Heritage Perilous

Jeffery Farnol

Description

Historical novel, set in the Napoleonic era. Sam Felton, a plain-spoken sailor, discovers that he has succeeded to the title (and fortune) of Earl of Wrybourne. Then things get complicated...

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• Romance historique
• Fiction
• Romance
• Regency
• Historical
• Romance policière

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 16 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781773237237
• Langue: English

Extrait

Heritage Perilous

by Jeffery Farnol

First published in 1946

This edition published by Rare Treasures

Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany

[e-mail]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Heritage Perilous

by Jeffery Farnol

To ARTHUR CATLING (The Unconquered) Whose brave, glad spirit is an inspiration more especially to his friend Eastbourne JEFFERY FARNOL 1946

BOOK NUMBER ONE

THE SAILORMAN

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCES THE INHERITOR

Sam stared down at the blunt toes of his big, clumsy shoes and shook his big, rather clumsy head that appeared set rather awkwardly on his powerful shoulders as, crouched ungracefully in the elbow-chair, he pondered this amazing thing that had befallen, while the keen-faced lawyer, silver-rimmed spectacles on sharp nose, viewed him with a certain supercilious perplexity.

"Money, eh?" enquired Sam, at last. "A lot of it, eh, sir?"

Mr. Joliffe, having smoothed his trim wig, coughed and waxed eloquent:

"Indeed, a vast heritage! An e-normous fortune! Quite stu-pendous! Your father, the late Earl of Wrybourne, was an immensely wealthy person——"

"And a dev'lish scoundrel!" growled Sam, with gesture so fierce and sudden that Mr. Joliffe started and clutched his toppling spectacles; then, having readjusted them, gazed at the speaker with even closer scrutiny. This tall, muscular fellow whose shabby garments smacked of the sea, and whose sun-tanned face, grim by nature, was rendered even more so by the line of a newly healed scar that ran from left eyebrow to vanish in the thick-curling chestnut hair.

"Ha!" exclaimed Sam, fiercely. "Earl or no, I hate to think he was my father. Are you sure o' this, sir?"

"Beyond all possible doubt——"

"Then curse him for that too!"

"May I venture to enquire why—what you know or may have heard—"

"Ay," replied Sam, clenching his hands to quivering fists, "I know he compelled my mother to slave or starve.... She did both!"

Mr. Joliffe coughed gently behind two fingers and was about to speak when Sam continued:

"All this dam' money! And now! when it's too late! Things always did go dev'lish contrary with me—"

"Contrary?" echoed Mr. Joliffe, clutching at his spectacles again.

"Contrary, ay!" nodded Sam. "This money and so on will come pretty handy, I suppose, but—not as it might ha' done, for, d'ye see—she's dead! This mother o' mine ... and not so long ago! This money might have helped her to ride out the storm and weather Old Man Death,—but no, it comes too late! She'd worked so precious hard all her life—she forgot to leave off.... Worked? Ay, she did so—and mostly for me, my schooling—to feed, clothe and keep me decent—ah, she was a noble mother!" The deep, gentle voice hushed on the word and Mr. Joliffe peered through his glasses and over them at the speaker's bronzed, scarred features, beneath tousled shock of hair, thick brows knit above long-lashed, grey eyes, arrogant jut of nose and chin with close-lipped, shapely mouth between; finally he coughed again and enquired:

"You are, or were, a sailor, a privateer's man, I understand?"

"Ay, sir, first mate of the Fortune , privateer. And mighty fortunate she's been, thanks to her commander, Captain Ned Harlow."

"You have apparently been in action recently?"

"Off and on," answered Sam, touching his scar with sinewy finger. "I got this when we boarded and took the Citoyenne frigate off Toulon. Ay, I've been at sea a pretty goodish time and afore that, tried my hand at many things. For Lord love me—even as a boy I couldn't bear to see that mother o' mine slaving her life away—stitching, washing and scrubbing for other folk, so I cut school and turned general handy-man and finally shipped myself to sea in the Albatross whaler, became a chief harpooner and made good money, took to privateering and made a good deal more, prize-money, d'ye see—most of which I saved and brought home to mother, too late, of course ... seeing she'd been dead and buried a month or more. No word of complaint in any of her letters ... such cheery letters— Oh, but damme," he broke off, "you don't want to hear all this! So get on, sir, and talk business."

"Con-found business!" exclaimed Mr. Joliffe, to his own surprise, and moved despite himself by the deep, passionate sincerity of these softly-uttered, slow-spoken words. "Pray continue! Tell me more of yourself and your heroic—mother."

"Thankee, Mr. Joliffe! 'Heroic' is the word, for she was indeed such a grand soul—ay, brave to the end ... smiling away tears! A lady born and a lady always, d'ye see—up to her poor elbows in soapsuds or on her weary knees scrubbing floors, there was always about her a gentle dignity and graciousness ... God's very woman and angel of mercy to all in affliction. And she died ... worn out ... for lack of what money can buy—so today she is in her grave and I am rich! Ah, but any good that is in me, and there's little enough, comes from her." Again the deep, solemn voice was hushed and when Mr. Joliffe next spoke it was with look almost apprehensive.

"And did she never mention ... never refer to the Earl of Wrybourne?"

"Not a word! She was too proud, God bless her. I knew she was highly born and of course that she was a widow, but she never spoke of her people and I never enquired.... But now, sir, what more o' this heritage? A while ago you said something about a handle—a title, pray let's have it again, let's know exactly who I am and what I possess—money and so on."

Instead of answering, Mr. Joliffe sat dumb, indeed he seemed strangely ill at ease—he shifted in his chair, took off his spectacles, wiped, put them on again and stared down at littered desk, up at dingy ceiling, round upon book-lined walls—anywhere but at his questioner; finally he coughed again and, with gaze still averted, spoke:

"I fear what I have to say will prove somewhat of a—hum—a shock to you."

"Oh well, sir," Sam replied, grim-smiling, "a man gets pretty well used to shocks of all sorts at sea, 'specially aboard a privateer, ay—and one commanded by such a daredevil as Captain Edward Harlow—so out with it, sir."

"Then," said Mr. Joliffe, taking up a quill pen and staring at it, "I am ... compelled to inform you that ... this brave and gracious lady who so wrought and slaved to your welfare, was ... not your mother."

"Not—?" Sam leapt afoot, his tall form towering above the lawyer almost threateningly, so that Mr. Joliffe leaned back in his chair to gaze up into the contorted face above him with eyes of understanding wherefore their gaze did not waver as he continued, gently:

"Your mother, the Lady Monica Devine, an orphan and lady in her own right, was a wealthy heiress who eloped from school and married the Earl, your father, lived with him six months or thereabout, and fled his brutality in fear of her life. She found harbourage with her widowed cousin Ruth Felton in the village of Alciston, Sussex. There you were born and there, shortly after, your mother, the Countess of Wrybourne, died. Upon this sad event, Mrs. Felton, this good and noble lady, adopted you, poor though she was, and brought you up as her own child. Thus instead of Samuel Felton you are Japhet Eustace Scrope, Earl of Wrybourne."

"And what," demanded Sam, deep-breathing, "what of my—real mother's fortune?"

"Reverted naturally to her husband the noble Earl, your father—every acre, every stick and stone, to the uttermost farthing! Your mother would have been quite destitute but for her cousin Mrs. Felton's generosity."

"Then," said Sam, in a harsh whisper, "may the Earl my father be everlastingly damned! I grieve he is dead and beyond my reach."

"Indeed," sighed Mr. Joliffe, laying down the quill pen and shaking his trim head at it, "some men are ... much better ... dead!"

"But—but how," stammered Sam, hoarsely, "how am I ... how are you assured of ... of all this?"

"Be pleased to sit down, my lord, and—"

"Don't call me—that!"

"But, my lord, I must, since indeed lord you are henceforth and Earl of Wrybourne. Yes, my lord, as I said before, instead of Samuel Felton, mariner, you are most truly, Japhet Scrope lord and Earl of——"

"Belay!" growled Sam. "Sounds a lot of tomfoolery to me."

"However, my lord, pray be seated, compose yourself and permit me to explain fully as I may.... Thus, then, when the late Earl, your father——"

"Call him the Earl—and be cursed to his fatherhood!"

"Certainly, my lord. When the Earl died, thirteen months and—hum—five days since—by the way he was killed by his horse, the animal threw him, breaking his neck—"

"A cheer for the horse!" growled Sam.

"Hum—ha!" murmured Mr. Joliffe, caressing smooth-shaven chin. "The horse is, I believe, and has ever been regarded as a highly intelligent animal! However, my lord the Earl being dead, instant enquiry was made for his wife without result until I called in the aid of a certain perspicacious Bow Street officer well beknown to me, one Jasper Shrig, by whose efforts your—hum—unfortunate mother was traced, evidence of your birth established, and yourself—well—here you are, my lord, thanks to the unfailing Shrig. You'll remember him, of course."

"Ay," nodded Sam, "an odd, rum sort of customer—talked of murderers and murder-ees."

"I'll warrant he did and of vindictiveness also.... Now as to proofs of identity, they are here for your perusal—certificates of your parents' marriage and your bir