A Beastly Kind of Earl

by Mia Vincy

  “Ja-gu-ar,” Thea repeated, trying out the strange word in her mouth. How unfortunate that her limited education had taught her only how to be a lady, and omitted any mention of strange cats and foreign forests. “What is a jaguar?”

  Helen drew on her slightly more extensive education to explain, “A jaguar is a very big cat. With very big claws, and very big teeth, and very little sense of humor.”

  “Impossible,” Thea said. “If it is a cat, then it doubtless believes it has an excellent sense of humor and it’s the humans that cannot take a joke.”

  Arabella almost smiled. “I daresay you can ask the earl all about jaguars and their jokes when you meet him.”

  “I am happy to say that I have no desire whatsoever to meet the Earl of Luxborough.”

  “Unfortunate for you, then, that he is arriving at my parents’ house this evening too.”

  Before Thea or Helen could respond to Arabella’s astonishing announcement, a call from the yard warned that the stagecoach north was about to depart. Helen grabbed the small bag Thea had brought, gave her a one-armed hug, said, “Wish me luck!” and dashed out the door on a waft of happiness and swine.

  Thea darted to the window, Arabella by her side. It felt like an eternity until Helen emerged. With her clerical hat pulled down low and her greatcoat flapping about her breeches and boots, Helen jogged across the yard and jumped into the coach. Thea hardly dared breathe, praying Ventnor’s men had not noticed that the fellow in the greatcoat was Helen. Other passengers boarded. The carriage door slammed shut. The coachman hollered at the team of six horses, and the huge stagecoach rumbled off. Still Thea and Arabella waited, until the stagecoach was well out of sight. No one followed.

  Another coachman maneuvered a stylish barouche into the yard. A liveried footman and an inn employee carried out a traveling trunk and lifted it into the barouche. Thea recognized the trunk as Helen’s. Well, her trunk, now that she was Helen.

  Arabella tapped the glass. “No one is chasing Helen, and my barouche is ready. Assuming Ventnor’s men did not notice her leave, we need only smuggle you past them without them seeing your face.”

  “If this Earl of Luxborough never leaves his estate, how is it that he is visiting your house?” Thea asked Arabella’s back, as they filed down the narrow, stuffy stairs toward the tavern and its din of chatter and calls.

  “I hesitated to mention this before, but Lord Ventnor is giving the earl some rare plant specimens,” Arabella replied, her ostrich feather sweeping the air as she half turned her head. “As Warwickshire falls about halfway between their estates, Ventnor has sent them to our house for the earl to collect. Apparently, Lord Luxborough is a keen botanist when he is not wandering through the Americas being attacked by giant cats.”

  As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Thea pulled Arabella to a stop. “Lord Ventnor sent these plants to your house, at the same time that he believes Helen to be your guest,” she said in a low voice. “Does that strike you as more than coincidence?”

  “It does, rather. On the other hand, Lord Ventnor has a finger in hundreds of pies. There is no reason he should not make such an arrangement with Lord Luxborough, given he is his father-in-law, or with Papa, given their acquaintance. Either way, the Earl of Luxborough cannot possibly know who you are, and it is too late to stop your scheme now.” Arabella shot a glance at the door leading into the noisy tavern and extended her left elbow. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Thea slipped her fingers around Arabella’s elbow and looked down, the tunnel formed by the bonnet’s brim revealing little more than the toes of her half boots and a circle of uneven flagstones. She swung her head but all she could see of Arabella was the blue skirt of her pelisse, the little white tassels down the front perfectly aligned.

  “When I came in, Ventnor’s men were seated at a table that will be on our right as we leave,” Arabella said softly. “Remember, chances are they will identify you only by your dress and not bother checking your face, but no need to give them the opportunity to prove they are not complete muttonheads. Whatever happens, keep your head down and do not look at anyone.”

  Thea was already fighting the urge to look up. “I shall try, but it will tax my resources immensely, and I’ll likely faint with exhaustion at the end.”

  “Duly noted. If you manage to cross this room without looking up, I shall commend you to the Crown for a medal of valor.”

  Arabella set off, and Thea let herself be guided into the tavern like a horse in blinders, eyes on the floor, which did not bear such scrutiny well; it could use a good scrubbing. The thick air dried her throat; a man ranted about a missing box; the smell of burned toast filled her nostrils. Through it all, Thea did not look up.

  “Ventnor’s men have seen you,” Arabella drawled in a low, bored tone. Thea did not look up. “Keep walking. They are watching you, but they do not seem suspicious. We are almost— Oh dear.”

  Arabella stopped abruptly. Thea stopped too and zealously studied the floor.

  “What?” she hissed. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Don’t look up.”

  Thea looked up.

  First, she saw boots. Men’s boots, dusty and scuffed. Their toes were pointed toward her and Arabella, from which Thea deduced the rest of the man must be facing them too. Even with her limited education, Thea could discern a finely crafted boot of expensive leather: Whoever this man was, he was not one of Ventnor’s rough hires.

  And as though someone had attached a string to her bonnet and was pulling on it relentlessly, Thea’s gaze traveled up, up that expensive, dusty leather to the top of those boots, up the man’s long, powerful, buckskin-clad legs, to an exquisitely tailored dark-blue coat—he was definitely facing them, and definitely not moving, and he was not only sufficiently big to block their path, but also sufficiently rude. This man was an aristocrat, Thea decided, for only an aristocrat would stand so nonchalantly in their way.

  Up, up her gaze traveled, racing against the brim of her bonnet, up past the rows of buttons spanning a broad chest, to the white neckcloth and collar, to the darker hue of his long, angular jaw.

  To his scars.

  Ah. Now she understood. This man must be the Earl of Luxborough.

  The thick lines, too jagged to be truly parallel, began on the high crest of his left cheekbone and continued relentlessly down, over the hollow of his cheek, narrowly missing his ear to disappear under his neckcloth. Another two thick marks scored his temple.

  These scars had long since settled into his skin, but Thea could not help but imagine how they might have looked once. What a horrifying experience it must have been! And what a monstrous great cat, to have paws the size of a man’s face!

  A sharp point in her side made her jerk: Arabella’s elbow. Ashamed for gawking, Thea dragged her gaze off the earl’s scarred cheek and gathered an impression of tangled dark hair tumbling haphazardly over a high forehead, before she found herself looking into his eyes. He was staring right at her, his gaze intent, his eyes golden-brown against his thick lashes and straight, lowered brows. He could not have been much older than thirty, but those eyes—those eyes were ancient, as though they had seen a million things and wearied of them all.

  Those tired eyes pinned her to the spot, as he took one deceptively lazy step toward her, and another, until he filled her narrow vision, both fascinating and terrible. His haunted eyes, his careless hair, his coiled energy, his storied cheek. His air of utter indifference to anything but her. Thea felt uncomfortably aware of the tightness of her stays, her scalp itching under the bonnet, the warmth of her cheeks.

  Then a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, a secret half smile, for himself and not for her. Before she could find words, or breath with which to speak them, his gaze slid to Arabella.

  He inclined his head in greeting. “Miss Arabella Larke, I presume,” he said, his voice low and rough like smoke.

  Thea could not see whether Arabella nodded in return, but certai
nly she did not curtsy. Arabella was famously difficult to impress; even an earl would not induce her to bend a knee, or to rouse herself to more than a drawl to say: “And you must be Lord Luxborough.”

  “However did you guess?” he said wryly.

  Belatedly, Thea remembered their mission, and in the absence of Arabella’s commentary, she had to fight the urge to look for Ventnor’s men. Not that they would accost her now, in the company of an earl. A man like Lord Luxborough would easily keep such men at bay, and ensure quick service and polite treatment, and make the whole world fall into line. Indeed, an earl would make quite a useful pet, but all things considered, she’d rather have a cat.

  Then his eyes slid back to Thea, a knowing, triumphant gleam in their depths that set her heart pounding anew.

  Beside her, Arabella shifted slightly. “Allow me to present my good friend, Miss Helen Knight.”

  Thea hastily lowered her head and bobbed a curtsy. If his lordship deigned to favor her with a nod, she didn’t see, but she doubted he would. An earl was one of the highest-ranking men in the land, and earls did not bow to merchants’ daughters, however hard their parents tried to turn them into gentry.

  “The infamous Miss Helen Knight,” he murmured, and she did look up then, meeting that knowing gleam. She opened her mouth to demand his meaning but Arabella, ever prescient, smoothly spoke first.

  “My father informs me you have come to collect the plants sent here by Lord Ventnor,” Arabella said. “They have arrived safely and await you in the conservatory.”

  Lord Luxborough looked irritated by Arabella’s interruption. “And your father informs me that you will guide me to them, Miss Larke. Indeed, he informed me that you will show me his entire estate, which you will inherit, although I cannot fathom why he might have mentioned that.”

  His dry tone indicated that he knew very well why Mr. Larke had mentioned Arabella’s inheritance. Poor Arabella, to be married off to a rude, unpleasant man like this! Arabella could handle him, of course—Arabella could handle anything—but Thea had to speak nonetheless.

  “But you have not traveled here to meet Miss Larke, have you, my lord?” Thea said.

  Arabella elbowed her again, but she ignored it, unable to look away as those tired eyes flicked back to meet hers.

  “Hmm?” he said.

  “You are not here for Arabella,” Thea persisted. “You are here for your plants.”

  He half groaned, half sighed. “Actually, Miss Knight, I am here for you.”

  Chapter 2

  Rafe watched the expressions flit over Miss Knight’s face, or rather, what little of her face he could see down the shadowy tunnel of her bonnet. He could just make out dark brows over blue eyes, a narrow nose, wide mouth, and pointed chin, all of which were looking divertingly outraged.

  He ought not have said that, of course, but then, he ought not be here at all, given that his purpose was to engage in a little fraud and mischief. But when he had discovered what trick the Knight sisters were planning, Rafe could not resist seizing the opportunity to play a trick of his own. Now that he was here, looking into Thea Knight’s big blue eyes, while Helen Knight headed to the border disguised as a man—well, there was no rule saying one could not entertain oneself when engaging in a little fraud and mischief.

  “How can you be here for me?” Thea Knight asked. “You cannot even know who I am.”

  “You are Miss Helen Knight, are you not?”

  “You heard Miss Larke say that to be so.”

  Well played, Thea, he might have said—a clever way to avoid telling an outright lie. But then he’d already known she was clever. According to the content of letters provided by an enterprising servant in the Knight household, Thea Knight was the architect of this entire scheme to fool Ventnor by taking her sister’s place. A risky scheme, to be sure, but so far successful, given that Helen Knight was already on her way north while Ventnor’s men sat like hairy potatoes, one eye on the ladies, the other on their tankards of ale.

  The bonnet was clever too, irritating though it was; he wanted to see her properly, this woman who would unwittingly help him. But never mind: He would have plenty of time to study her in the coming week, and she would have plenty of time to stare at his scars.

  Although she was not looking at his scars now; rather, her eyes were roaming over his entire face. As she studied him, she caught her lower lip between her teeth, then let it slip away.

  It occurred to him that Miss Larke had spoken. He looked back at her. “Hmm?”

  Miss Larke sniffed. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain your meaning, my lord.”

  “Perhaps I would be so kind,” Rafe said. “But it’s unlikely.”

  Enjoying their matching expressions of indignation, Rafe excused himself with a nod, and headed toward Ventnor’s men, a space mercifully opening up around him as he crossed the sticky tavern floor.

  Of all the places to end up—a blasted coaching inn in blasted Warwickshire. Definitely not what he had expected when he traveled to London in search of a lump sum of capital. There, he was surrounded by would-be geniuses, who all offered the same genius solution to his money problem. “Get married,” they all said, one after the other, the bishop grinning, his solicitor shrugging, his man of affairs scratching his chin. Get married, and he would meet the conditions of the trust set up by his mother with the express purpose of encouraging her sons to wed.

  Or, as the bishop had put it: “Why not, my boy? You need only say ‘I do,’ and you will have ten thousand pounds.”

  “I will also have a wife,” Rafe had pointed out. “And what the hell would I do with one of those?”

  A mistake to ask, because the bishop was full of bright ideas for what, exactly, Rafe might do with a wife.

  “You could contract a marriage of convenience,” his solicitor had suggested, ever looking for loopholes in the law. “Simply marry some lady who wants to be a countess and forget about her.”

  A nice theory, but in reality, something was sure to go wrong, and Rafe would end up having to take care of his wife anyway. If life had taught him anything, it was that he did not need to look for trouble, because trouble would find him. Maybe if Rafe were a different man, he would take that risk, but he was not a different man.

  He was still surprised that the solution had come from Lord Ventnor, of all people. Rafe preferred to ignore the viscount’s existence, but when he had heard of Ventnor’s rare orchids, and how Ventnor’s ignorant gardeners were murdering said orchids, Rafe had felt compelled to offer his advice for keeping the plants alive. At which point, Ventnor promised to give Rafe the orchids in exchange for helping to keep that social-climbing seductress Helen Knight away from Ventnor’s precious heir until he could find the boy a more suitable bride. It had been a small matter, in the circumstances, to send a man to learn more about Helen Knight, only to discover the scheme she was plotting with her sister. How nicely it all came together: Helen Knight would elope with Beau Russell, and Thea Knight would adopt a false name, thus giving Rafe a way to get married and get the money, but not end up with a wife.

  Oh, and Ventnor would be apoplectic with rage. Excellent.

  First, though, Rafe must get rid of Ventnor’s men.

  They were big, uncouth-looking fellows, the sort Rafe would expect Ventnor to use; former soldiers, probably, who lacked property, a trade, and a conscience. Thanks to ruffians like these, Ventnor could conduct his dirty deeds, while keeping his soft white hands spotless. The pair had been watching the two ladies, but as Rafe bore down on them, they turned to stare at him, eyes wide, spines straight.

  “It’s Luxborough,” he heard the bearded one hiss, as they exchanged panicked looks. “They say he…”

  The words trailed off before Rafe had the pleasure of hearing which of the delightful rumors the man had chosen to share.

  A glance over his shoulder revealed that Miss Knight and Miss Larke had made it out the door and were climbing into the waiting barouche. Ventnor�
�s men dropped their tankards and began to rise. Rafe pressed his hands to their shoulders, and they sank back down in their seats.

  Rafe would have preferred not to have been cursed with title, scars, and outlandish rumors, but he had to admit, they had their benefits. People tended to become conveniently docile in his presence. When they weren’t trying to run away, that is.

  “Lord…Lord Luxborough,” the bearded one said with a gulp.

  “In the flesh,” Rafe agreed. “Or what’s left of it.”

  He hauled a chair from a neighboring table and dropped into it. With a jerk of his chin toward the bar, he had the barkeeper pouring a round of drinks.

  “’Scuse us, m’lord,” the other one said, “but we hafta— You see, that lady…”

  “Miss Helen Knight, you mean?”

  “Thass the one. Lord Ventnor told us to keep an eye on her.”

  “And what an excellent job you have done. But I’ll take it from here. As per my own arrangements with Lord Ventnor.”

  When the server set down the fresh drinks, the men eyed the tankards as if they were poisoned, and then, once more, the bearded one spoke.

  “I don’t want to argue, my lord.”

  “But you will anyway.”

  “Just that Lord Ventnor didn’t tell us you was coming.”

  Rafe nudged a tankard toward the man. “I was not aware that Lord Ventnor or I were required to apprise you of our movements.”

  “But Miss Knight—”

  “Is on her way to Vindale Court, residence of Mr. Larke and his family. Did you intend to follow her there? Have you obtained an invitation? Hmm? Lady Belinda Larke, earl’s daughter and famed society hostess, just happened to add you to her guest list, did she?”

  “I s’pose you have an invitation,” the man grumbled.

  “I don’t need one. I am welcome everywhere.”