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  The Lost Heir

  He’s lost everything.

  Wealth, position, family, name — even his memory.

  Nothing remains.

  But William is determined to recover the security he craves.

  * * *

  For the last twelve years, he has worked prodigiously in London’s poverty-ridden East End. Will he ever be secure enough to win the heart of a gentleman’s daughter — his mentor's niece, Miss Elizabeth Bennet?

  * * *

  Now she is grown up, Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s heart whispers all sorts of possibilities for the grave, well-mannered, mysterious man.

  She is lost in admiration of his hard work and bold ideas.

  It also hasn't escaped her observation that he is exceedingly handsome.

  * * *

  Sadly, she knows her father will never permit her to marry a man who cannot offer her security.

  * * *

  But when William’s true identity is revealed his family become the obstacle, determined he ought not lower himself to such a woman.

  * * *

  Even as he struggles to come to terms with his true identity, can Fitzwilliam Darcy keep his beloved — and his new-found family — safe from someone who is determined to reclaim the fortune that was so nearly his?

  * * *

  The Lost Heir is a sweet and clean Regency Romance of 108 ,000 words.

  The Lost Heir

  Harriet Knowles

  Copyright © 2020 by Harriet Knowles

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.

  This book is set in Regency England. It is written by an English author, using British English words and spelling.

  * * *

  Edited by Eagle-Eyed Editing

  Proofreading by LBD

  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

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Thank You

  1

  Summer, 1798

  Landford, Wiltshire

  * * *

  His horse was sure-footed, and he enjoyed the sensation of reckless speed as he galloped along the twisting path through the woods. These early morning rides were the one solace of his schooldays. Even here, staying with friends, he needed time alone each day.

  He scowled; he’d been enjoying his vacation until his nemesis turned up, whose growing resentment of the difference in their prospects was becoming more disturbing by the day.

  He pushed the thought away with an effort, he was here to enjoy his ride, and, although a few miles from where he was staying, he now knew this track well enough to be able to push the horse faster than might seem prudent.

  The sharp turn came soon, and the young man reined sideways, knowing the path would straighten out and he could spur the animal on again.

  The shout, when it came, startled horse and rider, and the rope jerked up into his path too close to avoid.

  His horse somersaulted through the air, its rider flung aside, the ground rushing up to meet him.

  No time to do anything, not even fling up an arm. The merest memory of a triumphant shout — a familiar voice.

  Nothing.

  2

  Summer, 1798

  Bishopstoke, Hampshire

  * * *

  Fingers probed the back of his head. He groaned, trying to move away from the pain.

  “I’m sorry, young man, I must do my work.” The voice was authoritative, then faded.

  “Mrs. Pedder, give the boy some broth. Quickly, while he is awake enough to swallow.”

  Welcome liquid. He swallowed obediently, the rough spoon bumping against his lip.

  Darkness again.

  Time and again, struggling to awareness. What had happened to him? There seemed no distinction between day and night when he woke. At least the raging thirst seemed to be becoming less intense.

  Always there was the kind voice of the woman as she spooned broth into him, or held a cup while he drank.

  Men’s voices above him, discussing matters that seemed not to be pertinent.

  “There’s still no news on a missing youth, Mr. Owen. When do you think he’ll be able to tell us who he is?”

  He thought the man was shaking his head. “It’s been several weeks now, Mr. Monson. The longer it is before he wakes properly, the less likely he will ever remember what has happened, and it’s possible he may not recall who he is, either.”

  “We have to call him something,” the first man said, peevishly. “Perhaps we ought to choose a name, at least. We can always abandon it when he tells us who he is.”

  “What are your thoughts?”

  “Well, today is the anniversary of the loss of my own father. His name was William. Or, we could call him James, because he was discovered on the Apostle’s holy day.”

  There was amusement in the other man’s name. “Both are good names. Perhaps William, after your father.” He sounded thoughtful. “He was the clergyman of this parish before you, wasn’t he?”

  “Indeed he was, Mr. Owen, indeed he was. I think the name William would do very well.”

  A week later, he was well enough to sit out of bed when the apothecary called. He was a short, sandy-haired man who seemed pleased to see progress.

  “I’m happy to see you’re sitting out today, young man.” He drew up a chair, and turned with a smile as the woman bustled in with a cup of tea for him.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pedder. You have enough to do without bringing me tea.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Owen. I’m gla
d you’re here today. I can’t get anything out of the lad.” She gazed at him with puzzled eyes. “Will he not be able to speak?”

  “Perhaps we will find out soon.” The apothecary carefully placed the cup and saucer on the table. “Don’t worry about staying here, Mrs. Pedder. I’m sure you’re busy.”

  When they were alone, the man gazed at him thoughtfully for a few minutes. Then he smiled and nodded.

  “You’ve been here for some weeks now. I expect you have a lot of questions?”

  Weeks. It didn’t seem like it — and yet it seemed to have been forever.

  Mr. Owen leaned forward. “Can you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  He nodded. “Yes.” But his voice didn’t sound right, the croak barely understandable.

  “Good.” The man nodded at the glass on the table. “Take a sip of water, it’ll help you to sound less hoarse.”

  After obeying, he tried again. “Yes.” He thought a moment. “I can understand you.”

  The apothecary’s eyebrows rose. “Very good. And you are well-spoken, too. Do you remember your name?”

  He thought a moment. “No.”

  “Does it concern you?”

  He thought. Why wasn’t he troubled by it? His head ached, and he lifted his hand to rub at his forehead.

  Mr. Owen reached out and withdrew his hand. “Don’t rub your head. You had an injury there. I have had to suture it, and although it is healed now, it will be better for not being touched. It is the same for the wound on the back of your head.”

  He nodded and reached again for the glass of water. Why was he not concerned more about who — or where — he was?

  But he wasn’t left to think about it for long. Mr. Owen began again. “Can you try again to remember your name? Any part of it will help us, because we must find your family. They will be worried about you.”

  He stared at the man, supposing he was right. He would have a family. He frowned, trying to think.

  After a long pause, he shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

  “Well, let’s not dwell on it too much.” The apothecary picked up his teacup. “We will have to call you something, of course. As a temporary measure, until you remember. Mr. Monson wishes to call you William, after his father. Or James, as you were found on his holy day.” He watched him intently. “Which do you prefer?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t mind.” Neither were particularly dreadful. “They are both good names.”

  “Well, I will make a decision.” Mr. Owen drained his tea. “William it is.”

  William nodded. It would be helpful to have a name attached to himself, he supposed. His eyes wandered about the chamber. It was quite comfortable, not too big, but not cramped.

  “What do you think of the room, William?” Mr. Owen’s gaze was astute.

  “Comfortable. Adequate size.” William wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say.

  “So you are used to larger accommodation than this?”

  William thought about it. “I don’t remember. Perhaps.” He turned to the older man. “Ought I to be concerned that I am not curious about what has happened?”

  The days were better now. Mr. Owen had decreed that although William could begin to do some work, he ought not to be too many hours out of his chamber each day.

  He was sent to work in the garden and the stables, finding himself alarmingly weak. The vicar, Mr. Monson, had a barely adequate living, and seemed pleased to have a new servant. William took pride in his labour, although his hands were often blistered and bleeding when he was sent back to his room.

  Mr. Owen examined them one day when he called. “I’m not surprised, William. It is obvious to me your background is not as one of the serving classes.”

  He sighed. “But, until you remember who you are, I think you must accept you are beginning a new life. Not only have you lost your past, you have nothing. No family for you to fall back on, no income on which to rely.” He stood up. “Let me look at those wounds again.”

  William bent his head forward so the man could see the scar he knew ran along the base of his skull.

  “I want to say how grateful I am you’ve persuaded Mr. Monson to allow me to remain here for the time being.”

  There was a smile in the apothecary’s voice. “He is happy to accept the work you’re offering as part payment for his kindness in taking you in — and the housekeeper has a very soft spot for you.”

  William smiled. “She’s been very kind.”

  “Well,” Mr. Owen wiped his fingers on a rag. “When your headaches are not so bad and you can work longer hours, I have a promise of employment for you at the post inn. You’ll be working in the stables, assisting the head groom.” He closed his medical bag. “The skill you have with horses has been noticed, although I expect you will find the work with harnesses and saddlery new to you. Heavyish labour, I’m afraid.”

  William looked round. “It’s very generous of you, sir. It’s exactly the sort of employment I had decided to seek.”

  “I suppose there is no vestige of memory beginning to return?” Mr. Owen sounded more hopeful than expectant, and grimaced when William shook his head. “It is a pity. I believe you had a better future ahead of you than you can now expect.”

  William walked to the door with him. “I have a future, at least. I am under no illusion that without your expert attention, and the kindness of my host, I would not now be alive.”

  “Well said, young man!” Mr. Monson had appeared from his book room. “Mr. Owen, I wonder if you could spare a moment? I wish to discuss this young man’s future.”

  William stared at the door as the two men went in. He felt a stirring of irritation that he wasn’t being consulted, but he kept his expression calm and unworried for the benefit of the housekeeper who was crossing the hall.

  “Let me carry that tray for you, Mrs. Pedder. It looks heavy.”

  A few moments later, he stepped outside. He would go to the kitchen garden. He could think undisturbed while weeding the rows of vegetables.

  He knew exactly what the vicar was proposing to Mr. Owen. It was a good idea, better for him than becoming a labourer or stable hand. But he knew, with absolute certainty; the church was not for him. Neither was it the way back to his old life.

  It was especially important he was not sponsored by Mr. Monson.

  Of course, he was grateful to the man, but there was something about him which made William wonder what his expectations were regarding William’s future. It was obvious he thought William would recover his memory and eventually be well-placed in society. He would be expected to do something in reparation for his time here at the parsonage.

  William tightened his jaw, tugging at the weeds in the heavy wet clay soil. He would not agree to join the church. To be safe, he could not stay here very much longer, either, and he was sorry about it.

  He made his plans quietly as he worked. He had nothing of his own, except a pair of torn and useless breeches. Everything else from his life before that July day had been stripped from him. Somebody didn’t want him to be identified. The wound on the back of his head had been meant to kill; Mr. Owen had left him in no doubt of it. Whoever had arranged the incident was determined the body would never be identified.

  But, even before he had been able to speak, the vicar had been certain the boy was high-born. William had seen the reason for it in the glass whenever he saw his own reflection. His mien was high-class, his features aristocratic. He wondered who he was.

  However, he was sure of one thing. The vicar would try to gain benefit himself for what he’d done; it hadn’t been a truly charitable act. While William was not against rewarding the man in some way, it would be done on his own terms.

  The apothecary was different. He seemed to have William’s own wishes at the forefront of his mind. It had been he who had brought the old shirts and breeches along, and had found him a pair of boots which fitted after a fashion.

  William owed him a debt of gratitude. He
smiled slightly. The housekeeper had been good to him, too. She would be sorry when it was discovered he had slipped away in the night. But he thought she’d understand.

  3

  Summer, 1805

  East London

  * * *

  William whistled through his teeth as he twisted a wisp of hay between his hand and began to rub the horse down.

  “You’re a fine animal, aren’t you? I wonder what brought you here, down to being a mere post horse.” He murmured the soothing words, and the bay swung its head round, nickering, and tried to nibble his shoulder.

  “Same as what brought you ’ere, per’aps,” Bert sniggered, leaning over from the next stall, where he was engaged in a similar duty. “Oy, you oughta be careful, some of ’em bite. I’d think you know it by now.”