The Abandoned Daughter

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 1

Jared, Viscount Ashton, though not possessed of a title of the highest rank, was a man of considerable means. Possessor of a gracious country home in the Cotswolds, an elegantly appointed townhouse a block off Grosvenor Square, and the obligatory seaside apartments in a Brighton made fashionable by the Prince Regent. Lord Ashton also maintained the Wyndham family’s long-held apartments in Bath, currently occupied by his mother and maternal grandmother, as well as supporting an overabundance of aging relatives whose meager fortunes had not outlasted their lifetimes.

Although Lord Ashton indulged in all the sports available to London’s Corinthian set—young men with too much money and too little to do—he was most skilled at fencing and had the lithe and graceful body one might expect of a gentleman pursuing an ancient art while his friends were culping wafers at Manton’s Shooting Gallery. There were those who thought his coloring too dark—surely a Spaniard somewhere on his family tree!—but his coal black hair, chestnut brown eyes, and skin a few shades darker than his compatriots made him stand out in any crowd. Only a privileged few, however, had been allowed to see into the depths of those eyes, where they found a sharp intelligence and hints of a compassion not common to young gentlemen of the upper classes.

At the age of nine and twenty, Jared, Lord Ashton, was at the top of the list of every matchmaking mama not determined to snabble a duke, marquess, or earl for her precious daughter. Happily, from Viscount Ashton’s point of view, he had managed to ignore all attempts to maneuver him into matrimony.

The only faint blot on Lord Ashton’s reputation as a shining light of the ton—as indulging in a string of mistresses was an expected foible of noble gentlemen—was a tendency to enjoy a spot of gaming, perhaps a bit more than most. Gaming that, on occasion, led him to stray outside the boundaries of Mayfair. Where, one fateful night, a desperate, rather down-at-the-heels gentleman offered to stake a modest home of a mere eight bedrooms in Oxfordshire.

Thus, Lord Ashton found himself journeying from London to view Belwether House, certainly his most substantial win at the gaming tables. Though, truth be told, his conscience had twinged a time or two as Mr. Giles Bainbridge completed the paperwork transferring the deed. A momentous moment that led, late one afternoon in August, to Lord Ashton’s coachman slowing for a turn into a long, overgrown driveway. Heedless of any pretense to dignity, the viscount and his companion pressed their noses to the glass. For a good hundred yards they saw only a tunnel of trees—marked by more than a few branches low enough to threaten the coachman on his perch—before the crested carriage rumbled into open parkland, the grass knee-high, and behind it . . .

Groans issued from both gentlemen’s throats, followed by a series of sharp exclamations best left unrecorded as they took in a house that appeared on the verge of crumbling into dust. Belwether House? Sir Guy Hatton snorted. More like Belwether Ruin. Not worth the wager, Ashton. Cost a fortune to restore. Best sell and be done with it. Salvage what you can.

Viscount Ashton, moving his sharp gaze from the tall grass covering the park to the twilight gloom enveloping the three-story country home at the end of the drive, huffed a soft breath and murmured a resigned, What else could one expect? Bainbridge has been a wastrel from the day he set foot in society. Why scythe the lawn, let alone repair the house, if he could swan about town, placing wagers on anything from a horse race to a fly crawling up a wall? We should have known it would be like this. Lord Ashton flipped a hand to encompass the grass waving in the breeze and the house that managed to droop forlornly despite being constructed of redbrick.

By the time the coachman pulled up to the front door, the two gentlemen were not surprised to find the paint peeling on both door and window trim, missing tiles on the roof, and once-decorative shrubbery sprawling in ungainly masses against the side of the house.

Is anyone living here? Sir Guy asked in sepulcher tones.

According to Bainbridge, yes, the viscount returned, frowning. Made a point of asking me to see to their welfare.

A thought for someone besides himself? his friend mocked.

I admit I thought it odd. After a look of disgust at the dilapidated front door, Lord Ashton gave the knocker a sharp rap. Nothing. The viscount banged the knocker several more times, considerably louder than was considered polite.

Staff likely scarpered off after not being paid, Sir Guy offered.

Possibly. Lord Ashton, far from the languid town beau he appeared to be, eyed the door, as if judging the possibility of kicking it in.

Could try the kitchen entrance, Sir Guy suggested. If the shrubbery doesn’t eat us on the walk around.

At which point the front door creaked open a few inches, revealing half of a feminine face—young, wary, and even from what little Ashton could see, exceptionally beautiful. For a considerable number of seconds both gentlemen were rendered mute at finding beauty in such an ugly setting. The viscount was the first to recover. I am Ashton, he announced rather grandly. I would speak with the housekeeper, girl. Or butler, if you have one.

The heavy door began to close, but not before the viscount grabbed the frame and inserted a mirror-polished Hessian boot. Did you not hear me, girl? he snapped. Housekeeper, now! The pressure on the far side of the door did not ease. I own this house and everything in it, Jared, Lord Ashton, announced with all the hauteur of his heritage. Now open the door, girl!

The resistance on the far side of the door fell away, leaving the gentlemen on the doorstep staring at the young woman who had been so valiantly denying them entrance. Surely not more than nineteen, Lord Ashton surmised. Though she was clutching a tattered shawl over a drab and well-worn gown, she possessed a pair of wide cerulean-blue eyes set in a face that should never have been shut away in a tumble-down house in Oxfordshire. Bainbridge’s doxy? No wonder he had exacted a promise to look after the residents! But at the moment the chit was very much in the way.

Stop gawping, girl. Summon whoever is in charge.

Movement at the back of the hall caught the eye of both invaders of Belwether House. You there, Lord Ashton barked, are you the housekeeper? This foolish girl seems to be mute.

A tall, too-thin female of uncertain years emerged from the shadows near what was likely the door down to the kitchen area. Scowling ferociously, she brandished a rolling pin. Startled into swearing, the viscount exclaimed, Good Lord, Woman. I assure we are not housebreakers. I am Lord Ashton, here to view my new property.

The young beauty suddenly demonstrated she was not only far from mute but capable of speaking in the well-educated tones of the upper class—though her words betrayed a slight quaver as she exclaimed, "The house has been sold?"

Sold, no, Ashton snapped. Lost at cards.

The older woman wailed, followed by a string of unintelligible epithets as she rushed forward to support the girl with the long-lashed blue eyes, leading her toward a dust-covered chair set against the wall. Silence reigned as the men stared, finally beginning to suspect they had stumbled into a situation more challenging than anticipated.

After several long moments, the girl took a deep breath and announced in a voice of surprising authority, I am Miss Bainbridge, the only person in charge here. This is my cook, Mrs. Armstrong. Except for a stableboy, we are all who are left in residence.

Hell and the devil confound it! Trust Bainbridge to make a mull of it. Very carefully, in a voice gentled to suit what appeared to be a most delicate situation, Lord Ashton asked, You have received no word from Bainbridge’s solicitor?

None.

She was born in this house, Mrs. Armstrong cried. It was her mother’s dowry.

The autocratic London gentlemen wilted before her words. Sir Guy Hatton examined the scuffed tiles beneath his feet. Lord Ashton gazed into a shadowed corner of the hall, as Giles Bainbridge’s exhortations to take care of the inhabitants of Belwether House took on  a wholly different meaning.

Snapping back to the moment, the viscount paced across the hall to stand in front of the slight young beauty, who seemed to have wilted to the size of a child. I beg your pardon, Miss Bainbridge, for intruding on your life with no warning. My friend and I will find accommodation in the village and return tomorrow for a tour of the property. After which, you and I will discuss your future. No, no, do not object. Your father asked me to see to your welfare.

Blue eyes—proud and remarkably steely—met the viscount’s dark gaze. It is not for you to see to my welfare, my lord. I am certain my father will be here shortly to take me wherever he deems best.

Appalled faces. Silence even more profound than when the London gentlemen realized they were dealing with a young lady rather than a maid. Lord Ashton, though raised to all the privileges, arrogance, and all-too-frequent indifferences of his rank, gulped back a groan. Turning, to his companion, he ground out, If you would be good enough to wait for me in the carriage . . . ? Looking considerably relieved, Sir Guy Hatton exited the house at a near run.

Miss Bainbridge, clearly sensing the disaster was even worse than she knew, stared at the noble intruder, her shoulders stiffened against the next blow. Mrs. Armstrong scowled, fingering the rolling pin, as tension exploded into fear. Lord Ashton, after taking a moment to recover his customary aplomb, inquired in an admirably neutral tone, Miss Bainbridge, is there a parlor where we might sit and talk?

Silently, she stood and led the way into a room that appeared to be a bookroom with an unexpectedly cozy nook for reading set before three tall, mullioned windows. A nook that appeared well-used—a knit blanket draped over one arm of a wing-backed chair, two books and a cup of tea on the side-table next to it. Lord Ashton was not surprised when Miss Bainbridge seated herself in what was clearly her chair. Her refuge. As he took a seat in a matching and equally shabby chair across from her, he noted that Mrs. Armstrong chose to stand some ten feet away, still clutching the rolling pin. Inwardly, Lord Ashton winced. Neither rank nor privilege would be of help in this particular situation. The truth, harsh as it was, must be revealed. Devil take it! He’d faced his share of challenging situations, but never any as awkward as this. Awkward, ha! More like dumbfounding.

Miss Bainbridge, he began, I am sure you are aware that gentlemen sometimes do strange things when they are in their cups?

I am aware that my father drank to excess, my lord. I cannot deny it. Miss Bainbridge shot him a glance from beneath her long lashes before resuming a fascination with the hands clasped in her lap.

The night I played piquet with your father . . . The viscount forced back a grimace and forged on. I fear we were at a gaming establishment in Soho, not of the best reputation, you understand? He looked up, as if hoping for a nod, but Miss Bainbridge sat as if made of stone. We were all imbibing rather heavily, but there was also a rather loud group of men present, celebrating their final days in London. They were, it seems, about to embark for Sydney.

Sydney? Miss Bainbridge’s head shot up, sky blue eyes darkening, as if with that one word, she knew.

Lord Ashton winced. Time to lay it all out.

When your father wagered this house, I attempted to talk him out of it, but he was adamant. Devil a bit, how could he tell her Bainbridge had seemed almost eager to dash off, leaving his troubles behind? I fear the enthusiasm of the boisterous celebrants may have sparked what could be called ‘emigration fever,’ your father caught up in the attraction of starting a new life on the far side of the world.

Miss Bainbridge sucked in a harsh breath. The rolling pin thudded against Mrs. Armstrong’s palm. The viscount hastened on. He did swear me to the task of looking after the welfare of those in this house. And I fully intend to do so.

Ain’t that just like him to go off, thinking of none but himself, Mrs. Armstrong exclaimed. Abandoning our girl as if she’s no more’n a feather in the wind.

Ignoring the cook, Lord Ashton spoke with all the sincerity he could muster. I assure you, Miss Bainbridge, that even though I had no idea of your existence, I will do as promised and see to your welfare. If you will give me the name of your closest relative, I will contact them immediately.

I have none.

Nonsense. Everyone has relatives. I have far more than I could wish.

Miss Bainbridge, lips pursed, shoulders stiff, glared at him, haughty as a duchess. My parents made a runaway match of which both families strongly disapproved. My father was already a known wastrel, my mother an innocent who saw only his handsome face and charming manner. Her father, anxious she should have a roof over her head, gifted her with Belwether House but after that, cut her off from all contact with the family. My father’s family disinherited him as well. Other than what I have just told you, I know nothing of either family. Nor do I wish to.

Silently, Lord Ashton swore. Miss Bainbridge, I have agents who can find your grandparents—

No.  An unequivocal response. I will advertise for a position as governess or companion. It is not a thought new to me. I have been aware for some time that disaster could strike at any moment. Miss Bainbridge paused, clearly considering the logistics of the problem. I am certain the vicar and his wife will give me lodging while I look for a position. Therefore, there is no need for you to concern yourself with my affairs, my lord.

Believe me, Miss Bainbridge, Lord Ashton countered, this is an obligation I will not shirk. Balefully, they stared at each other, two strong wills clashing head-on. Lord Ashton would do as promised, while Miss Isabelle Bainbridge struggled to avoid the attention of a nobleman who was more likely to solve the problem with an improper offer than find her a suitable position.

Oblivious to Miss Bainbridge’s doubts about his character, the viscount turned to the other charge upon his conscience. What are your plans for the future, Mrs. Armstrong, and how may I help you?

Taken aback by his seeming sincerity, the stalwart cook bit back hot words about his high-handed treatment of her employer, squared her bony shoulders, and announced, I’ve a sister who cooks for the squire, m’lord, and has long wished for me to join her. Likes his food does Squire Bellamy. Her brows lowered to a fierce scowl as she added, "But I’ll not go before seeing my lady properly settled."

Message received. Though not without a bit of a shock as Lord Ashton was unaccustomed to anyone, let alone a cook, questioning his actions. After an abrupt but not unappreciative nod of understanding, the viscount rose to his feet and addressed Miss Bainbridge. After our tour of the house tomorrow, my companions and I will return to London, leaving you and Mrs. Armstrong to see to the hiring of an army of cleaners. If you will make a list of monies owed, I shall discharge your debts in the village before I go. I will also leave enough money for you to go on with until I return and, naturally, you and Mrs. Armstrong will receive compensation for your efforts. I will return in—shall we say, in one month. By which time, Miss Bainbridge, I expect to have found a suitable position for you. And now, ladies, good-night. Clearly believing no further discussion necessary, Jared, Lord Ashton, swept a bow to Miss Bainbridge, executed a respectful nod to the belligerent cook, and then he was gone, leaving both women staring after him, as if a whirlwind had swept through the bookroom of Belwether House, Oxfordshire.

Chapter 2

Miss Isabelle Bainbridge woke the next morning with instant awareness a world turned topsy-turvy. The autocratic dictates of Lord Ashton rang through her head, clashing with dire warnings from Mrs. Armstrong turning her usually steady mind to a cacophony of nightmare proportions.

Father, how could you?

How could she have expected anything else?

But to leave her to the mercy of a London dandy? A man who had so little conscience he had accepted the wager of a man’s home? Mrs. Armstrong was likely right. Heedless of the viscount’s promised largesse, she should flee to the vicar this very day, compose her advertisement for the London newspapers, and never set foot in Belwether House again.

Yet she could not do it. One of the odd aspects of growing up the daughter of an inveterate gambler was that she had been imbued with the demanding and inflexible rules of honor customarily reserved to men. If she accepted Lord Ashton’s money, she was obligated to do as asked.

She should have rejected his offer of compensation, stood on her pride and . . . Ha! The old adage was true. Beggars could not be choosers. She would grit her teeth and do as he asked.

Asked? Ordered. No, more like assumed. He was Ashton; whatever he decreed was law.

With an audible groan of disgust, Isabelle Bainbridge rolled out of bed and girded herself to face the day. Hopefully, Lord Ashton would see that beneath the layers of dust and disrepair Belwether House had good bones. For as ridiculous and futile as it seemed, she could not bear for him to scorn the only home she had ever known.

Later that day, as Isabelle guided the London gentlemen through all three stories, the kitchen area, and cellars below, the men’s sharp eyes seemed to miss nothing, yet not one word— praise or condemnation—passed their lips.  Her  apprehension grew with each step. When they were once again in the front hall, Lord Ashton finally turned to her, hands clasped behind his back. Isabelle held her breath, while inwardly scolding herself for caring what he thought. With no more than a curt nod, he pronounced the fateful words: A reasonable investment. It will do.

A rush of emotion shut out the rest of his remarks. Isabelle bit her lip, fighting a rush of shame. How could she be pleased by faint praise from the dastard who stole her house?

Miss Bainbridge!

I beg your pardon, my lord.

I asked if you have compiled the list I asked for?

Fingers fumbling, Isabelle fished out the document she had labored over last night, not forgetting a minimal curtsey as she handed it to him.

This, the viscount said, dangling a leather pouch before her face, is for household supplies and the wages of the cleaners I expect you to hire. As promised, when I return I will see that you and Mrs. Armstrong are properly compensated for your services. With that, he turned toward the door, clearly assuming that all would go exactly as he decreed.

But what of the repairs, my lord? Isabelle called after him. You saw the pots and pans set about to catch the leaks.

Jared, Lord Ashton, eyed the young lady of the house with what appeared to be a hint of surprise beneath his exasperation. As if a lapdog had suddenly bared its teeth. I do not consider repairs a lady’s provenance, Miss Bainbridge, but I daresay I should have mentioned that I will undertake to hire the proper workmen before I leave. With that, the viscount and his faithful companion swept out, the front door thudding closed behind them.

Everyone knows nobs are arrogant as billy-be-damned, Mrs. Elvira Armstrong proclaimed, but that one takes the prize.

Isabelle jingled the pouch of coins. But we are well paid for our trouble. A welcome relief, you must agree.

Don’t trust that one an inch, Cook ground out. Do what I told you last night, Miss. Flee to the vicar’s before he gives you a slip on the shoulder.

Which he cannot do if he is not here, Isabelle snapped.

I don’t trust that man farther than I c’n throw him! Mrs. Armstrong declared, but forewarned is forearmed. I promise you, I’ll see you safely established before I’m off to the squire’s. Never be able to hold up me head, else.

Tears misted Isabelle’s eyes as she hugged Mrs. Armstrong tight, her head barely reaching the cook’s shoulder. Then both women stood back, taking a long look at the dust and decay around them, each picturing the challenge of room after room turned ghostly by a sea of once-white Holland covers spread over the furnishings; chimneys clogged with soot, pantry shelves nearly bare of food, the coal pile dwindled to nothing. All things money and hard work could mend, Isabelle thought, but there was no fixing the bright squares and rectangles that stood out from the faded wallpaper, telltale signs of paintings sold to pay off Giles Bainbridge’s latest losses or to put food on the table.

I wonder who hires men to scythe the lawn? Isabelle murmured. Does that come under household expenses or repair?

A lady should not have to think of such things, Cook declared. ’Tis not too late, Miss Isabelle. Give back the money, and we’ll be off to the vicar’s within the hour. If not the vicar, there’s no doubt Squire and his wife will take you in.

Isabelle came close to laughing. Eyes gleaming, she eyed the older woman who had stood by her through all the ups and downs of Giles Bainbridge’s erratic life. Speaking slowly, emphasizing each syllable, Isabelle said, Besides honoring my obligation to the money being paid, do you have any idea what it means to me to have enough to set the house to rights? To see it restored to what it once was—well, as close as possible, she qualified. "It is a joy I thought impossible. And that man, whatever his reasons, is making it happen. So whether I like the manner of his decrees, I will do as he orders, for no matter who lives in this house, I wish to leave it holding up its head like the fine country manor it once was."

In one month? Mrs. Armstrong scoffed.

Isabelle jingled the bag of coins. If we send young Tom to the village with word of our windfall, I daresay we will soon have an army clamoring at the door.

Cook’s eyes transformed from gloom to a twinkle of hope. We could start by pulling the Holland covers in the drawing room, seeing if the moths and worms have left any usable bits behind.

The drawing room it is, Isabelle proclaimed. Side by side, the lady of the house and her cook turned toward what had once been a comfortable, if modest, country mansion.

One month later, Miss Isabelle Bainbridge stood in the front hall of Belwether House, garbed in her Sunday-best gown of dark blue wool with lace collar and cuffs, the style some five years out of date. With exacting attention to detail, she surveyed the shining tile floor, the gleaming polish on the brass wall sconces, each fitted with expensive wax candles. The kindling basket was full, as was the coal scuttle sitting next to the dust-free fireplace. She allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction.

As she made a final check of the front door, sanded down and gleaming under two coats of mahogany red paint, her first encounter with Lord Ashton suddenly filled her mind. Alone and  fearful, somehow sensing that Fate, or perhaps the Devil, had come knocking on her door, she had struggled to keep him out. To no avail. And now, just over four weeks later, she could only wonder at the sweeping changes the