by Vincy, Mia
A Beastly Kind of Earl
Mia Vincy
A Beastly Kind of Earl
Copyright © 2019 by Inner Ballad Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-925882-02-5
Cover: Studio Bukovero
Editing: May Peterson
Sensitivity reader: May Peterson
Proofreading: M.Ute Editing
For anyone who ever believed a story about themself that turned out to be untrue.
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
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Mia Vincy
Coming Next
Chapter 1
Thea Knight had never been one to follow rules unquestioningly—or at all, if she could help it—but she always adhered to three firm rules of her own.
Namely, her Rules of Mischief.
First, mischief must be conducted only for a good cause—and certainly, Thea’s present mischief served no lesser cause than her younger sister’s happiness. For that excellent cause, she had resigned her position as a private nurse, donned a set of men’s clothing—complete with a many-caped greatcoat that weighed a stone and reeked of pigs—and journeyed halfway across England to meet Helen in this cramped room in a coaching inn in Warwickshire. Thea had even stopped laughing long enough to be laced into tight stays for the first time in three years, so she could wear Helen’s stylish gown to its best advantage, while Helen took her turn to dress as a swine-scented swain. All as a prelude to the grand mischief: While Thea was at Arabella’s house, claiming to be Miss Helen Knight, the real Helen would be eloping to Scotland with her beloved Beau Russell, thus evading the long reach of Beau Russell’s father, Viscount Ventnor.
Which led to Thea’s second Rule of Mischief: One must trick only those who were villainous, powerful, or—as was most likely the case—both.
Her conscience rested easy on that point, for Lord Ventnor practically leaped into the third category. The things he had said about the Knight family! That Helen was a “sly, scheming seductress” and “too distastefully inferior” for his heir, because Pa was a “grubby merchant” and Thea a “dreadful scandal.” Ventnor had then packed his son off to a shooting party, and sent men to follow Helen and stop her if she tried to sneak away to meet Beau. Even now, two ruffians sat in the tavern downstairs, waiting for Helen to emerge.
Thea had her own reasons for loathing Lord Ventnor, though she preferred not to think about that ball three years ago, when Percy Russell spewed his lies and Ventnor called her horrid names. To think that, of all the men in the world, Helen intended to marry Percy Russell’s elder brother! Thea shuddered at the thought of being thus connected to her enemies, though it was probably perfectly normal for the Russell family. After all, the aristocracy had been marrying and murdering each other for centuries, sometimes on the same day.
But she bit her tongue and started no quarrels, because of her third Rule: When engaging in mischief and trickery, one must always enjoy oneself. Because enjoyment led to good memories, and Thea wanted only good memories of these precious stolen minutes with her sister.
“Heavens, Thea, where did you get this hideous greatcoat?” Helen held the offending item at arm’s length, her face an exaggerated grimace of horror. “Did you buy it directly from the pigs themselves?”
“If you please!” Thea protested. “I’ll have you know that greatcoat was worn by the finest pigs in all of England.”
“They certainly have the finest smell!”
Laughing, Helen shoved her arms into the sleeves. Thea helped her arrange the lapels and capes, then stepped back to admire the result.
The greatcoat truly was a stroke of genius. Its bulk broadened Helen’s shoulders and concealed her shape, and its fragrance would deter anyone from coming too close. Hunched into the greatcoat and with a broad-brimmed clerical hat pulled down low on her face, Helen could travel without drawing attention, just as Thea had done.
“How did you survive wearing these clothes in this heat?” Helen said, taking up the clerical hat and spinning it around one finger. “I swear, after days sweltering in stagecoaches, I shall arrive at the border as roasted as a loin of pork, and Beau will stick a fork in me to see if I am done.”
“What an excellent test of true love! If Mr. Russell still wants you when you smell of stewed pig, you can be sure he will want you always.”
“If his father’s fury could not tear us apart, I daresay a smelly greatcoat will fare no better.”
How wonderful for Helen, to be so loved and wanted. Thea could hardly argue with that.
So once more, she swallowed her concerns and instead made a show of inspecting her sister, circling her slowly. Helen looked as comfortable in men’s clothes as Thea had felt, though it was a good ten years since the sisters had last dressed as boys. “Ted” and “Harry” they had been, hair cut short under their caps, dashing out after their lessons to run errands for Pa, gather news at coffeehouses and the docks, and earn a coin wherever they could. Because that was how the Knight family worked: Everyone did their part on the long, rocky road to security and wealth.
Then the year Thea turned twelve, Pa made his fortune again, and the time came for her to stop pretending to be a boy and to pretend to be a genteel lady instead.
And look at her now, as genteel as you please in Helen’s expensive moss-green carriage dress, from her manner to her accent to her walk. It still felt like pretending, though, so why not use a pretend name too? Their switch would not fool any of their acquaintances, despite their matching chestnut-colored hair and blue eyes, but they had only to fool Ventnor’s men. Ma and Pa believed Helen to be Arabella’s guest, Arabella’s other guests knew neither of them from a jug of ale, and as for Thea… Well, no one gave a flying farthing about her whereabouts now.
No self-pity, she scolded herself. Not when she was about to put everything right, not only for Helen, but for herself too.
“We are doing very well,” Thea declared. “Ventnor’s men will never suspect we have swapped clothing, so they will not even notice you leave, let alone stop you from meeting and marrying Beau.”
Smiling, Helen leaned toward Thea, eyes wide. “They will not stop us,” she chanted.
“They cannot stop us,” Thea replied automatically, and together they chorused: “For nobody stops a Knight!”
Thea clapped once and laughed. Nobody stops a Knight, indeed! How often had she muttered the family chant to herself during the years of her exile? Whenever the l
oneliness became too much and grim thoughts crept in, she would draw on that family spirit. On the memories of Ma hugging her, or Pa fondly pinching her chin, as they reminded her that, together, the Knight family would succeed, and never again have to worry about the roof over their head.
“Do you remember when the Little Ones learned the Knight family chant?” Thea asked Helen now. “Jemima would bang her spoon, and Andy would howl.” Oh, how she missed those impish sweethearts. Her smile faltered. “I suppose they aren’t so little anymore.”
Helen touched her hand. “We still call them that,” she said gently. “They remember you, you know. They ask after you.”
“And what do Ma and Pa say to that? Good riddance to bad rubbish, I suppose.”
“No! They miss you, Thea. Every night, we dine with your empty place.”
And every night of Thea’s exile, she had dined alone. “Nurse and companion,” Mrs. Burton’s advertisement had stated, but it had turned out the old woman had no interest in Thea’s company. The other servants had deemed Thea too grand for them, what with her refined accent and manners, and in the three years she’d worked in that isolated house, she had made no friends. As for everyone she had known before, only Arabella and Helen ever wrote.
Thea turned away and traced the long, curved brim of Helen’s poke bonnet. Thea’s bonnet, now. She must not quarrel with Helen, not now, not when she had only a few minutes to enjoy her sister’s company, not when she loathed arguments, and yet—
“They should have believed me,” Thea said.
“But you are always making up stories, and remember you even said—”
“Exactly!” Thea whirled around. “They know I make silly jests, so they should have believed me when I said I spoke the truth. Instead, they chose to believe Percy Russell’s nasty lies. Now his life goes on as merrily as it always did, while I was cast out of home.”
“Pa offered you money.”
“I don’t want their money! I want them to believe me.”
Thea hated to disappoint her parents; all her life, she had tried her best to please them and contribute to the family’s success, but when Percy Russell came strutting along and sought Pa’s permission to court her, the arguments had begun.
“If you marry into the upper class, Thea, the whole family will be secure,” Ma had said. “Not just you, but Helen and the Little Ones too. Your Pa has made his fortune again, but he’s lost it before, and in this world, only those in the upper class can be sure of their position.”
But when Thea protested that she did not like Percy Russell, Ma only said, “Give him time. With time, he’ll grow on you.”
“Like fungus?” Thea had retorted.
Indeed. A toxic fungus that poisoned her whole life.
“Never mind,” Thea said now. “Soon, everyone will know the truth. I am going to put the world right,” she announced, with more confidence than she felt. After all, to put the world right, she must first convince the world that it was wrong. And if there was one thing the world hated, it was being told that it was wrong.
Helen narrowed her eyes. “Thea, what mischief are you up to now?”
Before Thea could reply, someone rapped at the door. Helen yanked the clerical hat down over her braided hair, and Thea hastily pulled on the poke bonnet. Its long, curved brim was designed to completely shield the wearer’s face from the sun—and, conveniently for their purposes, from any prying eyes. The effect was like blinders on a horse, and she had to rotate her entire body to see who entered.
But it was only Arabella, sliding through the door and shutting it silently behind her, before turning to assess them with cool, critical blue eyes. Arabella had traveled only a few miles from her family estate to collect Thea, but her royal-blue pelisse, adorned with little white tassels down the front, was elegant enough for a promenade with the queen. Atop her dark hair, and a perfect foil for her pale, angular features, was a matching cap, from which sprouted a single, superb ostrich feather. Arabella was unfashionably tall, but she wore her outfits to such perfection that Thea was sure the fashions must be wrong. Even in Helen’s stylish new outfit, with its smart rows of frogging, Thea felt shabby by comparison.
“You’ll do,” Arabella drawled in her imperious manner. “I can hardly see your faces. We are all satisfied that neither of you has met anyone on my parents’ guest list?”
“Agreed,” Thea and Helen chorused.
“Then all that remains is for Mister Helen to travel north, and Thea to come home with me where Ventnor’s men cannot follow.”
Helen peered out the window at the yard, where the next stagecoach north waited. “First, Thea,” she said, turning back and pulling on her gloves. “I have just enough time for you to tell me about your other mischief.”
Thea couldn’t help chuckling. “I have penned a pamphlet telling the true story of what Percy Russell and Francis Upton did to me,” she said. “Arabella has a publishing connection in London who has agreed to print it and deliver a copy to every aristocratic and genteel household in Town. I’ll place copies in every coffeehouse, and advertisements in every newspaper, and prints in every bookseller’s window. I’ll pay hostesses to discuss it in every salon, and debt-ridden gentlemen to whisper of it over every game of cards. Enough of the ton will be in London for the Little Season in September that word will spread to everyone in society. And oh, if only I could ruin them,” she spat. “Ruin Percy Russell and Francis Upton like they ruined me.”
Only a few hundred people had been in Lord Ventnor’s ballroom that night to witness her downfall, but they had spread the false story like a disease. Everyone else had believed the rumors without question, of course, never caring that a life was destroyed. Well, time for Thea to turn the rumor mill to her advantage instead.
Excellent mischief, indeed! And it complied with her three Rules: It served the admirable causes of justice and restoring her reputation, it would expose Percy Russell’s vileness, and she would enjoy every last minute.
“It will be chaos,” Helen said.
Thea sighed happily. “I know.”
“It will be expensive,” Arabella said.
Thea sighed ruefully. “I know.”
“It will enrage Lord Ventnor,” Helen said.
Thea grinned. “I know.”
Arabella shook her head just enough to make her ostrich feather quiver. “We must plan it very carefully. Lord Ventnor will not appreciate you saying such things about his son.”
“By ‘such things,’ you mean ‘the truth.’”
“Another truth is that Ventnor is a powerful man. He may be only a viscount, but he boasts the ear of several dukes and the Prince Regent.”
Thea waved away her doubts. “The pamphlet uses false names, with only a note in the foreword inviting the reader to guess whose story it tells. Ventnor cannot accuse me without admitting the story is about Percy. Helen will be married to Mr. Russell by then, and he’ll protect you from Ventnor’s ire… Won’t he?”
“Of course he will,” Helen said, without a moment’s hesitation. “I promise you, Thea, Beau is a good man.”
“You say that, but…” She would not say it. She would not quarrel. She would not— “Oh, Helen, are you sure about this?” she blurted out. “I know you are in love, but when you marry Mr. Russell, you get his whole family.”
“They are not so bad,” Helen said. “Lord Ventnor terrifies me, of course, and Beau says Percy was always vile, even as a boy. But his mother, Lady Ventnor, is lovely, and his younger sister is too. He says he still misses his elder sister, Katharine, although ’tis nine years since she died.” Helen glanced out the window again, and when she turned back to Thea, a wicked gleam lit her eyes. “They say her husband murdered her.”
“No!”
“Yes! Some say it was poison. Others say he is a witch and killed her with sorcery. They say he bears the Devil’s mark upon his face, and it was the Devil himself who killed his father and brothers that he might become the earl.”
“The earl?” Thea repeated, looking from Helen to Arabella.
“She speaks of the Earl of Luxborough,” Arabella said. “Although when he eloped with Katharine Russell, he was only the earl’s penniless third son.”
Helen’s eyes were comically wide under her clerical hat. “And since he became the earl, they say he keeps to his estate in Somersetshire, where he practices his sorcery, making potions and poisons, keeping company only with foreigners and heathens and witches.”
“What utter nonsense,” Thea declared. “You cannot believe such rumors are true.”
“Rumors about other people are always true,” Arabella said. “It’s the rumors about oneself that are false. But some of that story is fact: About thirteen years ago, he ran away to America with Ventnor’s daughter. After a few years, they returned to England, she died in mysterious circumstances, and he left again. Now he is back, he never goes into society.”
“But the claptrap about witchcraft and the Devil?”
Arabella pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I have not seen him in person, but they say his face is indeed scarred, not by the Devil, mind you, but by…”
Thea leaned in. “By?”
“By…a cat.”
“A cat?” Thea glanced at the fine white lines running up the back of her hand, a souvenir from her childhood attempt to befriend a stray cat that did not wish to be befriended. “Then I have the Devil’s mark too,” she scoffed. “To think him a witch for a mere cat’s scratch.”
“Good grief, Thea, he is an English aristocrat, and would never suffer the scratches of an ordinary cat,” Arabella scolded lightly. “He was attacked by nothing less than a jaguar, while in the forests of New Spain.”