An American Lady Read online

  An American Lady

  By Emma Brady

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  THANK YOU!

  Also by Emma Brady

  To my Dad and his box of rubber noses.

  Chapter 1

  1872

  Sinclair Brown hated hats. The black satin piece pinned tightly to her head was entirely her mother’s idea. Sandra Brown had been determined to turn her daughter into a lady regardless of how difficult the task might be. Sinclair had too much of her father in her to accept that she was meant for nothing more than a life of being an obedient wife. Her dreams were too big to fit into a tight corset.

  The glasses perched on her nose had been a constant irritation to her mother. Now her mother would no longer be able to influence her daughter’s fashion. Sinclair’s throat tightened as she stared out the carriage window.

  The city of Chicago had burned, taking her parents with it. Many were lost to the hungry flames and harsh smoke. Like orphans, the remaining citizens had huddled near the river and watched everything they had built turn to ash. When the rain had come at dawn and washed over the remains, tears had washed their faces. Sinclair had barely managed to escape, but without her parents it was a hollow victory.

  After the wreckage had been cleared away, her father’s lawyer had appeared with the will. She had sat impassively while the wiry little man read out loud the wishes of her parents. The list of holdings that would be hers rattled on as her face held its blank gaze.

  “The last thing your parents added came only a year before they died,” his scratchy voice had said. “It was their wish that you go to live with your grandparents if you were still unwed.”

  “I have no grandparents,” she said in a toneless voice. “My father’s died many years ago and my mother was an orphan since childhood.”

  “According to this, your mother’s parents are still alive in England.”

  “England? That’s impossible.”

  Sinclair’s mother had never spoken of her childhood in London. Her accent had been deemed charming by her peers, but otherwise no one noticed. It wasn’t popular to be British in Chicago. Her parents had never told her why her mother had left or what she might have left behind.

  “Are you certain they are my grandparents?”

  “It states clearly in the will that they are your mother’s family. Lillith and James Sinclair. I believe you were named after them?” The lawyer sifted through the papers again.

  It hadn’t made sense, but she couldn’t argue with a written will. The lawyer had been entirely convinced by it all.

  “What does it say about them?”

  “The Duke and Duchess of Davonport are listed as being your closest living relatives.”

  She had felt herself start to swoon. It wasn’t enough that they were alive, but to find out they had a title. It was hard to imagine her mother as an aristocratic heiress. Sandra Brown had been a sweet, soft-spoken lady with an open heart for everyone. To her mother, all people had been equal, from the wealthy elite to the street sweepers. She had given them all the same kind smile.

  “The will states clearly that they are to be your guardians in such a case as this,” the lawyer had said, looking at her over his glasses, “Though you are old enough to be on your own if you choose. I know you have been staying at a hotel recently, but we could find you another house in the city.”

  “I will go to them,” Sinclair had said, her voice barely a whisper, “It’s what my parents wished.”

  It had taken until spring to get everything in order, including sending word to her estranged relatives. The response had been brief, a short letter expressing grief at the loss. Sinclair hadn’t felt anything as she read the missive, not knowing the people who wrote it. They were glad she was coming, but it could hardly be called warm.

  The boat trip had been long and grueling, made even worse by her mourning. Keeping mostly to her bed, Sinclair had spoken to hardly any one. She had been as numb to the world as a cube of ice. Not until she rode through the streets of London did anxiety creep into her sadness and the two feelings mingled in her stomach.

  Her butler, Frederick Gates , sat across from her in the luxurious coach sent by her grandparents. He was as nervous as she was, tapping his foot aimlessly. The slick locks of dark hair he usually kept impeccable were falling around his ears and across his face. With his long, thin body folded into the tiny carriage seat, he attempted to appear calm despite the discomfort.

  Fredrick was the only person to accompany her from Chicago. Everyone else had been anxious to leave the ruined city and the people they had worked for. When she’d offered him a letter of recommendation, he’d refused to accept it. Instead, her loyal servant had insisted on following her. Now she was glad for his constant company.

  “The streets seem dirtier here,” she commented, in an effort to calm them both.

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Do you think all the city is like this?”

  “I doubt it, Miss.”

  “Won’t you please use my name?”

  “It wouldn’t be proper, Miss.”

  A loud sigh escaped her lips.

  “You saved my life,” she said firmly.

  “I didn’t do much, Miss.”

  “If you hadn’t helped me from my window, I would have been trapped. You led me to safety and that makes you more of a friend than a servant.”

  “I’m your servant, Miss.”

  “You are my friend and you will address me as such, or I will send you home.”

  She gave him a hard look of finality and felt triumph at the slight upturn of his lips. Behind his stern exterior, Frederick hid a sarcastic sense of humor she had noticed more than once. Only a few years older than herself, the young man had practically grown up with her. He was the closest thing she had to a sibling.

  “I’m not certain if you would or not.” He looked at her with a wrinkle on his brow. “I suppose I shouldn’t risk it. That boat trip was despicable.”

  “So then you choose to stay on as my friend as well as my butler?”

  “It would seem that way.” He folded his arms over his chest and pursed his lips, but Sinclair wasn’t sorry.

  “Good,” she said under her breath. “I have the feeling I’m going to need someone on my side.”

  Lifting her veil, she allowed the sunlight that came through the window to touch her face. The sunlight warmed her cheeks, and her mother was no longer there to warn her about adding more freckles. The weight of her long, dark curls pined up under the hat was giving her a headache and she longed to let it fall down her back in freedom. The corset holding in her natural curves made it even harder to breathe in the confined area since she wasn’t used to wearing one this tight. Sinclair had always managed to buy altered contraptions while she had lived in Chicago but felt she should go the more traditional style in London.

  “It’s unladylike to fidget,” Frederick commented as he
saw her trying to become more comfortable. “Especially with your gown.”

  “It’s also unladylike to kick a butler and I’m getting dangerously close to doing so.”

  Soon the carriage had rolled into a more fashionable part of town. Large stone townhouses stood proudly alongside one another. Each was more decorative than the next. Sinclair’s mouth fell open. She hadn’t imagined her grandparents living in such elaborate surroundings.

  “Ready?”

  The carriage stopped and Frederick left first, turning back to hold out his hand to help her through the door. She wasn’t entirely sure she was ready, not for this. Closing her eyes she tried to swallow her fear. Her father would be disappointed in her lack of bravery if she didn’t face this. She lowered her veil again and took Frederick’s hand.

  Her neck craned up to gaze at the house as she stepped from the carriage. Through her black silk veil she was able to see the Greek revival columns and marble step. Her parent’s home had been done in a much similar fashion and the reminder made her chest tighten. Sinclair stood there, feeling exposed under the layers of black clothing, when the front door opened and a sour faced woman called out to her.

  “Are you Miss Brown?” she asked in a shrill voice.

  Turning slowly, Sinclair gave a silent nod and motioned for Frederick to carry in her bags. With tired feet, she walked up the stairs and into the house.

  “The duke and duchess have been expecting you. They are waiting in the parlor.”

  The maid moved swiftly but stopped in front of a slightly open door. Sinclair wasn’t ready to face them, to face the fact that her parents were gone. It was a silly thought, but this would make it final. Her parents would really be dead.

  “Is she here, Sally?”

  The door swung open to reveal a petite older woman dressed in rich plum silk. Her gray hair held streaks of blonde around the temples and blue eyes stared out of her soft face. Wrinkles were evident around her eyes, but her cheeks were still plump and firm. Just like her mother, the tiny woman’s head barely reached Sinclair’s nose.

  “Sinclair, is that you, darling? You look so much like your mother, except for that dark hair, of course,” said the woman. “It is beautiful on you.”

  Her grandmother’s soft voice trembled as she touched Sinclair’s cheek beneath the veil. Tears welled in both their eyes, spilling out onto their cheeks. She saw the same kindness in her grandmother’s eyes that her mother had had. The face she looked at held so many of the same details that t tugged at her heart. She was filled with a fresh longing for her mother and for the love she had taken for granted.

  Sinclair couldn’t speak, but allowed the duchess to lead her into the brightly-lit room. The folds of her black cotton dress rubbed against the light blue fabric as she sat on a large cushioned sofa. A thin, old man in expensive clothing sat across from her. His wrinkled face drew together at the point between his eyes as he looked at her.

  “James, get that suspicious look off your face,” her grandmother admonished. “This is Sinclair, our granddaughter, not some stranger off the street.”

  The old man’s black eyes peered at her from beneath bushy white eyebrows that matched the wavy hair on his head. He judged her with his eyes and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  “Why are you wearing so much black?”

  “She is in mourning,” interjected her grandmother.

  “I know that,” he snapped at his wife, “But after six months, is it not typical to wear at least a little color?”

  Lillith’s expression indicated she was mulling it over as she looked between her husband and her new-found relative. It was unusual to still be wearing only black, but Sinclair hadn’t been able to bring herself to wear anything else. She saw the confused expressions and began to speak softly.

  “I do not yet feel I am ready for partial mourning. It was a great loss.”

  “I know,” said James, his face softening for a moment. “We are pained by it as well.”

  “Then you should understand why I am not ready to let go of my mourning.”

  Her grandfather snorted in the same fashion she often did. It was odd to hear someone else have that response. Her mother used to grow irritated when she had made that noise, usually because she found something absurd.

  “Why had I never heard of you before their death?”

  Her question sprung from her lips without her thinking about it, slipping through the air. Her grandparents sat across from her and glanced at each other in guilt. Shame was painted on their wrinkled faces.

  “James, you should be the one to tell her,” her grandmother whispered, staring at her folded hands.

  “We had not spoken to your mother for years,” James began. “We were angry with her for leaving. She ran away to marry your father against our wishes.”

  “We had hoped she would listen to reason and marry someone within our class.”

  “Instead she chose to live with a merchant in a faraway country.”

  “We were hurt.”

  “We were angry.”

  “We were wrong.”

  Both of her grandparents stopped speaking to look up at her. Her face was tight with emotion, but unmoving in expression. Her mind was numb as the words sunk in. She nodded for them to continue and waited for them to speak.

  “She wrote to us while in Chicago, but we never responded.”

  “Now we wish we had,” her grandmother concluded with a loud sniffle.

  Even though she saw the regret on their faces, a bitter resentment built slowly inside her. These were people her mother had loved and they had turned their backs on her. Only the knowledge that her mother had wanted her to be with them kept her from opening her mouth and putting them in their places. She had been known to have a dangerously sharp tongue when necessary.

  “We know we cannot take their place,” Lillith said softly, “but we want the opportunity to make up for our mistakes.”

  Sitting perfectly still, Sinclair felt her grandmother’s hand gently squeeze her own. It surprised her and she jerked without thinking.

  “I think I should rest,” Sinclair said quickly.

  She pulled her hand back and stood. Her chest grew tight and there was a lump in her throat. She could feel tears threatening to spill from her eyes and she couldn’t stand the idea of crying in front of these strangers Flustered by her quick reaction, her grandparents barely had time to stand before she was at the door.

  “Let me call a maid to show you to your room,” offered Lillith.

  “I would rather find it on my own.”

  With slow, heavy steps, she slipped through the door into the front hall and leaned back against the wall. Her breathing was rapid and her heart pounded. The hot feeling of tears rushed to her cheeks and eyes, while a sob caught in her throat.

  “Are you well, Miss?”

  Glancing sideways beneath the veil, Sinclair saw that the speaker was a well-dressed man waiting near the front door. The uncomfortable way he sat in the tiny carved chair gave the impression he was both tall and broad. A crisp linen suit in a sunny beige color gave him a meticulous appearance, only troubled by dark hair that hung a little below his ears, badly in need of a trim.

  “I’m fine,” she stuttered, embarrassed at being seen by anyone in her state.

  One of his eyebrow’s shot up in disbelief but he remained silent. Sinclair was startled by the sparkling shade of green gazing at her from beneath his masculine brow. The emerald color was like nothing she had ever seen before, not even in a jeweler’s shop. For a moment she was frozen by the intensity of the man’s stare.

  “Miss?” he asked.

  The sound of his rich voice caught her attention and she realized how ridiculous she must look. Turning quickly, she climbed the stairs with trembling steps. On the upper floor she was glad to see Frederick standing outside her bedroom door. With only a nod to him she rushed inside and locked the door behind her.

  LUCAS SUTTON, EARL of Westmore, felt as if h
e had seen a ghost. The woman in black had appeared in the hall like something from a night mare, taking him by surprise. Then she had disappeared before Lucas had time to recover. Davonport hadn’t mentioned any guests the last time they had talked.

  He guessed her to be younger than himself, but no longer a child. Even under the layers of black, he saw the full curves in the outline of her body. An average height and a strong voice were the only other things he had gathered from their brief meeting, since her face had been hidden by her veil. Those weren’t enough for him to form an opinion about the lady.

  “Lord Westmore, I did not realize you were here,” said Lillith, appearing with a handkerchief pressed to her eyes.

  Shaking his head, Lucas stood up from the tiny chair and stretched his cramped legs. He knew that most women in England had a fondness for his long legs, but it was difficult to find comfort when sitting. The lean, muscled look of his body had been spoken of, in more private settings, along with his dark hair and green eyes according to a few reputable sources. It wasn’t vanity for a man to know he was handsome after hearing about it so often.

  “I was told to wait out here,” he said, crossing to her in alarm, “Has something happened?”

  “Yes.” She laughed a little. “Something wonderful has happened.”

  He had been worried when he saw Lillith with watery eyes. The Davonports were like family to him and he felt it was his responsibility to protect them.

  “What happened?”

  “I will let James tell you. He is waiting inside.”

  “In the parlor?” That surprised Lucas.

  Davonport seldom left the comfort of his study. It had always been his opinion that the parlor was for ladies.

  “It was a special occasion.”

  He would have asked her for more information, but she dismissed him and walked away. Irritated at being so easily brushed off by two women in only a few minutes, Lucas stalked into the sunny parlor. Davonport sat in a cushioned chair with a distracted look on his face.

  “Have I come at a bad time?”

  Davonport blinked a few times before looking up at Lucas. He motioned for him to come in. “No, why would you ask?”