Page 1 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
Prologue
January 1823
Blythe Blatchfield, Countess of Chilcombe, pulled her cloak closer in the dwindling light, urging her mount into a trot, and followed the fresh tracks of Sir Morris Pierpont’s phaeton. In two miles or so, the lane would join the old Roman road leading to Andover. and from there, to London. A mile or so beyond that junction, a traveler would reach the old Black Sheep Inn. She was relying on Sir Morris stopping, if not for the good ale brewed there, then to rest his horse, or perhaps even a visit with the barmaid known to favor the deep-pocketed gentlemen traveling the route.
What she would do when she found the fellow…
She reined up, anguish flooding her. She took in deep breaths of the cold clear air until her panic subsided and reason returned.
What will I say to Sir Morris?
Earlier her husband’s valet, Newton, had sent a message to her at Bluebelle Lodge, summoning her in all haste to nearby Risley Manor.
She’d delayed. If Archibald Blatchfield, Earl of Chilcombe, had pushed the limits of his favored poison too far—if he was dying—she had no wish to rush to his bedside and endure the silent censure of the attending physician. As if she had any control over her husband’s addictions.
Archie, however, still lived. Bleary-eyed and barely coherent, he’d let Newton explain about a previously unknown property dispute involving Bluebelle Lodge and the manner of resolution—a new will.
Bluebelle Lodge, her refuge, the precious legacy her late guardian had fought hard to include in the marriage settlement—Archie meant to just will it away, leaving her, and the dear ones she cared for there, utterly homeless.
Newton had been one of the witnesses and he’d paid close attention to the contents. Indeed, the new will omitted the generous legacy that had been promised to the faithful valet. Instead, Archie had given Newton money that very morning.
The other witness to Archie’s signature had been Sir Morris, and it was he who was carrying a second signed copy of the new will to Archie’s London solicitor. The other signed copy had been locked away in Risley Manor’s muniment room, safe for now, until she could find a way to retrieve it.
Her immediate concern was the duplicate Sir Morris carried. He must let her see it, perhaps even copy it for the solicitor she would need to engage.
The snow that had threatened earlier began to fall fast and furious. With a touch of her heel, the horse trotted on and passed through the gates and onto the dips and turns of the lane leading to the road. Around the next tight turn, she pulled her mount up and her gaze swept over the scene.
A wheel spun horizontally in the rising wind, while its match lay broken on the ground beneath it. The tall vehicle had teetered and overturned. Two horses stood in their traces, seemingly unhurt.
She moved her mount closer. A body came into view, and her breath tightened as she recognized the large frame and prematurely balding head of Sir Morris.
Dismounting, she went to him. The open eyes were unseeing, and she sent up a silent prayer. One arm twisted unnaturally and his head lay in the basin of a shallow rock pooling with blood. Quickly shedding a glove, she called his name and checked for a pulse, finding none.
She tried again, casting her gaze over the terrain. A basket had spilled its contents—a flask, a bundle of food. And there… an open valise.
She donned her glove and went to the valise. Among the shirts, linens, and small clothes was a document folder. She opened it and, raising her cloak as a shield against the descending flurries, flipped through the contents. Letters in a feminine hand she returned, but the next one she unfolded, glancing at the signature.
Lord Vernon Falfield. Heart pounding, she skimmed the brief missive and tucked it into her bodice.
No will yet. She combed through the items of clothing more carefully. An oil-cloth-wrapped cylindrical bundle had been wedged at the bottom. She slipped off the string and unrolled it, fingers tingling inside her gloves.
Breathless, she skimmed the heading on the parchment: The Last Will and Testament of Archibald Blatchfield, Earl of Chilcombe.
No time to read it now. Quickly rolling it, she stowed it under her cloak and glanced around. The fields on either side were Chilcombe land, which she knew like the back of her hand. Traveling cross-country, she could reach Risley Manor more quickly and send help for the horses.
Or… This road was well-traveled. Perhaps someone else would come along before then.
She found a stout log, mounted her horse, and made her way through the deepening snow, trying to sort through her jumbled thoughts.
The will… She’d never surrender it until she’d at least had a chance to read it. If what Newton had told her about the contents… It was certainly not valid given Archie’s dazed state. She would challenge it.
Reaching the edge of the field, she entered the woodland. Distant shouts reached her from the direction of the road and she wheeled around. A splash of red revealed a coach and she breathed a sigh of relief. Sir Morris had been found.
She turned her mount then paused. The snow had settled peacefully over her tracks; no one had seen her come this way. No one, not even Newton, knew she’d chased after Sir Morris. That had been a split-second impulse, turning her horse to follow him instead of returning to Bluebelle Lodge.
If she could retrieve the other copy… Perhaps no challenge to the will was necessary. One of the witnesses was dead, and the other, Newton, stood to lose in this new version. He, the butler and housekeeper, would all lose the generous bequests mentioned in the will Archie had made when he and Blythe married.
She pulled her cloak closer and headed to Bluebelle Lodge.
