The Romany Heiress (3 page)

“Very well, then,” Giles said with stiff politeness,
holding the narrow gate open for her. Irina brushed by
him, conscious of her skirts sweeping his legs and the
spiced cleanliness of his scent as she passed. A queer
flutter ran through her. Her mentor, Magda, would call
it a premonition. This would not be the last time she
saw Giles, although she had no reason to believe why it
would be so. They obviously did not run in the same social circles, and he had given no indication that he
would seek her out after this evening.

Irina looked back only once as Jacopo slipped the welcome warmth of her cloak about her shoulders. She gave
a small wave to let Giles know she was safe. His duty was
discharged. He could return to his friends and the party.
Someday she would be like them. Someday she wouldn’t
have to feign a Russian accent or keep up the pretense of
telling fortunes.

She said little to Jacopo on the way back to the caravan, too lost in her thoughts about Giles to do more
than offer cursory comments to his questions about the
mansion and the rich people inside.

Back at the caravan on the outskirts of London she
tried to describe her feelings to Magda while she sipped
hot coffee inside the vardo, glad to be warm again.

Magda gave a mirthless laugh, which Irina did not
find reassuring. “My dear, what you’re feeling is akin
to having a ghost walk over your grave. Tonight you’ve
meddled with fate”

“What do you mean?” Irina asked over the rim of her
chipped cup. She was not given to superstitions like
Magda and the others in the caravan but still, Magda’s
words sent a chill through her.

“I mean exactly what I say” The older woman retorted. “What was the name of your young man?”

“Giles.”

“Just Giles? No last name? No title?”

“No.

“Very well, it is enough. Your young man is Giles
Moncrief. He’s the heir to Spelthorne Abbey”

Irina spluttered, spewing a mouthful of coffee.
“Spelthorne? He’s the earl?”

“He will be the earl.” Magda corrected. “The man
who will stand between you and your rightful inheritance.”

“But Spelthorne is mine,” Irina protested. “I have the
birth certificate and the diary. I thought there was no
heir but me.”

“There is no legitimate heir but you. Did you expect
to walk up to Spelthome and find it unoccupied? Did
you expect to claim it without a fight?” Magda scolded
her naivety. Her middle-aged features hardened. “To claim it, you will have to fight him for it, but not yet.”
Magda waved a long finger in warning. “You have met
your fate too soon. It is not time. He is not yet earl. To
expose yourself while the old earl yet lives is to weaken
your claim. We must leave in morning. We dare not risk
another encounter.”

Magda rose and busied herself with her shawls. “I’ll
explain it all to Tommasino. He is a good leader, and
he’ll understand our need for haste”

Magda vanished out the door before Irina could
question her further. She was aghast at the news. Giles
was a Spelthorne? Every fantasy she’d entertained that
evening fractured into a thousand pieces. If she won
her heart’s desire, he would never look her direction
with anything other than hatred for what she had done
to him.

Her conscience chided her for such weakness. A
handsome face was not near enough reason to forego
the legacy she had waited years to claim. Since she was
old enough to understand, Magda had tucked her into
bed with the story-the tale that she was an earl’s
daughter, traded at birth for a cottager’s son simply because the peer desired a male heir.

At first, she had thought the story nothing more than
a common child’s fairy tale. After all, what child
doesn’t entertain notions that he or she is a prince or
princess in hiding? As the years progressed, Magda
embellished the account with more details as she became old enough to understand them. Details such as
the name of the holding, the name of the earl and his wife, descriptions of the house, its floor plan and its
grounds until Irina could see the place in her mind with
alarming clarity although the caravan had never been
there during her own lifetime. According to Magda, the
last time the caravan had camped at Spelthorne was the
September of her birth. Magda had been there, assisting her mother, when the deal had been made.

Finally, on her twentieth birthday, Magda had produced the most significant details-a diary written by her
mother, Celeste Moncrief, the Countess of Spelthorne,
and a birth certificate.

Irina had stared at the birth certificate, speechless and
shattered. `You’ve got the wrong girl,’ she’d whispered
horrified. The name on the birth certificate wasn’t hers.
The certificate belonged to a Catherine Celeste Moncrief. Long moments passed before she realized the import of it. She wasn’t Caterina, affectionately called
Irina by those in the caravan, she was Catherine.

The enormity of it had been overwhelming. She was
Catherine Moncrief, a child switched at birth, switched
from a life of comfort into a life of struggle and stigmatism, switched into anonymity where not even her
name was her own. She had been angry for days. She’d
wanted to march straight to Spelthorne Abbey and
throw down the proverbial gauntlet. But Magda had
said simply, “not yet” and she had not questioned the
wise woman’s advice.

Now, eight years later, she was still waiting. Now,
Magda no longer said “not yet,” she said “soon” Her
time was coming. That scared her. She hoped she had the strength to do what was demanded of her. Her success would cause the ruin of an innocent man who was
intricately woven into the scheme that had duped her of
her heritage.

Irina sighed. When she had forecasted great challenges in his life that evening she had done so generically. All lives had challenges but she had not expected
she would be one of his.

Giles Moncrief stood on the wide verandah of Spelthorne Abbey, his family estate, and flipped open the simple but expensive gold pocket watch he carried. It was
4:00 according to the hands of his watch face. But he
hadn’t needed to open the watch to know that. The appearance of men newly returned and washed from a day
of well-planned fishing on the River Ash, milling about
with their wives beneath the white canopies dotting the
lawn and the arrival of tea indicated the time of day just
assuredly as any clock. His house parties always ran on
schedule. Always.

By rights, he should be elated the party was going so
well. The weather had cooperated with blue skies. The light breeze coming in off the river contrived to keep the
guests comfortable in the last throes of summer. The
horse fair a few miles away in Staines would provide entertainment tomorrow, allowing his guests to get out of
the house and into the glorious Surrey countryside. His
personal coup de grace was the presence of his closest
friends, Alain Hartsfield, the Baron Wickham and Tristan
Moreland, the Viscount Gresham, along with their wives.
The collection of close friends hadn’t seen each other for
awhile, making the party a reunion of sorts for them.

Giles surveyed all that lay before him, waiting to be
filled with the usual satisfaction he experienced from
orchestrating such flawless occasions. Today that sense
of pleasure was strangely absent. Not even the presence
of Lady FoxHaughton, his current but discreet affaire
de coeur, could vanquish the emptiness that filled him
despite all that surrounded him.

Down on the lawn, Alain waved up at him and beckoned for him to join them. Giles smiled and waved back
in affirmation.

Giles wended his way toward them through the
canopies set up on the vast west lawns of Spelthorne
Abbey, under which resided tables and chairs for tea
and blankets thrown about picnic-style for the younger
or more adventurous guests.

Laughter reigned at the canopy claimed by Alain and
Tristan, their wives, and little AlainAlexander, Tristan
and Isabella’s son. Tristan clapped Giles on the back
goodnaturedly. “Finally, we get you to ourselves. You’ve
been so busy playing host”

Giles smiled and rocked back on his heels, quick humor on his lips. “These parties don’t happen by accident,” he joked.

Isabella spoke up from her haphazard couch of pillows. “Of course not, and no one is better at organizing such events than you,” she enthused, careful to keep
an ever-watchful eye on her toddling eighteen-monthold son.

“I will tell cook that her efforts were well-received.
She will appreciate the compliment.” Giles made a half
bow in her direction. To his eye, Isabella looked lovely
in her casual repose. With her honey-colored hair and
tawny eyes, Isabella had been born to great beauty, but
marriage to Tristan and motherhood had increased her
beauty tenfold. Giles suspected it was due to the contentment she had found with the enigmatic viscount.
The ache of emptiness he had experienced earlier flared
again.

A sudden movement on the blanket drew Giles’ attention. AlainAlexander had succeeded in escaping his
mother’s reach and was attempting to stuff the remaining lemon scones in his mouth. In a swift movement,
Tristan bent down and scooped the little boy up unto
his broad shoulders while the little boy laughed and
dropped crumbs in Tristan’s hair.

“One scone is enough for you, little man, or you’ll
end up with a stomachache tonight,” Tristan admonished playfully. He tossed the little boy up in the air,
catching him and tickling him when he came down. Giles thought the boy liked it immensely, if the whoops
he made were any indication.

“Tristan! Your roughhousing is what will give him
the stomachache” Isabella scolded, reaching to take
AlainAlexander and settle him back on her lap. A soft,
knowing smile passed between the couple as Tristan relinquished the boy.

Another queer pang tightened in his belly as Giles
watched the familial scene unfold. He cast a covert
glance and caught Alain exchanging a quiet smile with
his wife, Cecile. A discreet hand slipped briefly to her
waist. Ah, there would be another happy announcement
among their circle of friends soon.

He did not begrudge his friends their happiness. But
Giles could not deny the tinge of sadness he felt when
he saw them together with their families. For the first
time in the seventeen years he, Alain, and Tristan had
been friends, he felt a chasm between him and them.

Over the last few years, Alain and Tristan had had
adventures of their own of which he had not been part.
Tristan had served in the British fight against Napoleon
as a covert agent. Alain had dedicated himself to
single-handedly bringing oppressed French citizens to
safety in England. They had had their adventures; they
had found their true loves. They were bringing children
into the world.

All at once, the source of his ache became clear. He
was not being left out-indeed, he stood as godfather to
young AlainAlexander-he was being left behind.

“Giles, you’re wool-gathering” Alain remarked.
“Tristan just asked about the evening’s entertainment.
Many of us were speculating on it down at the river this
afternoon.”

“Ah, my apologies,” Giles said glibly, covering his
inattention. “Tonight’s entertainment is a secret” He
dropped his voice conspiratorially, “I’ve hired a troop
of performers, acrobats, jugglers and the like. In fact,
right now, my footmen are no doubt setting up the performing area on the south garden lawn”

“What’s an acwrobat?” AlainAlexander bounced
excitedly on Tristan’s shoulders as he tried out the new
word.

Giles gave the little boy a smile and reached out to
tickle his foot. “An acrobat is someone who does tricks
with his body, like turning circles in the air.” Giles
winked. “Can you keep a secret young man?” When the
boy nodded, Giles went on, “There’s to be a fireworks
display afterwards”

The boy’s eyes grew big. “Can I stay up, daddy?”

“Now you’ve done it, Giles. You have gone and
spoiled him. How can I say no to that?” Tristan grinned
up at the boy.