The Heiress Effect

“Indeed,” Geraldine agreed, a little too swiftly. “Indeed, Miss Fairfield.”

“After all,” Genevieve said in too high a voice, “I should hate him to see me outside of my evening finery.”

“And in direct sun, no less. Oh my, he’ll see every flaw in my skin.”

They spoke swiftly atop each other, nodding the whole while. “Good,” Geraldine said, “it’s settled. Oh, da—drat, he’s seen us. He’s coming this way.”

“Jane,” Genevieve said urgently, “is my powder smudged? Tell me quickly.”

Jane peered into the other girl’s face. As usual, it was flawless. She didn’t even look as if she were wearing powder.

“Oh, nothing to worry about,” Jane told her merrily. “It’s only smudged a little here.” She indicated her right cheek.

Genevieve whipped out a handkerchief, but it was too late.

“Miss Johnson. Miss Genevieve,” Bradenton said. “How lovely to encounter you. And Miss Fairfield, too.”

If Jane had been caught with a handkerchief in her hand, she would have done something dreadful with it—like drop it, or shove it into a pocket, leaving an unshapely lump in her skirts.

Genevieve simply smiled and treated the folded square of linen as if it were a bouquet, a perfectly natural thing for her to be holding. She used it to add a little flourish to the perfectly executed curtsy she made.

“My lord,” she said in unison with her sister.

Jane came in a few moments later with a lopsided curtsy of her own. “Bradenton.”

The marquess gave Jane an annoyed glance at that familiarity. “As it turns out, ladies,” Bradenton said, “there’s a new plant in one of the greenhouses. I had thought to show Miss Fairfield.”

The two ladies looked at one another. “Of course,” Geraldine said. “We should love to see it above all things.”

“Ah, that’s the thing.” Bradenton shook his head sadly. “It’s delicate. Very delicate. We could not all crowd about it without risking its demise.”

What claptrap. What was the man getting at?

“I propose we all walk to the greenhouses,” Bradenton said, “and I will conduct Miss Fairfield inside. You’ll be able to see her through the glass—there will be no chance of impropriety—and I’ll be done in a matter of minutes.”

There was a pause—a longer, more reluctant pause. If Genevieve had set her sights on Bradenton, she was probably thinking murderously jealous thoughts at the moment. But if she aspired so high, she did not let it show. After a moment, the twins simply nodded.

“But of course, my lord,” Genevieve said.

“Whatever you say, my lord,” Geraldine told him.

The word greenhouse called to mind a single structure of glass. The greenhouses here were actually a complex of glassed-in buildings, jutting out like spikes from a central hallway. They were made of heavy brick mortared over in gray from the ground up to waist level. Above that point, windows made up the walls and ceilings. On some, the top windows were open a few inches. Jane could feel the warm air tickling her face as they passed. Bradenton walked along a side path before opening a door.

“We’ll just be a moment, ladies,” he said to the twins, before he ushered Jane inside.

She’d been in the greenhouses before. A main hallway stretched in front of her, with individual rooms connected off it, each with its separate temperature and humidity. The hallway itself was moist and heated; jungle vines flourished on the walls.

The specimens here were labeled in both Latin and English, and sometimes in letters and numbers that meant nothing to Jane. Some university botanist must be studying them, Jane supposed. Steel pipes made a quiet gurgling sound, hot water flowing through them, radiating warmth. Jane had dressed for the cold, and suddenly she was sweltering.

Geraldine probably wouldn’t have done anything so uncouth as sweat.

Bradenton bowed her into a room of clay pots and sand with a smile. Jane didn’t smile back. This was the man who wanted her hurt. Humiliated. Who was willing to trade a vote in Parliament to get that result.

“So, my lord,” Jane asked, “where is this exceedingly rare plant?”

He contemplated her. “I cannot make you out.”

“Whyever not?” Jane spun around, taking in the plants in the room. “You and I are so similar.” It was dry and hot; a big, square planter to the left contained rocks and sand and a number of squiggly misshapen green things. They’d have been swallowed up by the underbrush if they’d dared to grow in the Cambridge woods.

“Similar?”

“But of course.” Jane still refused to look at him. “We’re simple people. The sort that nobody would care about if circumstances were different. I’m elevated by my fortune. You’re elevated by your title.”

He made a sound of disbelief. “That’s why you spurned me? Because you think you’re my equal?” There was an ugly tone in his voice.

Her heart beat faster. She put him off because that was what she did. But perhaps she’d made a special effort with him. Others had talked and laughed about her, but after those first few weeks, he’d encouraged them. And he’d tried to pretend he didn’t.

“Spurn you?” she said with a laugh. “How could I have spurned you? You’ve never offered me anything to spurn.”

He made a noise. “No matter.”

“I can’t imagine why you’d offer,” Jane said. You’re a marquess. You don’t need…” She stopped, as if something had just occurred to her. “Oh.”

His eyes burned into hers, but Jane wasn’t going to let his glare stop her. She wanted him to feel a fraction of the pain he wished on her.

“You do need my money,” Jane said. “Don’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“Of course.” Jane kept her face a mask of solicitude. “I feel dreadfully for you. How embarrassing that must be. You write all the laws, you can’t lose your lands even by mismanagement, and yet with all those advantages, you can’t even fix the game to turn a profit on your own estates. Good heavens; that must take singular skill.”

He took another step toward her. “Shut up,” he said on a low growl.

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. You know I am the very soul of discretion.”

He made a strangled noise in his throat and took yet another step toward her.