The Unexpected Heiress

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April 1895

New York City

The heavy mist surrounded her, engulfing everything in its path within its cold, gray, swirling clouds. Not knowing where to go or what to do, her pulse raced, and she found it difficult to breathe. She remained motionless, not making a sound, not daring to move.

He was out there somewhere in the misty fog. Searching for her. Coming closer and closer. He would not rest until he found her. There was no doubt about that. And when he found her . . . She trembled at the mere thought, a shot of stark terror racing through her veins. There was no telling what he would do to her.

He had already killed once, and he would certainly kill again. If only she could get away from him and get home safely!

An eerie silence surrounded her. The heavy fog blanketed all the natural sounds of the woods. Not the twitter of a bird in the bare trees nor the scuttle of bugs along the crushed leaves and dirt at her feet could be heard. The only sound was the wild pounding of her heart echoing in her ears.

After waiting for what felt like an eternity in the dampness, she ached to flee. The cold mist clung to her muddied skirt and jacket, and her long blond hair had come loose from running and spilled wildly around her shoulders. Shivering, she longed for the warmth and security of home, which was not far off. If only she could get there.

Yet ice-cold fear filled her heart.

She’d been so foolish to venture out alone in the first place. If she made a move now, he would certainly find her. Had he gone? Was it safe for her to escape her temporary hiding spot among the trees and make a frantic dash toward the safety of home before it was too late? There was no actual choice really, for the cloud of misty fog grew thicker, and the sky darkened by the second.

Night was coming.

The dark of night terrified her almost as much as he did. If she waited any longer, it would be too dark to see anything at all, and she would never make it back to the house alive. The thought of her warm, safe home and the protective arms of her family finally drove her to leave her hiding place. Taking a fortifying breath, she decided to run.

It was her only option.

Slowly and without making a sound, she pulled her dark cloak tighter around her body.

She took a hesitant and silent step forward, held her breath, and waited. Still, there was not a sound. Perhaps he had given up after all. Perhaps she had a chance!

Wild hope surged in her chest, and she gathered all her strength as she began to run.

Suddenly a brutal hand reached out from the fog, grabbed her throat, and—

* * *

Meredith!

The demanding shout startled her, and Meredith Rose Remington dropped her pen, splattering black ink all over the paper she had just been writing upon.

Frowning with annoyance, Meredith crumpled up the page. She hated being interrupted when she was writing, especially when she had just reached a very exciting part in the novel. It truly was the most crucial part of her story. Her heroine had just been cornered, and a dramatic plot point was about to be revealed. To be interrupted at such a pivotal moment in the story was simply maddening!

But her aunt Delilah had never understood or really approved of Meredith’s desire to write.

You’re wasting your time scribbling such nonsense up there alone in your bedroom! she would declare with a look of utter mystification on her face and, truth be told, a bit of disgust.

Her aunt simply could not comprehend the fact that Meredith loved to write.

Meredith needed to write. She simply had to write! The stories came to her without effort, without trying. They bubbled up within her, demanding her attention and clamoring to be told. The characters spoke through her, and she was compelled to write down their words.

Ever since she was a little girl and first learned her alphabet, Meredith was writing. She loved everything about letters, words, and meanings. She loved to spell and use cursive handwriting. She loved pens, ink, and pretty papers. She wrote in diaries and kept journals and sent letters. She wrote heartfelt poems, amusing little plays, and involved short stories.

Telling Meredith to stop writing was like telling her to stop breathing.

Your fingers will be permanently stained with ink if you’re not careful! No man will ever find you attractive like that. And then where will you be?

Her aunt Delilah would wail in despair time and again, her tiny nose wrinkled in disapproval and distaste while she clutched her hands tightly together.

Delilah’s biggest worry was that Meredith would not find a man to marry her if she kept writing. She worried about it all day and all night, lamenting that her lovely niece had no interest in suitors.

Meredith needed to socialize more, not spend her time holed up in her bedroom writing nonsense that would never amount to anything. Meredith shouldn’t keep to herself so much. Meredith should attend more dances and parties with people her own age. Meredith should be focused on finding a husband. There were no worthy prospects on the horizon, and, at the ripe old age of twenty years, Meredith was not getting any younger, and gentlemen did not wish to have old wives.

Yes, her aunt Delilah worried, but Meredith herself was not worried.

Finding a husband was certainly not something she concerned herself with. Marrying was not a priority for her. Not that she was averse to marriage. Meredith just figured it would happen when it happened, pragmatic girl that she was. And if it didn’t ever happen, well . . . she would be fine with that too.

Oh, she knew she was attractive, with her soft chestnut curls, pert nose, and clear, blue eyes, and she could certainly be charming enough to make a man fall in love with her if she put her mind to it. And if she ever found a man that was intelligent, attractive, and caring enough to catch her attention, then all would be well. But until then, marriage wasn’t something that she worried about in the least.

For the time being, she was more than satisfied with her burgeoning writing career.

In the past year, she had sold two of her short stories and had them printed in New York literary magazines. What a thrill it had been to see her first story in Harper’s Magazine! It made her feel like a real writer. Written by M.R. Remington sounded quite elegant and sophisticated too!

Now she simply needed to finish the book she had been working on for the past few months. Meredith was positive that it would be published one day. She just knew it deep in her heart.

Yet her aunt Delilah thought about nothing else except finding Meredith a husband, now that she was twenty years old. As if Meredith would live a painful, pathetic, and lonely life if she remained unmarried. As if Meredith would be nothing without a husband. As if Meredith—

Meredith!

Startled again by the calling of her name, Meredith recognized that Delilah’s cry sounded more insistent than usual. With great reluctance, she stood and hurriedly wiped her inky hands on the cloth she kept on her writing desk for that express purpose.

Her writing desk . . . Oh, how she loved her beautiful writing desk! It was an elegant cherrywood, slant-front desk, inlaid with a dark green tooled-leather writing surface, complete with lots of lovely secret, hidden compartments. There were a few nicks and scratches on it from years of use, but they only added to its charm.

The desk had once belonged to her mother, and her mother’s mother, and that made Meredith cherish it all the more. The graceful desk carried the history of her mother and grandmother, and one day Meredith would pass it on to her own daughter.

She wondered, if her mother had lived, would she be as worried as Aunt Delilah was that Meredith had not married yet? Somehow, she believed her mother would have naturally understood her only daughter’s desire to write and would not have pressured her to find a husband at all.

At least that was what Meredith preferred to think.

She lovingly touched the soft grain of the cherrywood desk with her fingers, the memory of her mother still strong within her, and sighed softly.

Meredith, please!

Her aunt’s tone was growing rather sharp as her impatience mounted, so with a sigh of resignation, Meredith raced out of her bedroom, down the upper hallway of their large brownstone, and into her aunt’s private sitting room.

Yes, Aunt Delilah? Meredith said as she entered the ornately decorated space she had known since childhood.

Hand-knitted lace doilies covered every tabletop surface, which were adorned with china figurines and crystal vases bursting with brightly colored silk flowers. The cluttered and overly ornamented room was quite in fashion, but Meredith usually found it more than a bit overwhelming. Her tastes tended to favor simpler, cleaner, and less-cluttered surroundings.

What took you so long? Delilah’s words were filled with agitation. You must make more of an effort to come when you are called, my dear. It’s disrespectful to keep me waiting like that.

Hiding her ink-stained fingers behind her back, Meredith wished she’d had time to wash her hands with the rose Castile soap. As she looked toward her aunt, Meredith wanted to say she was not a trained lap dog who would obediently come when called, but she kept the comment to herself.

Instead, she began to explain, I am very sorry, Aunt Delilah. I was writing, and I was at the most exciting part of the story when the—

Yes, yes, I am quite aware of what kept you so occupied. Still, it is not an excuse to keep me waiting, Meredith. Delilah wrinkled her nose in distaste.

Delilah Remington was a tiny woman, built almost like a china doll, with pale skin, blond hair, and wide blue eyes. Although she was close to forty years old, she did not look anywhere near her age. Somehow her aunt managed to appear quite youthful and slender, nothing like the mother of two children tended to look.

But Delilah Remington’s looks were quite deceptive. Her outwardly sweet appearance hid a steely and determined will. Meredith knew better than to argue with the woman who had raised her since she was ten years old and lost her mother.

Now, sit down, dear. I have some things to discuss with you, and none of it is pleasant.

Without a word, Meredith adjusted the black silk of her mourning gown and sat upon the burgundy, velvet-tufted sofa across from her aunt. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for she knew not what.

The last few weeks had been tumultuous and terrible, to say the least. Actually, they had been quite heartbreaking. If Meredith had not had her writing to keep her mind occupied, she did not know what she would have done. Perhaps curled up into a little ball and wept ceaselessly in a corner?

She raised her eyes to meet her aunt’s steady gaze and waited. One could not rush her aunt Delilah.

Delilah folded her hands primly in her lap, and her chin rose in determination as she spoke, the hint of a British accent still recognizable in her voice even after fifteen years in the United States.

I have made a plan for us. Apparently, we cannot continue on as we have been. It seems they’ve left us no money, and we have no other recourse available to us. I have to provide for my children and for your future as well, Meredith. We’re going to leave New York. Just this afternoon, I booked us passage on a ship to London at the end of the week.

Meredith had to stop herself from releasing a shrill scream.

Leave New York?

What in heaven’s name was her aunt thinking? That was just it. She probably wasn’t thinking clearly at all. Meredith’s father had died only three weeks ago, and now Aunt Delilah wanted to drag her away from the only home she had ever known? It was unthinkable.

Meredith had no desire to leave the pretty brownstone near Riverside Park where she had spent her entire life. She blinked back a sudden rush of tears as she stared in a mute and horrified silence at her aunt.

I know you are surprised, my dear, Delilah continued, in a determined yet gentle tone. "I can see it on your pretty face. But your father and your uncle have left us no other choice. I spent all day yesterday and this morning with our lawyers and advisers, while you have been sequestered in your bedroom writing heaven knows what. They’ve left us with nothing. Nothing. Do you understand what that means, Meredith? For us? We have virtually nothing left to live on."

But I don’t . . . there was . . . what . . . what happened to all the money, Auntie? Meredith could barely get the words out to form a coherent question.

The stunning news had her head reeling. How could they have nothing left to live on? It was impossible. Unimaginable. Her father’s business, the Remington Oil Company, had been worth over a million dollars! At least that was what she had always been told by her father. He had always been so proud of his company.

Delilah’s lower lip trembled, and she seemed on the verge of tears.

It seems there wasn’t as much money as we were led to believe, and what they did have . . . well, frankly, they spent it all. The Remington brothers put every last penny they had into buying all that land in Texas, just before . . . the accident.

The words the accident hovered ominously in the air around them.

The accident had turned their world upside down.

The deadly explosion in a muddy oilfield in Texas had taken Meredith’s father from her just weeks ago. The words the accident had been whispered and murmured in hushed tones since the day they received the dreadful telegram bearing the news that John Remington and his younger brother, Joseph, the founders of the Remington Oil Company, had been tragically killed in an oil rig accident while exploring the vast tract of land they had recently purchased.

I . . . I simply don’t understand. Meredith stared at her aunt in disbelief.

How could her father have left her with nothing?

Her dear, sweet, handsome father, whom she loved desperately but, in actuality, did not spend much time with, had always been a wonderful and generous provider. Meredith had lived entire her life in ease and comfort, never wanting for anything.

John Remington had doted on Meredith, his only child, and she had adored him in return. Her father loved her and had even encouraged her writing . . . when he’d been home. He filled her head with promises of all the wonderful things they would do together when he came back home. Every sentence always began with, When I get back . . .

For as much as he loved Meredith, the main focus of John Remington’s life and his time had been the creation of the Remington Oil Company. Meredith hadn’t even seen her father in the last three years, so busy had he been travelling the country with his brother and buying up all the land they thought would bring in oil.

Her father and her uncle Joseph had been fairly successful too. Up until the accident in Texas.

The accident. It had changed everything for them. Apparently more than Meredith even realized. She looked at her aunt.

Delilah’s usually sweet face grew hard with consternation.

"I don’t quite understand where all the money went either, my dear. But Joseph’s lawyer laid everything out for me in no uncertain terms. My husband and your father, God rest their souls, have left us practically no funds. In fact, we even owe some money, Meredith."

The ugly truth felt like a slap in the face.

How could they have no money? Nothing left? Meredith had never thought about money before.

She had been fortunate enough not to have to wonder where the money came from. She had always lived in this lovely brownstone house in New York City, and had always had enough for her pretty dresses and whatever else she wanted. She never even had to ask for what she needed. Everything had always been provided for her without question.

She and Aunt Delilah hadn’t lived extravagantly by any means, but they had always been more than comfortable. They certainly had not been part of the Knickerbocker social set, but their lives had been quiet and peaceful. Her aunt was occupied with raising Harry and Lilly, and Meredith was content with her writing and her own devices. They mostly waited in limbo for when the Remington brothers would return home after they struck millions in oil.

Money had never been a concern for Meredith before. But now that she thought about it, she was overcome with guilt. Who was she to have never given a second thought to the cost of things? To have never worried if she had enough money for her food and shelter? She had all of this security simply by virtue of being born to a well-off family.

Then a frightening thought occurred to her.

What would her life be like now, without her father’s money to keep her safe and in comfort? What about Aunt Delilah? And Meredith’s two little cousins, Harry and Lilly? What would become of what was left of their little family? Meredith’s heart began to beat faster. For the first time in her life, she was truly worried about her future.

Well, what shall we do? she asked her aunt helplessly.

Delilah gave her a pointed look, her eyes intense. I’ve come up with a plan. But it involves a bit of deception once we arrive in London.

Puzzled, Meredith shook her head trying to make sense of what her aunt was saying. Why on earth must we leave New York City?

Because there is nowhere else for us to go. I’ve given this a great deal of thought. After paying off the creditors with the proceeds from the sale of this house, we will have just enough to get by for a short time. My sister Lavinia lives in London. Her husband is away in India, and we can stay with her for a while. Although, to be honest, staying with my elder sister is not anything I’m looking forward to. In any case, that’s neither here nor there. I’ve already sent her a telegram with our arrival date. So I suggest you begin packing right away.

A thick lump rose in Meredith’s throat.

She was to leave New York? The only home she had ever known? To go to London and live with people who were complete strangers to her? Her mind raced with alternate possibilities. She was educated and bright enough to work. In fact, she was certain that she could find employment and support them all somehow.

Surely there must be another way. . . . Couldn’t we stay here, Aunt Delilah? Perhaps I could get a position somewhere? I could g—

Delilah interrupted, holding up her small hand to hush Meredith.

And do what exactly? Get a job writing for a newspaper or a magazine? It’s highly unlikely they would hire a young girl like yourself. You have absolutely no experience, and even if you somehow managed to secure a position somewhere, you certainly would not make enough to support all four of us, and you would not earn near enough to what we would need in order for us to remain in this house. So what other option is there, Meredith? Do you wish to become a lowly governess . . . and have to go live with another family? And what about the children and me? What would we do? No. There is no other option.

Meredith was about to protest.

Delilah shook her head firmly. Besides, I wish for my children to finally meet what little family I have left back in England. And since I couldn’t possibly leave you behind, my dear, we must go stay with my sister Lavinia in London. She is Lady Eastwood now, and she will take us in and introduce us around town until we can get ourselves established.

Hot tears welled in Meredith’s eyes. Her aunt was more than likely right, but Meredith couldn’t help but think there must be another way, although she couldn’t think of one just then.

She certainly didn’t wish to go live with a strange family as a governess and leave Aunt Delilah and Harry and Lilly, who were more like her younger brother and sister than her cousins. She loved them dearly and definitely wanted them all to stay together. After losing her mother when she was so young, and now her father, her aunt and two young cousins were all the family Meredith had left in the world.

Handing Meredith a lace-trimmed handkerchief, Delilah stared at her with kind eyes.

I understand how you feel, my dear. Truly, I do. I’m quite loathe to leave New York myself. When I first met your uncle, I was a young widow, and I—

You were married before?

This was news to Meredith. The shock of discovering that Aunt Delilah had been married to someone other than her uncle was shocking enough to make Meredith stop crying.

Yes, my dear, your uncle Joseph was my second husband. My first husband was Peter Martin, and he died of a terrible fever about five years after we married. It was after he passed away that I came to New York with my cousin Laura. It was supposed to be a fun visit to cheer me up, but I never expected to meet someone like Joseph Remington.

Meredith listened to this chapter of her aunt’s life with rapt attention.

Delilah continued her story. I fell head over heels in love with him. I never even felt that way about my first husband, and I gave up everything to be with him. My family, my friends, and England. I stayed in America to marry him. Joseph promised me the world and riches beyond my wildest dreams, and I believed him. But after years of being left alone while he and your father went off chasing their oil fields, I’m finally finished with waiting. Now that Joseph is gone and I have nothing left here in New York, returning home to England is my only recourse. I have my two children’s futures to think of. And your future as well, Meredith. I promised your dear mother, before she died, that I would take care of you.

At those words, Meredith felt tears well again. Thinking of her mother still tended to make her weepy, even though ten years had passed.

Delilah sniffed too. We simply cannot remain in New York with no place to live, but I certainly don’t intend to live on my sister Lavinia’s charity for the rest of my life. We both need to marry well and secure our futures. We need a fresh start and a change of scenery.

Delilah took a deep breath and waved her hand at everything in the room. It will do us both a world of good to leave all this behind.

A long silence followed. Meredith was lost in the many thoughts that filled her head about their current situation.

You do see that I’m right, don’t you, my dear? she asked softly.

It was all too much to take in. She would have to marry. Meredith supposed finding a husband was her only option after all. Marriage would provide security and safety in a hostile world. All girls married at some point, and at twenty years of age, it certainly wasn’t unusual to assume that Meredith would too. It was time. Marriage wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Just the end of her world.

When do we leave, Auntie? Meredith managed to choke her question out between her tears.

In five days.

Wiping her eyes with her aunt’s lace handkerchief, Meredith sniffed and straightened her spine.

If her aunt could be so pragmatic and brave about this, then certainly Meredith could as well. She had to be courageous, like the heroine in a novel.

Yes, that was it!

What if she regarded it all as a great adventure? Or what if she tried looking at it from a different perspective and viewed it all through the eyes of a writer? She would have new experiences to write about now, sailing across the Atlantic Ocean and visiting another country. Surely that couldn’t be so terrible? She had never been anywhere before. In fact, she’d spent her entire life in New York City.

Yes. A change would do them both good. And surely, she would be able to find a good man to marry. A kind and loving man whom she could love and be happy with.

Meredith gave her aunt a resolute smile and nodded her head. Then I had better start packing. We have a lot to do before we go.

Delilah nodded in appreciation and returned the smile. Meredith’s heart suddenly raced at the thought of such an adventurous change.

A new chapter in her life was about to begin.

2

A Man of His Word

Spring, 1895

London

Hell, you look like something the cat dragged in!

Phillip Sinclair ignored his younger brother’s more than likely accurate assessment of his current appearance, but he ran his hand across his dark hair in an attempt to smooth it down a bit just the same. He was not proud of how he looked at the moment. With his head pounding relentlessly, he slowly made his way to the sideboard to fill his plate with some much-needed sustenance. A hot breakfast of sausages and eggs would do the trick quite nicely.

Were you out all night again? Simon questioned with a slight note of amazement in his voice.

Does it look like I’ve been home? Phillip answered sardonically, taking a seat at the long dining room table. He truly was starving. Coffee would be just the ticket, please, he said to the liveried footman who hovered nearby. Then he picked up his fork and dug into a fat, juicy sausage.

You just got home, didn’t you? You’re still wearing the clothes you had on last night. Simon shook his head in disbelief, his blue eyes tinged with something akin to disapproval. You could have at least had the decency to change your clothes before Mother happened to see you.

Has she left for the bookshop already then? Phillip managed to ask between ravenous bites.

Yes, Simon