Chapter 1

A few months later Dunford was sitting in his salon, taking tea with Belle. She had just stopped by to chat; he was glad for this unexpected visit since they didn't see quite as much of each other now that she was married.

"Are you certain that John isn't going to come barging over here with a gun and call me out?" Dunford teased.

"He's too busy for that sort of nonsense," she said with a smile.

"Too busy to indulge his possessive nature? How odd."

Belle shrugged. "He trusts you, and more importantly, he trusts me."

"A veritable paragon of virtue," Dunford said dryly, telling himself he was not the least bit jealous of his friend's marital bliss. "And how—"

A knock sounded at the door. They looked up to see Whatmough, Dunford's unflappable butler, standing in the doorway. "A solicitor has arrived, sir."

Dunford raised a brow. "A solicitor, you say. I cannot fathom why."

"He is most insistent, sir."

"Show him in then." Dunford turned to Belle and gave her a what-do-you-suppose-this-could-be shrug.

She smiled mischievously. "Intriguing."

"I'll say."

Whatmough ushered the solicitor in. A graying man of medium stature, he looked very excited to see Dunford. "Mr. Dunford?"

Dunford nodded.

"I cannot tell you how glad I am to have finally located you," the solicitor said enthusiastically. He looked at Belle with a puzzled expression. "And is this Mrs. Dunford? I was led to believe that you were not married, sir. Oh, this is odd. Most odd."

"I'm not married. This is Lady Blackwood. She is a friend. And you are?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Most sorry." The solicitor took out a handkerchief and patted his brow. "I am Percival Leverett, of Cragmont, Hopkins, Topkins, and Leverett." He leaned forward, adding extra emphasis when he said his own name. "I have very important news for you. Most important indeed."

Dunford waved his arms expansively. "Let's hear it then."

Leverett glanced over at Belle and then back at Dunford. "Perhaps we should speak privately, sir? Since she is not a relation."

"Of course." Dunford turned to Belle. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Oh, not at all," she assured him, her smile saying she would have a thousand questions ready when they were through. "I'll wait."

Dunford motioned toward a door leading to his study. "Right through here, Mr. Leverett."

They left the room, and Belle was delighted to note they did not shut the door properly. She immediately stood up and moved to the chair closest to the slightly open door. She craned her neck, her ears pricking up right away.

A mumble of voices.

More mumble.

And then, from Dunford, "My cousin who?"

Mumble, mumble.

"From where?"

Mumble, mumble, something that sounded like Cornwall.

"How many times removed?"

No, that couldn't have been "eight" that she heard.

"And he left me what?"

Belle clapped her hands together. How delightful! Dunford had just come into an unexpected inheritance. She rather hoped it was something good. One of her friends had just unwillingly inherited thirty-seven cats.

The rest of the conversation was impossible to decipher. After a few minutes the two men emerged and shook hands. Leverett shoved a few papers into his case and said, "I'll have the rest of the documents sent over as soon as possible. We'll need your signature, of course."

"Of course."

Leverett nodded and exited the room.

"Well?" Belle demanded.

Dunford blinked a few times, as if he still couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard. "I seem to have inherited a barony."

"A barony! Goodness, I'm not going to have to call you Lord Dunford now, am I?"

"He rolled his eyes. "When was the last time I called you Lady Blackwood?"

"Not ten minutes ago," she pointed out pertly, "when you introduced me to Mr. Leverett."

"Touche, Belle. He sank down onto the sofa, not even waiting for her to seat herself first. "I suppose you may call me Lord Stannage."

"Lord Stannage," she murmured. "How perfectly distinguished. William Dunford, Lord Stannage." She smiled devilishly. "It is William, isn't it?"

Dunford snorted. He was so rarely called by his first name that they had a long-running joke that she couldn't remember it. "I asked my mother," he finally replied. "She said she thinks it's William."

"Who died?" Belle asked baldly.

"Ever brimming with tact and refinement, my dear Arabella."

"Well, you obviously cannot be grieving overmuch over the loss of your, er, distant relative, since you didn't even know of his existence until now."

"A cousin. An eighth cousin, to be exact."

"And they couldn't find anyone more closely related?" she asked disbelievingly. "Not that I begrudge you your good fortune, of course, but it is quite a stretch."

"We seem to be a family of fillies."

"Nicely put," she muttered sarcastically.

"Metaphors aside," he said, ignoring her jibe, "I am now in possession of a title and a small estate in Cornwall."

So she had heard correctly. "Have you ever been to Cornwall?"

"Never. Have you?"

She shook her head. "I hear it's quite dramatic. Cliffs and crashing waves and all that. Very uncivilized."

"How uncivilized could it be, Belle? This is England, after all."

She shrugged. "Are you going to go down for a visit?"

"I suppose I must." He tapped his finger against his thigh. "Uncivilized, you say? I'll probably adore it."

"I hope he hates it here," Henrietta Barrett said, taking a vicious bite of her apple. "I hope he really hates it."

"Now, now, Henry," Mrs. Simpson, the housekeeper of Stannage Park, said with a cluck. "That isn't very charitable of you."

"I'm not feeling terribly charitable at the moment. I've put a lot of work into Stannage Park." Henry's eyes glowed wistfully. She had lived here in Cornwall since the age of eight, when her parents had been killed in a carriage accident in their hometown of Manchester, leaving her orphaned and penniless. Viola, the late baron's late wife, had been her grandmother's cousin and graciously agreed to take her in. Henry had immediately fallen in love with Stannage Park, from the pale stone of the building to the shimmering windows to every last tenant who lived on the property. The servants even had found her polishing the silver one day. "I want everything to sparkle," she had said. "It has to be perfect, for this is truly a perfect place."

And so Cornwall had become her home, more so than Manchester had ever been. Viola had doted on her, and Carlyle, her husband, became a sort of distant father figure. He didn't spend a lot of time with her, but he always had a friendly pat on the head ready when she passed him in the hall. When she was fourteen, however, Viola died, and Carlyle was desolate. He retreated into himself, letting the details of running the estate flounder.

Henry had immediately stepped in. She loved Stannage Park as much as anybody and had firm ideas on how it should be run. For the past six years she had been not only the lady of the manor but the lord as well, universally accepted as the person in charge. And she liked her life just fine.

But Carlyle had died, and the estate and title had passed on to some distant cousin in London who was probably a fop and a dandy. He'd never been to Cornwall before, she'd heard, conveniently forgetting that she'd never been here either before she'd arrived twelve years before.

"What was his name again?" Mrs. Simpson asked, her capable hands kneading dough for bread.

"Dunford. Something-or-other Dunford," Henry said in a disgusted voice. "They didn't see fit to inform me of his first name, although I suppose it doesn't matter now that he is Lord Stannage. He'll probably insist that we use the title. Newcomers to the aristocracy usually do."

"You talk as if you're a member of it yourself, Henry. Don't be turning your nose up at the gentleman."

Henry sighed and took another bite of her apple. "He'll probably call me Henrietta."

"As well he should. You're getting too old for Henry now."

"You call me Henry."

"I'm too old to change. But you're not. And it's high time you lost your hoydenish ways and found yourself a husband."

"And do what? Move off to England? I don't want to leave Cornwall."

Mrs. Simpson smiled and forbore to point out that Cornwall was indeed a part of England. Henry was so devoted to the region that she could not think of it as belonging to any greater whole. "There are gentlemen here in Cornwall, you know," she said instead. "Quite a few in the nearby villages. You could marry one of them."

Henry scoffed. "There is no one here worth his salt and you know it, Simpy. Besides, no one would have me. I haven't a shilling now that Stannage Park has gone off to this stranger, and they all think I'm a freak."

"Of course they don't!" Mrs. Simpson replied quickly. "Everyone looks up to you."

"I know that," Henry replied, rolling her silver-gray eyes. "They look up to me as if I were a man, and for that I'm grateful. But men don't want to marry other men, you know."

"Perhaps if you'd wear a dress . . ."

Henry looked down at her well-worn breeches. "I do wear a dress. When appropriate."

"I can't imagine when that is," Mrs. Simpson snorted, "since I've never seen you in one. Not even at church."

"How fortunate for me that the vicar is a most open-minded gentleman."

Simpy leveled a shrewd gaze at the younger woman. "How fortunate for you that the vicar is overfond of the French brandy you send over once a month."

Henry pretended not to hear. "I wore a dress to Carlyle's funeral, if you recall. And to the county ball last year. And whenever we receive guests. I have at least five in my closet, thank you very much. Oh, and I also wear them to town."

"You do not."

"Well, perhaps not to our little village, but I do whenever I go to any other town. But anyone would agree that they are most impractical when I'm out and about overseeing the estate." Not to mention, Henry thought wryly, that they all looked dreadful on her.

"Well, you'd better get one on when Mr. Dunford arrives."

"I'm not completely daft, Simpy." Henry chucked the apple core across the kitchen into a bucket of scraps. It fell squarely in, and she let out a whoop of pride. "Haven't missed that bucket in months."

Mrs. Simpson shook her head. "If only someone would teach you how to be a girl."

"Viola tried," Henry replied cheekily, "and she might have succeeded if she'd lived longer. But the truth is, I like myself just fine." Most of the time, at least, she thought. Every now and then she'd see a fine lady in a gorgeous gown that fit her to perfection. Such women didn't have feet, Henry decided. They had rollers—virtually gliding along. And wherever they went, a dozen besotted men followed. Henry would wistfully stare at this entourage, imagining them mooning after her. Then she laughed. That particular dream wasn't likely to come true, and besides, she liked her life just fine, didn't she?

"Henry?" Mrs. Simpson said, leaning forward. "Henry, I was talking to you."

"Hmmm?" Henry blinked herself out of her reverie. "Oh, I'm sorry, I was just thinking about what to do about the cows," she lied. "I'm not sure we've got enough room for all of them."

"You should be thinking about what to do when Mr. Dunford arrives. He did send word that it would be this afternoon, didn't he?"

"Yes, blast him."

"Henry!" Mrs. Simpson said reprovingly.

Henry shook her head and sighed. "If ever there was a time for cursing, it's now, Simpy. What if he wants to take an interest in Stannage Park? Or worse—what if he wants to take charge?"

"If he does, it will be his right. He does own it, you know."

"I know, I know. More's the pity."

Mrs. Simpson shaped the dough into a loaf and then set it aside to rise. Wiping off her hands, she said, "Maybe he'll sell it. If he sold it to a local, you wouldn't have anything to worry about. Everyone knows there's nobody better to manage Stannage Park than you."

Henry hopped down from her perch on the counter, planted her hands on her hips, and began to pace across the kitchen. "He can't sell. It's entailed. If it weren't, I daresay Carlyle would have left it to me."

"Oh. Well, then you're just going to have to do your best to get along with Mr. Dunford."

"That's Lord Stannage now," Henry groaned. "Lord Stannage—owner of my home and decider of my future."

"Just what does that mean?"

"It means that he's my guardian."

"What?" Mrs. Simpson dropped her rolling pin.

"I'm his ward."

"But . . . but that's impossible. You don't even know the man."

Henry shrugged. "It's the way of the world, Simpy. Women haven't brains, you know. We need guardians to guide us."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me."

"I don't tell you everything, you know."

"Just about," Mrs. Simpson snorted.

Copyright © 1996 by Julie Quinn Cotler