Chapter Two #2
“You might not care about what happens to me, but I didn’t think you’d be so indifferent to the fate of Ferndale.”
She turned her head sharply. “Ferndale? What do you mean?”
He shrugged again. “Just that Ferndale is mortgaged to the hilt, and if we don’t pay up, the mortgage holder is threatening to sell it.”
“Sell it? He can’t! Nobody can. Ferndale belongs to me.”
He made an indifferent gesture. “At the moment it does, but if we don’t pay up soon, the mortgage holder has every right to sell it. Effectively the entire estate belongs to him.”
“But it can’t belong to him. Ferndale was willed to me by my mother, and by the trust my grandfather set up. Only I can sell it, and I’d never do that—never!”
He shrugged again. “The law is the law.”
Tessa stared at him in frustration, her pulse pounding. “How could such a thing happen. It must be a mistake.”
Edgar simply shook his head and turned away, a signal that as far as he was concerned the conversation was over.
Tessa sat in silence, her thoughts in turmoil.
How could Ferndale be sold? It was hers!
Who was this man who held a mortgage and was demanding payment?
And how did mortgages work? She had no idea.
Her father, Edgar and both her husbands would never discuss finance—or anything important—with her.
Even though she was the one who saved Papa and Edgar from the violence of debt collectors.
Ferndale. . . Her beloved home. It was the key to her plan. As soon as she amassed enough money—and she had almost enough to hire a carriage to travel there—she planned to leave London and go to Ferndale and live there in peace for the rest of her life.
But without Ferndale, she would be homeless. And dependent on Edgar for the rest of her life.
“There must be another way,” she told her brother. “You’re always getting loans—why can’t you get a loan to pay off this mortgage?”
“Loans are not so easy to come by,” he said. “Besides, it’s only the interest the mortgage holder requires: he will still be holding the mortgage over our heads.”
Tessa felt a surge of hope. “The interest—it’s less? How much do we need?”
He told her the sum and her heart sank. That was just the interest? It seemed impossible.
“Nevertheless, we must try. Tomorrow you must go out and try to raise the money. I won’t have my home sold out from under me, Edgar, I won’t allow it.”
“If you married Sir Henry—“
“No! I won’t marry again, not even to save Ferndale.” That might be a lie, she thought. She’d do anything to save Ferndale, but before she reached that stage of desperation, she would try every other possible way.
A loan, that was the solution. If Edgar could manage it.
He had to. Her nails bit into her palms. It was infuriating that females weren’t allowed to do any business.
She’d tried several times in the past but had been politely but firmly rebuffed.
“Anything you own, madam, belongs to your husband. There is no need for a lady to have a bank account.”
But thanks to Grandpapa’s trust and Mama’s will, she did own Ferndale.
“So, Edward, tomorrow morning you will go out and seek a loan—yes?”
Edgar sighed theatrically. “It won’t do much good, but very well, if you insist, I’ll try. But marrying Sir Henry would be easier.”
She shuddered. “Not for me.”
#
SLEEP CAME HARD FOR Marcus that night: he found himself mulling over his brief interaction with Tessa. Something wasn’t right.
At first she’d seemed pleased to see him, but then .
. . those frequent glances off to the right, as if looking for something.
For what? Or whom? And the image given by her demure, ladylike posture and pleasant conversation was contradicted by the way she had removed her gloves and was picking at her nails.
He’d itched to reach down and stop her, place his hand gently over hers and see her anxiety fade.
And when her brother had arrived with that elderly gentleman in tow, she’d stiffened. He was sure he saw her eyes flash with anger but an instant later it was as though a mask had dropped over her face, and she looked cool, serene, even bored.
But her fingers kept picking at her nails. Worse than ever.
Marcus had left them—Edgar had made it clear he wasn’t wanted, which normally would have made no difference to him, except that Tessa had sent a subtle silent signal that he should leave too.
The tense undercurrents were almost tangible.
Something was very wrong. Something or someone had turned the carefree, exuberant, open child he remembered into this cautious, restrained, tense young woman. Her brother? Her marriage? His every instinct told him she was far from happy.
But was he simply reacting to her cool reception? And her parting words that had seemed a clear message: stay away.
He’d never been rejected by a young, eligible lady or widow. Quite the contrary.
Was he the sort of coxcomb who was only interested in the hard-to-get? Who forced his company—unwanted—on women? He didn’t think so. Having experienced unwanted attentions himself, the very idea revolted him.
But he wasn’t generally given to much self-examination.
In any case, he wasn’t thinking of her as potential partner. She was simply an old friend who seemed . . . unhappy? Lonely?
In the time he’d been observing her, not one person had greeted her, not a soul had talked to her. Not even that chaperone woman. Only her brother and the old man.
Not for the first time he wished he’d overheard the conversation she’d had with her brother when they first arrived. From the distance it had looked like a dispute. And Edgar had certainly taken charge when he returned, making it clear to Marcus that his sister was off limits.
But why?
The questions nagged at him, and one thing became clear: he needed to find out more about her and her recent history, and for that he would seek out his friend Barney. The idea of discussing her behind her back was distasteful, but he needed to understand.
First thing in the morning he headed for Barney’s lodgings. He found his friend dressed in a violently patterned Oriental silk dressing gown and addressing a large breakfast. He invited Marcus to join him, but he only accepted coffee.
When Barney had dealt with most of his breakfast, and was onto his third coffee, Marcus broached the question. “Tell me about Lady Hewitt. Everything you know about her.”
Barney buttered a piece of toast and spread it with marmalade, shaking his head sorrowfully all the time. “Marcus, you madman. Did I or did I not warn you against that woman? She’ll eat you alive, man—or her brother will, which is just as bad.”
Marcs snorted. “Eat me alive?”
Barney crunched down his toast, drank some coffee, swallowed and said, “Hard to believe, isn’t it, but trust me, she’s as cold as ice and worse—she’s heartlessly, ruthlessly avaricious.
She’s already bled two husbands dry and if she was at the party the other night, it means she’s on the hunt for a third.
It’s the only time she ever appears in society, so be warned. ”
Marcus was stunned. Two husbands? At her age? “You mean she’d been married before Hewitt?”
Barney, his mouth full of toast, nodded. He swallowed. “The first one was old Lord Holgrave.”
Marcus had never heard of Lord Holgrave. Nor Lord Hewitt for that matter. His brain was still reeling at the thought that Tessa had been married twice before. “What do you mean ‘old’ Lord Holgrave?”
“He was past eighty when he married her.”
Marcus’s jaw dropped in shock. “Past eighty? And she must have been—?”
“Very young.” Barney grimaced distastefully. “Holgrave liked them young.”
“Good God! She can’t have wanted him.”
Barney shrugged. “Word is, her father brokered the match. Was in debt to the eyeballs. Worked too. As I said, she—or rather her dear papa—bled the old man dry. By the time old Holgrave died, he was a pauper. But a happy one, I gather, with a beautiful young girl in his bed.”
Marcus felt ill. It was a most unsavory tale. “You say she lost her second husband, too? What did he die of?”
“Old age.” Barney buttered another piece of toast and spread it lavishly with marmalade. “Are you sure you don’t want some toast? This marmalade is dashed good.”
Marcus ignored him. “Old age?” he repeated, stunned. “You mean she married another old man?”
Barney nodded. “Bled him dry too. I expect they’re looking for a third rich old octogenarian for her to wed. She’s obviously making a career out of it.”
Marcus swore silently. The story appalled him, disgusted him.
Tessa couldn’t be more than twenty-four or five.
Two elderly husbands and both dead and stripped of their wealth?
And now there appeared to be a third octogenarian courting her.
If that was true, she must have a heart of ice, as Barney had suggested—or no heart at all.
But was it true? She hadn’t appeared to encourage her elderly swain at all—far from it. Though some women did play hard-to-get. And some men loved it.
Barney was up to date with every bit of ton gossip, but Marcus was sure there was more to the story. There had to be.
He simply couldn’t believe that the wild little scrap who loved the forest, who called foxes her friend and slipped out at night to watch badgers and otters and their cubs, could turn into a coldly mercenary young woman who would barter her body to old men and strip them of their fortunes.
He needed to speak to her in person. “Do you know where she and her brother are staying in London?” he asked Barney.
“Brother keeps their address pretty close,” Barney explained, waving a triangle of toast vaguely. “Always a rented house that changes every few months. Don’t want callers.” He snorted. “If you ask me it’s debt collectors—or worse—he don’t want calling.”
Marcus swore under his breath.
Barney eyed him, then shrugged. “I did hear a whisper that his current abode is in Cressy Lane. Not exactly a salubrious address, but neither is it quite in the slums.”