Miss Meredith's Marriage (To Woo an Heiress, Book 4)

Miss Meredith's Marriage

To Woo an Heiress

Book Four

by

Lindsay Randall

Award-winning Author

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ISBN: 978-1-61417-486-8

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Chapter 1

It was an uncommonly bleak, July night along the docks of the Thames. Fingers of fog threaded through the twisting, narrow streets as a hired conveyance clattered past ill-kept coffeehouses, lowly taverns, and grimy shops. The two gentlemen seated inside the carriage, however, paid little heed to the inclement weather or the less than illustrious establishments they passed. They were, as usual, deep in discussion and needling each other now and then as good friends, such as they were, often did.

They were both garbed in the finest of English fashion, the only hint of a flaw to their persons being the deep touch of brown to their handsome countenances, compliments of a blazing sun in the West Indies. They were late of Jamaicatown and had just arrived in London a scant half-hour ago.

Only one of the gentlemen, the elder of the two, was actually looking forward to their imminent return to the bosom of the ton. The other, younger and yet more jaded than his companion, was most decidedly not looking forward to the event.

I tell you, Larkin, I intend to write my memoirs once I am settled in Town, said Sir Harry Drake, the elder of the two gentlemen, clearly anticipating once again being ensconced in his flat in St. James Street. My collection of notes will prove to be a rousing read!

The Honorable Larkin Markham pulled a handsome frown. Gad, Drake, but if your prose is anything like your poetry, you will have us all in despair, he ribbed good-naturedly. "

Drake, a strapping fellow with dark hair peppered gray, flashed a grin amid his creased but still pleasing face. People will clamor for more, I tell you, especially when they read the chapters I intend to devote to the adventures you and I have shared.

Larkin's beryl-colored gaze turned somber. I wouldn't mention me, were I you.

Never say so! My best tales center around the adventures you and I have shared. I'd be a slowtop not to make use of them seeing how you have forever been an enigma to Society, Drake insisted. Like it or not, you intrigued them with your rakehell youth, and later your capacity to turn your back on the lot of them. You've fanned their collective interest, no doubt about it! And now, the blacksheep of the Graystone legacy is returning to their midst, having amassed a fortune of his own. Ah, but your reappearance in good Society will be the most talked about thing!

If not for the missive written by his brother, Larkin would not have returned to England at all. But Laney's note, though brief and rather cryptic, had touched a part of himself Larkin had thought to be long buried. He'd known, even before he refolded the letter, that he must see his brother again, knew too he should mend the tattered threads of his misspent youth. It was time to go home.

Larkin had immediately commenced to end his business in the West Indies. It proved to be a daunting task for he'd amassed numerous holdings during his stay. He'd sent the chosen few possessions he wished to take with him aboard another sailing vessel bound for England and had spent the remaining days seeing to any loose ends. He'd released the servants of his sprawling island home, granting each of them a very comfortable sum of money, and had dispensed with the notion of hiring a valet for his trip homeward. He'd been dressing himself since the start of his exile, and preferred continuing to do so, at least until he was once again in London. Then, he knew, he must set to the task of making a life for himself.

A life that would include his brother in some capacity. Odd. He'd thought never to see Laney, or even London, ever again.

Years ago, Larkin, had been banished from the Graystone family by his father. His forced exile had not been a common fact; most of the ton believed Larkin had simply turned his back on his family due to the fact that he and his father had locked horns over every issue. In particular, Larkin's father had not joined in Larkin's zest in aiding the less fortunate people residing in the countryside of England. While the rich grew richer, the poor folks, most of them destined for a life of near-slavery in the northern factory lands, went without the slightest comfort.

Larkin, an idealist, had thought to thumb his nose at tradition and lend his aid where he could. But he soon found that without Parliament to back a man, there was naught to be done for the downtrodden of the land. He and his father had engaged in many ugly arguments, while the good son Laney had steered clear of their fiery confrontations.

Then came the ugliest truth of all; Larkin had overheard his father and mother arguing about him, had witnessed, in fact, his father bring a physical blow to his mother. He'd immediately made his presence known, stepping between them and shielding his mother from further harm. His father had become even more livid, his mother dissolving into tears and trying to hide the red welt upon her cheek. It was at that moment that Larkin felt true hatred for his father. He damned the man, cursed him. His father, incensed, broke Larkin's nose that night... and shattered any illusions Larkin might have had about him.

Within a year, his mother was dead. She'd fallen down a flight of stairs. Though her death was ruled an accident, Larkin blamed his father. He knew the reason she had lost her balance was because his father had struck her one too many times. In return, Larkin was ousted from the family, cut off from any funds, and left to fend for himself.

Leaving Laney behind was the hardest thing Larkin had ever done.

And now he was returning to London, to Laney. He felt a riot of conflicting emotions surge through him. Why had Laney suddenly written to him? And why had his brother insisted they meet along the waterfront?

I wonder if trouble has befallen my brother, Larkin said, and turned his gaze once again to Drake. You are certain he was hale when last you spoke with him?

Quite, Drake answered. In fact, he talked of heading to his country estate where he hoped to make some improvements.

But his letter came from London, Larkin mused.

Perhaps he'd had a change of plans.

Larkin shook his head, a lock of coppery hair spilling down over his brow. "My brother, as you know, never changes his mind. A decision made for Laney is a decision carried out."

Drake nodded in agreement. The two of you always were complete opposites, he said. Though not in looks. In fact, when I arrived in Jamaicatown to visit you, I was hard-pressed not to think I was staring into Laney's face. You are the mirror image of each other, my friend.

Looks, said Larkin, can be deceiving.

Indeed, Drake murmured. He gave Larkin a measuring glance. I could never fashion you walking in Laney's boots. He has grown to be a man molded by those around him, you know, while you continue to be dictated by your own passions.

I guess some things never change.

Not you, at least, agreed Drake. You like to forge your own way in life. Always have. Laney, however, was never one to cause a stir. He has continued to do what he believes is expected of him and nothing less.

There was never a more mismatched pair than my brother and me, Larkin admitted, but what a pair we were....

He gave a small laugh of wonder, thinking of the past, of how things used to be, in the beginning, before life turned ugly. Larkin felt a stab of regret at having lost contact with his twin so many years ago.

He touched one hand to the pendant he wore looped about his neck. A small sphere of silver, it was meant to symbolize fraternity, trust, and love between brothers. Their mother had gifted them with the pendants on the day they were born. She'd loved them both without abeyance. Indeed, she would have forgiven them anything and stood beside them through the fiercest of storms.

For Larkin, her untamable son, Charlotte had done exactly that—and died because of it.

Her death, and the horrid truth behind it, marked the beginning of Larkin's descent into a hell he'd soon come to call home. After leaving home, Larkin had fallen in with a rough lot, haunting the highways and becoming embroiled with the turbulence of starving families in the northern factory lands.

Then came the war, and for once Larkin found an outlet for his pent-up rage; he became a spy for his country. Just as Laney ascended the Graystone title, Larkin was propelled headlong into a dangerous affair of intrigue and nefarious deeds, all of which further shaped him into the cool, hard-hearted soul he now was.

It had been in Paris that Larkin once again met up with Sir Harry Drake, one of the best spies to ever infiltrate the Continent. Drake had been a close friend of Charlotte, and a familiar face at Graystone Manor all through Larkin's and Laney's youth.

It is peculiar, don't you think, Harry, Larkin said quietly, that my brother should contact me now, after all these years? What do you make of it?

A part of me can believe Laney would be the first to bridge the gap between you two. He always hated that you'd gone away. But something smells foul about all of this. Laney's letter was too short, too—

Cryptic?

Exactly.

Larkin agreed. Laney was never one to dash off just a few short sentences. He loves the written word even more than you, old friend. I can only surmise he is in some sort of trouble or... I don't know.

Mayhap he didn't know quite what to say to you. Perhaps, Drake said gently, he didn't know how to approach the brother who, in his view, abandoned him those many years ago.

Larkin let out a long, low sigh as he leaned his head back against the squabs. No doubt that is the whole of it. Damme. How I wish things had been different.

The two gentlemen fell silent for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts.

Just then, the carriage picked up speed, wheeling through a narrow lane and then turning in a sharp U. Both Larkin and Drake were forced to grab for a hold or be tossed about like sticks.

Zounds, groused Drake. Where the devil did this driver learn to handle the reins? I say, Larkin, next time you hire a carriage, take more care in choosing the driver!

Larkin, planting his rosewood cane with its ivory grip firmly on the floor for leverage, eyed his friend. "I didn't hire this carriage, Drake. I thought you had."

Both men went perfectly still as the carriage ground to a jarring halt.

Well, well, muttered Drake, I wonder what the deuce is going on. He popped open the door, and both he and Larkin, having honed their instincts in far more treacherous territory, both waited before disembarking.

There came no ambush, and it seemed that the driver, somewhat slow and crooked of limb, was intending to climb down off his bench and see them safely outside.

Larkin climbed out, as did Drake who slammed the door and started to step around to speak to the driver.

Suddenly, the hunched man sat up, all signs of crooked limbs gone. The man slapped the reins to his beast and charged off through the way they'd come. He pulled the horses to a halt at the far end of the alley—the only route of escape for the gentlemen—and then backed the carriage up, securely sealing the lane.

Larkin muttered a curse. I fear we've been duped, old friend.

Aye, whispered Drake ominously. That we have.

The scent of coal, tar, damp wood, and fish was in the air... and there was the scent of danger as well. They'd disembarked the carriage at a most inopportune place; in front of them black water sloshed at the docks, on either side of them stood a litter of crates and boxes, and behind them was the alley, now blocked by the carriage. There was nowhere to flee.

A lone lantern lit the crowded space where they stood. The lamp swung once in the wind, and then, with the sound of shattering glass, the light went out. Someone had thrown something at it.

Larkin and Drake were swallowed by darkness and wispy fog. There came the endless slosh of waves interspersed with the sudden, heavy footfalls of intruders.

Larkin held his cane at the ready. Two of them, he whispered to Drake. There are two of them coming.

Aye, answered his friend, though his voice was barely audible. I hear them. And smell them. Think they're foxed?

Possibly.

They shifted, both of them, in the foggy night, their ears, trained by months of spying, centered solely on the ominous footfalls. They gauged the unseen culprits, tallying their strengths, their weaknesses.

It could get nasty, said Larkin softly.

It might at that, agreed Drake, chattily enough but clearly centering his thoughts on the coming fight.

They turned back to back, creating a shield for themselves. They both heard the footsteps drawing nearer, heard the two unseen culprits break apart to circle them.

Reminds me of that time in Paris, whispered Drake, when that pretty little French thing—Veronique, I think, was her name—led us straight into the lion's mouth. We were outnumbered then, had to fight like the devil, in fact.

Are you ready to do so again?

Just give the word, my friend.

Larkin nodded, waited. He saw a shadowy movement to his left. Now.

They both hurled forward, instinctively knowing where their chosen marks lurked. Larkin was met with a huge piece of wood. He deflected the blow with his left arm while attacking the man's mid-section with his sturdy cane. He wrapped the fingers of his left hand about the wood, yanking it free from the thug's hold, and with a twist of his wrist brought the wood down and in, slamming it against the back of his assailant's knees.

The man howled in dismay, crumbling to the docks, but not before grabbing hold of Larkin's legs. The two of them went crashing to the hard wood of the dock. They wrestled in a horrible struggle, the culprit managing to thump Larkin's head against the wooden deck with a loud thud.

Larkin, dazed but not defeated, reared up, and tossed the man off of him, toppling him over onto his back and straddling him. In a mere moment, Larkin had his cane in both hands and pressed it to the man's windpipe, pinning him.

Tell me who you are working for.

The man, his bravery knocked out of him, shriveled into a fearful mass of quaking limbs. I—I know nothin'! he gasped.

I doubt that, said Larkin. Tell me who hired you, and I might just up the ante, pay you in gold, and give you reason to smile the rest of your days.

The man managed a gulp. You'd do that, mate? I never thought you might be better 'n whut the bloke who hired me was.

His name, said Larkin, applying pressure to the man's throat. Give it to me.

"If only I could! I—I only know a lady asked me and Bart over there, who is being mauled by yer stout friend, to hire a carriage for you and then meet you on the docks 'ere. She didn't give a name, only said 'er