A Beastly Kind of Earl

by Mia Vincy

  Then they lined up along the carpet, as if for the Prince Regent himself.

  From the depths of the cavernous carriage emerged a long, thin, silver-tipped ebony stick.

  Then one long, thin, black-clad leg.

  Then all of Lord Ventnor, long, thin, and impeccable in a silver-and-gray striped waistcoat and black coat, with a tall black hat on his long white hair.

  He stepped down onto the carpet. Planted the silver tip of his cane and rested both gloved hands on the silver knob. Raised his chin and tapped one foot. In perfect unison, the three footmen bent at the waist in identical deep bows. Only when they had straightened did Lord Ventnor step forward to greet the earl.

  He looked exactly as he did in Thea’s memory of those nightmarish minutes in the ballroom, which played over and over in her mind like a never-ending cotillion. That night, Ventnor had seemed to stretch to ten feet tall and everything became too close and yet so far away. Her confused mind had struggled to understand, to argue, to find just one word—No! Liars! False!—but shock had stolen her voice, and so she’d simply stood, like a hunted rabbit, until Lady Ventnor gently guided her out of the ballroom, and Percy Russell gloated.

  And he was there too: Percy Russell himself. Stepping down onto the carpet, smirking at the footmen as they bowed for him too. His clothes were the height of fashion: a bottle-green coat over a mint-green waistcoat, with the high, starched points of his collar scraping his pink jaw. The years had been good to him, but then cads like him always prospered, for it was not only coats and boots that were tailor-made for them; it was the whole world.

  “I hate him. The Honorable Mr. Percival Russell.” She slid a sideways glance at the bishop. “I know it’s wrong to hate someone.”

  “Eh,” he said, in a tone that suggested otherwise.

  “Aren’t we supposed to love everyone?”

  “We’re supposed to, but…” He shrugged. “Some people are such vile snots.”

  A surprised laugh burst out of her mouth and she hastily stifled it. He met her gaze serenely.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you were a bishop.”

  He grinned. “It surprises me sometimes too. What were they thinking?” He stepped back and bowed with a flourish of his sleeves. “Nicholas Landcross, Bishop of Dartford, at your service. Rafe’s father was my cousin. Which means you and I are family now.”

  “Um.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not as terrible as they say.”

  “I mean…”

  A glance around the curtain showed Percy lounging against the carriage, while Luxborough and Ventnor faced each other on the street. Luxborough looked completely at ease, while Ventnor brandished his walking stick. She had never seen him use the stick to walk; as far as she could tell, he used it only to menace other people.

  It occurred to Thea that Luxborough had no reason to hide her from Ventnor, unless he knew the viscount would be unkind and he meant to protect her from any unpleasantness.

  If only she had had the courage to stand up to them all that night, when Ventnor called her names and his elegant guests stared at her as if she were horse dung on their shoes. She hated her own weakness as much as she hated them. Her life had never been in danger, but her body reacted as though to a real threat. But if someone had stood by her side—as her parents would have done, of course, if they’d known the truth—then she might have found her courage.

  How lovely it would be, to have someone always at her side, who thought her worth fighting for. Someone big and strong and powerful, who could fight off savage beasts and civilized lords. Not Lord Luxborough, of course. But someone.

  “I have something to confess,” she said to the bishop.

  “No, no. Please don’t.”

  “I’m doing bad things. I’m lying and stealing and…bad things.”

  He sighed. “A physician friend of mine cannot pass an hour with the newspapers in his favorite coffeehouse without someone telling him about their ailments. I suffer a similar problem: Everywhere I go, someone wants to confess their sins.”

  “Oh, I do beg your pardon.” Thea considered this. “Actually, that sounds rather delicious.”

  “It would be, but most people’s sins are terribly dull. So, my dear, I understand your conscience is bothering you, but you need not let it bother me too.”

  “It only bothers me sometimes, when I fear I’m tricking someone who is good, for I have vowed to trick only the villainous and powerful. Should I feel bad?”

  The bishop shrugged. “Eh. Why bother? It’s probably good for them. Yes,” he added, his expression growing thoughtful. “I think it is probably very good for them indeed.”

  His look unnerved her, so she peeked around the curtain. As she watched, Ventnor spoke to the zealot, who turned and ran, and Ventnor and Percy laughed.

  How farcical, that the zealot had called Lord Luxborough a demon, when true demons like Ventnor and Percy stood right there.

  “Some people have done truly hurtful things, yet no one wants to hear about that,” she said. “Why do some people get to tell their stories and others don’t? Why do some people get to say what is truth? And why doesn’t he stop it?” She jabbed a finger at Luxborough. He and Ventnor appeared to be arguing. “It’s one thing for people like me to put up with rumors, but why him?”

  “Because Rafe believes it too,” the bishop said.

  Her head whipped around. “He believes he’s a witch?”

  “He believes he has done something wrong, so he does not argue when people say that he did. In truth, his only sin is to be as flawed and human as the rest of us. But he tells himself he has failed and is not enough.”

  “Failed how?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You care about him,” Thea said.

  “He’s like a son to me. You’ll look after him for me, won’t you?”

  “Look after him?”

  The bishop’s eyes flickered to the window. Ventnor was stalking back to his carriage.

  “I must go.” The bishop slapped on his hat and hooked his coat on one finger. “He’s a good boy. But he’s caught up in false beliefs. It would be lovely if someone would set him free.” He half turned and hesitated. “That jaguar saved his life, you know.”

  “How?”

  “Ask him about it sometime.”

  And with those cryptic words, the Bishop of Dartford swung his coat over his shoulder and sauntered out the door, whistling an unfamiliar tune.

  Lord Ventnor was so entranced by his own countenance that he did not so much as glance at the two faces at the window, their features indistinct through the glass.

  “I say, Luxborough, congratulations on your marriage,” Ventnor said, hooking his cane between two fingers so he could offer a few sarcastic slaps of applause. “To a shop girl! I did try to warn you about these women, with their coy looks and flattery. But then I daresay a man such as you—” His gaze lingered pointedly on Rafe’s ruined cheek. “—would be more susceptible to flattery than most. And so—dare I say it?—Helen Knight sank her claws into you.”

  If only Rafe could see Ventnor’s face when he learned whom Helen Knight had really snared.

  “I thought you’d be more grateful,” Rafe said guilelessly. “I sacrificed myself to save your little boy Beau.”

  Past the viscount, a smirking dandy with hair the same sandy color as Katharine’s lounged against the carriage, looking pleased with himself. The dastardly knave Percy Russell, no doubt.

  “That selfish boy! Fancies himself in love, and cares nothing for the harm such an inappropriate match would do to our entire family.” Ventnor looked Rafe up and down. “I suppose it hardly matters to you, though, considering how you blithely sully your own once-noble title.”

  Rafe glanced at Dudley, who looked like he was praying for the earth to swallow him up. “You certainly assist me on that point, Ventnor, with these tales you spread about me.”

  “Did you like the little gift I sent you? Useful crea
ture, isn’t he?” Ventnor pointed his cane at Dudley. “You have served your purpose. Go.”

  Dudley shot an apologetic look at Rafe and fled, his black robes flapping about his heavy boots.

  “Look at him run.” Ventnor turned to Percy, and father and son shared a laugh. “I say a word and like little rabbits they run.” He looked back at Rafe. “You are not amused, Luxborough? My abilities do not impress you?”

  “Anyone can start a false rumor. If you wish to impress me, make the falsehoods stop.”

  “If you want me to try, you already know what to do: Retract those heinous lies you published about my daughter.”

  “That pamphlet contained only the truth about Katharine, and you know it. Katharine was tormented, and no one should suffer that alone.”

  Bold claim, but in truth, Katharine always had to suffer them alone, those private horrors inflicted by her mind. Even when she was well, she lived in fear of her mind betraying her again. To this day, Rafe could feel her hands clutching him, hear her terrified whisper, “What is happening to me, Rafe? I no longer even know who I am.” All he could do was hold her, and try to soothe her, and hide his own fear. And when he published a pamphlet about Katharine and the need for better treatments for all those similarly afflicted, Ventnor had swiftly countered by spreading the message that nothing natural ailed his daughter: He claimed Rafe had turned Katharine’s mind through cruelty or poison, and published those lies to cover his villainy. All credit to the viscount. He was dedicated and deployed a creative array of methods, from actors planted around the country to sly anonymous letters to editors and the occasional satirical cartoon. And all those blasted people, so busy gobbling up outrageous rumors that they had no appetite left for the truth.

  “I shall retract nothing,” Rafe added. “Never will I deny Katharine’s truth, or pretend she never happened because that makes you feel more comfortable.”

  “You selfish boor!” Ventnor hissed. “What about my younger daughter? Daphne is satisfactorily married now, but no man would have chosen her had I allowed your stories about Katharine to stand unchallenged. And I daresay you never spared a thought for my future grandchildren. Can you imagine what cruel treatment they might endure if people knew?”

  “Then use your influence to change people’s views. Then we can treat those afflicted as Katharine was with compassion, rather than locking them away in horrendous conditions in shame.”

  “Naive fool!” Ventnor spat. “It is easier to convince the world that you are a witch than that madness is not to be feared. So what if it is nonsense? Most people could not get out of bed if they did not have some nonsense to sustain them. I will do what I must for my family.”

  Rafe looked at him steadily. “How afraid you are, Ventnor.”

  “How dare you!” His whole head quivered. “Those rumors might die away on their own if you behaved like a normal human being, but instead you fuel them, by hiding away on your estate, brewing strange concoctions with heathens and foreigners. But then you always were odd. How your father puzzled over you, the dark, silent boy who preferred to run through the woods like a commoner than behave like the son of an earl.” He sighed. “Shame.”

  Ventnor stalked back to his carriage, where the trio of matching footmen still stood to attention. He paused as he stepped onto his little carpet.

  “Oh, and you have not yet thanked me,” he added to Rafe, in the affable tone of a man doing another a favor.

  “Hmm?”

  “For the orchids. If not for me, you would never have come by such fine and rare specimens. So thank me.”

  “Hmm.”

  Looking uncertain, Ventnor emitted one shaky “ha.” He glanced up at the window, at the indistinct faces of Thea and the bishop. “And for your merchant bride, of course. How desperate you must be for a body in your bed.”

  As the viscount climbed back into his carriage, Rafe sauntered over to Percy Russell. Shamelessly, Rafe used his greater size to loom over the younger man, who stretched up like a weasel, leading with his chin.

  “I don’t like you, you miserable, sniveling—”

  “You cannot harm me,” Russell whimpered. “My father won’t allow it.”

  “Hmm.”

  Rafe didn’t move. The youth sidled away crabwise, then leaped into the carriage. The footmen performed their ritual in reverse, and the coach trundled off.

  On his way to the door, Rafe realized he still held the bills from Thea’s shopping expedition. Her purpose was plain enough, and he secretly applauded her ingenuity. And yet… It would be highly diverting to see what excuses she offered. Just a little teasing would do no harm, and it would take his mind off Ventnor and Katharine and the blasted hopelessness of the lot.

  Feeling suddenly and uncommonly light-hearted, Rafe headed back into his house.

  Chapter 8

  Rafe found Thea in the hallway, tugging at the bow of her bonnet, letting the ribbons flutter against her throat. As she lifted the bonnet from her head, her bosom rose and fell. A hairpin clattered onto the floor and a thick lock of chestnut hair tumbled down her neck.

  Rafe twisted the bills in both hands. “Has the bishop gone?”

  “Yes. He’s unusual, isn’t he? For a bishop.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  She put down the bonnet. One by one, she released the five buttons of her pelisse, the fabric parting to reveal the summer gown below, pale blue with a shiny royal-blue ribbon under her bust. Perhaps he should help her, slide the pelisse off her shoulders and down those smooth, bare arms.

  He did not move, except to concentrate on untwisting the bills. He ran his eyes over the words and numbers so he would not think about shiny ribbons and satiny skin.

  “I shall retire, my lord,” she said. “I am terribly tired.”

  “Too tired to tell me how much of my money you spent today?”

  She tossed her head. “I’m sure I have no idea. The best countesses never count money.”

  “But the best earls always do.”

  He waved the sheaf of bills meaningfully, earning a thrilling glare.

  “How utterly detestable to ask a question to which one already knows the answer.” Her chin came up. “I shan’t stand for it. Because you did that, I refuse to reply. No, do not argue. You have brought this upon yourself.”

  She whirled about and marched for the stairs. Her exaggerated hauteur magnified the sway in her hips. Rafe sauntered after her, watching the fine cotton of her gown swirl around her legs and ankles. Her fabulously, famously fascinating ankles.

  “Five dozen silver buttons,” Rafe said to her back, as she started up the stairs, the movement of her gown around her rear even more fascinating than those ankles. “Why would you need sixty buttons?”

  “It is cheaper to buy them in bulk, as any good merchant’s daughter knows,” she retorted. “One would think he would be grateful, but no, I get nothing but complaints.”

  Rafe fought a smile as he climbed the stairs after her. “One jeweled music box,” he read.

  “All the best countesses have jeweled music boxes.”

  “And do all the best countesses take snuff? You bought a hand-painted enamel snuffbox inlaid with pearls.”

  She sniffed. “That was a gift for you, but you’ve upset me so thoroughly, I shan’t give it to you now.”

  Maintaining her haughty air, she started up the next flight of stairs to the bedrooms. Rafe followed, enjoying himself far too much to stop.

  “One pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses,” Rafe read out.

  “What else would a countess take to the theatre? Oh!” She whirled about so abruptly that Rafe stopped only a few steps down, looking up into her bright blue eyes. “Let’s go to the theatre!”

  She looked so earnest and excited that Rafe almost agreed. But of course they couldn’t go to the theatre. They’d both taken enough risks today. Had she forgotten? He could not tell if she genuinely forgot things, or if it was
a ploy to distract him.

  “No,” he said.

  With a sigh, she resumed walking. “I suppose you don’t like the theatre.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said, vexingly stung at her disappointment and annoyed that he cared enough to defend himself. “But being around you is theatre enough.”

  In the doorway to her dressing room, she turned back. “You like the theatre?”

  “A dozen lace handkerchiefs.”

  “You cannot announce something astounding like that and not elaborate. It’s insufferable. Do you really like the theatre?”

  “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  “Theatre is so frivolous and you…” She frowned, studying his face. “You never really smile.”

  “I smile.” He realized his brows were drawn together so deeply he could see them. He smoothed them out. “Very well,” he said, resuming the game. “Let’s go to the theatre. Tonight.”

  Her eyes widened in alarm. “Well, we can’t go tonight.” She spun and traipsed into her sitting room, with its small heap of parcels by one wall. Rafe followed her. Not quite proper, given they weren’t actually married, but to hell with it. No one would know. For now, they were sheltered by the fiction of their marriage.

  “Why not go to the theatre?” he asked.

  “Because I don’t have any jewels. London would be horrified to see a countess with no jewels. ‘By George,’ they would say, ‘it must be true he’s a devil, because only a devil would not buy his wife jewels.’ No,” she added firmly, shaking her head. “I simply cannot have them speaking of you like that.”

  “How thoughtful of you.”

  “I am an excellent wife.”

  “You are not. You’re not even a good wife. As a wife, you are of little use to me at all.”

  Thea’s eyes flickered down to his chest and a faint blush colored her cheeks. He guessed she had understood his meaning. It was wrong to tease her in this way, but he could not bring himself to stop. Not yet. In a moment, he would stop.