Lady of Providence Page 2

  “Life is what you make of it, Lizbeth,” her grandfather said. “I believe I will have a conversation with the young man, to learn more about him. You must know, however, Lizbeth, that more than anything I wish for you to be happy, and loved. But I also hope that you are able to live your own passions, outside of the role a man may bring you.”

  “Of course, Grandpapa.”

  “Do you promise me that? You will never put a man’s desire for his life above your own?”

  Elizabeth started. “I’m not sure that any man would be pleased with such a sentiment.”

  “Just promise me, Lizbeth.”

  “Very well,” she said, her eyes wide. “I promise.”

  Chapter One

  London, 1815

  Gabriel Lockridge, Duke of Clarence, possessor of no fewer than five estates and manors, a seat in the House of Lords, guaranteed entrance into every social event he could possibly wish to join, and a man with unlimited wealth to spend as he pleased, was bored.

  He sat in White’s Gentlemen’s Club, staring out the window at the rain falling from the sky, drenching the passersby who hurried from one destination to the next on this dismal, dreary day. Idly, he had one ear tuned into the conversations around him, but if anything, the inane gossip that drifted toward his ears only frustrated him. Idiots, all of them. Ever since his closest friend, Jeffrey Worthington, Marquess of Berkley, had married, Gabriel had been sorely lacking acquaintances whom he could stand for more than five minutes.

  “Fancy a game of whist, your grace?” one newly-minted, eager marquess requested, but Gabriel waved him away, though he managed a tight-lipped smile. He was being rude, he knew, but it was difficult to summon much enthusiasm. Why he had even come here tonight, he had no idea, but he supposed it was better than sitting at home and staring across his study at the portrait of his father, frowning dourly back at him.

  “Clarence,” he heard from behind him, and when he turned, Gabriel was relieved to see a face he actually welcomed. Mr. David Redmond, second son of the Earl of Brentford. While below Gabriel on the social ladder, he was actually somewhat entertaining, despite his reputation as a veritable rake—although perhaps that was some of the reason why Gabriel so enjoyed his company. Redmond knew how to tell a story, and while some may be slightly embellished, most were rather amusing.

  “May I join you?”

  Gabriel waved once more, but this time it was to the chair across from him in an invitation for Redmond to sit down.

  Redmond took a seat, running a hand through his hair which was so light a brown it was nearly blond, much unlike Gabriel’s own dark locks, which he always ensured were perfectly coiffed.

  Redmond settled back into the folds of the forest green leather chair, lighting a cheroot as he fixed his gaze on Gabriel, though his expression soon turned serious, his eyes narrowing and his brows settling low overtop them.

  “Something the matter, Clarence?” he asked. “You do not typically look so somber. Calculating, yes, but somber? Never so.”

  Gabriel sighed, taking another sip of his drink.

  “I am bored, Redmond,” he said and tipped his head back to look up at the ornate ceiling and the intricate chandelier hanging from the middle of it.

  “Bored?” Redmond nearly snorted. “Whatever do you have to be bored about?”

  Gabriel shrugged. “This life. One party after another, one woman after another—none who are any challenge. While I do not dally with married woman, it seems as though I could have nearly any I choose. The people who frequent said gatherings are the same, night after night, telling repeated stories, bragging about their acquaintances, most of whom are standing across the room. What’s the point of it all?”

  Redmond stared at him incredulously. “Are you serious?” He asked. “You could have anything you’d like, Clarence. Bored at a party? Go to a gaming hell! Bored with one woman? Find another! Bored with riding? Take up a fencing match! I hardly see what you have to complain about it.”

  “And that is the biggest issue of them all,” Gabriel said with a nod of his head.

  “Besides,” Redmond continued, “I had been expecting you to return from Newmarket a few months ago with a fiancée on your arm after I heard all the gossip that came flying back to London on the wings of little birdies. But no, the great Duke of Clarence seems to have been bested by a jockey!”

  “I was never bested,” Gabriel said indignantly. “My intent was never to actually court nor wed the Lady Julia.”

  “Then whyever would you pursue her?”

  “Call it a puzzle, if you will, Redmond,” Gabriel responded. “One to which I already knew the solution, yet required my help in order to determine the formula.”

  Redmond shook his head.

  “You speak in riddles, Clarence, but so be it. And how is Parliament these days?”

  “A bore. Grown men squabbling because they feel as though they should when the answer is plain and simple, mattering not whether one is a Tory or a Wig, but whether one has common sense—which none of them do.”

  Redmond steepled his fingers together and rested his chin upon them.

  “Your estates?”

  “I stay abreast of the business within each of them, certainly,” Clarence agreed, “But I have trusted, loyal stewards in place who seem to do a brilliant job in overseeing them.”

  He stared out the window, his gaze landing upon a small lad hustling down the road, his cap pulled low over his face in an attempt to shield himself from the rain falling in earnest. His clothing was rather tattered, and clearly, he had not a great deal in this world. In fact, he very likely found himself here on James Street in order to pick a pocket or two, but there were none to be found as most made themselves scarce in such weather.

  He looked back at Redmond, shaking his head. “This is a ridiculous conversation regarding the plights of one of the richest men in the land, whose bank account holds more funds than most would ever see in their entire lifetime.”

  Redmond seemed slightly confused for a moment, but then he tilted his head ever so slightly as he studied Gabriel.

  “I’ve heard you are a partner of a bank—is there any truth to that?”

  “Yes, if you can believe it—Clarke’s. Although I’m not altogether sure that I want to hold such a position. It is rather unusual, for a duke. I was named a few years ago, when … circumstances seemed to point to me becoming even closer to the family. Then everything changed, except for the partnership. I didn’t take an active role, so Clarke seems pleased to keep me on board, and I appease him by voting with him when necessary.”

  “You are not interested in the affairs of the bank?”

  “Of course not,” he responded incredulously. “And like everything else in my life, I do not see that changing anytime soon.”

  *

  One week later

  Elizabeth sat stiffly on the edge of her bed, gazing at herself in the mirror above her vanity. Black, she decided, did not suit her. It made her skin so white she looked practically translucent, which would have been fine did it not make the few freckles upon her nose become much more prominent. She resembled a witch of sorts, with her hair red enough to seem not quite proper, despite the fact that it was pulled back into a smart chignon, without a wisp of curl escaping it.

  Elizabeth pulled herself out of her thoughts, berating herself for her vanity as she looked down at her hands in her lap, clenched so tightly together that they were nearly white. Her grandfather was dead. The man who had meant so much to her, who had shown her what it was to be responsible, loyal, trustworthy, and honest, was gone, leaving a hole in her heart. It was one that certainly would not be filled by her parents, she thought grimly as she stood and forced herself out the door, gripping the banister of their townhouse staircase as she descended the steps to the cold, austere drawing room, where her parents awaited her.

  “Elizabeth Moreland, wherever have you been?” her mother questioned her. “Your father and I have been waiting fo
r nearly an hour now. We must be at the reading of the will in good time in order to hear everything and to make sure that no one does anything unsavory in order to receive their portion of Father’s riches. Though the partnership will likely go to your cousin Henry, of course. Oh, if only Terrence had shown more promise, or if you had been a son, Elizabeth, then you might have had the opportunity as my father was always so taken with you.”

  “I am so sorry, Mother, to have disappointed you,” Elizabeth said dryly.

  “That’s all right, my dear,” her mother sniffed, and Elizabeth wanted to roll her eyes, but now was not the time to cause any type of rift between them. “Now, we must go!”

  “Are you excited, Mother?” Elizabeth asked, horrified at the thought, but unfortunately, it seemed to be true, as her mother turned her narrow, pinched face toward her with eyes gleaming in anticipation.

  “Of course not,” was her mother’s denial, though Elizabeth knew far better. As she followed her parents into the carriage, she despaired for what would become of Clarke & Co. were it improperly managed by someone like Henry. She could hardly think on it, though she doubted her grandfather would leave it in Henry’s hands, knowing as she did just what Thomas had thought of her cousin.

  But it was a difficult thought to ignore when they entered the drawing room of her grandmother’s home. Elizabeth greeted her younger brother, Terrence, who pinched her cheek in a show of affection. Elizabeth loved her brother immensely, as he was the charming sort with a heart of gold, but he also spread his love for others—particularly women—perhaps a bit too far. He had left their home long before in order to take his own rooms at a boarding house, for he told Elizabeth he could no longer take the disapproving stares from his parents regarding the hours he kept nor the questions on where he visited.

  Elizabeth greeted her grandmother with a heartfelt embrace—tasteful enough, yet also conveying all she wished to say, for she couldn’t tell her exactly what she was feeling at the moment in front of all of these people, family or not.

  They were vultures, the lot of them, she decided. When was the last time any of them had ever considered one action that benefited someone but themselves?

  Her mother had two siblings—an older brother, deceased a few years now, who had children of his own, including Henry, and an older sister, the mother of three daughters and a son.

  The drawing room had likely never been so full as it was in this moment with all of them gathered. A dapper looking solicitor, his black hair slicked back neatly over his head, sat in front of the lot of them upon a chair with a back as straight as his own.

  He raised his spectacles to his eyes and cleared his throat in an attempt to capture their attention but was promptly and decidedly ignored.

  He frowned in consternation and attempted one more time with a loud “harumph.” Elizabeth felt sorry for him—it mustn’t be a pleasant aspect of his job, meeting with grieving families, though besides herself and her grandmother, most of the room did not look particularly unhappy—uneasy, if anything.

  Which partially made sense. Thomas Clarke had loved Elizabeth with all of his heart and ensured she knew it; however, he also thought most of his family to be “idiots, the lot of them,” and he did not keep silent in his opinions.

  Elizabeth sat next to her grandmother on the small settee, grasping her cold hand within hers. Justine Clarke looked straight ahead of her at the man in the chair, saying nothing more to Elizabeth, though she squeezed her hand tightly in thanks for her support as she clearly wanted nothing more than for this entire process to be over.

  The solicitor stood and rapped his knuckles on the small writing table that sat beside him until he finally gained the attention of the crowd in front of him. He sighed in such relief that Elizabeth would have laughed had it been under other circumstances, and then sat back down in the wooden chair that had been brought in from another room within the house—likely storage, for Elizabeth’s grandmother was proud of her home and always ensured it was within the latest fashion.

  This room itself, the drawing room, was a long room on the south side of the house. Sash windows lining the room emitted plenty of daylight, while the white crown molding accented the pale yellow walls, which were lined with beautiful portraits of the family as well as landscapes of the English countryside. The Clarke family had never actually owned a home outside of London since they had moved to the city a couple of generations ago, but Justine had come from a small country town and she enjoyed reminders of home upon her walls.

  Today, the furniture had been rearranged to suit the occasion so they were all looking up at the solicitor like churchgoers in front of the pastor. But the funeral itself would come later. This was an entirely different matter.

  “Thank you all for your attendance,” the solicitor said in a pinched voice. “Please allow me to express my sincere condolences to all of you. I am Mr. Smith, and it has been my pleasure to serve as solicitor to Mr. Clarke over the past few years, as it was for my father for decades prior. Thomas Clarke was a man who prepared for everything in life, and his death was no exception. I have in my hands the will he prepared a few years ago. While my father oversaw the drafting of the will, I was in the room as well and can attest to the fact that he was of sound mind and countenance.”

  “Get on with it,” muttered Henry from two seats over, and Elizabeth leaned around Terrence to glare at him.

  “Very well,” Mr. Smith said, though he was clearly not at all pleased. After introductory remarks, he began to list the names of the various family members within the room, pronouncing annuities for each of them, none of them insignificant—Thomas Clarke had been a very wealthy man.

  “‘For the remainder of her life, my estate, besides the annuities previously listed, will be left to my loving wife, Justine,’” he read, and Elizabeth’s grandmother barely contained a slight sob. “My home in London, the senior partnership of Clarke & Co., and, upon my wife’s own departure from this earth to join me, my entire estate, will be left to my granddaughter, Lady Elizabeth Moreland.’”

  Chapter Two

  Gasps resounded around the room as the solicitor read the last line, a smile covering his face as clearly he had been looking forward to the reaction of the family before him—the family who had not exactly ingratiated themselves to him as they had practically ignored him until the time came to read the contents of the will. Every face in the room was turned toward Elizabeth, who was as shocked as the rest of them. Justine, having clearly been aware of what was within the will, squeezed Elizabeth’s hand and bestowed upon her a watery smile. Terrence’s eyes were wide, but he grinned at Elizabeth when she turned to him and he ever so slightly nodded his head in support, while a murmur began somewhere within the room, growing louder with each passing moment.

  Elizabeth could do nothing but sit in stupefied silence. She was the senior partner of London’s most renowned bank? She had always thought her grandfather was passing on knowledge for her own enjoyment, but she had never considered… this.

  “You cannot be serious!” Henry finally called out, and Mr. Smith waved his hands in the air in a gesture telling them all to quiet down.

  “Mr. Clarke did leave an explanation if you would like me to read it.”

  “I should bloody well hope so!” Henry raged.

  “Please note that these are his own words and not my own,” the solicitor said, looking up at all of the angry faces before him with a faint look of warning before returning his eyes to the page.

  “‘I am well aware that most of my family will not be pleased with my decision, as they all have some preconceived notion of their own worth. However, it matters not that Lady Elizabeth is a woman. She is the only family member who ever displayed any interest in the workings of the bank. She is the only family member who spent any time with me at all. And she is also the only family member with a head on her shoulders who is intelligent enough to take on such a role.’”

  “Well, I never!” Henry’s mother, E
lizabeth’s Aunt Betsy, exclaimed.

  Mr. Smith paused a moment, looking slightly ill, before continuing. “The rest of you are greedy, selfish, or incapable of any responsibility—some are all of the above. Take your pick. That is all.”

  The gasps that were emitted then were more than simply horrified, but outraged. Elizabeth’s jaw must have been nearly at her neck, for a soft, white-gloved finger was soon gently closing it, the arm it was attached to then returning to snake back over Elizabeth’s shoulder.

  “Gather yourself together, daughter,” Elizabeth’s mother whispered in her ear, causing Elizabeth to jump in surprise. She hadn’t even realized her mother was behind her as she had been so caught up in Smith’s words but moments ago.

  Elizabeth could feel her mother’s fingers upon the back of her chair as Lady Moreland stood and gracefully crossed the room to stand next to the solicitor, a smile covering her face as she looked between the man and the rest of her family before her.

  “Thank you, Mr. Smith, for attending to us this morning in order to impart our father’s wishes with us,” she said. “It has been most… interesting, I believe we can all agree. I am sure it will take some time for us all to overcome his passing, as well as digest just how… generous he has been to some of us. All of us.”

  She cleared her throat.

  “Thank you again. Should we have any questions, we know where we may find you.”

  How did her mother turn everything she said into a threat? Elizabeth wondered, but then the solicitor was nodding at the rest of them. He approached her, asked if they could meet again in the near future in order to ensure all was in order, and Elizabeth managed a weak smile in return before turning around to find that the rest of her family still stared at her.