Claiming the Ashbrooke Heir

Claiming the Ashbrooke Heir Mary Nichols At a time when having a baby out of wedlock is a disgrace and means certain ruin, Annette Ryston is at her wits' end.Rejected by the father of her child, turned away from her work and her home she is determined to bring her son up to the best of her ability by taking in sewing, unaware that there is someone looking for her.The encounter with Major Charles Ashbrooke, when it comes, makes her realise how fragile is the life she has built around herself and how easily it could fall around her ears. But Annette is not all she seems and Charles recognises there is a mystery to be solved and in solving it, finds himself revising his opinion of the lovely girl… Dear Reader (#ulink_dc471d36-8ee7-5108-8267-10e0f93f81af), Claiming the Ashbrooke Heir is a shorter story than I usually write and presented me with a challenge. The story is set in Regency times when being an unmarried mother was a terrible disgrace; her reputation would be in tatters and marriage out of the question, no matter how mitigating the circumstances, so my heroine is in trouble from the start, ostracised and penniless. But she adores her tiny son and is determined to make a good life for them, despite all the obstacles. I hope you enjoy finding out how she overcomes these obstacles to find true love in the end. I certainly enjoyed writing it for you. Mary Nichols Born in Singapore,MARY NICHOLS came to England when she was three, and has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children and four grandchildren. Claiming the Ashbrooke Heir Mary Nichols www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Table of Contents Cover (#u9bf17269-3e8b-5019-8113-1b8b224f1e0a) Dear Reader (#u361f5870-bc06-52dc-b359-68e0d2a123a8) About the Author (#u84a353aa-6038-5c2d-9d45-0bc3bddffc87) Title Page (#u0a7bddf4-da43-539b-8a03-d8d24fb2f003) CHAPTER ONE (#u4141cae7-bd9b-535f-aa60-18fd3684abb4) CHAPTER TWO (#ud750aeba-95ef-59e8-bfd7-3215982ef852) CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_8e8f71ab-d63c-5ebb-a709-55f5e31801c6) July 1813 ANNETTE, carrying a brown paper parcel which contained the mending she had been given to do, dashed along the road so fast she was almost running. It was a hot day; the sun beat down mercilessly, reflecting the heat from the streets, and her chemise and underskirt were sticking to her. She hated leaving Timmy in the care of her slatternly landlady but she had no choice; she had to work to earn enough to pay their rent and buy food. Every minute she was away from him felt like an hour, and she imagined all manner of terrible things happening while she was absent. He might be taken ill, with Mrs Grosse not realising or even caring that something was wrong, or one of the woman’s brood of children might pick him up and drop him. He was only six weeks old, and very tiny, which was hardly surprising after all that had happened to her. His birth had not been easy, and she had been prepared not to take to him, but when he had been put into her arms by the woman who had been fetched in to help she had loved him at once. He was so small and helpless, with a little screwed-up face, a tuft of golden hair and tiny fingers that had a surprisingly firm grip. She had cried over him, knowing he had been born into a hostile world, and that she would have a struggle on her hands to keep them from starving, but do it she would. She had to make the best of the situation for both their sakes. The pavement was crowded with pedestrians, most of them in a hurry to go somewhere, though a few hawkers stood by their barrows, selling vegetables and fruit. She was dodging between them when she looked up and saw a man walking towards her and her heart missed a beat. It was Jeremy; she was sure of it. What was he doing in Norwich? Surely he had not come looking for her? She put her head down, hoping he had not seen her. She knew she had changed. Since her son’s birth the weight had dropped off her. Her once thick hair had become thinner and there were dark rings round her eyes from lack of sleep, because Timmy cried a lot. He was not thriving as he ought to be, and she supposed it was because she had been husbanding the little money she had very carefully and she did not get enough to eat, so that her milk held little sustenance. The man was almost level with her now. She slowed down to risk a glance at him from beneath the rim of her chip bonnet and realised it was not Jeremy, after all, but someone who looked like him. He was wearing a black frock coat with black velvet facings, black pantaloons and a double-breasted waistcoat. It was not his sombre clothes that reminded her of Jeremy, who favoured bright colours, it was his face. He had beautifully chiselled features, blue eyes and curly brown hair so like Jeremy’s it was uncanny. But this man was taller and broader than Jeremy, and his complexion was darker—as if he spent long hours out of doors; he was altogether a more mature man, though probably only a few years older. Her relief was so profound she smiled. The smile took him by surprise. Not because she had smiled; after all there were plenty of doxies on the streets of Norwich who habitually approached men with a smile in the hope of attracting their custom. No, it was the fact that it lit her face. It was like sunshine after rain. His own fanciful imagery made him smile too, and he found himself doffing his hat to her. Taken aback, she stumbled, and a man hurrying along behind her bumped into her. The parcel flew from her hands. She reached out to grab it and lost her balance. The gentleman moved so quickly she was not even aware of it until his strong hands steadied her. Miraculously he managed to catch her parcel at the same time. ‘Are you hurt, ma’am?’ His voice was deep and mellifluous. ‘No, not at all. Thanks to your swift action. And you saved my parcel too. I am indebted to you.’ Once again she surprised him. Her clothes, though clean, were well-worn, but her voice was cultured, the voice of someone educated, someone who could express herself among gentlefolk. He returned her package and bowed. ‘My pleasure, ma’am.’ She took it, thanked him, and then hurried on, faster than ever now. She had to get back to Timmy. The encounter with the man who had looked so much like Jeremy had shaken her and made her realise how fragile was the life she had built around herself, how easily it could fall about her ears. She left the busy streets behind and turned down an alley close to the river. Here the houses were huddled drunkenly together, and the air was filled with the stench of the river and the brewery close by. Ragged children played in the gutter and a couple of stray dogs fought over something loathsome. Annette hurried past them, in at one of the doors, and up the uncarpeted stairs to a room at the top of the house. She could hear Timmy crying. ‘Mama’s back,’ she said, dropping her parcel on the table and crossing the room to pick him up. He was soaked. ‘Oh, you poor thing. We shall soon have you dry and smelling sweet again.’ She sat on her bed to change him, annoyed with Mrs Grosse for not seeing to him when she was being paid to do so. When he was once more clean and dry, she fed him and sat cuddling him, staring at the filthy walls of her room and musing on how she had come to such a pass. This was the second home she had had since leaving Riseborough Hall, if you could call this hovel a home, but while she had her son she would do anything, put up with anything. He was the be all and end all of her existence. If only Mama were still alive! But if she had been Annette would not have been working at Riseborough Hall, and she certainly would not be where she was now. They would still be in their cosy little home in Islington, running a school for young ladies, readying them for Society. There had been one or two younger children too, and it had been Annette’s task to teach them the rudiments of reading and writing and how to enjoy themselves in play. It was that ability to relate to young children that had led Lady Somers, the mother of one of the pupils, to recommend her to Lady Ashbrooke, who had been looking for a nursery maid for her two young children. It had been the week after Mama’s funeral, and Annette had been sitting in the parlour after they had all gone, knowing that without an income she could not hope to stay in the house. Her plight had been brought home to her very forcefully when the landlord had given her notice to quit. A young girl of fifteen could not possibly live alone, he had told her, and if she had no one to take her in then she had best make her way to the workhouse. Lady Somers’ intervention had been a godsend. At Riseborough Hall she had been given two grey cotton dresses and several white aprons and a cap which constituted her uniform. Nearly four years she had been there, helping Miss Burnley, the children’s governess, to look after Isabelle, who had been four years old when she first arrived and Harriet who was two. She had grown to love them, fitting into the regime of the house-hold, glad to have a roof over her head and a small wage, and to learn a little of the ways of the aristocracy, for whom money meant very little and family reputation everything. She had sullied that, so her ladyship had said. No, she had not, she told herself. It had been Jeremy who had done that, but she was the one being punished. She went to the table and opened the parcel she had brought in with her. If it had not been for the gentleman rescuing it, it would have been trampled in the dirt and then she would have been in trouble. It contained two sheets, petticoats, stockings, underclothes—all of which needed mending. The work had to be done and returned the next day, when she would be paid two shillings and sixpence. ‘Do a good job and we might find more for you to do,’ the housekeeper at one of the grand houses on St Stephen’s Street had told her. Thankful to find something after knocking on doors for the best part of the morning, she had been almost triumphant as she’d carried the parcel away and hurried home to Timmy. She had work of a sort and they would not starve. Not today at any rate. She took the first sheet and her workbox to the window, where the light was better, and set to work. Her fingers were busy, but it left her brain with nothing to do but reflect on the past. Had Jeremy really condoned what had happened to her at the hands of his autocratic mother? ‘You may have that,’ she had said, pushing five gold coins along the table towards her, as if she could not bear to put them directly into her hand. ‘That does not mean I believe your story, not for a minute. I do not. You are nothing but a harlot and not fit to have contact with my innocent children.’ Annette had known it was no good expecting Jeremy to back her story because, according to Miss Burnley, he had been packed off to join his elder brother who was in Spain, fighting the war against Napoleon Bonaparte. To keep him out of her clutches, she supposed. Oh, how she had longed to fling the coins back at the woman. But fortunately her good sense had come to her aid and she had pocketed it, telling herself it would be repaid in full one day. One day she would make Lady Ashbrooke eat her words. Her ladyship had known perfectly well that she had no family, that there was not a soul in the world to whom she could turn, and yet she had given her only half an hour to pack and leave—and that in the middle of one of the harshest winters anyone could remember. Now, in the stifling heat of a July afternoon, with her child sleeping the sleep of the innocent and her hands busy with her needle, she could almost feel the cold. She had left the house on foot, carrying her portmanteau which, except for a few books which had been too heavy to carry, contained the sum of her possessions—including the four gowns she had taken to Riseborough with her and not been allowed to wear. ‘Too grand for a nursery maid,’ Miss Burnley had said. What had lain before her was unknown and terrifying, and she had hardly noticed the snow seeping into her shoes, or that her toes and fingers were numb. She had been passing Becky Musgrove’s cottage on the edge of the village when the woman herself had opened her door and called out to her. ‘Annie! Annie Ryston, where are you off to in this weather?’ Becky was elderly and tiny, with a mop of almost white hair, cornflower-blue eyes and a rosy complexion. She had once been nurse to Charles and Jeremy, the two older Ashbrooke boys by his lordship’s first wife, and now lived a simple but comfortable life in the cottage, on a pension provided by Lord Ashbrooke. ‘I am going to catch the carrier’s wagon.’ ‘You’ll not do that today, m’dear, the roads are impassable. Didn’t you know that?’ ‘Oh, no. Now what am I to do?’ ‘Best come in and sit by the fire; you look frozen.’ She turned and followed the old lady into the cottage. It was a very tiny dwelling, but sparkling clean, and a good fire burned in the grate of the living room. The table had been laid for one and a delicious smell was coming from a pot suspended over the flames. She moved towards the warmth and held out her frozen hands. ‘Sit down, child,’ Becky invited. ‘And take off those shoes and stockings or you will catch your death of cold.’ Taking Annette’s cloak, she hung it over the back of a chair close to the fire. ‘Whatever possessed you to come out on a day like this? I cannot imagine what her ladyship was thinking of to allow it.’ ‘It was her ladyship sent me out,’ she said, divesting herself of her wet footwear. Becky looked towards the portmanteau, which had been dropped by the door. ‘You’ve never been turned off?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Goodness me, whatever have you done to deserve that?’ She looked up at the sympathetic woman and blinked back tears. ‘Been a gullible fool.’ ‘Oh.’ The old lady digested this with apparent understanding, then she said, ‘It was Jeremy, I suppose?’ ‘I’m not saying.’ ‘You do not have to. I have seen him about the estate with you and the children and I can guess. Of the two boys in my care, he was by far the biggest handful. Not that Charles was an angel, far from it, but he was always the more thoughtful and responsible of the two. But I am surprised at you being taken in.’ Looking back, so was she, but it had begun so slowly she had been lulled into feeling easy with him. Back from university, and because of the war unable to go on a Grand Tour, which most young men of his rank usually did, he had been kicking his heels about the estate, ripe for mischief. He would make excuses to join her when she was out with the children, and then he would make himself agreeable, talking of nothing in particular, strolling along beside her, being charming and helpful. Then it had progressed to compliments on her good looks and her cleverness, and later he would send the children on ahead so that he could take her hand and flirt with her. And she, fool that she was, had soaked it up, believing him to be sincere. She had been too na?ve to see where it was all leading until the night he had come to her room and sat on the bed, saying he could not sleep for thinking about her. It had not been until he’d started to touch her through her nightclothes, murmuring endearments the whole time, that the alarm bells had begun to ring in her brain and she’d thrust his hand away and told him to go back to bed. If he had really loved her, as he’d said he did, he would have stopped then, but he took no notice, hardly seemed to hear her. She had not dared cry out for fear of waking the children, who slept in the rooms adjoining hers. Instead she had struggled silently and ineffectually. He had been a bit sheepish afterwards, grinning while he dressed himself and kissing her lightly before he left her room, as if he had done nothing untoward. ‘Part of your education,’ he had told her. It had certainly been that. If it had taught her one thing it had taught her not to trust anyone—especially not young men with bright gold hair, mischievous blue eyes and winning smiles. ‘What are you going to do?’ the old lady asked. ‘I don’t know. I must find work where I can live in until—’ She stopped suddenly, unable to contemplate the future. The prospect of the birth itself was frightening enough without the added worry of not knowing how they were both to live. The thought came to her that perhaps they would not live, either of them. Many women died in childbirth. Wealthy women as well as poor ones. It had happened to the wife of Mr Charles, so she had heard from servants’ gossip. She had never met him, but if he was anything like his brother then it was as well she had not. ‘When is it due?’ ‘Her ladyship called their physician in and he said about the beginning of June.’ ‘Some time yet, then…’ Becky paused, then added, ‘I have been thinking. My sister Martha takes in boarders and might be able to help. She is a widow and lives in Norwich. You will need to pay her; she is not a wealthy woman.’ ‘Oh, do you think she would? I would be so very grateful. I am sure I can find work even if it is only sewing.’ It had been easy to say that, sitting in a cosy room by a warm fire, with the bowl of soup Becky had just handed her in front of her. Since then she had discovered just how hard it was for a mother with a child and no man to support her. Becky had offered her a bed for the night, saying she couldn’t turn a dog out in that weather, and she had accepted gratefully. It was more than she could have hoped for when she had left the Hall, but she had been well aware it was only a temporary reprieve, that the future had to be faced. Shunned by society, spat upon, refused work and lodgings, all because of a child and the lack of a wedding band. She had kept out of sight while she was with Becky, afraid that someone might see her and report her presence to the Hall, but three days later the roads had been cleared and she had set out on the carrier’s cart to Bury St Edmunds, where she had boarded the stage to Norwich. Inside her bag was a letter to Mrs Porter, Becky’s widowed sister, who lived in St Ann’s Lane. Mrs Porter was not at all like her motherly sibling. She was thin and hard-faced, but while Annette had been able to pay for lodgings she had been prepared to tolerate her, believing her to be Mrs Annie Anstey, the widow of a soldier killed in Portugal. It was there that her son had been born and put into her arms, and in that moment she had known that, whatever had brought him into life, she would nurture him and love him with every ounce of her strength. That was what had been missing ever since her mother had died: someone she could truly love and who might love her. Lady Ashbrooke’s five guineas, along with the proceeds from selling her mother’s wedding ring and a small pendant which had been all that was left of her jewellery, had kept her going through her pregnancy, but a week ago all but a few shillings had gone, and she had been obliged to admit she did not have the rent money. ‘I cannot keep beggars,’ Mrs Porter had said, ignoring the fact that Annette had been helping with the housework and cooking for the other lodgers in return for a rebate on her rent. ‘There are others ready and willing to pay well for a room as good as this. I only took you in because Becky asked me to.’ ‘I know. I’ll find work. If you would be so good as to keep an eye on Timothy while I go out, I am sure I can earn the money for our keep.’ ‘No. I am not a children’s nurse. I don’t like children—especially when they cry all the time…’ ‘He can’t help that, poor lamb.’ ‘No, but my other lodgers don’t like it. I am sorry, Mrs Anstey, I have told a young couple they shall have this room. He is in work and there will be no trouble with the rent. I will give you to the end of the week…’ ‘But that’s only four days away!’ ‘Then the sooner you start looking, the better, wouldn’t you say?’ In despair she had packed her few things, picked up her child, wrapped in a shawl, and ventured out onto the street. And had ended up here, in this terrible hole. Mrs Grosse, who had a large family and had said it would be no trouble to keep an eye on Timmy while Annette worked, had demanded rent in advance, and so she had given the woman her last two shillings. Until she was paid for the work she was doing she had nothing. Nothing at all. The sewing dropped into her lap and she looked across the room at her sleeping child and felt a tug at her heart. He was so beautiful and so helpless. Whatever happened she must not fail him. Sighing heavily, she bent once more to her needle. CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_f9c73cf3-2689-526a-b263-c7c4bf80b4b1) CHARLES walked on, ruminating on the encounter with the young woman with the parcel. It reminded him of something his brother had said. ‘Out of the ordinary,’ he had told him, describing their stepmother’s nursery maid. ‘If she were dressed up a bit you could take her out and about in Society and no one the wiser. She has—what do you call it?—presence. Yes, that’s it. Presence. She speaks as well as we do and she holds her head up, and she has the most lustrous dark brown hair and wonderful greeny grey eyes …’ He had smiled at the time, putting it down to Jeremy’s fancifulness, but it exactly described the young lady he had just seen—except for the hair which, though dark brown, could hardly be called lustrous. She was too thin to be beautiful, but the rest fitted. He had almost spoken to her, accused her of being Annette Ryston, but had desisted, unwilling to make a fool of himself. If she was not the nursery maid then she would have laughed in his face or, worse, thought he was seeking an hour or so of pleasure. After all, Norwich was a large city, teeming with life, and there must be thousands of girls fitting the maid’s description. It did not matter anyway, because he had the girl’s direction and would see the real Annie Ryston there. He stopped outside the boarding house on the corner of St Ann’s Lane and King Street, hesitating whether to go in or not. It looked respectable enough: the windows gleamed, the curtains were clean, the step scrubbed and the brass knocker on the door shone with much polishing. If she was staying here then she was not doing too badly and perhaps it would be best to leave well alone. There was no proof of anything, and Jeremy had denied he had got the girl with child. Jeremy, his brother. Was he his brother’s keeper? The answer to that was that, in the absence of the brother himself, he was certainly his offspring’s keeper—if such a child existed. He went up the steps and knocked. A skinny little maid opened the door, and then left him on the step while she went to speak to her mistress. He did not have long to wait. Mrs Porter arrived, tying a fresh apron about her waist. He doffed his beaver. ‘Good afternoon, ma’am. I am looking for Mrs Anstey—Mrs Annie Anstey. I am told she resides here.’ ‘No more, she don’t.’ ‘Oh, do you know where she has gone?’ ‘No.’ She was eyeing him up and down, probably coming to the conclusion he was the child’s father. ‘You’ve come a bit late in the day, hen’t you?’ she went on. ‘She could ha’ done with you a couple of months since.’ ‘She had a child, then?’ ‘Don’t you know?’ ‘No. I met her husband out in Spain and I have a message for her from him.’ ‘Hmph,’ she muttered, evidently not believing a word. ‘I still don’ know where she’s gone. Try the work’us.’ He took his leave and went to the workhouse. She was not there, had never been there, and he was thankful for that; it was a dreadful place. Men separated from their families, mothers from their children, brothers from sisters, and they all looked listless and downbeat. He left and returned to the street, glad that he would never have to enter such a place, but wondering where to go next. Standing on the pavement with his back to that forbidding building, with the sun beating down on him, he was transported back to Spain, to the last time he had seen his brother. When the command had come to move out of their winter quarters and pursue the enemy, the troops had marched with a will. None more so than himself. He hadn’t been able to wait to get at the enemy. His quarrel with them was more than a soldier’s duty, it was personal. He blamed them for the death of his wife and baby son nearly four years before, notwithstanding they had been safe home in England at the time. He had convinced himself that if he had been with them, if he had been at home and not waging war hundreds of miles away, they might have lived. He had been so ridden with guilt over it the burden had become intolerable. It had eased it to take his venom out on the enemy, and Napoleon Bonaparte in particular, who had started the conflict. He had vowed he would not rest or go home until he had seen him beaten. It was a vow he had been obliged to retract when Jeremy had been mortally wounded at the Battle of Vittoria. His brother should never have been sent to war; he had not been soldier material and he cursed the unknown girl who had made it happen. He had known his father and stepmother would take the news very hard, and he could not let them learn it from an impersonal letter. He had seen his brother decently buried and come home. He had been right; his father was wretched and his stepmother could do nothing to help him. Jeremy, the golden boy, had been his father’s favourite, and he was dead. Charles knew he ought to go to Brookside, the country house he had shared with Arabella, but he could not bring himself to do so. It was not only that he could not bear to be reminded of her, but because he did not like to leave his father, who went about the estate with hardly a civil word to anyone and, when at home, sat in his chair in the library and brooded. ‘I wish I could do something for him,’ he had told his stepmother. ‘He needs something to occupy him and take his mind off it.’ ‘You could furnish him with a legitimate grandson.’ ‘I could, but to do that I must marry again.’ He remembered pausing, because her use of the word legitimate had made him think. ‘I am hardly likely to come up with an illegitimate one, Mama.’ ‘No, but I think Jeremy has.’ They had been breakfasting together at the time, and he had put down the piece of toast he’d been buttering and stared at her. ‘Tell me about it.’ And so she had told him about Annie, the nursery maid. He’d listened, remembering his conversation with Jeremy. ‘He told me about her,’ he said when she finished. ‘But he said it was only a romp and he had not got her with child.’ ‘He did not know. I sent him away. I feel dreadful about it now. Not about the girl—because Jeremy was only doing what hundreds of other young men have done, trying out his manhood. It is up to the girls to stop them if they do not like it—but because I sent him to his death.’ Charles did not agree with her about the girls. Her attitude, and that of his brother and other aristocratic youths like him, was careless in the extreme, but he did not say so. Instead he asked what had become of the nursery maid. ‘I have no idea. Does it matter?’ ‘I think it does. I think I should try and find her.’ ‘You never mean to bring her back here?’ She was horrified at the idea. ‘No, of course not. It would not do. But I can at least make sure she is not in want. If there is a child, she is not going to find life easy, is she? She might need help.’ ‘She should have thought of that before …’ ‘Mama, can you not find it in your heart to be charitable? After all, Jeremy must share some of the blame. If he had lived, I am sure he would not have let her starve.’ The trouble was that no one at Riseborough Hall knew where Annie had gone. She had not mixed with the other servants and had kept herself to herself. ‘Too high and mighty for her own good,’ Miss Burnley had told him. He had found out quite by chance when he’d visited Becky, something he always did when he was at Riseborough. After their mother had died, giving birth to Jeremy, she had been the only mother they had known until his father had married again, and by that time they’d been grown up. Becky had always been a safe haven whenever they needed one. She had been distressed on learning of Jeremy’s death, and had spent several minutes talking about him and the mischief he’d used to get into. ‘When you were at home you would always haul him out of his pickles,’ she said, dabbing at her tears. ‘But you weren’t here that last time.’ ‘You mean the business over the nursery maid?’ ‘Yes.’ It was then, after a little hesitation, that she told him of Annette’s stay with her and gave him the direction of her sister. And after all that Annette had moved on and his journey had been in vain. He turned on his heel and went back to his room at The Maid’s Head. He had tried and there was little else he could do; the girl had gone, obviously intent on not being found. And then he thought of the woman with the parcel. Could it have been Annette? She had had no child with her, but she could have left it somewhere—farmed it out, had it adopted. The idea did not sit well with him at all, and he knew he had to find her if only to confirm she was not the woman he sought. Annette, taking the sewing back the following day, had the uncomfortable feeling she was being followed. She tried dodging down side streets, but still she felt that shadow behind her. She could not think who would want anything from her. Her purse was empty and the parcel she was carrying contained nothing of any value, though she knew people had been attacked and even murdered for less. She hurried on, turning left before she reached the castle. It was a forbidding building which housed the city’s prison population, and she always passed it as quickly as she could, as if afraid that she might be drawn into it for some misdemeanour she was not even aware of. It was then she saw him—the man she had stumbled into the day before. If he was her follower, he must have turned down a side street to come at her from a different direction. She put her head up and made to pass him, but he barred her way and doffed his hat. ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We meet again.’ Could it be coincidence? Why would he remember meeting her, of all the hundreds of people that thronged the city’s streets? ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, wishing he did not look so much like Jeremy. It was unnerving—more so when she carried on walking and he dropped into step beside her. ‘I was hoping you might help me,’ he said. ‘Help you? If you are looking for directions, then you have asked the wrong person. I have not long lived in Norwich …’ ‘Did you, by any chance, once live in Riseborough in Suffolk?’ The shock made her stumble, but she quickly recovered her balance and began walking again, faster than ever. He was easily able to keep up with her. ‘I think from your reaction I might be right. Is your name Annette Ryston?’ She had been expecting the next question and was ready for it. ‘My name is Mrs Anstey.’ ‘Ah, then I am right. Becky said that was the name you intended to use.’ ‘Becky? I do not think I know the lady.’ ‘Oh, Annie, you know her very well, and so do I.’ She stopped suddenly and turned towards him. ‘Who are you?’ ‘I am Major Charles Ashbrooke.’ She should have known; his likeness to Jeremy was uncanny. It was a likeness that had been passed on to her son. She saw it every day when she nursed him: Jeremy’s golden hair and blue eyes, the squarish line of his jaw—a stubborn jaw even in one so young—but it did not fill her with any desire to see the young man again. She could not, would not forgive him. ‘What do you want with me? If Jeremy has sent you …’ ‘No, my brother did not send me—unless it be from the grave. He is dead.’ ‘Dead?’ The stark word shocked her, but being in mourning probably accounted for his dark clothes. ‘How?’ ‘I could explain if you would listen.’ ‘Why should I? He is … was … nothing to me.’ ‘Really? Now, do you know, I rather thought you had once been close?’ ‘Close. That’s a funny way of putting it.’ ‘Putting what?’ ‘What he did to me. I did not ask for it. He came to my room and forced himself on me. Did he tell you that?’ Her voice betrayed her bitterness. ‘No, he did not.’ He was shaken to the core. He knew his brother had been a rakeshame, who had loved and laughed without a thought for the morrow, but he had never thought him capable of such a despicable act. A tumble, he had said, adding that he did not know what the girl had to complain of. Had she complained? ‘I find that impossible to believe.’ ‘I care not whether you believe it or not, sir, it is the truth.’ ‘Not something said to make you feel less guilty?’ ‘I do not feel guilty. I never have. I feel hurt and … angry.’ ‘Then all I can do is offer a heartfelt and humble apology on behalf of my brother.’ ‘It was not your fault,’ she conceded. ‘You did not stay at Mrs Porter’s lodging house?’ ‘It did not suit me.’ ‘So you have moved on. Are you going to tell me where?’ ‘No. I cannot for the life of me think what you want with me. Lady Ashbrooke turned me off in a snow-storm without a character. I have no business with anyone from Riseborough Hall. If, as you say, Jeremy is dead, then I am sorry for you, but it is nothing to do with me.’ ‘You are sorry for me?’ He frowned. ‘I think perhaps the shoe is on the other foot.’ ‘I do not need or want your pity, Major Ashbrooke.’ She was too proud for her own good. ‘Then I will not offer it. Where are you going?’ ‘I am going to deliver this parcel.’ ‘It looks heavy. Please let me carry it for you.’ He reached out and took it from her fingers. ‘That’s better.’ They walked side by side in silence, making their way round the cattle market, noisy with farmers selling and buying the Highland cattle which had been driven down from Scotland to be fattened up before being sent to London. He stuck to her side, one hand on her elbow to guide her through the throng as a gentleman would a lady. She should have thrown him off and left him, but he had her parcel, and that represented money and food she could not afford to lose. ‘Where are we bound?’ he asked. ‘We are bound nowhere, Major. I am going to St Stephen’s Street, and as we are nearly there I bid you good day.’ She held out her hand for the parcel. Reluctantly he relinquished it and bowed to her. He watched as she hurried along the road, and then followed her to see her turning in at the gate to one of the large houses that lined the road. Did she live there? He did not think so, because she had said she was delivering the package. He hadn’t done with her. He could not get out of his head her accusation that Jeremy had forced himself on her. He could not believe it of his brother, but if she was telling the truth then it was his responsibility to try and make amends, if such a thing were possible. One thing Jeremy had been right about: she was definitely not the usual run of domestic servant. He stood, idly leaning against a tree trunk, watching the house for her to emerge, wondering what it was that made her so different. She was clean, for a start. Her face shone with cleanliness, as did her hands and fingernails. Her gingham day dress, which had once been smart and modish, was now sadly dated, but that, too, was clean. It was not that. Jeremy had called her a pretty little thing, but she was more than that: she was beautiful. She had classic oval features, large luminous soft green eyes, neat brows and a firm mouth—a kissable mouth, he realised with a sudden start. No wonder Jeremy had been attracted to her. He watched her come out of the house, still bearing the brown paper parcel—or perhaps it was another one. He wondered what was in it. Her step was light and she carried herself like a lady, back straight and head up. Again Jeremy’s description came to his aid. Presence. She made everyone and everything about her look drab. He marvelled, considering she must be living in very poor circumstances. Unless she had a wealthy lover, of course; perhaps Jeremy had not been the only one? But a wealthy lover would surely have dressed her better than that. He pushed himself off the tree and walked towards her, admitting he did not like that idea at all. He had to know. ‘Major Ashbrooke,’ she said, trying hard not to let his continuing presence disconcert her. ‘I should have thought you had something more important to do than hang about here.’ ‘At the moment, no. Allow me to escort you.’ Again he took her burden from her. ‘You do not know where I am going.’ She was going to buy food and then hurry home. She had to rid herself of him before that, because it was important he did not see her son. It was the child that had brought him to Norwich; she was sure of it. Lady Ashbrooke had told her never to come back, and Annette did not doubt she had meant it, but perhaps she had had a twinge of conscience about the baby. Or had the Major come of his own accord? He struck her as a man who would follow his own path, never mind what others thought. He was so handsome and so very … very masculine. A strong man—not only physically, but in every other sense. Stronger than Jeremy, who had had little difficulty in overpowering her. ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me.’ ‘No, it is none of your business. I have left Riseborough. I am no longer employed there. So you cannot dictate to me.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/mary-nichols/claiming-the-ashbrooke-heir/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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