of Aldershire Manor where his brother had just delivered the supposedly ghastly news. “I know this comes as quite a blow,” Charles had compassionately added at the end, “but I could wait no longer. I have just received word from Lord Thomas that he, Patrick, and his half-sister, Evleen, will be arriving any day now.”
Walter knew he was supposed to be stunned, devastated, outraged. Instead, more than anything else he felt a vast sense of relief that he would not be compelled to become the sixth Earl of Alberdsley. He had never fancied being addressed as His Lordship, with people bowing and scraping to him as if he had just descended from Heaven and was a touch above the rest. He was comfortable as he was, and most certainly did not need a vast fortune when he already had his books, his bird-watching expeditions to the woods, his sketch pad and paints. What more could he ask for? After all, he’d no expectation of inheritance during Randall’s lifetime. Then, as now, his life was happy and complete, except... oh, Lord, Lydia.
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
He pictured the look on his wife’s face when informed her dream of ruling over Aldershire Manor as “Her Ladyship” would never be fulfilled. Now she would never assume the title she coveted, which was very bad news indeed. Over the years, how many times had he heard Lydia lament her lack of a title? If she told him once, she told him a thousand times the dreaded day was coming when the husband of her arch rival, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, would inherit his mother’s title. When he did, Mrs. Drummond-Burrel, esteemed Patroness of Almack’s, would become Lady Willoughby de Eresby. Who knew when this woeful event would actually occur? All he knew was that when it did, if Lydia was still plain Mrs. Trevlyn, her life would be ruined. Never could she hold her head up, or appear in polite society, ever again. Not that she wished Walter’s dear brother ill, of course, but after all, he was quite old, and getting feeble, and how much longer must she wait to be called “Her Ladyship,” a title she justly deserved?
And then there were the girls...
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
The more Walter thought, the more he realized this whole affair was nothing but trouble no matter how he looked at it. Lydia would doubtless have a fit when she found out. Daughters, too. Although... good grief. How could he marry them off now? It had been bad enough before, despite the large dowries.
The butler encountered him in the hallway. “Dinner is served, sir. The family is waiting.”
The remains of Walter’s brief spell of euphoria fast disappeared. He heaved a sigh and heartily wished he could just go to his rooms and read Euclid. But no, he must face his family and give them the devastating news. Truth be told, he would rather face Napoleon’s army than dinner tonight.
“Is something the matter, Walter?” asked Lydia when he entered the dining room. She and the girls were already seated at the dining table, engaged, as usual, in their lively discussion of suitors and the coming London Season which they were about to attend.
Lydia asked, “Lord Trevyln is dining in his bedchamber this evening?”
“As usual.” Walter seated himself at the head of table, a habit Lydia insisted he pursue since his brother seldom came down to the dining room anymore.
“Cook has fixed Westphalian ham tonight, Walter, your favorite, as I recall.” Lydia frowned and peered closer. “Are you all right? You look... strange.”
He smiled, discovering that despite his kindly nature there existed a tiny part of him that anticipated with keen delight the horrified expression that would soon occupy his ambitious wife’s face. Must be the devil. He should be ashamed of himself, but he would save that until later.
“I have something to tell you, m’dear. Something you won’t like.”
He proceeded to relate the news, noting as he talked his wife’s slow change of expression from mere interest, to incredulity, to now, as he finished, pure horror. He ended his discourse with, “So there you have it. Nothing to be done, I’m afraid,” and sat back in his chair.
There was a moment of stunned silence. They all sat round-eyed, forks suspended in mid-air. Charlotte was the first to recover. “You cannot mean this, Papa.”
“You heard correctly. I shall not be the sixth Earl of Alberdsley after all. Much as you may dislike the idea, Randall’s son is next