A Beastly Kind of Earl

by Mia Vincy

“Because you’re an earl, I s’pose.”

  “No. Because of my good looks, charm, and cheerful disposition.”

  The two men exchanged another look. Rafe didn’t want to be here, not in this blasted coaching inn, nor staying at Mr. Larke’s house, nor anywhere else that involved spending time with all these people and their incessant talking. He didn’t want to commit fraud, or play tricks on Miss Thea Knight, or jump through hoops to get the money from his mother’s trust. But he did want to do something useful with his plants—and the devil knew he was good for little else—and if this was the price he had to pay, he might as well take his entertainment where he could.

  Miss Larke’s barouche was long gone by now, and habit had Ventnor’s men curling their hands around their tankards. Rafe reached into his pocket and pulled out the two papers there: One was the marriage license prepared by the bishop, allowing Rafe to marry Helen Knight, and the other was Rafe’s note telling Ventnor he had done just that. A trifle premature, as the marriage had yet to take place—or even the proposal—but that was a small matter. Sometime tomorrow, he would invite Thea Knight for a walk in the rose garden or some such thing, call her “Helen,” and invite her to be his wife. If she married him using a false name, the marriage would not be valid, but she—the scheming, social-climbing outcast, whose attempt to trap Percy Russell into marriage had failed so spectacularly three years earlier—would see another opportunity to catch herself a nobleman and rush to agree. And once the trustees had released the ten thousand pounds, Rafe would “discover” his wife was not who she said she was, feign shock, and send her on her way.

  Rafe returned the license to his pocket and dropped the letter onto the table, along with several coins. “Return to London immediately, and deliver that note to Lord Ventnor.”

  They exchanged another look. “But Lord Ventnor told us to wait and watch if Miss Knight left.”

  “And I am telling you there is no need.” Rafe patted the note and stood. “Miss Knight does not know it yet, but when she leaves Vindale Court, she will leave with me.”

  The sun was hovering over the pink horizon when Arabella’s barouche turned between the towering hedges marking the entrance to Vindale Court. At Thea’s request, they had made the trip with the hood down. The brim of her bonnet prevented her from properly admiring the scenery or feeling the breeze on her face, but she enjoyed the fresh summer evening nonetheless. They would not be expected at dinner tonight, Arabella had said, and Thea, tired from her journey and all the excitement, was relieved she would spend the evening alone in her room with a hot bath and a supper tray. She had no interest in talking to anyone other than Arabella tonight.

  Well, she did have questions for one other person, perhaps.

  “But what on earth could the earl have meant, saying he is here for me?” Thea wondered out loud, for approximately the twenty-seventh time.

  And for approximately the twenty-seventh time, Arabella replied, “I daresay he will tell us when it suits him.”

  “I deeply resent that we must follow his schedule.”

  “As do I. But it would not do to let him know that you care.”

  That was Arabella’s pride speaking, of course. She was one of those aristocrats who nurtured indifference as if it were a pet. Which reminded Thea of another question.

  “The note that Luxborough mentioned,” Thea said. “It sounded as if your father wants you to marry the earl.”

  “Oh, Papa always wants me to marry someone.”

  Arabella kept her eyes straight ahead. Her profile revealed nothing.

  “Arabella, is your father—”

  “But recall, Lord Luxborough seemed much more interested in you.”

  “Yes, but what—” Thea stopped. Clearly, Arabella did not wish to discuss her father, and there was little point in wondering, yet again, what the earl might have meant.

  Yet even without his unsettling words and the inexplicable promise gleaming in those eyes, there had been something about Lord Luxborough that made her feel… Oh, she didn’t know what it was. Something about the way he was so large yet so at ease with himself; the way he had crossed the tavern floor with such strong, sure-footed grace; the way he seemed not to give a flying farthing what anyone else thought.

  Were it not for those scars, one would never imagine he had ever been weak. Yet for all that he was an earl—and therefore, by definition, a villain—he was also a man who had suffered. Somehow, he had recovered from that weakness; if only she could ask him how to do that, how to regain one’s faith when the world had been whipped out from under one’s feet.

  Thea tried to shake off the discomfiting feelings his memory aroused, but the towering hedges lining the driveway offered no distraction, and her thoughts strayed back to him again.

  “When a man is attacked by a giant cat,” she said, “do you think he becomes infected with the nature of the beast?”

  Arabella turned her head slowly and raised one eyebrow. Cheered by this response, Thea continued.

  “Consider it to be like the legend of the werewolf. Most of the time, he appears to be a perfectly normal gentleman.” She gripped Arabella’s forearm and lowered her voice for dramatic effect. “But at nightfall, he turns into a giant cat. He prowls through the shadows and pounces on humans like mice.”

  Arabella gently reclaimed her arm. “If Lord Luxborough is a were-jaguar, then I do hope he is house-trained. I should not like him scratching the furniture and making a mess in corners.”

  “If you please!” Thea protested. “A jaguar is far too noble a beast to do anything so vulgar as that.”

  “You speak with great authority, considering you do not even know what a jaguar is.”

  Thea sniffed haughtily. “I do not need to be an expert to share my expertise.”

  “Fair point. Ignorance has never stopped anyone from talking knowledgeably about a subject.”

  Any response Thea might have made died on her lips, as the barouche swung around a corner and the house came into view. House? Such a paltry word did not serve. The sprawling white pile boasted such an array of ornate wings and spires, Thea would sooner call it a palace. Arabella said nothing—it was her childhood home, after all—so Thea willed herself to stop fidgeting and feign nonchalance. She would not think about the daunting grandeur of this house, or about the lies she would tell the people inside it. She would think about something else instead.

  “If I could turn into any animal at all, I would be a cat,” she announced.

  “An ordinary house cat?” Arabella sounded appalled by the idea.

  “There is nothing ordinary about a house cat. A cat is playful but fierce and doesn’t care what anyone thinks. Why, what would you be?”

  “I would be a hawk.” Arabella tilted back her head and studied the twilight sky. “I would soar up high, where I could see and know everything. I would find my enemies and watch what they did.”

  “And then?”

  “I would swoop down and tear out their eyes.”

  “Um.”

  Arabella looked back at Thea with a faint, self-mocking smile, and that was their last quiet moment, for they had reached the house and the barouche came to a stop. Servants streamed out to assist them, and together they climbed the steps and entered a marble cavern that passed as a foyer, where a maid relieved Thea of her horrid bonnet and handed Arabella a letter. Arabella read the letter as she led Thea through a maze of stairs and corridors to a large, handsomely appointed chamber.

  “You will have everything you require, as my guest,” Arabella said. “There is no need to be nervous: If I say you are Helen, no one will doubt it.”

  “Thank you,” Thea said softly. “I realize that if this goes wrong, you will be disgraced.”

  “Nothing will go wrong. Nevertheless, do not draw attention to yourself.”

  “I never—” Thea caught Arabella’s sharp look and sighed. “I shall try.”

  “And don’t get into trouble.”

  “I shall try
.”

  “And don’t go near Lord Luxborough. He might think you are a mouse and pounce.”

  “He might rub up against me and purr.”

  Arabella’s eyebrows shot up and Thea considered her statement.

  “That didn’t come out quite as I intended,” she said.

  “I am serious, Thea. I shall not repeat those absurd rumors about sorcery, but something happened to his wife, and who knows what stories he has heard about you. Whatever he wants with you—or with Helen, rather—do not let him find you alone.”

  Arabella was right, of course. It was just that Thea had so many questions.

  Which she would not ask. She would not.

  “Then I shall stay out of trouble by finalizing the plans for my pamphlet and deciding how I shall live when the truth is out and my reputation has been restored.”

  Arabella waved the letter. “My publisher in London advises they have had to alter their schedules. They have an opening to print your pamphlets and whatnot this week. Otherwise, you may have to wait several weeks or even months. They recommend a Mr. Witherspoon to manage your publicity campaign. You must send your manuscript and instructions to London tomorrow, with a guarantee to cover the full costs.”

  Thea’s heart sank. “So soon. I thought it would be after Helen returned from Scotland, so she could help me gather the money.”

  Arabella considered. “I can speak to Mama, on the remote chance she will advance me a sum without asking questions, but otherwise, I am afraid money is one area where I cannot help. It is a source of considerable embarrassment to me that I shall inherit one of the finest estates in the middle of England but I cannot lay my hands on five pounds.”

  “You have helped so much already. I’ll figure something out. I have to,” Thea added, almost to herself. “I have no family, no money, and only one friend. I might win, I might lose, but first I have to try.”

  When Arabella had left, Thea explored her room, concluding her tour at one of the large windows, studying the expansive view in the lingering summer twilight. On a hill in the distance, past a million acres of garden, parkland, and forests, the famous ruins of Longhope Abbey were silhouetted against the pink sky. Below her, her window looked out onto one of the other wings, a length of stone arches that ended in an expanse of glass walls: the conservatory. The Earl of Luxborough’s rare plants waited for him behind those glass walls.

  As Thea watched, a male figure crossed the lawn below her, heading toward the conservatory with the long, graceful strides of a man who could move quickly while seeming to make no effort at all. He wore no hat, revealing untamed dark hair.

  Lord Luxborough had also arrived.

  The nerve of the man! That the first thing he did was check his plants! Who did he think he was, to smile that gleeful smile, and speak those mysterious, menacing words, and then waltz off to check his plants?

  Well, most likely, he thought he was an earl, and could say whatever he wanted, and waltz off to do whatever he pleased.

  Arabella was right: The sensible thing would be for Thea to wait for Luxborough to make his next move in whatever rum game he was playing. Because those were the rules: He was the earl, and she was the merchant’s outcast daughter, so he was the one who chose the time and place, and all Thea could do was wait. Oh, how she tired of waiting. For three long, lonely years, she had waited, waited for someone to come for her, waited for her life to fix itself. No one ever came for her. Her life never fixed itself. She had had to brew plans to fix everything herself. And now this—this earl had come prancing along and started some game that threatened to ruin everything, and she was expected to—what? Sit quietly until he was ready to explain himself? Until he fetched her? Until he crooked his little finger to command her to come running?

  Below her, he disappeared into the conservatory.

  Thea was not going to be at his beck and call. Without another thought, she threw a shawl around her shoulders and made for the door.

  In the conservatory, heavy air settled over Thea’s skin, and she breathed in soil and leaves. The plants were packed densely, and she could see little through the rows of thick, lush greenery. She wandered through the aisles, trailing her fingers over the leaves as she passed.

  As Thea’s sum knowledge of plants was that they were mostly green, mostly pretty, and somehow produced fruit and flowers, she could not begin to guess which of these might belong to the earl. Certainly, nothing here seemed interesting enough for that big, sure-footed man with the tired, gleeful eyes. When Luxborough did not appear, Thea concluded that she had missed him and may as well head back to her room.

  Then she entered an alcove whose single bench bore a dozen plants, including a flower unlike anything she had ever seen.

  Closer inspection revealed it was not a single flower, but half a dozen yellow blooms clinging wearily to a single stem. The stem emerged from thick flat leaves that drooped around their pot like yesterday’s stockings. Each flower was no wider across than her little finger, and each had petals in three different shapes and colors: round, yellow petals at the front; long, purple petals behind; and a central dappled point that looked hairy like an animal’s snout.

  How splendid they were! Dropping her shawl on the table, Thea bent to examine the flowers more closely. She reached out, eager to know the texture of those unusual yellow—

  “Hands off!”

  With a yelp and a jolt, Thea snatched her hands back close to her throat and spun around, heart pounding.

  It was Lord Luxborough, of course, a large looming silhouette of tousled hair and broad shoulders and impatient legs. As he advanced, his face came into view. He looked tired and annoyed.

  Annoyed with her, she supposed.

  Well, she was annoyed with him, lurking in shadows and scaring her like that.

  With an effort, Thea lowered her hands, straightened, and tried to behave as if this was perfectly normal. But nothing about this man was normal, not given his inexplicable words back at the inn and the haunting questions of what he knew and what damage he might wreak.

  “You startled me. My lord. Um.”

  “Do not touch that flower,” he said, in his low, rough voice, its smoky edges sliding down her spine.

  He prowled closer and she managed to stand still, but such was the intensity in his eyes that she had to look away, back to the flowers, whose delightfully odd faces surprised her all over again.

  “Is it a flower, then?” A silly sentence, but a coherent one at least, and her voice was not quite a squeak.

  “No, it’s a monkey. Of course it’s a blasted flower.”

  “I’ve never seen a flower like it in all the world.”

  “And you’ve seen all the world, have you? You just happened to be passing through Bahia?”

  “Bahia? Yes, I see, Bahia, yes,” said Thea, nodding and ignoring his horrid sarcasm.

  “Have you ever even heard of Bahia, Miss Knight?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “When?”

  “You mentioned it just now.”

  He leaned a hip against the table, arms folded like a sentry, and examined her as if she, too, were a specimen he had never before seen.

  Defiantly, Thea examined him back. Despite everything, she liked looking at him. Something about his surly roughness appealed, the way he was battered and worn, yet strong nonetheless. Like a castle that had endured storms and sieges and battles, yet remained impervious and indifferent, a place one could seek shelter, if one but dared to draw near.

  She would not draw near. They should not be alone together, here in the fading light, but she could not leave, not until she discovered what he knew. As she sought the words to ask, her eyes strayed back to the flowers. The purplish petals at the back were ruffled, puckered like sewing when one pulled the thread too tight. She reached out and—

  “I said, don’t touch!”

  She snatched back her hand. “Sorry. I forgot.”

  “Forgot? I told you barely a minute ag
o.”

  “It was a very crowded minute.”

  Despite his scowl, he seemed perplexed, as though he did not know what to do with her.

  He might think you are a mouse and pounce.

  He might rub up against me and purr.

  Thea whirled about and put a few steps between them before facing him again. She was growing used to him, and that made it easier to speak.

  “I wouldn’t hurt it,” she said.

  “Orchids are delicate. It does not need you poking at it.”

  “What did you call it? An awkward…what?”

  “An orchid.”

  “Orchid.” She tried out the word, savoring its shape in her mouth. “What an odd name. Orchid.”

  “It’s from an ancient Greek word,” he said irritably. “Orkhis.”

  “Oh. You’re going to educate me. Very well.”

  She folded her hands and waited politely.

  “You don’t sound thrilled,” he remarked.

  “On the contrary, my lord. I’m always thrilled when a man wants to tell me all the important things he knows.” His brows hitched a fraction. “I suppose now you will tell me what the word means and where the plant comes from, and if I’m very lucky, you’ll explain at length how you know more about it than anyone else.”

  That little half smile curled his lips. The scars on his cheek twisted slightly to accommodate it.

  “No, I wasn’t going to tell you what the word means, actually.”

  He shoved off from the table and strolled around her, coming to a stop by a pillar. He fell back against it, arms folded again, and regarded her as patiently as if he had all night.

  Thea waited. He added nothing. She looked about, looked back at him, studied her hands, glanced up to meet his eyes. Still he said nothing.

  She would not speak first. She would not speak first. She would not speak—

  “You have to tell me now,” she said.

  “Hmm?”

  “One cannot throw a foreign word into the conversation and not explain it. That’s bad manners.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Orkhis,” Thea repeated, since apparently this was going to be a one-sided conversation. “It sounds like a hideous spider, with hairy black legs and gleaming red eyes. Or—or some slimy sea creature that rides up on the waves and makes glub-glub sounds. Or—or—or—”