A Beastly Kind of Earl

by Mia Vincy

  “There are meant to be new plants arriving,” he grumbled, before she could speak. “Why are they not here yet? How difficult can it be? They put the plants on the boat, they put the boat on the water, they send the boat over here. Yet here we are. No plants.”

  “You said the new shipment was due in September.”

  “So?”

  Martha spread her hands. “So it is August.”

  “How is that relevant?”

  “You are unreasonable.”

  “I am not.”

  Two nights. Two nights of lying in bed, tangled in his sheets, his argument with Thea repeating in his mind like a particularly bad play whose ending he couldn’t change. Rafe had cleverly filled the previous day by demanding the land steward take him on a tour of the estate to discuss the upcoming harvests, but now he had another day to fill. And there would be another day after that, and then another. Day after day after day. With all these blasted plants. Useless, silent, sulking plants.

  “Would you call me a pessimist?” he asked Martha. “Would you call me a grumpy, miserable, villainous beast?”

  “No,” Martha said. “I would call you things in Spanish instead.”

  “You’re as helpful as these blasted plants.”

  “You know what are these blasted plants? They are hope.” She indicated them with a sweep of her arm. “It is an act of great faith, to plant a seed, to nurture something fragile, yet you do that every day. Also when I use these plants to make medicines, crude as they are, in the hope I can cure the sick. We are ignorant, clumsy, but still we try, and every attempt is an act of hope.”

  “You make hope sound like a kind of madness.”

  “Sí, but a madness we need to live. You have lost a lot, I know, but I think you have not lost hope.”

  Two nights. Two nights of staring at the dark, never daring to hope. One and a half days, staying away from Thea, because she belonged to a world where he did not. They said she passed her time in the library, writing a very long letter to her friend. They said that, and Rafe knew it was true, because he had peered through the library door. As he watched, she had paused to stare out the window, absently sweeping the end of her quill pen over her cheek, then she had laughed softly and started writing again. If he were a different man, he would have crossed that library floor, slid his hands over her shoulders. She would have tilted back her head so he could drop a kiss on her lips and ask her about her letter.

  “Anyway, you have a visitor,” Martha informed him

  “I never have visitors.”

  “Never, but this week, you have two. First that horrible viscount, now this amusing bishop. I did not like the first visitor, but this one, I like. This one, he can stay.”

  Rafe sped back to the house, pausing only to send a maidservant for Sally, to ensure Nicholas would have everything he needed, but when he reached the doorway to the drawing room, he lingered, unnoticed.

  Thea and Nicholas sat with a plate of cakes and a pot of tea, chatting like old friends. He’d forgotten how airy and appealing the drawing room could be, with its blue and white decor catching the light from the courtyard garden. Something about the scene stirred a nostalgic yearning inside him, something in the way Thea smiled at the bishop as she poured his tea. It was an odd feeling, as though Rafe had brought the greenhouse inside with him and glass walls separated him from the rest of the world; his fists clenched with an unfamiliar urge to smash them, chased by the chilling realization that he did not know how.

  He stepped into the room and they saw him. Perhaps Thea was no longer angry with him, or she had forgotten she was angry, because she smiled, a smile of delight. The glass walls melted away and Rafe felt that here, he belonged.

  Strange notion, considering that “here” was his own blasted house.

  Then she must have remembered that she despised him, for her haughty mask came down. Before, she had donned that mask in a game that included him, but now she used it to keep him out, and he minded that. He minded very much.

  “Rafe, my boy, come join us,” the bishop said. “Miss Knight and I are having a delightful time.”

  “So I see.” Rafe wandered across the blue carpet, his appetite stirred by the fragrance of the tea and fresh cakes. “What brought you here, Nicholas?”

  “Thought I’d stop by to see how your marriage is coming along.”

  “‘Stop by?’ It’s two days’ travel.” Nicholas beamed and Rafe dipped his head to study the cakes so he wouldn’t look at Thea. Instead, he found himself looking at her fingers, tracing the blue flowers on the teapot’s handle. “Besides, there’s no marriage.”

  “Yet Miss Knight is still here.”

  “She won’t leave.”

  “Oh, you poor boy, to be a mighty earl, yet unable to stop these helpless young women from moving into your house.”

  He looked up to see Nicholas wink at Thea, who grinned in response. Rafe felt a peculiar warmth at the two of them getting along so well. Then Thea glanced at Rafe. Her grin softened into a secret smile for him, and Rafe warmed for a different reason.

  “Why,” Nicholas continued merrily, his bright eyes seeing everything, “she might never leave.”

  “Oh, I’ll leave.” Thea tossed her head, smiles gone. “When my pamphlet is ready. Lord Pessimism here says my plan won’t work, but the world will learn the truth behind my so-called scandal, when they read The Tale of Rosamund.”

  “The Tale of Rosamund?” Nicholas repeated. “I know that one.”

  “You cannot do.”

  “Isn’t Rosamund the winsome lass—”

  “Yes?” Thea prompted.

  “Who was cruelly wronged—”

  “Yes,” Thea said.

  “By two dastardly knaves?”

  “Yes!” Thea clapped her hands and laughed. “Don’t tell me—you saw a theatre performance of it? Arabella did too.”

  “Outside London. That’s why the story sounded familiar: It was about that vile snot Percy Russell and your scandal, Miss Knight. Peculiar ending, though.” Nicholas screwed up his face in thought. “That reminds me, Rafe. Our friend William Dudley was performing in it. I stopped for a chat, and he said he had left Ventnor’s employ to join that traveling theatre troupe, and that— Oh my.”

  He stopped short, his eyes on the doorway. Sally stood there, her posture a mix of belligerence and uncertainty, as if she was torn between leading a charge and running away. Before Rafe could say a word, Nicholas clapped his hands.

  “It’s you. It is you, isn’t it?” The bishop was beaming at Sally. “How did you end up here?”

  Thea was frozen, teacup in midair, looking as puzzled as Rafe felt.

  “You know Sally too?” Thea asked. “How does everyone know Sally?”

  Nicholas still looked delighted. “‘Sally,’ now, is it? We know her from London. Oh my, this is too marvelous! All this time, she’s been living under your noses, and no one knew because you never have visitors.”

  Sally was swaying, her booted feet edging along the carpet.

  “The devil are you talking about, Nicholas?” Rafe said. “This is Sally Holt, my housekeeper. She was Katharine’s companion.”

  “Perhaps she was. But this is also Miss Sarah Holloway. Once the toast of London’s stage.”

  Rafe looked from Nicholas to Sally and back again. “You must be mistaken.”

  “Sarah Holloway, beloved actress in London for three seasons—or was it four?—until she mysteriously disappeared.” He scratched his chin as he studied the housekeeper. “I’d never mistake that splendid red hair and that wonderful pair of—”

  “Nicholas.”

  “—Elbows.”

  “But Sally Holt can’t be Sarah Holloway,” Thea broke in. “Certainly, the names are similar, but Sally has lived here all her life. Perhaps you saw her performing in one of the amateur productions here, and you got confused because they both have red hair. Apparently, Sally was a marvelous actress.”

  “Couldn’t have done. I hav
en’t visited Brinkley End in twenty years.”

  Rafe leaned back against the windowsill and regarded Sally, who was listening to their exchange tensely. “You never thought to mention this?”

  She met his eyes coolly. “You never thought to ask. ’Tis no secret I went to London while you were gone.”

  “And became a famous actress?”

  “Fame, by its very definition, defies secrecy.”

  A disingenuous reply, for Sally knew as well as he that most people on this estate and in nearby villages would never travel outside the parish and rarely saw newspapers; the theatre in London was so far removed from their rural world, it might as well be a foreign land. Sally Holt was one of their own; after returning from years in London, they would have taken her back in without a second thought.

  “You never told me.” Thea sounded betrayed. “I heard people talk of you, Sarah Holloway, the actress who disappeared. Is that why Lord Ventnor was so shocked to see you?”

  “Ventnor,” Nicholas repeated thoughtfully. “Ventnor was Sarah Holloway’s patron. It was he who secured her the position at the theatre. Put lots of actresses’ noses out of joint, but no one could deny she was extremely talented and beautiful.”

  Rafe straightened. “Ventnor was your patron?” he asked, but Sally was already turning away, saying, “If that was all, my lord, I must see to the arrangements for our guest.”

  “You said you and Ventnor argued over Katharine,” Thea said.

  Nicholas wore a rare frown. “There must be more to it than that. Rumors were circulating that one of Miss Holloway’s love affairs was with Lord Ventnor’s wife.”

  “That was a lie!” Sally cried, whirling back around.

  “And she disappeared shortly after that.”

  Silence fell over the drawing room. Another figure appeared in the doorway: Martha, watching, her expression thoughtful. Sally’s mouth was clamped shut. Pink stained her cheeks.

  Then Nicholas held out his hands to Sally. “Oh, I do apologize, my dear. I thought everyone knew of your… In London—”

  A spoon clattered onto a saucer. Thea was glaring at Nicholas. “So you should apologize, Bishop,” she said. “Rumors and gossip are foul and horrid, and I will not have them repeated. To say that Sally had a love affair with any woman! That cannot be true.”

  Thea’s naivety curled through the room like the steam rising from the tea. No one seemed to know where to look.

  Sally cleared her throat. “It is a little bit true. As the bishop said, I did have love affairs with women. Such liaisons are more common than many realize, Thea, but no one speaks of it, because those in power prefer to hide women like me.” She made a dismissive sound and her lips curled in a humorless smile. “Watch and you will see,” she added, her tone harsh. “Now Lord Luxborough knows, he will turn me out.”

  Rafe hardly heard her. Once more, he leaned back against the windowsill, his eyes roaming unseeingly around the drawing room. Ventnor had been Sally’s patron. Sally had been Katharine’s companion. Ventnor had wanted Katharine locked away. Katharine had died in Rafe and Sally’s care.

  Around him, the others were chattering on about Sally’s proclivities as though that mattered a fig. If they had met some of the people he’d met in the world, they’d be as difficult to shock as he.

  “Your preferences were well known in certain circles in London,” Nicholas said, reaching for his teacup. “You seemed to flaunt it, even.” He glanced at Thea. “Many male hearts were broken, and a few tidy sums of money were lost by those who wagered they could change her ways.”

  “And here comes the sermon about sins. Do make it a good one,” Sally prompted bitterly. “I expect lots of hellfire and gnashing of teeth.”

  Nicholas’s eyes twinkled at her over his cup. “I must disappoint you, my dear. I am too familiar with human nature in all its wondrous, confusing variety to pass judgment on the ways in which we love.”

  “As for the rest of the rumor: I had no liaison with Lady Ventnor,” Sally said. “She wanted to talk about Katharine, but Lord Ventnor had forbidden it, so we met in secret. Percy Russell saw us. It was he who started the rumors of an affair.”

  “About his own mother.” Nicholas shook his head. “Disgusting little snot.”

  “The rumors upset Ventnor, and he ordered me to leave London. When I refused, he sent a man with a knife, who threatened to carve up my face if I didn’t go.”

  “No! Sally!” Thea was on the edge of her seat. “How terrible of Lord Ventnor to believe such rumors. I grow so tired of people believing false things.”

  “Oh but he didn’t believe them.” Sally’s voice dripped with scorn. “Yet people were laughing at him and Ventnor cannot bear to be laughed at. So I came back here. Here was home, and I realized I’d rather be at home than have all the fame in London.” She brushed invisible dirt off her hands. “So, my lords, if this interrogation has ended, I have errands to attend to.”

  “No,” Rafe said. “This interrogation has not ended.”

  He was dimly aware of the faces turned to him, Thea, Nicholas, Martha, but all he saw was Sally, with her red hair and beautiful features and uncertain eyes. Sally, who had transformed herself after Katharine’s death; Sally, who had benefited from Ventnor’s help.

  Sally, who spun on her heel and headed for the door. She was fast, but Rafe was faster, covering the distance in a few long strides. Martha leaped into the room as he slammed the door shut and stood before it like a sentry.

  “You took favors from Ventnor,” Rafe said. “Did you do favors for him too?”

  Pressing her lips together, Sally looked away.

  “That man put my wife in an asylum, in appalling conditions. After I freed her, he wrote me weekly, insisting I do the same. That man preferred to spread lies about me than lift a finger for her care. That is the man you befriended?”

  “We were never friends,” she snarled.

  “Yet he rewarded you.” He advanced on her. “What the hell did you do to Katharine that Ventnor saw fit to reward you?”

  Sally’s face twisted as she fought emotion, tears welling. Blood rushed in Rafe’s ears and through his limbs; over it came the sound of Thea calling his name.

  He ignored her. Ignored them all. Ignored everything but Sally and the guilt written on her face.

  Then with a shudder, Sally covered her face with her hands and breathed, deep, ragged breaths. When she finally looked up, her eyes were red. She laughed shakily, ruefully. “I always knew this day would come, the day my past would catch up with me, and bring with it my sorrow and shame.”

  “You were a popular actress and well-known Sapphist, my dear,” Nicholas pointed out gently. “It’s sheer chance no one identified you sooner.”

  Sally shook her head. “I am not ashamed of either of those things, even if the world wants me to be. What haunts me is what came before.”

  She looked back at Rafe.

  “What came before was Katharine,” he said.

  “Yes. Katharine.”

  “What did you do to her? What the hell did you do to her?”

  A tiny smile touched Sally’s lips, though her expression was haunted by sorrow. “I loved her. That’s what I did. I loved Katharine, and that is why she is dead.”

  Chapter 20

  Rafe fell back against a wall, as if he needed it to hold him up. Sally was talking nonsense. Utter claptrap. He must tell her that, tell them all that. Yell it at Thea, gawping at them with caring concern. Shout it at Nicholas, sitting forward, compassion oozing from his pores. Bellow it at Martha, drumming her fingers on the crest of a chair.

  Katharine was dead because Rafe had failed to care for her. Every day for years, he had failed her. Rage surged through him, rage at Sally for trying to steal his guilt.

  But as she dropped into a chair and sat like a defeated penitent with her head bowed and hands clasped, his anger dissolved as swiftly as it had risen. Whether or not Sally was right, she believed it to be true.

 
; “Katharine never knew how I loved her,” Sally said quietly. “Though love is not less real for remaining unspoken. Falling in love with someone one cannot have is a time-honored tradition; it is one thing we all have in common.”

  “But Ventnor—”

  “Ventnor gave me no rewards.” She looked up and heaved a weary sigh. “I blackmailed him.”

  As abruptly as if the wall had given him a shove, Rafe started pacing, propelled across the floor. “About Katharine’s illness? If people didn’t believe me when I told the truth, why would he fear them believing you?”

  “Not that. As you said: Ventnor was terrified the world would learn the truth of Katharine’s illness. Having her secluded in a country house did not ease his fears; he wanted her locked up in an asylum and forgotten.” She briefly closed her eyes. “He sent men to kidnap her.”

  A chorus of gasps sounded through the room. Rafe stopped short, struck silent, staring at Sally.

  “We were walking in the woods, and we became separated. I heard her scream, I ran and… She was fighting them off. I had a gun. I shot one, in the shoulder, and tried to shoot the other one. They ran away.”

  “Why the hell did you not tell me?” Rafe demanded.

  “I thought I could protect her myself. I did protect her. I did.”

  “You should have told me.”

  Sally didn’t reply. She was digging her thumb into her palm as she gazed into the distance. Into the past. The past that lived with them always. Even in this bright, airy room, the past cast its ugly shadow. This drawing room had been painted sage green in his mother’s day. He could still see it, see her, his vivacious mother. And his indulgent father, his rambunctious brothers, and their guests, the constant parade of guests. All the people who had passed through this room, all the stories that had been left untold, the words unspoken, the emotions buried.

  “When we lived in the Dower House,” Sally finally said, “Katharine was calm and well. She was herself. Magnificent.”

  “Like a wild horse,” Rafe said.

  Sally’s face brightened. “Yes. That was her. Those were the happiest months of my life. But you were looking for more treatments. You talked of taking her to the Continent.”