The Heiress Effect

Oh, she felt a twinge of jealousy at that, one that twined around her heart at the thought of having a real family.

“What was it like?” she asked, her voice low.

“He taught me how to fish, how to set a snare for a rabbit, how to fight politely at fisticuffs, and how to win a fight very impolitely using dirty tricks. If necessary.” Mr. Marshall took a deep breath. “He taught me how to balance books and how to fold a piece of paper into a box. He showed me how to whistle on a blade of grass. My father taught me everything. And so I call him father because that’s what he was. In every sense of the word except that one tiny thing.”

“So you were a part of the family, then?”

“Oh, yes. I grew up with them. They ran a small farm. And that’s what brings me to all of this. My parents have never been wealthy. They have always had enough. My mother and father are both clever. Twice a year, they lease out factories for a week, just long enough to distill oils and make soaps. Not great big bars of soaps, produced for the masses, but scented, molded soaps. My mother packages them for ladies and charges twenty times their worth.” He smiled and glanced at her. “You use it, I think. Lady Serena’s Secret.”

She did. The boxes appealed to her in their colorful range of pastels. The bars of soap had come wrapped in tissue, accompanied by a slip of paper explaining the scent. There were different scents for every month of the year, altering with the seasons. She paid five times more for those small, sweet-smelling bars than she might otherwise have laid out, but unwrapping them gave her pleasure so she’d accounted it money well spent.

“My parents do well for themselves,” Mr. Marshall continued. “But I have three sisters. Two of them have recently married, and they’ve laid out funds to establish them in their new lives. There was my own schooling at Cambridge. And while the current Duke of Clermont—my brother—settled money on me when I came of age, they’ve refused to take anything from him on principle.”

“Are you telling me your family is poor?” she said.

“No, not at all.” He swallowed and looked away. “Although…yes, I suppose you would think so. I am telling you that my father is a tenant at will in a county constituency. He pays an annual rent of forty pounds a year.”

She shook her head, not seeing the relevance.

“I worshipped my father. I used to think he could do anything,” he told her. “That’s the way of it, when a man teaches you everything. And then, when I was sixteen, I learned otherwise.”

She squeezed his arm. “Everyone is fallible. Even the best of men.”

“No. I didn’t mean that I discovered he had flaws. I meant what I said. There is one thing my father is not allowed to do.”

She waited for his answer.

“He cannot vote.”

She looked up in surprise, her eyes widening. “That’s…that’s…”

“Imagine,” he said, his voice tight, “that there was someone who owed you nothing and gave you everything. A family. A place in the world. Love. Imagine that the entire world around you said that he was worth nothing. What would you do for him?”

“For her,” Jane whispered involuntarily. She took her hand off his sleeve and hugged her arms around herself. “When you have almost nobody… For her, I’d do anything.” She was silent for a moment longer. “That’s what Bradenton promised you? A vote on the Reform Bill?”

He nodded. “More than that. Not just the vote, but the credit for changing his mind. He’s the leader of a group nine strong. He’s grooming Hapford to join them. If I can bring the entire group in, it will prove my worth. It will be the first step forward.” He looked away. “Miss Fairfield, I won’t apologize to you for the choice I must make. Bradenton and his set will all be in town in a matter of days—all nine of them. I don’t know.” He made a frustrated sound. “That is—I think I would be better off leaving. Now.” He spread his hands. “Parliament will sit in a few weeks anyway. It is time to get on.”

Mine.

Maybe it was rash on her part. Maybe it was injudicious. But then, Bradenton had broken her cactus and she wanted him to pay.

“Tell me, Mr. Marshall,” she said. “How would you get on with your first step forward if you brought back eight votes instead of nine?”

“I’ve been trying precisely that. You just saw me talking to Hapford.” He stopped and looked at her. “But the rest of them…the bonds of friendship count for much, and if Bradenton speaks ill of me…” He shrugged.

“That’s the thing,” Jane said. “I’ve never met them, but Bradenton doesn’t even have a solid hold on Hapford. He cannot truly control the other men. And if you could do something to put a little pressure on those bonds of friendship…”

He just looked at her.

“They’re going to be here,” she said. “It’s the perfect opportunity. You only need a little something. Enough to get them to listen to you rather than him. You’ll have the votes you want, minus one. You’ll get the credit.” Her voice dropped. “And Bradenton, well… I think that would really annoy him.”

He blinked. “My God.” A slow smile spread across his face. “But how would it be done?”

“Oh, Mr. Marshall,” Jane said, long and slow. “I have been thinking of nothing else.”

After her last conversation with Mr. Bhattacharya, Emily had felt unsettled. She’d watched Titus more carefully, trying to be…well, not obedient, but at least more respectful.

It had made absolutely no difference to his behavior, but she’d found that the less she raged at her uncle, the more she could bear.

Now, standing on the side of the brook and waiting for Mr. Bhattacharya to arrive, she felt nervous all over again. What if he decided that he didn’t want to see her? What if he decided that her uncle’s approval was paramount? Her heart raced with every little noise, imagining it to be his footfalls. The palms of her hands tingled, as if her skin remembered his.

And then she saw him and she felt herself burst into a smile as he drew near. He was always an excellent dresser. Far too many Cambridge students were quite slovenly—that was what came of wearing robes over their clothing, she supposed; they stopped caring about what they believed few others could see. Mr. Bhattacharya was always neat and clean, his clothing evenly pressed, his hat situated firmly on his head.