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  Turning her back on him, she hoisted her trunk of books with some difficulty, letting the exhale of exertion hiss through her teeth lest he realize just how much effort it took, and carried it and her valise to a table not so very far from his. (She’d have gone farther, but she greatly feared that she would drop the trunk, embarrassing herself before her nemesis.)

  No sooner had she collapsed as genteelly as she could into her chair, than the innkeeper appeared at her side, his narrowed busuy brows, his smile less than polite. “This taproom is for paying customers only, miss,” Mr. Stepney said with a pointed look at her trunk, as if it was taking up a seat that was also meant for paying customers. “If you would like to hire a room for the night, I’ll just take your payment now.”

  Well aware that Lord Kerr and the rest of the dining room were watching with interest, she mentally calculated the amount of money in her purse, which, she feared was not enough for even the smallest room here. Her passage on the mail coach had used the bulk of her funds, and her father had insisted that traveling with a full purse would invite cutpurses and pickpockets to prey upon her. Or so he’d said—she rather suspected it was another attempt on his part to keep her from leaving, but she’d called his bluff and gone anyway.

  Smiling up hopefully at the proprietor, she said, “You seem like far too kind a man to eject a lady from your establishment, Mr. Stepney, is it? I assure you I will only be here for a little while. I am expecting a carriage from Beauchamp House near Little Seaford this afternoon.” A bald-faced lie, but she was desperate. It was bad enough for a lady traveling alone to fend off the rough customers of a taproom, but if he forced her into the inn yard she didn’t like her chances of surviving unscathed.

  The innkeeper frowned, but before he could respond, she felt a presence at her back. “She will be traveling with me, Stepney,” said Lord Kerr smoothly. “We are both bound for Beauchamp House so I thought it best to spare her the indignities of the mail coach.”

  Stepney’s look of suspicion turned into a leer as he glanced between the marquess and Ivy. “Very well, my lord. Will you be needing another room then?” It was clear from his tone that he thought the question unnecessary.

  “I don’t think so,” Kerr said to Ivy’s shock. If the ill-tempered marquess thought she would let him get away with ruining her reputation then he was sorely mistaken.

  She opened her mouth to set the innkeeper straight, but the Lord Kerr continued, “I’ve hired a carriage for the drive so that we can leave in a short while. My own is in need of further repair so I will leave my coachman to see to it from here. Miss Wareham may have a place in the hired coach. For propriety’s sake I’ll join my valet in the second carriage..”

  Ivy could not have been more shocked if he’d casually announced that he drank the blood of virgins and howled at the moon. She’d judged him wrongly, she supposed. At least when it came to his desire to ruin her reputation. But as soon as Mr. Stepney had stepped away, the marquess said in a low voice only she could hear, “I’ll not risk any damage to your reputation lest I find myself at the other end of your father’s pistol being forced into a marriage with you. That is just what this farce needs to make it an actual circus.”

  She clenched her teeth, anger making her hands shake. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were wrapped in gold and carrying every last missing fragment of Greek poetry,” she spat.

  “Then we are in agreement on something, it would seem,” he sneered. “And if you are wondering why I am in such a generous mood, it’s because I won’t have you ruining my good name in these parts. My family has owned property here for hundreds of years and we are well known in the district. And the sooner we get to Beauchamp House and speak to my aunt’s fraud of a solicitor, the sooner I can get back to London and get on with my life.”

  “I might have known you’d be playing dog in the manger with Beauchamp House,” Ivy said shaking her head in disgust. “You don’t want me or the other ladies to have it, but you don’t actually want it for yourself either. Just another family property to languish empty while you and the other Beauchamps ‘live your lives’ in your actual homes. What a charming portrait of aristocratic generosity you paint.”

  “I’d mind my tongue if I were you, Miss Wareham,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Else I shall change my mind and leave you to the charming Mr. Stepney’s care.”

  Recognizing the truth of his threat, she bit her tongue on the sharp retort she longed to let fly. “My apologies,” she said falsely. “If the hired carriage is ready, perhaps I’d best go ahead and climb in, to spare us both further argument.”

  With as much dignity as she could muster, she attempted to hoist her book-laden trunk once more, only to be forestalled by Lord Kerr who wordlessly lifted it without so much as a grunt of exertion—really it was too unfair that men were endowed with such strength. Especially men like the marquess, who it was unlikely was ever called upon to lift more than a fork at his lavish dinner table. Though a quick glance at his close-cut jacket and skin-tight breeches showed that he must be doing some sort of exercise on a regular basis.

  The villain. Why could he not be as fat as the Prince Regent and as weak as a kitten?

  “Come along, Miss Wareham,” he said without waiting to see if she followed. “The sooner we get to Beauchamp House, the sooner we can have you on your way back to Oxfordshire.”

  Rather than argue, she trudged along after him, looking forward to the moment when he’d be forced to accept just how wrong he was. About her, and about the matter of Lady Celeste Beauchamp’s bequests.

  There would be time enough for gloating then.

  * * *

  Despite her earlier upset and sparring with Lord Kerr, Ivy fell asleep almost as soon as the hired carriage departed from the inn. Her day had begun before dawn and she’d gotten little rest the night before because she was eager for her journey.

  By the time the conveyance pulled to a stop some hours later, she was awake and ready to see her new home. But night had fallen as they traveled, so all she could see was the glow of lamplight through the windows. A real look at the manor house would have to wait until tomorrow.

  She was surprised to see that it was Lord Kerr who opened the door of the carriage rather than a footman.

  “Don’t just sit there gaping, Miss Wareham,” he said extending his hand in to her after he let down the step. “You’ll catch flies.”

  Her desire to stretch her legs after hours in the carriage was at war with her determination to be as uncivil as possible to the man who had insulted her motives so thoroughly earlier. But, she thought as she grudgingly took his proffered assistance, he had offered her safe passage to Beauchamp House—no matter how ugly the motive—so she relented.

  No sooner was she standing on her own two feet than she was pulled close in a strange lady’s embrace. “You must be Ivy,” said the woman with a slight northern burr. “We thought you’d never arrive. We’ve been waiting this age. You’re the last to arrive and though Lady Serena did assure us that you’d be here soon enough, I did have my doubts let me tell you, Ivy. May I call you Ivy? It’s such a lovely name, though Lady Celeste’s letter did say that your given name is Aphrodite, which I must say is a mouthful so I’ll just use Ivy if you don’t mind. Though if you insist of course, I shall call you Aphrodite, it’s your name after all.”

  She could have continued on forever, Ivy was certain, had the young lady not glanced over into the bemused countenance of Lord Kerr. Her gray eyes grew wide and her mouth formed an O of surprise.

  Taking a moment to catch her breath, Ivy glanced behind the talkative lady and saw three more ladies, a very dignified man she assumed was the butler, and a footman arrayed upon the front portico.

  “Give her a moment to get her bearings, Miss Hastings” said the curvy brunette, who seemed a bit older than the other three. Smiling to soften any chastisement in her words, she continued. “That chatterbox, Miss Wareham, is Miss Sophia Hastings who along
with her sister Miss Gemma Hastings, here”—she gestured to the plainer girl next to her, with beautiful dark chestnut hair in contrast to her sister’s light brown locks—“is another of Lady Celeste’s heirs.”

  “I’m Lady Daphne Forsythe,” said the tall blonde, who was perhaps the most beautiful creature Ivy had ever seen. But her awkward manner kept her from the remoteness that her looks might have imbued her with. “I am a mathematician, Sophia is a painter, and Gemma studies fossils. You study ancient languages.” This last was said as if an accusation, but Ivy got the feeling that there was no harm meant by the girl’s brusque manner.

  “Indeed I do, Lady Daphne,” she said with a smile at the other girl. “But I’m sorry ma’am,” she continued to the woman who’d spoken up first. “I didn’t hear your own name in that list of introductions. Might you be Lady Serena Fanning?”

  “She is indeed, Miss Wareham,” said Lord Kerr before Lady Serena could speak up. “And I suggest we all go inside so that we can discuss this business somewhere other than the front stoop where all and sundry might listen in.”

  Rather than protest at the marquess’s bad manners, the other ladies nodded in agreement and allowed the butler to usher them all back into the front entry, where Ivy handed the man, whom she learned was called Mr. Greaves, her cloak and asked that her trunk and valise be taken up to her room. She would have liked to wash off her travel dirt before getting into yet another argument with the marquess over the late Lady Celeste’s disposition of Beauchamp House, but she’d seen the glint of annoyance in Lord Kerr’s eyes at seeing her fellow heirs waiting for her, so she knew it was coming.

  “Let’s retire to the parlor, shall we?” Lady Serena suggested as she led them upstairs into a well-lit chamber furnished with comfortable chairs, a couple of sofas, and a merrily burning fire.

  Ivy could tell that Sophia wanted very badly to ask her a dozen more questions, but something—perhaps Lord Kerr—kept her silent until they were seated. “I had not expected you to be traveling with a gentleman, Miss Wareham,” she said as if unable to keep her peace any longer. “Is he your betrothed?”

  Both Ivy and Lord Kerr spoke at once.

  “Good god, no!”

  “Perish the thought!”

  Lady Serena laughed. “Well, that was certainly heartfelt. Sophia, I can assure you that this fellow—though he does seem to have arrived with Miss Wareham, is my cousin the Marquess of Kerr, and he was likely on his way here when he met Miss Wareham on the road. Is it something like that, Quill?”

  The marquess, who was looking as comfortable as a hen in a foxes’ den, inclined his head to Lady Serena. “Something like that, Serena, though I must confess myself surprised at finding you here. I should have expected you to have more family feeling than to be welcoming these interlopers into Aunt Celeste’s home.”

  “Interlopers?” Sophia asked, her nose wrinkling in puzzlement. “What can you mean?”

  “The bequest is quite clearly spelled out in your aunt’s will, my lord,” said Lady Daphne firmly. “My solicitor made sure of it.”

  “As did ours,” said Miss Gemma Hastings, with a firm nod. “Else we’d not have traveled such a great distance to come here.”

  Enjoying the sight of Lord Kerr confronted by others who were on her own side, Ivy pushed up her spectacles on her nose so that she might better see his chagrin. Of course, being Lord Kerr, he showed no such thing.

  “My own solicitors are looking for loopholes as we speak, ladies,” he said with a shrug. “And I fear you are all doomed to disappointment. I will, of course, do what I can to ensure you safe passage back to your respective homes.”

  “Quill,” Lady Serena said sharply, “I think you are mistaken—both with regard to Aunt Celeste’s will but also her wishes. Why do you think I am here?”

  For the first time, Ivy saw a crack in his lordship’s veneer of certainty. He frowned. “I don’t know. I suppose I thought you brought Jeremy here to visit the seaside. And mistakenly thought these ladies were guests.”

  “Jeremy is her six-year-old son,” Lady Daphne helpfully informed Ivy. “A bright child though not as good with maths as I was at that age.”

  Ivy’s eyes widened, and even Lord Kerr looked shocked.

  “Daphne,” Sophia hissed, “that’s not something you should say aloud in front of the boy’s mother.”

  “I was only stating a fact,” Lady Daphne said puzzled. “If I were Jeremy’s mother I would wish to know that he is lagging behind.”

  Clearly Lady Daphne was lacking the ability to censor her thoughts, Ivy thought. That would make for an interesting tenure in Beauchamp House for them all.

  Perhaps wishing to change the subject, Lady Serena said, “I did not bring Jeremy here to enjoy the seaside. Aunt Celeste asked me to act as chaperone for her heirs for the next year as they compete to see who will eventually become the owner of Beauchamp House.”

  A silence fell over the room, and Ivy could feel the shock of the other girls because it mirrored her own.

  “Compete?” Lord Kerr asked, looking as flummoxed as the rest of them.

  “Perhaps you’d better come have a private chat with me,” Lady Serena said to the marquess. Turning to the four heiresses, she said pointedly, “And you ladies can go get Ivy settled in to her room. I daresay she’d like to rest after the journey she’s had. I’ll see you all in the morning.”

  Knowing a dismissal when she heard one, Ivy gave one last look at Lord Kerr whose frown was thoughtful as he stared at his cousin. He might have been unpleasant, but he was the last connection to her life before Beauchamp House, and Ivy found herself reluctant to leave him.

  But Sophia slipped an arm through hers and smiled with understanding. “Come on,” she said leading her to the doorway. “I’ll ring for hot water. I know the first thing I did as soon as I got here was freshen up.”

  Diverted by the promise of fresh clothes and rest, Ivy went along.

  Chapter 3

  “You should leave, Quill,” said Serena baldly as soon as the door to the parlor closed behind them. “I don’t know what maggot you’ve got in your head about Beauchamp House, but you need to get back into your carriage and return to London.”

  He waited until they were safely inside Celeste’s library before speaking up. Quill had never known either his aunt or Serena to fall prey to the sort of feminine whims that led other ladies to be taken in by frauds, but in this instance he was convinced that it had happened to them both. Why else would his aunt have concocted a contest that determined who would inherit a manor house that had been in the family for centuries?

  “You shouldn’t speak cant, Serena,” he said, scowling as he opened the cupboard doors behind his aunt’s desk in search of something alcoholic. “It doesn’t suit you. And I’m surprised that you of all people would go along with such a ridiculous plan.”

  At last in the back of the cabinet, behind a stack of Minerva Press novels, he found a decanter. Pulling it out, along with the glass beside it, he held up the crystal to the light. Opening it, he sniffed. Port! He gave a sigh of relief and poured himself a glass.

  Serena watched all of this in annoyance, her arms crossed over her chest. “What do you mean, me ‘of all people,’ cousin?” she asked sweetly. “I hope you’re not referring to my late husband, else I shall be forced to toss you out on your ear myself.”

  Quill had the grace to feel sheepish. He also well remembered that until he’d grown strong enough to hold her off, she’d been quite good at pinching the tender skin beneath his bicep when he kidnapped her dolls or used her fans as sails for his self-constructed sailboats on the pond. Surreptitiously he slipped a hand beneath his arm at the remembered pain.

  Still, even Serena had to admit that her late husband had been a charlatan of the first order. Though he could hardly say as much now. Instead, he took a sip of the excellent port—thanking the gods that his aunt hadn’t been too much of a stickler not to buy her liquor from the smugglers that populated
the coast.

  When he saw that Serena was waiting for a response, he shrugged. “I simply thought you’d had enough of being lied to,” he said simply.

  “And what makes you think that I’m being lied to now?” she asked, not deigning to acknowledge his veiled mention of her late husband’s perfidy.

  By the time Quill had learned that his dear cousin’s husband, who had spent every last farthing of her dowry, had died on his way to the continent with his mistress, it had been too late to do what he wanted—which was call out the bastard. So instead he’d seen to it that she was well taken care of and that her young son, Jeremy, was not in want of male relatives to substitute in the role of father figure. He knew all too well what it was like to grow up as the only male in a house full of women.

  Grateful that they weren’t going to go into the details of Fanning’s bad behavior again, Quill latched on to her mention of their present problem. “Can you truly believe that Aunt Celeste would have invited four strangers into her home—where she surrounded herself with everything she loved: books, art, artifacts, academic papers—and not only given them free reign but involved them in some sort of competition for it? Our Aunt Celeste? Who disliked people almost as much as she loved books? It’s laughable. She is very likely shouting at us from beyond the grave, telling us to get them out of her house and away from her things!”

  Though he’d been very fond of his aunt, he knew better than anyone just how much of a misanthrope she could be when it came to interacting with people she didn’t know. He’d never heard the full story, but his mother had hinted once that a failed romance had left Celeste with a sour attitude toward the ton and a dislike of town. It was impossible to reconcile the Celeste he knew with the sort of woman who would invite strangers into her home—no matter how lonely she might have become.