pace and the door of Greyrigg slammed shut behind them. Broseley and Castle were left standing silently in the hall as the sound of its wheels died away down the drive.
‘Your daughter has turned into a formidable lady, sir,’ observed the butler to his master after a moment, with his habitual smirk.
Broseley glared at him. ‘I’ll bring her down,’ he ground out, his West Country accent thickening as it always did under stress. ‘Aye, and her grandmother with her, that old troublemaker!’
He retired to the privacy of the drawing-room where he smashed the offending glass of Madeira in the fireplace. He had had no interest in mending the breach with his daughter for the sake of it, but he had devised an opportunity to regain control of both her and her fortune and to use both to further his own ends. He stared furiously into the pier glass. So he had misread her. He had hoped—believed—that inheriting such a huge fortune would have made her more materialistic. How many people in such a situation would not see the benefit of increasing their wealth? Not many that he knew! Unfortunately, Alicia had proved to be one such and the prospect of augmenting her fortune held no interest for her. The nineteen-year-old girl whom he had forced into marriage had been replaced by a woman of considerable character who could not be either persuaded or threatened.
For the umpteenth time Broseley reflected bitterly on the malign fate which had caused George Carberry to die on his wedding night. He could hardly have anticipated such bad luck. To have worked so hard, only to lose it all! He allowed himself a moment to dream of the ventures he and Carberry had planned together. What he could have done with such money! Carberry had been as rich as Croesus.
Broseley turned to stare unseeingly out of the window. It gave him a bitter satisfaction that he had managed to sabotage Alicia’s relationship with the Marquis of Mullineaux so thoroughly. Alicia had never known that Mullineaux had come round to Bruton Street day after day, demanding to see her. Impetuous hothead! Broseley’s mouth twisted with cynical disdain. Mullineaux had represented everything he had grown to hate about the privileged classes.
Broseley’s train of thought turned back to his commercial dealings. His business associate would not be pleased with the day’s outcome. Mr Wood, as Broseley liked to think of him, had never been interested in Annabella and had only ever wanted to marry Alicia. She had divined the reason correctly—her money—but she had never thought to ask his name. This had saved Bertram Broseley the trouble of inventing another lie, for his associate was actually known to Alicia and was very anxious that his connection with her father remain a secret, at least until the marriage contract was signed.
Broseley sighed. He hated to be proved wrong. His associate had warned him that his approach was misguided. He had correctly predicted that Alicia would reject both an invitation to a business partnership and a marriage of convenience. Further, he had pressed Broseley to allow him to try his fortune under his own colours. Broseley had been dismissive. Now it seemed that he would have to allow it. He moved over to the fireplace and rang the bell vigorously for Castle. There were matters to attend to.
Alicia, exhausted by the scene with her father, had quickly resolved that she could not bear to return to Ottery Manor and the malicious whisperings of Mrs Henley’s guests. Instead, she decided to throw herself on the mercy of one of her grandmother’s oldest friends, the Reverend Theophilus March, who held a country living which included the parish of Ottery as well as several others. An elderly bachelor with a fearsomely respectable housekeeper, he inhabited a spacious and well-appointed vicarage in the village of Ashlyn, some five miles from Ottery.
The vicarage was warm and quiet, a haven after Greyrigg. The Reverend Theo was delighted to
‘Your daughter has turned into a formidable lady, sir,’ observed the butler to his master after a moment, with his habitual smirk.
Broseley glared at him. ‘I’ll bring her down,’ he ground out, his West Country accent thickening as it always did under stress. ‘Aye, and her grandmother with her, that old troublemaker!’
He retired to the privacy of the drawing-room where he smashed the offending glass of Madeira in the fireplace. He had had no interest in mending the breach with his daughter for the sake of it, but he had devised an opportunity to regain control of both her and her fortune and to use both to further his own ends. He stared furiously into the pier glass. So he had misread her. He had hoped—believed—that inheriting such a huge fortune would have made her more materialistic. How many people in such a situation would not see the benefit of increasing their wealth? Not many that he knew! Unfortunately, Alicia had proved to be one such and the prospect of augmenting her fortune held no interest for her. The nineteen-year-old girl whom he had forced into marriage had been replaced by a woman of considerable character who could not be either persuaded or threatened.
For the umpteenth time Broseley reflected bitterly on the malign fate which had caused George Carberry to die on his wedding night. He could hardly have anticipated such bad luck. To have worked so hard, only to lose it all! He allowed himself a moment to dream of the ventures he and Carberry had planned together. What he could have done with such money! Carberry had been as rich as Croesus.
Broseley turned to stare unseeingly out of the window. It gave him a bitter satisfaction that he had managed to sabotage Alicia’s relationship with the Marquis of Mullineaux so thoroughly. Alicia had never known that Mullineaux had come round to Bruton Street day after day, demanding to see her. Impetuous hothead! Broseley’s mouth twisted with cynical disdain. Mullineaux had represented everything he had grown to hate about the privileged classes.
Broseley’s train of thought turned back to his commercial dealings. His business associate would not be pleased with the day’s outcome. Mr Wood, as Broseley liked to think of him, had never been interested in Annabella and had only ever wanted to marry Alicia. She had divined the reason correctly—her money—but she had never thought to ask his name. This had saved Bertram Broseley the trouble of inventing another lie, for his associate was actually known to Alicia and was very anxious that his connection with her father remain a secret, at least until the marriage contract was signed.
Broseley sighed. He hated to be proved wrong. His associate had warned him that his approach was misguided. He had correctly predicted that Alicia would reject both an invitation to a business partnership and a marriage of convenience. Further, he had pressed Broseley to allow him to try his fortune under his own colours. Broseley had been dismissive. Now it seemed that he would have to allow it. He moved over to the fireplace and rang the bell vigorously for Castle. There were matters to attend to.
Alicia, exhausted by the scene with her father, had quickly resolved that she could not bear to return to Ottery Manor and the malicious whisperings of Mrs Henley’s guests. Instead, she decided to throw herself on the mercy of one of her grandmother’s oldest friends, the Reverend Theophilus March, who held a country living which included the parish of Ottery as well as several others. An elderly bachelor with a fearsomely respectable housekeeper, he inhabited a spacious and well-appointed vicarage in the village of Ashlyn, some five miles from Ottery.
The vicarage was warm and quiet, a haven after Greyrigg. The Reverend Theo was delighted to
Similar Books
