Page 1 of The Meriwell Legacy
Chapter 1
August 26, 1839. Mandeville Hall, Hampshire
What am I doing here?
With practiced languor, Alaric Augustus Radleigh, ninth Baron Carradale, strolled among the guests in the Mandeville Hall drawing room and endeavored to conceal his impatience to be elsewhere. Around him, the twenty-plus acquaintances the Honorable Percy Mandeville had summoned to his annual weeklong summer house party smiled, chatted, flirted, and preened. As it was after dinner and nearing ten o’clock on the second night of the planned revelry, amid the laughter and unceasing chatter, invitations of an intimate nature were being issued, not with words but with arch inviting looks. Or by a gentleman gazing into a lady’s eyes while holding her fingers in a possessive clasp—as Mr. Henry Wynne was presently doing with Mrs. Rosamund Cleary, a fashionable and racy widow.
Giving no indication he’d noticed the couple’s intent interaction, Alaric smoothly skirted the pair and continued moving through the crowd. He was passingly acquainted with all those present; Captain Freddy Collins determinedly caught his eye, and perforce, Alaric paused to exchange opinions on the latest fancy—and to bestow upon Freddy’s attractive companion, Mrs. Hetty Finlayson, the pleasant but distant smile he’d perfected as a means of conveying to lovely ladies that he was reluctantly, but definitely, otherwise engaged.
Mrs. Finlayson wasn’t the only bored matron attempting to lure him, but with gentle ruthlessness, he refused all offers; he had no interest in any short-lived and inevitably unfulfilling liaison.
He’d had a surfeit of such affairs over the years. Admittedly in the past, he’d found such engagements mildly amusing and had indulged when the mood took him. This year, however…he’d changed.
For the past decade and more, he’d prowled the drawing rooms and ballrooms of the upper echelons of London society and, in short order, had been deemed one of the more dangerous wolves of the ton. That long-established reputation was well known to those gathered at Mandeville Hall; they assumed it was the reason he was there.
Of course, by “dangerous,” the grandes dames had meant that he was likely to turn the heads of impressionable young ladies, leaving them smitten and dreaming of him rather than of the more attainable gentlemen their mamas and said grandes dames steered their way. He embodied a threat to the grandes dames’ schemes that, courtesy of his birth and station, was largely beyond their control—and such ladies never approved of anyone they couldn’t rein in.
If they could see him now…the grandes dames would cackle themselves into fits. The notion of him finally biting the bullet and seeking a suitable wife would have them grinning evilly; that was one of the reasons he was determined to make his choice quickly, efficiently, and with as little social noise as possible.
The other major reason was his sisters. One older and two younger, all were happily married and comfortably settled, and all three had long been of the oft-stated opinion that he should join their company. Well aware of his age and situation, lately they’d shown signs of growing restive. If they heard or saw enough to suspect he’d finally come to the point of selecting a bride, they’d be on his doorstep offering to help within the hour. In his mind’s eye, he could see their faces alight with enthusiasm… He would never be able to harden his heart enough to dismiss, deny, and disappoint them. Better he avoided the necessity altogether.
His parents had died more than a decade ago, leaving him as head of his ancient house, with the associated title and estate. Consequently, marriage at some point had always been in his cards, not least because his current heir, Montague Radleigh, also present at the house party, was viewed by the entire Radleigh family—Monty included—as unfit to inherit.
Monty had strengths, but those strengths did not include the talents required to run an estate. Although Carradale Manor, the house, was relatively modest, the wealth that lay behind it courtesy of farms, woodland, and funds invested was significant. So significant the family made a point of keeping that reality close to their collective chest; no one wished to see Alaric hunted by matchmakers intent on snaring a wealthy gentleman for their charges.
Luckily, Alaric’s intentionally well-founded reputation afforded him some protection, ensuring that matchmakers did not glance his way and never looked deeply enough to stumble on the family’s wealth. However, now he’d finally decided it was time to select a suitable lady and propose, the instant he took a public step in furtherance of that aim, the matchmakers’ eyes would narrow, and they would delve and find out…
He judged he would have not more than a week to cast his eyes over the likely candidates before he became a hunted man.
The advisability of learning all he could about suitable young ladies prior to returning to town in a few weeks when society regathered in the capital was weighing on his mind and making the hours he was wasting at Mandeville Hall all the more frustrating. Admittedly, there were two marriageable young ladies present, but neither fitted his bill; both were too young for his taste.
Given it was late summer, as was his habit, he was in residence at Carradale Manor, his ancestral home, located approximately half a mile away through the woods. He’d spent the past weeks ensuring his affairs were in order and the manor was in excellent repair so that his way would be clear to make an offer for his suitable young lady the instant he found her.
He’d yet to decide whether to secretly appeal to his older sister for assistance; he wasn’t at all sure she would agree not to tell the other two, and then…
With his ineffably urbane smile firmly in place, he finally stepped free of the crowd and paused by the wall, turning and pretending to idly scan the throng.
“Enjoying yourself, old man?”
Alaric turned his head as Percy Mandeville—his host—lightly buffeted his arm.
Smiling genially, Percy settled shoulder to shoulder with Alaric and surveyed his guests. “A good bunch, this year. Everyone seems to be getting on with no unexpected tensions.” After a second, Percy glanced sidelong at Alaric. “Sure you wouldn’t rather stay over the nights? You have before, and you know you always have a room here.”
Alaric’s smile grew more sincere. He shook his head, then met Percy’s brown eyes. “I know, but this year, I have business to attend to.” Deciding on the right wife surely qualified. “I didn’t want to miss your house party, but to justify attending during the days and evenings, I need to retreat to my library at night.”
And he needed the escape—and the safety of his own house. There, he was in no danger of having an unwanted companion attempt to invite herself into his bed.
“There you are, Carradale!”
In time with the booming words, a bony finger jabbed his arm.
Alaric turned to find himself being minutely examined through an old-fashioned quizzing glass wielded by a crone swathed in diaphanous draperies; thankfully, there were too many layers to permit any sight of what lay beneath. A silk turban in a hideous shade of puce wobbled atop the old lady’s head; steel-gray curls protruded beneath the turban’s lower edge. Knowing what was expected of him, he swept the old lady an elegant bow. “Good evening, Mrs. Fitzherbert. I would inquire as to your health, but I can see you’re in the pink.”
“Ha!”Mrs. Fitzherbert, an ancient aunt Percy invariably invited to act as his hostess and lend his house party a veneer of respectability, lowered her quizzing glass and narrowed her eyes at Alaric. “You always did have the most honeyed of tongues.” She wagged a gnarled finger at him. “‘Never trust a man who knows which compliments will most disarm one’ is a maxim no lady should forget.”
Alaric grinned. “In your case, ma’am, I speak only the truth.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert huffed, but then something caught her eye and her attention. She waved a vague dismissal and lumbered off.
