A Noble Inheritance

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 by Kasey Stockton Cover design by Ashtyn Newbold First edition: June 2023 Library of Congress Control Number: 2023910220 ISBN 978-1-952429-39-2 Golden Owl Press Fort Worth, TX All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations for the purpose of a book review. CONTENTS 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 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Epilogue Author’s Note Next in the Castles & Courtship Series Want to stay in the know? Acknowledgments Also by Kasey Stockton Castles & Courtship Series About the Author For Audrey, my precious girl You are perfect exactly the way you are. I love your jokes, your compassion, and your dance moves. But most of all, I love you *finger heart* CHAPTER ONE VERITY Lancashire, England 1818 The only thing more tiresome than arguing with a small child would be trying to convince my nearly grown sister to do anything she did not wish to do. At seventeen, she was old enough to reason with, but reason sometimes lost itself on the way to her understanding. “I always take the servants’ stairs,” Fanny said, her voice level and stoic, her confused green eyes flitting to everything but my face. She looked at the closed door to the stairwell, then to the wall, to the floor, back to the door. I inhaled patience. “I understand, but there was a spill, and Janet is washing the steps now. If we go down that way, we could slip and fall.” The servants took great care to ensure nothing came in the way of Fanny and her routine, but sometimes necessity dictated otherwise. This was just such a time. “But I always take the servants’ stairs,” she repeated. “Fanny,” I began, taking her hand. She pulled it from my grasp. “If we walk down that way, we will ruin Janet’s hard work. Do you wish to leave dirty footprints on her freshly cleaned stairs?” A small line formed between her mousy brown eyebrows. “No.” “Then shall we take the main stairs? Just for today.” She drew in an uncomfortable, shallow breath. “We are still going to the kitchen?” I caught Mrs. Musgrave’s gaze behind Fanny’s head. The housekeeper nodded. “Yes,” I said with confidence. “Your breakfast is already waiting.” “Very well,” my sister agreed. I shared a victorious smile with the housekeeper before walking with Fanny down the corridor toward the grand staircase. My sister disliked this part of the house. Or any part, really, which exposed her to observation from anyone who might happen to visit. Part of me wondered if it was a routine borne of such avoidance, or if Fanny had merely been relegated to the shadows for so long that she now found comfort in them. It took twice as long to reach the kitchens as it normally did, which put our morning to a late start. But Fanny could not be rushed. We sat together at the end of the servants’ long table and ate a breakfast of porridge and sliced apples. When that was finished, we went outside to walk the garden path to the head gardener’s cottage. “Good morning, Mr. Ramsey,” I called, waving to the aged man in his doorway as we passed the front of his house. Circling to the back, I settled on the carved bench while Fanny checked the bird feeders, replenishing them as needed. I fiddled with the edge of my black shawl, pulling it tighter around my shoulders to ward off the incoming autumn chill while Mr. Ramsey pointed out a bird in the distance and spoke to Fanny about it. This was my favorite part of our mornings. I gave Fanny another quarter-hour before approaching them. “We ought to continue on our way if we want to have enough time to draw before tea.” Fanny caught my gaze briefly before looking away. Her green eyes, so like mine in shape and hue, did not rest for long on another person’s countenance. We looked so similar to one another, but we couldn’t be more different. “I would like that,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Ramsey.” The aging gardener’s smile twinkled down at me. “It is my pleasure, my lady, as always.” I dipped my head in farewell before turning back to the path skirting the gardener’s house. Lamouth Park loomed ahead of us, its turrets spearing the sky with their sharp points and dark stone. It was Gothic, imposing, uninviting. But it was home. So long as Fanny was here, so would I be. “Mother wants you to marry the vicar’s brother,” Fanny said, pulling me from my frank assessment of our house. “The vicar’s brother is a viscount.” I looked at her sharply. Only Mother could be heartless enough to already scheme another match for me. Regardless of how I had felt about my husband, he had only been buried a few months now, and I was in no hurry to leave my sister. “You ought not eavesdrop.” Fanny was unbothered, her voice matter-of-fact. “She told Mrs. Musgrave to prepare a menu fit for the king when he comes to dine.” Mother thought to impress a viscount into proposing marriage? Or perhaps to accentuate the fact that he would be proposing to an earl’s daughter and keep him in his place—which was much more likely. “I do not intend to leave you, Fanny.” We