The Heiress Effect

  Jane refused to react. It never did any good to argue or scream or cry—any response on her part only reinforced his poor opinion of her.

  But Emily shook her head. “I don’t like what you’re saying. It’s not true.”

  “I understand, I understand,” their uncle said, in his slow, sad voice. “I won’t ask you to hate your sister—that would be unnatural for any girl, let alone one of your frailties.”

  Jane could see Emily’s fist clenching in her skirts. They might not have looked like sisters, but looks were deceptive. And Emily was incapable of letting an insult to Jane go by.

  Don’t fight it, Emily. Just nod your head and let him maunder on.

  “You’re wrong,” Emily said.

  “You’re overly emotional.” Titus picked up the offending novel and slipped it into one of his voluminous pockets. “And I think I can identify the culprit. If you need anything to read, dear Emily, there’s material aplenty already in my study. You need only ask.”

  Emily stared directly at her uncle. “Material in your study? But it’s all old law books.”

  “Very improving,” Titus said.

  “Which should I read tonight, then? A Treatise on the Art of Conveyancing sounds so promising, but how could I read that, when The Legal Relations of Infants, Parents, and Child is available?”

  Jane made a little motion with her hands. Stop, please stop. But Emily wasn’t done.

  “Oh, now I recall,” she said. “I’ve read them all. Because I’m trapped in my room, not allowed to go out in company, not allowed to even read of real people—”

  Or invented ones.

  Titus stood. “Miss Emily,” he said, “you’re overwrought. You attend church, as any good young woman should. And Mrs. Blickstall accompanies you on walks appropriate to your physical wellbeing every morning.” He frowned at her. “It’s not like you to be so emotional. Was there…an occurrence today?”

  “An occurrence?” Emily echoed. “Why, yes. The first thing that occurred was that I woke up.”

  Titus frowned. “Dear child. You know I did not mean the word in that sense.”

  Emily glared at the man. “Then say what you really mean.”

  “Did you have—that is, did you have the misfortune of—of falling victim to—”

  Emily set her jaw. “I had a seizure.”

  The concern on his face was real. He placed one hand on Emily’s shoulder. “Poor, dear child,” he whispered. “No wonder you are overwrought. You should sleep.”

  “But Jane hasn’t told me about her evening yet.”

  Titus looked up from Emily to contemplate Jane. Jane wished she could hate him. She wished she could hate his good wishes and his assumptions and his single-minded determination to cure her sister. But he wasn’t a bad man. He was just a tired, lazy one.

  He heaved another, horrible sigh. “Emily, your sister…”

  Emily patted his hand. “How can I encourage her to do what is right if I am never allowed to speak with her?”

  Titus sighed. “Very well. You may speak with your sister a little while longer. But Emily…encourage her to marry. It would be the best thing for all of us.”

  He wanted Jane out of his life. It was, Jane supposed, partially her fault. Her choices. It wasn’t surprising he thought her a bad influence on her sister. But there was nothing she could do now to change his mind. Her uncle knew that she wasn’t really her father’s child, and that, that made everything about her unforgivable. She could break her heart trying to change his mind, but she had to keep that safe for Emily.

  “I will, Uncle,” Emily promised.

  “You are an inspiration to us all, my dear,” Titus said, and with another sad smile, he left the room.

  Emily waited until his footsteps had disappeared down the hall before she balled her hands. “I hate him,” she said, standing up and turning back to her bed. “I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.” With every sentence, she drove her fist into her pillow. “I hate his sorrowful face and his wide concerned eyes. I hate him.”

  Jane went to her sister, put her arm around her. “I know.”

  “At least you get to go out in company,” Emily said. “I’m nineteen, and for God’s sake, he won’t let me go anywhere—for fear that I might suffer from an occurrence if I did. Does he really think that I’m better off languishing in my room like a storybook princess with nothing to read but moral philosophy and legal tracts?”

  Jane had long since given up wondering what Titus really thought. He intended to do what was right. A doctor had once told him that her sister’s fits were exacerbated by exercise and excitement, and so Titus had put Emily on a regimen of bland languishment. The fact that Emily was so often confined to her rooms meant that he saw her seizures less often, and so nothing could convince him that this dictum hadn’t worked.

  The last thing Titus had wanted was to become the guardian of two girls. Especially when one of them wasn’t his blood relation, and the other suffered from inexplicable fits.

  Jane sighed and pulled her sister close. “Fifteen more months,” she said. “Then you’ll be twenty-one and free of him. We can leave him and live off my money, and I promise you, you will have every novel you want. You’ll dance at every dance. Nobody will stop you. Nobody will dare.”

  Emily heaved a sigh. “I want to know how Mrs. Larriger escapes Victoria Land.”

  Jane thought—briefly—about teasing her sister some more. But there’d been enough heartache that night. Instead, she crossed back to her cloak and pulled out a second slim volume. “As he keeps finding them… I got two copies.”

  Emily made a little noise in her throat and grabbed the book. “I love you.” She opened the cover, ran her fingers tenderly down the elaborate frontispiece. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  Jane didn’t know, either. It wasn’t that Emily needed a guardian—quite the contrary. She needed the opposite of a guardian, someone who kept Titus from interfering with her too badly. She needed someone to fend off the endless stream of physicians. She needed someone to bleed the edge off of her unbearable frustration. Someone to give her something to do, even if it was only to smuggle terrible novels for her to read.

  “Titus would disapprove,” Jane said. “You’re supposed to be encouraging me in my search for a husband.”

  Emily shut her eyes. “Never,” she said. “Never leave me, Jane.”

  That was the crux of it all. Jane was the product of her mother’s sin. She was argumentative, crude, unmannerly. She was, according to Titus, a poison in their household, one he only tolerated in the name of the duty he owed his dead brother.

  And so that was what Jane had made of herself. She was a blight, one that would choke her uncle in return. It didn’t matter. He didn’t love her, and he had no legal obligation to keep her around. The instant he believed she had a respectable offer, he’d know that he could get rid of her and feel complacent about having done his duty—and her presence would no longer be tolerable.

  She put her arms around her sister. She thought of the hard look Bradenton had given her that evening, of the sweet, meaningless smiles that the Johnson twins gave her. She thought of the look on Mr. Marshall’s face when she’d taken the cakes off his plate.

  Insolence on that level required real effort. She was exhausted.

  Still, Jane smiled. “Don’t worry.” Mr. Marshall had seemed like a decent fellow, and she’d managed to disgust even him. “I can safely promise that I am never going to marry.”

  Chapter Three

  Long after the ladies had left, the gentlemen stayed. Bradenton had invited Oliver, and Oliver had hoped that the later they’d spoken of would come soon—that he’d have the chance to present his argument to Bradenton.

  Instead, Bradenton had sat down with his nephew at a table near the brandy decanter. “Watch, Whitting,” he had said. “It’ll be your turn soon enough.”

  The process of turning a young man, scarcely twenty-one, into a politician, was
fascinating. The marquess had asked Hapford questions. Who had said what? How had they looked as they spoke? What had Hapford thought of them? Bradenton was a good teacher, gentle and kind.

  “Good,” he finally said to his young nephew. “You’ve done quite well. You pay attention to the right things, and you listen when you need to. You’ll do your family proud.”

  Hapford ducked his head and flushed faintly. “I’m trying.”

  That was when Bradenton’s eye fell on Oliver, and his smile widened from avuncular indulgence to something altogether sharper.

  “What make you of Mr. Marshall?” he asked softly.

  Hapford looked at Oliver and swallowed. “I—well—he’s…he’s…”

  “I know. He’s sitting right here. But I know Marshall. We’re old acquaintances. And he wants a favor of me, so he won’t object to a little plain-speaking. Isn’t that so, Marshall?”

  Oliver had no idea what the man was about, so he simply inclined his head. “Just so, my lord.”

  “Very well, then,” Hapford said. He took a deep breath. “By my observation, Mr. Marshall is—”

  “Ah, ah.” The marquess held up a finger. “You took me at my word, didn’t you?”

  Hapford looked about in some confusion. “Shouldn’t I have done so?”

  “Take nobody at his word. Not me. Not Marshall.” He smiled and patted his nephew’s shoulder. “Normally, I’d wait a week to introduce this, but you’ve done so well until now. This is advanced material, so to speak. Marshall, if you’ll oblige me, tell my nephew why you really agreed with me.”

  “I want to know what you’re up to,” Oliver said in bemusement.

  “And if you will, explain why I spoke the way I did in front of you.”

  Oliver paused, wondering if Bradenton really wished him to explain everything aloud. But the marquess made a little motion with his hand.

  “You wanted to demonstrate that you could make me do as you wanted. That you have the upper hand.” And Bradenton did, for now.

  “Precisely so,” Bradenton said. “You see how it is, Hapford. Men like you and me, we have power and information. We can trade that power for other things. Small power gets traded for less important things. Large power, well…” He shrugged. “What do you think that Mr. Marshall wants?”

  “He wants your vote on the question of the extension of the franchise,” Hapford answered swiftly. “And I wanted to ask him—”

  “Later. What else does he want?”

  “He wants…” Hapford bit his lip. “He wants your influence on the question as well. You’re a powerful man, so your support would likely mean more votes than just your own.”

  “Well done, indeed. Now let’s see if you’ve mastered the lesson. What else does Mr. Marshall want?” He leaned back in his seat and waited.

  The silence stretched; Hapford peered at Oliver, as if he could see into him, and finally shook his head.

  “Put yourself in Marshall’s place,” Bradenton advised. “You grew up on a farm. Your parents scraped together enough to get you into Eton and then Cambridge. By birth, you stand firmly in one world, but you’ve connections to another one. A better one. Tell me, Hapford. What would you want?”

  This, Oliver supposed, was the sort of training that men received if they were born into the right families: the beginning of a thousand lessons on the operation of politics, conducted at night, so that the new men would know how to go about. This was how institutions continued for hundreds of years, how wisdom was passed on to the right sort.

  He’d remember this.

  But now he felt like an insect pinned to a specimen card.

  Hapford had a thick ring around one finger. He turned it in place, peering at Oliver, frowning as if trying to recognize what species Oliver was.

  “Money?” Hapford guessed.

  His uncle nodded.

  “Recognition?”

  Another nod.

  “Um…” The young earl pulled back and shook his head.

  “Tell him what you want, Marshall.”

  Oliver unclenched his jaw. “Everything,” he said. And it was the simple truth.

  Later, when he was gone, Oliver was sure that Bradenton would tell Hapford even more. He’d explain how Oliver was coming up in influence—a longer path than the one Hapford treaded, one where he had to work harder, with less training. For now, that single word would do. Oliver wanted everything, and Bradenton could speed his way.

  “Oh,” Hapford said in confusion.

  “Speaking of everything,” Oliver said. “The bill that—”

  “Not yet,” Bradenton interrupted. “Tell me, Hapford. What think you of Miss Fairfield?”

  Hapford blinked at this sudden change in conversation. “She’s a little odd, I grant you, but Geraldine vouches for her…” He trailed off in confusion. “I don’t know. I don’t like speaking ill of people.”

  “That,” said Bradenton, “is a nicety you’ll have to rid yourself of. Tell me, what makes Miss Fairfield so odd?”

  Hapford stood and walked to the window. He stared out it a long time. Finally, he turned around. “She doesn’t…she doesn’t seem to know what’s expected of her. What her place is.”

  Bradenton was usually so good humored. But at that, Oliver caught a look in his eye—a thinning of his lips—and he remembered that in all the nonsense that Miss Fairfield had spouted that evening, she’d told Bradenton that nobody would think anything of him if he hadn’t been a marquess.

  “Yes,” Bradenton said tightly. “She doesn’t know her place, and she’s too stupid to be taught it by the normal methods. What are we to do about it, Hapford?”

  Hapford frowned. “I don’t see why we need to do anything. She isn’t hurting anyone, and Whitting takes such amusement from her that it would be a shame to deprive him of it.”

  “There’s where you’re wrong.” Bradenton’s voice was quiet. “It harms everyone when people don’t know their places. Something should be done about it.”

  Hapford considered this. “Even if that’s true…” He shook his head. “No. Geraldine doesn’t let anyone speak ill of her. I don’t want to upset her.”

  “Yes, well,” Bradenton said tersely. “In another few years, we’ll see if you’re so eager to do Miss Johnson’s bidding. But never mind. You’re right in essentials. A gentleman never hurts a lady; the potential repercussions to his reputation are not worth the risk.”

  Hapford looked relieved.

  Bradenton shook his head and leaned over, tousling his nephew’s hair. “Watch, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  And then he looked over at Oliver. He looked at him as if he’d been planning this moment for hours—and he probably had. Oliver felt a sick pit open up in his stomach. Whatever it was that Bradenton was thinking, he didn’t want to hear it.

  “Very well, Marshall. It’s your turn now. We’re going to talk about the vote.” His voice was soft once more. “Do you know why I voted against the last bill?”

  Oliver had his own suspicions. “I suppose you’ll tell me.”

  “It was too expansive. People need to know their places or there will be chaos. If even Parliament won’t hold them to order, we might as well surrender.”

  Oliver swallowed. “Actually, my lord, the last bill was rather conservative. You see, the—”

  “You’ll never get my vote on anything more liberal. I ask for so little—just that rate-paying clause I introduced. If they can’t afford to pay it, what business do they have offering an opinion?”

  Oliver shut his mouth in annoyance. That would only put this same debate off another ten years. But a small step forward would be better than nothing. “Perhaps we could come to an agreement if the rate was low enough.”

  “Perhaps.” Bradenton tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair. “But there is one other thing I need. Hapford, why do you suppose Marshall is so keen on this bill?”

  “I had thought his background.” He flushed. “My apologies for speakin
g of it so openly, Marshall.”

  “Yes. What else?”

  “I…” Hapford shook his head, looking at Oliver for some hint. And perhaps he found it because his brow cleared. “Because everyone is talking about the issue,” he said. “And if he plays a role in getting it passed, he’ll get the credit.”

  “Precisely,” Bradenton said. “It was me and my friends who got the last bill voted down. Think what it will mean if he is the one to broker the compromise. He’ll be respected, elevated, talked about for office of his own. It will be a coup.”

  Oliver’s nostrils flared.

  “It’s one I’m willing to grant him,” Bradenton said. “That’s what it means to be us, Hapford. We don’t just vote. We give power.”

  Oliver leaned forward, wanting. Wanting so hard that he could almost taste victory in his mouth.

  “And so if we’re going to be doing it,” Bradenton said, “we have to be sure of him.”

  “We do?” Hapford echoed.

  “We do. We need to know that he’s going to be part of the proper order. That he’ll know his place, and expect everyone to be in theirs.”

  That taste of victory turned metallic. Oliver didn’t know his place. He’d spent too many nights seething at the way of things, too long wanting to rise in power, not just so that he might wield it, but so that he might wrest it from the hands of those who abused it. They’d spent years trying to teach him his place; he’d learned through long, hard experience that the only way forward was to keep quiet until he grew so tall they could no longer shove him down.

  But all he said aloud was, “I should think I’ve proven my discretion over the years.”

  Bradenton simply smiled. “Didn’t you hear me, Marshall? I don’t want your words. I have a job that needs doing, and I cannot do it myself.”

  That sick sensation in Oliver’s stomach grew.

  “You see, Hapford?” Bradenton said. “He wants. I have. The only way to make a deal is if I want something, too.” He leaned forward. “And what I want, Marshall, is Miss Fairfield.” There was no masking the venom in his voice. “I don’t want to see her or her annoying gowns. I don’t want to hear her thoughtless jibes.” Bradenton’s nostrils flared. “She’s the worst of the worst—a woman with no birth to speak of, who thinks that her hundred thousand pounds makes her my equal. A woman like her, running about, spouting her tripe… She does damage to us all, and I want her gone.”