The Legacy and Other Stories

Minds

The Legacy and Other Stories: Four Regency Romance Novellas

By Edith Layton

Copyright 2020 by Estate of Edith Felber

Cover Copyright 2020 by Untreed Reads Publishing

Cover Design by Gin Kiser

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

Previously published in print:

The Legacy, in A Regency Valentine II, 1992

Buried Treasure, in Dashing and Dangerous, 1995

Something Blue, in A Wedding Bouquet, 1996

A Marriage of True Minds, in Wedding Belles, 2004

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Also by Edith Layton and Untreed Reads Publishing

The Duke’s Wager

The Disdainful Marquis

The Mysterious Heir

Red Jack’s Daughter

Lord of Dishonor

Peaches and the Queen

False Angel

The Indian Maiden

Lady of Spirit

The Wedding

A True Lady

Bound by Love

The Fire Flower

A Love for All Seasons

Love in Disguise

The Game of Love

Surrender to Love

Frost Fair

It’s a Wonderful Regency Christmas

www.untreedreads.com

The Legacy

The afternoon was bleak, the sky was gray, and the house and its furnishings so old and worn they complemented the day rather than defying it. But curiously, the elegant young gentleman awaiting his host in the dim study was neither depressed nor dissatisfied, even though his fashionable clothing was as much at odds with his surroundings as his bemused smile was with the lowering day. The leaded windows let in dreary February light, so the room was lit only by a glowing fireplace, which, considering its threadbare state, was a kindness. But nevertheless, the gentleman seemed pleased. He glanced about, stretched out his glossy boots in front of him, and sighed, content, as much at ease with the room as he would be in his favorite old dressing gown—the paisley one that was too worn for fashion but too comfortable to discard.

Nothing here had changed. That was as rare in this age of discovery, where war and fashion changed a man’s geography every time he turned around, as it was at his own particular age, the gentleman thought ruefully. For lately he’d discovered his friends and family changing even more rapidly than the world around him was. He’d returned from the wars by sea because Napoleon had been busily changing familiar borders while he himself had been trying to stop him from doing so, only to find the familiar borders of his own life entirely altered once he’d gotten home. His mama had married again. And though he couldn’t blame her, widowhood having been no doubt as boring as it was unprofitable for her, it was odd to feel an alien in the home of his childhood. He’d suddenly acquired a father who seemed not much older than himself, and a mother who was suddenly a sexual being. At least his newly acquired father thought so, for the fellow, for all his dignity, was constantly leering at his new wife—when he wasn’t cloistering himself with her in remote parts of the house. It was done in civilized fashion, of course, but since it was done at all, nothing could make it remotely bearable for the newly wedded lady’s fully grown son.

There was no relief to be found at the home of his sister or brother either, since those worthies had become parents during his absence from England. And as parents, he soon discovered them to be as fully absorbed and occupied with pride of their progeny as they’d been with themselves when they’d been younger. As for his many friends…the gentleman sighed as he gazed into the fire, although his face showed nothing but his usual calm dispassion. Those of his friends that weren’t wedded were trying to be—as though England had become some vast breeding ground since he’d gone away and returned. And yet even those that were not so occupied were not such friends as they’d seemed to be before he’d left them.

In fairness, he supposed that war changed the way a man looked at life too. Still, since he’d returned he found too many who’d remained at home too filled with trivialities to talk comfortably with, and too many who’d shared his experiences too eager to talk about what he’d rather forget now. Discontented and displaced, as out of place in his homeland as he’d been on the alien soil he’d tried to defend it upon, now he discovered himself pleased for the first time in a long time. Because he could sit back in this drab old room and forget, as it had, that time had changed everything outside of it out of all recognition.

The room seemed to have cast a spell over him, for even the voice that eventually awakened him from his reveries was as familiar to him as his own past was. Still, he waited a moment before he looked up to its source. Having heard a memory speak, he was loath to face reality. He’d discovered to his sorrow that faces were temporary, changing with time and troubles, as unreliable as time itself was. But voices remained much the same, and this one’s cadences and tone were part of the very fabric of his childhood. It was odd, he realized as he arose from his chair, that such peevish complaining tones were comforting, but they were. When he looked up to his host, he discovered something else was too, and then frankly grinned. Perhaps vinegar was the best preservative after all, because the wonder was that the face was as unchanged as the voice. But then, he thought, perhaps it was only that old could scarcely get older.

Good heavens! the old gentleman exclaimed in annoyance. Sit down! Sit down! Took a ball in your chest not a month past and you’re standing for me?

Three months past, his nephew corrected him softly, and sat again. He might have wished to offer more, to actually embrace the old fellow and hug him hard. But the Baron Blackwood had already turned his narrow back upon his guest and was rummaging through the drawer of his desk before the younger man could offer his hand, much less embarrass him by any show of affection. He wasn’t a touching sort of fellow, his nephew remembered, and hadn’t even the excuse of years of homesickness to have given him such an unnatural impulse. No, he never left this house, it was that which had caused him to summon his nephew to it. But now he’d begun to accept that he might someday have to leave, if unwillingly, yet forever. And so he told his nephew at once.

He began his complaints without so much as a preamble about the weather or an inquiry as to his guest’s own health. That was commonplace for him. Perhaps once the baron had been more conventional. But his wife had been dead for a generation, and his two sons carried off by a measles epidemic even before that, and as he’d kept to his house and his studies ever since, it was likely he’d gotten out of the habit of conversation. It hardly mattered. His nephew had always liked him anyway, perhaps precisely because he’d been the only adult male relative who’d never asked embarrassing and pointless questions, instead lecturing to him about whatever was on his own mind at the time they met. Since Uncle’s consuming passion was archaeology, Valerian hadn’t understood him very well in his early years, but the novelty of being asked his opinion about such exotic matters as ancient Roman earthworks, Celtic breastplates, and Pict war policies had been heady stuff to a growing boy. And whereas other adult male relatives had occasionally donated small coins or improving tracts as gifts, the baron could always be counted on to press all manner of interesting shards, broken medallions, and bits of clay and metal with undecipherable runes into his nephew’s hands, in the manner of a slightly lunatic jackdaw, as tokens of his goodwill.

And goodwill there’d been, although two more different men would be hard to find. The baron was a small, slight, bald and blue-eyed gentleman with a thin face distinguished mainly by its many wrinkles, a high querulous voice, and a remarkably deaf ear to anything that didn’t interest him. Valerian Blackwood was tall, lightly but muscularly built, blessed with a full head of light brown hair, a lean handsome face made markedly handsomer by his watchful gray-brown eyes, possessed of a smooth tenor voice, and known to be more interested in hearing about others than volunteering information about himself. Mr. Valerian Blackwood, until recently Captain Blackwood of His Majesty’s Light Hussars, was as interested in antiquities as he was in modern manners, no more, and not less, because he found many things interesting—not the least, his uncle himself. He liked the baron for his oddity as well as his intelligence, but would have been kind to him in any case, merely because he was his uncle. He’d never seen his uncle being kind or unkind to anyone, merely sublimely unaware of their emotions. True, the baron had once been a soldier too, long before his nephew had been born, much less bought his own colors. But he seldom spoke of any battle fought after 1066. In fact, uncle and nephew neither looked nor thought alike in the least, but there was a curious bond between them, though neither could say just why.

And so although of course I knew he stood to inherit one day, I never refined upon it too much, the baron was saying in his usual high-pitched anxious drone, but obviously he has done, for he wrote this damned impertinent letter when he discovered I’d donated a bit or two to the new British Museum—well, he huffed, as he passed the letter to his nephew with shaking hands, "as if a museum of antiquities could he based on a jumble of stolen Greek marbles! That’s Greek history, he said with a sniff, in the manner that one might say Martian history."

Valerian ran his eyes over the paper as his uncle whined on about the indignity of being asked just what he’d contributed. The letter was indeed, as the baron had said, and his nephew had suspected, a pompous, foolish and unnecessary bit of presumption. Just as its author was, he thought on an interior sigh, and gazed up at his uncle as he paced the dim study.

As I understand it, Valerian said, summarily interrupting the flow of complaints because he knew that was the only way to be heard, my cousin has no grounds for complaint. The estate’s entailed, so I imagine he could raise holy hell if you gave away a rug or a chair without his express permission. But that acquired by you yourself in the course of your life is yours to do with as you wish, is it not?

His uncle stopped pacing and gazed at him shrewdly. The old fellow might be a nonstop complainer, and sublimely disinterested in modern life, but he was as sharp of wit as he’d always been. The family wisdom was that the Blackwoods went to their graves fully equipped with all their teeth and claws, no matter how ancient they were on that fateful day.

Yes, the baron admitted, "in the usual course of things, that’s so. But these artifacts were discovered here. On the grounds of the Hall itself. And so, my man at law says the oaf has a say-so in the matter. He could claim that I’m disposing of his legacy. Well, he is. And I am. But he’s got no interest in them. I suspect he’s belligerent because he’ll not get much more from me. And not just because I dislike him. No, no, I never earned a shilling to improve the estate, but neither did I squander one either. There simply never was much there. What there was, I spent on excavation—the barrow in the east meadow, the ruins of the villa out near the lake. This is historic ground. The only thing that bothered me was that there wasn’t more to spend, he said, before with an altogether new and sly smile he added, but as Bolton doesn’t know the difference between a Roman pot and a Viking chalice, the riches he stands to inherit don’t excite him in the least."

Ah, well, Valerian said, but as Bolton hasn’t so much as a Roman cooking pot to…ah, cook in, much less a chalice, I can see—if not sympathize with—his point.

Of course you can’t sympathize, you’re rich as a Caesar yourself, his uncle said caustically.

Oh, you see his point. Pardon me, Valerian said, I hadn’t realized you’d grown a partiality for the fellow.

As soon as I would for any Vandal! No, no. I’m just stating facts. Your father was the craftiest in the family; his investments were nothing short of astonishing. Who would think tobacco and sugarcane would come to be worth more than statuary and texts? he asked wonderingly. But that’s the way of the modern world, pleasure over knowledge, he went on in aggrieved tones, before he said accusingly, and you not only inherited his fortune, but his acuity as well.

Your pardon, Uncle, Valerian said with much mock humility, which his uncle ignored.

"Your cousin Bolton’s here now, the baron said fiercely, as if it were truly a troop of savage Vandals occupying his guest room instead of his heir, snooping and poking and prodding, wondering where I’ve hidden the silver plate and gold furnishings. He can’t believe I paid what he calls ‘good money’ to excavate and unearth my ‘pottery and crockery.’ Almost comes right out and says I diddled him out of a fortune. Accusing me of all sorts. But I’m leaving him an estate in good heart and priceless treasures besides, although he can’t see it—nor anything that isn’t in his favorite tailor or jeweler’s windows."

And you sent for me so that I could help persuade him that all is in order? his nephew asked softly.

Aye! the baron said, resuming his pacing. Because you’re almost of an age, though he’s got five years on you. More than that, he respects you for all the wrong reasons: your fortune and fashion. Howbeit. You can do it. You must. His letter made me see I have to settle things before he takes over. I’ve always been concerned with posterity. Now I’m thinking about my own. I find there’re things I wish to leave behind, he said fiercely, but I have to get that sapskull’s permission so I can.

I’ll talk with him tonight, after dinner. Does he still fancy himself a wizard at billiards? Valerian asked.

How should I know? the baron asked with some irritation. Hadn’t clapped eyes on him in years before he arrived this morning. All I know is that he’s more foolish than ever. Don’t you run into him in town?

Now and again, Valerian admitted, but then I usually run the other way. Well, then, shall I go to my room and change before dinner—my valet’s likely unpacked by now—or should you like to take me around to see the place first? It’s been years since I’ve been here too. I don’t know a chalice from a chausable either, but nevertheless, I’d like to see what’s old that’s new, sir, if I might.

Still got charm to spare, I see, the baron said with a grimace, as if he were pointing out the fact that his nephew had some skin disease. How is it you aren’t wedded yet?

Since he’d been wondering about that very thing of late, Valerian answered with less than his usual calm amusement.

There were very few cotillions in the Peninsula, he said with a chill smile, and though I found myself most grateful to my nurses for all the tender care they gave me when I was in hospital, I hadn’t the urge to propose to any of those fellows.

You were only gone four years, and you’ve been back three months. And you were home for twenty-two years before that, his uncle pointed out.

Alas, I’m not impetuous, Valerian answered.

But not disinterested. I hear you’ve already got a high-flier in keeping, the baron complained.

I’m not impetuous, but not dead yet either, his nephew answered coolly, for all he was astonished that his uncle knew something current as well as personal about him.

Bolton may as well be, the baron sighed. Been keeping some doxy in London for years now. Same one all this time—she’s old as he is, fairly long in the tooth now.

I thought you admired antiquities, Valerian commented as his uncle went on.

Not because he’s devoted, mind you. Just lazy. So I invited a wife here for him.

After a second’s silence his nephew asked idly, Is her husband here too?

Bolton’s going to have the title, the estate, the lot, his uncle said, ignoring his comment. I’m leaving him everything but money, as I said. But without money an idiot like him will run the estate into the ground within a decade. So one of the things I’m going to get settled before I go is Bolton himself. He needs a rich wife; I’ve found him one.

What a lot of excavating’s been going on, Valerian mused. Are you going to slip her into his bed? Or simply have her waiting with an armful of roses and a Bible by a convenient altar as he goes by? He has to agree to the union, you know, and he’s remained stunningly single for all these years now. He is, as you say, lazy, and for all he’s got his doxy in readiness, from what I hear, her duties are light. Not because he finds her unattractive, but because he’s simply not terribly interested very often. How are you going to get the lad to the sticking point, sir? As you say, he already feels you haven’t much to offer. Or have you actually been hoarding golden chalices against this day?

Don’t talk nonsense, the baron said huffily. What I have is you. That’s one of the reasons I invited you here. You’re going to talk him round to her, and it.

He waited for his nephew’s response. But for once Mr. Valerian Blackwood, famed for his wit as well as his acuity, was silent; he only stood and stared at his uncle with his usually amused gray-brown eyes arrested and opened wide.

I am, he finally managed to say, a most unlikely Cupid, sir.

Well, that’s done, the baron said with something almost like pleasure in his thin voice. Now, come have a look at what I’ve got on display in the muniments room, and then you can meet Miss Exeter, and then we’ll have dinner.

Uncle, Valerian said firmly, I’ll do my best, but I promise nothing.

I ask nothing more, the baron said, leading the way out of the study. She’s a good sort of female, he conceded, handsome as she is wealthy, fair and buxom as a young Bodicea, actually, he said on a rusty laugh, so it shouldn’t be difficult for you. Wait until you see the coins I found beneath the mosaic at the villa.

But as Mr. Valerian Blackwood followed his uncle, he remained silent, suddenly as anxious as he’d been at dawn on days of battle, sensing a trap, hearing something sinister beneath the bird-song, suddenly wondering if it wasn’t someone else who was playing the role of unlikely Cupid, after all.

*

Hist! Bolton Blackwood said.

He didn’t even hiss it, he said it, Valerian thought wearily; that was part of the difficulty with dealing with his cousin. Bolton stood in the doorway to his room and accosted him as he came down the corridor with a clearly enunciated: Hist!

Good evening, Cousin. You wished to speak with me? Valerian asked.

Come in, come in. A word, for a moment, if you would, Bolton said anxiously.

Valerian sighed, and nodding, followed his cousin into his guest chamber. His lips curved upward as he noted that Uncle had put his heir in a badly furnished, damp chamber. But then he straightened his face and his back and stood before his cousin with every evidence of interest, even though he anticipated very little of interest to him. The male Blackwoods seemed to take their looks from the female sides of the line, Valerian mused. For his cousin looked nothing like Uncle either, and yet he and Bolton had only their height in common. Bolton was a tall, fattish gentleman with thin blond hair and light blue eyes under light brows. His face was not unhandsome, merely not memorable; his plump lips, rosy cheeks and small nose suited his mother, whom he’d got them from, far more than they did himself. He was dressed neatly, in Bnunmell’s prescribed fashion, but it was a measure of the man that he scanned his cousin Valerian’s clothes with