the chance to be a viscountess rather than simply the daughter of an earl.

  “An excellent idea, my lord, and I was thinking about Elliott Ponsonby’s second wife and how she . . .”

  Alexander turned his back on the tor and moved toward the house.

  Sophie rolled over on her back, her spyglass abandoned beside her, irritated beyond belief. Who was that woman beside him, holding his arm in such a proprietary manner? She hadn’t heard that the Viscount planned to marry, but the woman was treating him like her own personal possession. A good thing, Sophie told herself. If the Dark Viscount was caught up in a new marriage he wouldn’t be paying attention to anything else. If there was only some way she could follow her sisters’ example and make her way into his household, she, too, could find out whether this man had had anything to do with their father’s disgrace.

  She scrambled to her feet, gathering up the tea towel that had held her lunch and her spyglass. It was time she got back to the cottage or Nanny would begin to wonder.

  But she would come back tomorrow to see whether the unexpected blond woman was still here, whether the Dark Viscount would no longer go for his swims in the bright golden sunlight of a late spring afternoon. The rest she would figure out later.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE MIDDAY SUN WAS warm, and it shouldn’t have surprised Sophie that there was no smoke billowing out of the chimney in Nanny Gruen’s fairytale cottage in the woods. They were eating later, and Nanny knew that if there was one thing Sophie approached with enthusiasm, it was cooking. She’d already planned on trying out a variation of brook trout à l’anglaise, and while Nanny cheerfully peeled potatoes and did any of the simple work, she was just as happy to give over the task of cooking. Nanny’s sister had been a cook, and they’d never gotten along, so she did her best to keep out of the kitchens as much as she could.

  While Sophie had dutifully learned the despised chores of taking care of such a small household, the only thing that interested her was cooking. Baking, to be precise, but she could derive almost as much pleasure from a roasted guinea fowl in a lemon cream sauce with a hint of saffron as she could from a gâteau with crème fraîche and fondant, and Nanny was more than happy with the division of duties.

  Sophie had wrapped the spyglass in the tea towel, not wanting to risk any questions. But the sight of Elsie Crowell, Nanny’s longtime friend, standing in the tiny doorway made her drop it, and she heard the glass crack with an ominous sound.

  “Where have you been?” Miss Crowell demanded. “I was about ready to send a search party after you. You’re lucky I chose to visit Bessie today or who knows what might have happened.”

  A cold chill ran through Sophie’s body, but she moved forward, leaving the spyglass in the dirt. “Is something wrong? Is Nanny all right?”

  “No thanks to you,” Miss Crowell said with a sniff. “As far as the doctor can tell, she tripped on the uneven flooring. She was facedown when I got here, and who knows how long she’d been lying there?”

  “You got the doctor in?” Sophie was aghast. Nanny must be gravely ill. Doctors were fiendishly expensive, and no one hired one unless the matter was dire.

  “Bessie is very dear to me,” Miss Crowell said stiffly. “Needless to say, I paid him—we all know what happened to your father’s great fortune. Fortunately Dr. Madeira assures me she’ll recover completely after a stint in a nursing home. Her leg is broken, and old bones don’t heal as quickly, but when she is able to leave she is coming to my house, not back here to this wretched little place.”

  Sophie’s back stiffened. For one thing, Nanny’s cottage
was snug and adorable. For another, Miss Crowell was a wealthy spinster who liked to have her own way, and she’d been trying to talk Nanny into moving in with her for years.

  But Sophie was just as good at having her own way, and she had never liked Miss Crowell. “Nanny likes being independent. She’s never said a word about wanting to leave here.”

  “Of course she didn’t. Not while she had you to look after. I would think you’d be ashamed of yourself, taking advantage of a poor old woman. She’s earned her rest. She told me she would join me once you girls were safely settled, but of course that will never happen. You’re all as wild and reckless as your wicked father.”

  Sophie smiled angelically, the look that her sisters had learned to dread. “My wicked father?” she echoed in a dulcet voice.

  “You know as well as I do that he stole all that money from his shipping company, and if he hadn’t had a carriage accident on his way to the Continent no one would ever know what happened to him.” She sniffed disapprovingly. “As for your sisters, they’re no better than they should be. Your eldest sister has run off with a murderer, and even in our tiny village we heard the rumors about your sister Maddy’s behavior. And where is that young woman, may I ask?”

  Living with a pirate and pretending to be a maid, Sophie was tempted to say, just to watch Miss Crowell’s pale, protuberant eyes pop out still further. “You may not ask,” she said instead, all affability. “Exactly where is Nanny at the moment? I need to see her.”

  “That wouldn’t be good for her. Dr. Madeira agrees with me that Bessie needs complete rest. She’s to have no visitors.”

  “She’ll worry about me,” Sophie protested.

  “No, she won’t. I’ve assured her that you’ll be looked after.”

  “I don’t need looking after.” Whether or not that was strictly true was a matter of opinion, she thought fairly. She had no money, no notion of how to replenish the dwindling food supplies, and she’d never been terribly good at lighting the recalcitrant old stove. However, she wasn’t without resources. She could always join a traveling circus, or perhaps start a career on the London stage . . .

  “You’re going to have to find somewhere else to go, Miss Sophie,” Elsie said. “They will hear about Bessie’s accident up at the big house and that nosy steward of his lordship will be making inquiries in the village, no doubt hoping she won’t return and they can get rid of the last trace of your family’s occupancy at Renwick. Not that your father wasn’t an excellent landlord before his descent into crime, far better than the Griffithses ever were, but there’s naught that can be done about that at this point—there’s no way you can get Renwick back. It legally belongs to the Griffiths family, and it would never have left their hands if the old master hadn’t been such a wastrel and gambler.”

  At least Miss Crowell was equally disapproving of all the inhabitants of the great house of Renwick, Sophie thought, keeping her deceptively sweet smile on her face.

  “Now, I was thinking there were a number of possibilities for you,” the elderly woman was saying. “The vicar knows of a post as governess to a family with six children, up north. They’ve had trouble retaining someone, or they’d never consider a girl as young and pretty as you are, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “I’d rather starve,” Sophie said flatly, never particularly fond of children.

  “Do you have any family besides your sisters?”

  “None.” She didn’t even blink, consigning her distant cousins to perdition. “And I have no idea where my sisters are.” That wasn’t strictly true, though the details were fuzzy.

  “If only your family hadn’t held Renwick for so many years,” Miss Crowell lamented. “Not that there’d be a place for you—there are no children and Mrs. Griffiths’s companion is her first cousin. You’d be better off looking for genteel employment in London.”

  The very thought of genteel employment gave Sophie cold chills, and she didn’t bother to inquire how she was even supposed to get there in the first place. “When is Nanny coming home?”

  “My dear, haven’t you been listening? She’s not going to. And even if she wanted to, Lord Griffiths’s steward might make certain she can’t. In the meantime she’s very well settled into the nursing home right now, and when she’s well enough she can share my little home for the rest of her days. We’ve always found each other most convivial.”

  Sophie didn’t miss the glaring fact that Miss Crowell’s “little home,” a house with at least four bedrooms, didn’t have room for her.

  “Nanny likes her independence,” she said carefully.

  “She’s worked hard all her life.” Miss Crowell was firm. “It’s time for someone to take care of her. Her only worry is about you, but I’ll set her mind at ease.”

  “You will?”

  “I’ll tell her you’re going to join one of your sisters.”

  Sophie wrinkled her nose. “And you think she’ll believe it?”

  “Why should I lie to her?”

  “Why indeed?” Sophie purred. “But unfortunately, even if I had the money for such a journey, my sister is in no position to have me come stay with her.”

  “I have enough set aside,” Miss Crowell announced smugly. “And the boy will drive you into Upper Pelham, where you can catch the stage, either to Plymouth or back to London. It’s your choice.”

  “But I have to see Nanny first . . .”

  “I can’t allow that. She doesn’t need the extra worry. Better if you simply leave.”

  “Without a word to her?”

  The elderly Miss Crowell had a gleam of triumph in her faded blue eyes. “She has no illusions about you, my dear. Everyone knows you’re a shallow, selfish beauty who thinks of no one but herself.”

  Sophie gave her a feral smile, and Miss Crowell took an involuntary step back. “Yes, I am pretty, aren’t I?” she said smoothly. “I trust if I send a letter to Nanny from . . . Plymouth, you’ll give it to her?”

  “Of course,” Miss Crowell said, clearly affronted. It would go in the fire, Sophie thought.

  She would have fought more, but Miss Crowell really was going to give Nanny the life she deserved. They were good friends, and Miss Crowell’s income even afforded a couple of servants. Nanny would live out her life in grand style.

  “It shouldn’t take you long to get ready,” Miss Crowell continued. “You don’t have much—I gather when your father stole all that money, his creditors stripped you of everything, including most of your clothing. Young Jacky will be by with his cart in a few hours—you should be ready.”

  Young Jacky’s cart smelled of dung. “Of course,” Sophie murmured, plotting revenge. “I’ll be ready.”

  The fool woman believed her.

  It didn’t take long for her to pack her two plain dresses—dyed black and now laundered to an indiscriminate shade between brown and dark blue—her hairbrush and toiletries and the fine lace undergarments that they hadn’t been able to take from her. Her emerald ear bobs that had been a sixteenth-birthday present from Papa made up the sum of her earthly possessions—she, the toast of London, the beautiful, gay, young heiress who’d had a personal maid, a laundry maid responsible for the ornate gowns that were long gone, and a hairdresser she shared with her sisters. Her siblings had managed well enough with their own hair since their fall from grace—she’d had nothing but trouble with her unruly mane of blond curls.

  She was just about to fasten the small satchel when at the last minute she threw in Nanny’s voluminous aprons. Nanny wouldn’t need them when she moved into the comparable lap of luxury that was Miss Crowell’s village home.

  She snapped the satchel closed, taking a long look around her. The answer had come to her, simple and obvious. She hoisted up her bag and started the long walk across the fields she had once known, down the lanes, to the house that had been her own such a short time ago.

  Sophie went unerringly to the kitchen door, making her way through the neat gardens full of vegetables a
nd herbs. Bryony would be glad of that, Sophie thought as she marched by. The new servants the usurper had brought in were keeping the place in good shape.

  She knocked firmly on the door. She could hear noise beyond, the clanging of pots and pans, and for the briefest moment her courage failed her.

  But only for a moment. Anything Maddy and Bryony did, she could do as well or better. It had been more than a month since she’d heard from either of her sisters, and she couldn’t wait forever. She rapped on the door again and, receiving no answer, pushed it open.

  It looked as if a whirlwind had hit the large kitchen of Renwick. Chaos reigned, servants were rushing to and fro, and no one even noticed the young woman standing there.

  A stocky, rough-hewn man who could only be the butler was busy fanning a harassed-looking woman who’d collapsed in a chair, red-faced and weeping. Three kitchen maids stood in the background wringing their hands, rather like a Greek chorus in one of those interminably long plays she’d seen in London. On the wide table in the center of the room stood a huge bowl, dough rising over the top, three pastry crusts half rolled out, the corpses of half a dozen pheasants still with their feathers, and the place was blazingly hot from the huge stove, which seemed to be cooking absolutely nothing.

  People rushed past her, ignoring her, and Sophie, who preferred to be the center of attention, dropped her valise, walked into the center of the kitchen, and took a large wooden ladle from the table, clanging it against an empty iron pot.

  There was instant silence as all eyes were on her. Sophie straightened her back, wishing for not the first time that her height were a bit more impressive. She was about to embark on a series of unlikely little lies in order to find a place at Renwick, when the properly dressed butler dropped the fan he’d been using, straightened his waistcoat, and stepped forward. He looked more like a prizefighter than a butler, but his manner was perfection.