Regency: Mischief & Marriage

About the Author

Award-winning author ANNE HERRIES lives in Cambridgeshire. She is fond of watching wildlife and spoils the birds and squirrels that are frequent visitors to her garden. Anne loves to write about the beauty of nature and sometimes puts a little into her books—although they are mostly about love and romance. She writes for her own enjoyment and to give pleasure to her readers. She invites readers to contact her on her website, www.lindasole.co.uk.

Regency

Mischief & Marriage

Secret Heiress

Bartered Bride

Anne Herries

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Secret Heiress

Anne Herries

Prologue

Autumn 1818

‘Eliza, my dearest.’ Mrs Bancroft held out her hand to her beloved adopted daughter. ‘Sit with me, my love. I have something to tell you.’

Eliza smiled and did as she was bid, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching for her mother’s hand. ‘What is it, dearest Mama? Are you feeling worse? Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘No, I am just as always, but I think we should talk. You know that it is unlikely I shall see the winter out…’

‘Mama, please…’ Eliza begged. ‘Doctor Morris said that you were a little better when he called. When the spring comes you will start to get up again and then…’

Mrs Bancroft squeezed her daughter’s hand. ‘I know it is hard for you, dearest. We lost Papa two years since and now…’ She shook her head as tears sprang to Eliza’s eyes. ‘No, you must not grieve for me, Eliza. I have loved you dearly, but I fear we have not been quite fair to you. We should have tried harder to discover the name of your true mother.’

‘You are my mama,’ Eliza said. ‘I know that you did not give birth to me, but I love you dearly.’

‘You have been everything a daughter should be,’ Mrs Bancroft said. ‘You have been ours since Papa found you left in the church behind the altar one Sunday morning, but somewhere out there you have a mother and a father. Don’t forget that Papa saw a gentleman’s carriage driving away and I believe you are the daughter of quality. Your clothes were of the finest materials and the ring I found tucked in with them is beautiful. I have kept it safe for you, Eliza.’

‘You showed it to me,’ Eliza said. ‘It is very beautiful, but I do not see what use it can be. If my mother abandoned me, she must have had her reasons.’

‘Perhaps she had no choice. I do not think that any mother would give up their own baby willingly.’

‘I dare say you are right.’ Eliza smiled and kissed her. ‘I only know that I was fortunate to have been found and raised by you and Papa.’

‘The ring is at the bottom of my sewing box if you should need it.’

Mrs Bancroft sighed. ‘My head aches again. I think I should like a tisane if you would make it for me, dearest.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Eliza rose and went downstairs to the kitchen. She had always known she was not the true child of her parents, but their kindness meant that she lacked nothing. However, if she were truthful, she had sometimes thought of her birth mother and wondered who she was and why she had been forced to abandon her newly born baby.

Her mama had mentioned a valuable ring amongst her clothes. Why had her birth mother placed it there—was it in the hope that one day her daughter would look for her?

Eliza had wondered if her mother would one day come to visit and tell her why she had given her up. Since she had not, there was no way of knowing who she was or where she lived. It would be almost impossible to find her—unless she could find someone who recognised the ring, of course.

If her papa had been right about the carriage he had seen driving away belonging to a wealthy man, then her parents might be gentry or even aristocrats. Eliza was not used to moving in those circles, except for the occasional invitation to the local landowner’s house at Christmas for the tenants’ party. How could she ever hope to find her mother?

She put the bothersome thoughts from her mind as she entered the kitchen. It was small like the rest of the cottage, but there were only the two of them these days; though they had missed the beautiful rectory that had been their home, they had become accustomed to their situation. Eliza did most of the work and the nursing herself, though Betty came in once or twice a week to clean. She had been the Bancrofts’s maid for years and insisted on doing what she could for them even though they could pay her very little.

‘I would work for nothing,’ Betty had told Eliza a few days previously. ‘If your mama were not so proud, I would never have left her at all.’

‘Mama does not wish to be a burden.’

‘It is hardly right that you should do everything, love,’ Betty said. ‘You know where I am if you need me.’

While the kettle was heating, Eliza gathered the ingredients for a blackcurrant tisane, her mother’s favourite. Despite the unfortunate start to her life, she had been loved, cared for and guided in the way she should go. At the moment all her thoughts must be centred on the sick woman upstairs. There would be time enough to think of her future when she was alone.

Chapter One

Summer 1819

Daniel, Lord Seaton, stared out of the window of his London house. It was situated in one of the best areas of the city, in a quiet garden square. It suited him when he visited the capitol. However, he would probably have to sell the property to meet his debts, rather than let it to a tenant, as he had intended when he came up to town.

‘Damn you, Marcus,’ he muttered. ‘Why did you have to land me with your mess?’

He frowned at the letter in his hand. As if he did not have enough problems trying to bring his own estate back from the brink of ruin! His father had died of a putrid fever six months earlier, after foolishly losing more than ten thousand pounds at the tables—and to a man Daniel believed might be both a cheat and a rogue. Cheadle was known for his ruthless play, so what his father had imagined he was about, Daniel did not know. Yet it was not the only mistake the late Lord Seaton had made. Several poor investments meant that Daniel had mortgages on at least half the land. His father had settled the gambling debt, but the mortgages meant that Daniel would struggle for years to put the estate back on its feet again. While his father had every right to spend his fortune as he pleased, Cousin Marcus was another matter.

Daniel scanned the letter again.

Only you can help me, Daniel. His cousin had written the letter two days before the accident that had caused his death just three months previously.

My debts are more than ten thousand and I cannot pay unless I sell my estate. Father might cough up the readies, but he has been ill for months and I think if he knew what I have been about, it would kill him.

To tell the truth, cousin, I have been a damned fool. I got in over my head—-things I am ashamed to own. If you knew all, you would consign me to the devil and think that I deserve whatever is coming. I may be in some danger and if you hear I have died in an accident, I give you leave to doubt it.

There is someone I fear, but I dare not write his name. He would certainly kill me then. Believe me, cousin, I have done things of which I am ashamed—but I did not know the worst of him when he persuaded me to help him. I want to get away, to start again, but I fear he will not let me go. The debt is another matter and the marquis must be paid. Your father was not the only one to fall foul of Cheadle’s damnable luck. Forgive me for asking if you can help.

Your wretched cousin,

Marcus

What was he to make of the letter? Marcus had sent it to Daniel’s London club and, busy at his estate, he had not received it until he paid a flying visit to town to speak with lawyers about his London property. Now he would have to contact Cheadle and ask for the extent of his cousin’s debt to him. At this moment he was not sure if he could find the money without reference to his uncle, but he would certainly speak to the marquis.

However, the remainder of his cousin’s letter was a riddle. What had Marcus been trying to tell him? He knew Marcus well enough to be sure that his cousin would not write such a letter without good cause. Who was the man who would not let him go—and, more importantly, had his cousin’s death truly been an accident?

At the time of the funeral he had not questioned it. The Earl of Standish told him it was a riding accident, and Daniel had accepted his uncle’s explanation without question. Now, his cousin’s letter had made him suspect foul play. Marcus had always been an excellent rider. As young men they had been great friends, though in past years they had grown apart. Daniel had chosen to take up a military career and spent eight years fighting with Wellington in various campaigns. It was during his time away that his mother had died and his father had started to drink and gamble. He blamed himself for not being at home when he was needed, and though he had returned when his father became ill, resigning his commission, it had already been too late.

The last thing Daniel needed or wanted at this moment was a mystery to uncover. Yet he knew that he could not simply ignore his cousin’s cry for help. Marcus was dead, and perhaps he had done things that would not bear the light of day, but if he had been murdered… Daniel’s mouth thinned. His memories of a young man he had loved as a brother demanded that he seek out Marcus’s murderer and bring him to justice.

As for Cheadle, well, he would pay a visit to his club that evening and discover if the marquis was in town.

‘You said I could come to you, Betty,’ Eliza said when her mother’s former maid opened the door of her cottage that evening. ‘I am sorry to ask, and I will find work as soon as I can—but may I stay here for a few days?’

‘Put you out of the cottage has, he?’ Betty shook her head sadly. ‘You’ve no need to ask, my lovely. Come you in and sit by the fire while I make you something to eat. I was afraid Mr Jones would say you couldn’t stop there alone once your dearest mother was gone. It only surprises me that he let you stay this long.’

‘It isn’t his fault,’ Eliza said. ‘I know the earl would have told him it was his duty to put me out and take another tenant. I can’t afford to pay the rent now that Mama’s allowance has stopped unless I work—and I shall not find work here. I have asked but no one will take me on. They take one look at my hands and say I’m not suitable.’

‘Your hands are not as white as they once were,’ Betty replied with a fond glance. ‘You worked hard to keep your mama neat and clean and do the cooking. It wasn’t easy at the last.’

‘Poor Mama. I fear she suffered a great deal,’ Eliza said and sighed. She had grieved for the past six months, but knew now she must put her personal feelings aside and look for work. ‘What do you think I should do, Betty? If I am not suitable as a maid what can I do—should I try for a governess?’

‘I don’t think most mothers would take you on, Eliza. You are too pretty and you might tempt their husbands or their older sons.’ Betty looked thoughtful. ‘If I were you I should advertise. Offer your services as a companion to an elderly lady.’

‘Yes, I suppose that might answer…’ Eliza sighed. Her mama’s illness had kept her tied to the house for many months, and though she didn’t begrudge her mama a minute of her time, she had hoped for something a little more lively in her future. ‘I suppose I might find it difficult to find work as a governess, for I have no training—except that I know how to make pillows comfortable and how to mix tisanes that ease discomfort and induce sleep.’

‘You are also a good little cook, for I taught you myself,’ Betty told her. ‘If you take your time and choose the right position, it might be just the thing for you.’

‘Yes, I dare say you are right. I have little choice; there is no one to help me.’

‘Are there no relatives of your papa who might take you in?’ Betty asked. ‘You are welcome to stay with me, my love, but it isn’t fitting for you. I am sure your mother would like you to mix with people of your own class. She was the daughter of country gentry, as was your father.’

‘Yes…’

Eliza did not answer fully. Betty had never been told that she was not the birth child of her parents, and therefore had no claim on their families, though there was a letter from Mama’s brother in India. She had found it at the bottom of her mother’s sewing box with the ring. Of course she would not dream of approaching him, for they were in no way related.

The ring was valuable. Fashioned of a thick band of gold in which a large deep red ruby had been inset, it had an inscription on the gold band. It was a romantic inscription, which made her think that her parents must have loved each other—but why had they given her up? Leaving her behind the altar on a Sunday had ensured that she was found quickly, but the person who placed her there could not have known that the Bancrofts would adopt her. Had the mystery gentleman been so ruthless that he did not care?

Who had put the ring on the ribbon and hung it about her neck, hiding it beneath her baby clothes? It must have been a woman—her mother? Had she wanted her child to have something of hers—something that Eliza suspected must have been very precious to her?

Why had her mother given her away? Her mama had had no knowledge, of course, but had told Eliza during one of their last discussions that she believed Eliza was a love child.

‘Your mother may have been forced to give you up, Eliza. Indeed, I am sure she was, for no woman would give up her baby willingly. I know that I should not, whatever the consequences.’

Eliza had tried to brush the subject under the carpet. Her mama was the only mother she had known and she loved her dearly. While she lived, Eliza had given hardly a second thought to who her birth parents were, even if she could not help wanting to know more about her mother. Now her thoughts turned more and more to her true mother and she wondered if she ever thought of her… wished to see her. Yet how could she hope to discover the truth? Living in the country quietly, as she did, she had no chance of meeting anyone who might recognise the ring.

‘I shall send my advertisement to the papers in London and Bath,’ she told Betty with sudden decision. ‘The kind of position you suggest may be found amongst fashionable ladies who can afford to employ a companion to run around after them.’

‘That is the spirit, my love,’ Betty said and smiled at her. ‘The curate was here earlier. He asked me if I had seen anything of you recently, Eliza.’

‘I usually help with the church fête,’ Eliza said and looked rueful. ‘He has been a little too attentive of late and I have tried to avoid seeing him other than on Sunday morning, when it is impossible not to meet.’

Betty arched her brows at her. ‘Your papa was a vicar, Eliza. Young Mr Stanley will have his own living one day. You could do worse than encourage him. Not that you need think of marriage just yet, of course. You are only twenty this summer and there is plenty of time, but being the wife of a clergyman may be better than a companion’s life.’

‘If I liked Mr Stanley, I should think it an ideal life, Betty—but he is too prissy in his ways. Had he been like Papa, I should have encouraged him long since.’

‘Well, I suppose he has some odd mannerisms—and he isn’t good enough for a lovely girl like you.’

‘I am not pretty, Betty.’ Eliza blushed delicately. She was tall and slender, her hair a rich dark brown and her eyes the colour some people called hazel. Her complexion was a little on the pale side, but she had a wonderful smile, and it was when she smiled that she was at her best.

‘No, you’re not pretty in the accepted sense,’ Betty agreed. ‘But you have a beautiful nature, Eliza. Any man worth his salt would be fortunate to have you for a wife.’

Eliza laughed, her eyes bright with amusement. ‘Betty, you are so good for me. I feel much better being here. I should have given up the cottage sooner instead of trying to keep it on. I have arranged for the few things that I decided to keep to be brought here on the cart. The rest of it will be sold at the market and I shall use it to pay for my keep until I can find work.’

‘That you will not unless you want to have a falling out with me and my Ted,’ Betty said stoutly. ‘He’s as fond of you as I am and he won’t take a penny of your money, Eliza. You write out your advertisement, my love, and Ted will take it to town this very afternoon when he goes, and send it off for you, but take money for your keep he will not—and that’s final.’

Eliza felt tears sting her eyes. She was so lucky to have such good friends. ‘I do not know what I should have done without you both while Mama was ill.’

‘You would have managed, for you bore the brunt of it,’ Betty told her. ‘I helped where I could and so did my Ted. He was only saying last night as it was time you had some luck, and so it is.’

‘Well, who knows what may happen?’ Eliza said. ‘I shall advertise for a post and perhaps fortune will smile on me.’

‘Go through to the parlour and write your letter in peace and I’ll make us some toast and a nice pot of tea for a treat.’

Eliza thanked her and did as she was bid, going into the neat room that was used on Sundays and for company. She sat down at the writing table in front of the window and picked up the pen. There was paper and ink in the drawer; Ted worked as a clerk at the office of the Earl of Standish’s estate manager and occasionally brought his work home to finish in the evenings.

She wrote out two adverts, one for The Times in London and another for a paper that published in Bath. The receiving office in Norwich would send them off and accept the fee on behalf of the paper.

Eliza sat for a moment, staring out at the view. Betty’s garden was a riot of early summer flowers and their perfume floated in through the open window. While she was here she could at least help with the garden—it was one of her chief pleasures.

Should she also write to Mama’s brother and tell him of his sister’s death? She was not sure if he already knew or even if he were still alive and living in India. She did not wish to appear as if she were asking for help. However, perhaps it was only polite to inform him.

She hesitated and then picked up her pen once more. She would write a brief note giving the bare facts and leave it at that—surely there could be nothing wrong in informing Mr Henry Jarvis of Mrs Bancroft’s death?

Sealing her letter, she picked up her reticule and put on her pelisse. If she hurried to the estate manager’s office, she might be in time to catch Mr Wright before he visited the ancient wool town of Norwich this afternoon.

She wondered how long it would be before she received an answer to her request for work. Would anyone be interested in employing a girl like her? She had no experience, except for a little nursing. Perhaps someone would think that sufficient. She could only hope she would receive an answer; despite what Betty had told her, she could not be a burden to her friends for ever.

Betty smiled when she went through to the kitchen. ‘Have you written your letters?’

‘Yes, I have. I shall walk down to the estate office with them now—unless you need me?’

‘There is nothing for you to do,’ Betty assured her. ‘It is a nice afternoon and the walk will do you good.’

A few minutes later, Eliza set out for the earl’s estate office. It was not too far, for the Wrights’ cottage was on the Standish estate and the morning was pleasantly warm. Eliza liked to walk whenever she could, though she had had little opportunity the previous summer when her mother was first ill, and had been making the most of this one. In consequence, her complexion was not as pale as it had been.

Perhaps because she was dreaming a little, she did not become aware of the horseman until he was almost on her. Startled, she turned to see the great black stallion racing towards her at speed, so she threw herself to the side of the narrow road, landing on her hands and knees in a bramble bush.

‘Damn you, sir! I said whoa,’ a voice cried loudly. She heard more cursing and a horse neighing as if in protest as it was reined in, then, moments later, ‘Forgive me, miss. My mind was elsewhere and I was not thinking that someone might be around that bend in the lane.’

Eliza rose to her feet as a gentleman in riding dress bent over her. He gave her his hand to steady her and she blushed as she found herself looking up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen. He stood head and shoulders above her and Eliza considered herself tall for a woman. The stranger was broad shouldered and of a powerful build; she thought him one of the handsomest men she had met.

‘I… was dreaming myself,’ she confessed. ‘Had I heard you sooner, I should have moved out of your way, sir. I trust your horse has suffered no harm?’

‘That is generously said.’ The gentleman smiled at her, a hint of relief in those devastating eyes. ‘Are you hurt, Miss…? Forgive me, I do not know your name.’

‘I am Eliza Bancroft,’ she replied and her cheeks were pink as he continued to hold her hand for longer than necessary. ‘I grazed my hands as I fell, but they will soon mend.’

‘May I see your hands?’ He turned her hands over and saw the slight graze on the right one and the spot of blood. Bending his head, he licked the wound with his tongue, sending a spasm of shock and incredible feeling curling through her. Eliza jerked and removed her hand from his grasp instantly. He looked surprised, then conscious, as if just realising what he had done. ‘Forgive me. I meant nothing wrong. My mother always said that licking the wound took the sting away. I have nothing to help you—unless my neckcloth as a bandage…’

‘No! It is not necessary,’ she said, feeling embarrassed by her feelings, which were quite inappropriate. ‘Thank you, I shall be home soon enough and my friend Betty will tend my hand for me, though I think it is no more than a scratch from the bramble.’

His eyes seemed to burn into her for long moments, then, ‘My apologies, Miss Bancroft. My mind was elsewhere. I am on my way to visit my uncle. He is expecting me and I did not wish to be late…’ He hesitated, as if unsure of what to do next. ‘If there is anything I can do…?’

‘No, sir,’ she replied instantly. ‘I am perfectly able to manage alone, thank you. Pray continue. I should not wish to make you late for your appointment.’

‘Standish is a testy old devil at times, but he has been ill and I am anxious about him, so I should go…’ He seemed unwilling to leave her, but in quite a hurry.