But he’d needed a horse today, regardless, to stealthily follow Jane’s carriage. He’d refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing his face at her conservatory door this morning, revealing that her manipulation had worked.
So he put up with the stallion. Whenever Savage tried to assert his dominance by baring his teeth, straining against the lead, or rearing back, Raven growled down at him. Strangely enough, the gruff sound seemed to work. And, by the time they cantered past Watford, they’d reached something of an understanding.
Even so, after an hour and a half, Raven was sorely glad when they reached their destination.
Up ahead, the carriage stopped around a curve in the narrow lane in front of a slender fieldstone chapel with a steepled, moss-grown roof and pointed spire.
He dismounted near a stream tucked away on the outer edge of the forest glade. Both he and Savage needed a drink. Though Raven would have preferred his to be something stronger, he drank down the cold, clear water in grateful gulps.
Wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, he watched Jane step lithely down from the carriage. She was dressed in a deep red, fur-lined pelisse with the shawl-wrapped book in her arms and, doubtless, her infamous reticule tucked beneath it.
He expected her to traipse into the chapel and return forthwith.
Instead, she took time to speak to the driver. She pointed him in the direction of a dozen black-thatched cottages that stood in a winding cluster beneath the base of a hill, as if asking him to drive elsewhere and without her. But why?
Frowning, Raven stroked the flat of his hand down the tiger-striped hide along the horse’s brawny neck. The carriage drove away, leaving Jane alone in front of the chapel.
She cast a furtive glance around, then went to the heavy oaken door, opening it—just a crack—to peer inside. Apparently not seeing what she wanted, she closed it and slyly crept around the corner, disappearing behind a hedgerow.
His plan to keep her from knowing that he’d followed quickly fell by the wayside. So he left Savage tied to a bare elm branch that hung above tufts of sweet grass growing up from between the rocks.
Just as Raven entered the small side garden, he saw Jane bending over to position a wooden pail beneath a window ledge. A cool breeze buffeted the crimson wool against her bottom, outlining the lush curves that made his fingertips and palms tingle from want. Made his blood pulse thickly through his veins.
He was shocked by his increasing desire for a woman who wasn’t remotely his type. And even more so by the fantasies that had beleaguered him at all hours of the day and night. In fact, ever since he’d kissed her and tasted the innocent, unschooled glide of her tongue in his mouth, his mind had conjured all sorts of improper things to teach the little professor.
The errant thoughts meant nothing, of course. He was merely randy and out of sorts because he hadn’t yet found a new brothel. A few hours of female companionship and he’d be back in sorts, with the likes of her never to enter his mind again.
Assured of it, he moved silently over the grass. “Why is it that I always find you sneaking into windows?”
She turned with a start, her bluer-than-blue eyes widening against a sea of white, which was exactly the reaction he wanted. But then she smiled, which was not at all what he wanted.
“I knew you would come,” she said with a small, but exuberant, bounce up on her toes. “Admit it, you’re just as curious as I am.”
He glared at her. “I’m only here to see for myself if you were actually going to jaunt across the countryside, alone, and with a complete disregard for your own safety.”
It was the truth. Any interest he might have had about the contents of the book was eclipsed by the anger that burned in his veins at the thought of this reckless fool putting herself in harm’s way.
She bristled at the sharp edge in his voice and adjusted her cargo tighter against the high, firm hillocks of her breasts. “I have arrived safe and sound. Regardless, I don’t need anyone to look after me. I’ve been doing fine on my own for years. Therefore, you may leave me in peace and go back to your own life.”
If only he could. Knowing that there was no one else to stop her from these escapades compelled him to take up the role of her guardian, whether he liked it or not.
“That cart went dashing off with the horse the moment I met you,” he said bitterly, striding toward her and ready to end this episode. “I’m not about to let you go in there alone. So, stand aside.”
A look of triumph and excitement flared in her eyes. He chose to ignore it, slipping past her to open the window. Seeing that the small vestry chamber was vacant, he navigated the sill.
Inside, the air was pungent with the sweetness of aging books. Turpentine and beeswax polish had worked its way into every grain of umber-dark wood, from the old warped floor to the table in the center and the shelves that lined three of the walls.
Raven turned to Jane. “Just give me the book and I’ll leave it on the table.”
“Not on your life,” she declared crossly, already tying the shawl around her shoulder and waist in a makeshift sling to hold the large book against her torso. She hiked her stubborn chin and climbed up on the wooden pail. “It’s either both the book and I, or neither of us.”
Arguing with Jane was not something a man without sleep or patience would ever undertake. So, he only bothered to issue an annoyed growl as he leaned out and slipped his hands under her arms. She issued a slight gasp as he lifted her smoothly inside, careful to keep her head from hitting the window casing.
His irritation vanished the instant her scent filled his nostrils and her slender form yielded against him in a soft, supple press, her hands gripping his shoulders. In the seconds that followed, her wide eyes searched his. And the color tingeing her cheeks and lips matched the fur-lined pelisse, making her look like a delectable little fruit, just ripe for the tasting.
She paused to wet her lips and the dark drops of her pupils seemed to mirror his thoughts. But instead of giving in to the hunger that had plagued him all week, he set her apart and issued a firm warning.
“This is the last time, Jane. No more of these foolish errands. Now, put the book—” He glanced down and saw that her shawl was empty. “Where is it?”
Jane blinked and looked down, equally mystified. Then they both went to the window and saw it resting against the rocks.
Raven retrieved it, realizing belatedly that he should have felt it between them a moment ago if he’d been paying attention.
Coming back, he brushed off the bits of dust and leaves and gave it to her. “Put this back where it belongs and then we’re leaving.”
“Leaving? But surely you didn’t come all this way just to stop.”
“Stop? I never planned to start in the first place.”
All he knew was that, the instant her carriage had disappeared from sight in the dark wee hours this morning, he’d stalked into his house and cursed a blue streak into his empty bedchamber. Then, before he knew it, he’d found himself banging on Reed Sterling’s door and asking to borrow his newly acquired horse.
Thankfully, Sterling hadn’t asked the reason. Because Raven was damned if he knew it himself.
Dressed only in trousers and open shirtsleeves, Sterling had simply sent a hasty missive to the stable yard before darkly commanding never to be disturbed when he was alone with his wife . . . unless the gaming hell was on fire. Then he amended that with, “And it had better be a damned conflagration.”
Raven only hoped that Sterling would be as indifferent about the sudden requirement for a horse in the dead of night when they saw each other later. He didn’t want to answer any questions regarding Jane or his reasons for following her. Especially when he wasn’t entirely sure himself.
Standing in front of her now, he raked a hand through his hair and exhaled frustration through his nostrils. “Just put it back.”
Finally, she did. Then she faced him, hands on hips and arms flared. “There’s no sense in leaving
until we explore furth—”
Her words halted as they heard the creak of a footstep on the hardwood floor.
They both turned as a slight, elderly man dressed in a dark cassock shuffled into the room, distracted by an open prayer book in his gnarled hand.
Lifting his rawboned face, he saw Jane across the room and a smile creased his cheeks. “Ah, Miss Pickerington, back again so soon? Strange, but I didn’t see you come in through the chapel.”
“My apologies, Reverend. I always find myself drawn to different books in different places. A failing of my own, I’m afraid.”
“If that is a failing then we should all be similarly stricken. I’d have thought I’d exhausted you and your charming friend with talk of this parish’s history yesterday. I do tend to drone on and on, or so my wife says . . .” He glanced toward the window and caught sight of Raven. “Oh, I see you’ve brought someone new today.”
“Indeed. This gentleman is my . . . um . . . cousin who insisted on serving as my chaperone. He can be quite stubborn.”
“A pleasure, sir,” the vicar said with a nod and a serene smile. “To my mind, stubbornness is a forgivable transgression when one is putting another’s welfare first.”
Raven stood taller and flicked an arched glance in Jane’s direction. “Then I shall continue, knowing all the while that I’ll be pardoned.”
“And you are most welcome here,” the vicar said affably. “We have so few travelers nowadays. Ours has become such a small parish since the terrible fire.”
“My apologies. I did not realize you’d had a fire,” Jane offered, her expression guilt-stricken as she furtively glanced toward the bookshelf.
He shook his head. “I beg your pardon, for I’ve done it again. I always speak of the tragedy as if it were a recent occurrence. To my doddering mind it still is, I suppose. That January of 1800 will forever linger with me as the night of devastation.”
An icy shiver snaked down Raven’s spine.
“Eighteen”—Jane swallowed, her complexion unnaturally pale—“hundred?”
“Simply heartbreaking,” the vicar said with sadness haunting the depths of his cloudy gaze. “Not a soul in the manor house on the hill survived. Not the fourteen servants. Not even Lord and Lady Northcott.”
Raven’s throat went dry. Only this morning he’d read those names. Only this morning he’d imagined the pen in a capable, manicured hand, dipping into a pot of ink before scrawling the names in the register, a head bending to blow a stream of breath to dry the page.
This morning, just hours ago, those strangers had been alive to him. Now they were gone. The vision in his mind evaporated like a curl of smoke from the last ember in a grate.
In the moment that followed, the soft rasp of Jane’s slippers on the floor was the only sound to disturb the solemn quiet. She came to his side and curled her hand over his sleeve, either in comfort or regret, or perhaps both.
“Was there a child?” Raven heard himself ask the vicar.
The old man nodded, looking heavenward. “Such a great and woeful loss. He was so small that there were no remains found to place in the family crypt. I like to believe that he was so precious to the angels that they chose to take him in body and spirit.”
Jane went unnaturally still and Raven knew they were both focusing on the same three words—no remains found.
Raven shifted from one foot to the other. An uncomfortable, itchy awareness covered his skin, the primary discomfort residing at the mark on his shoulder. It seemed to contract and pulse like a fresh wound trying to heal. He wanted to scratch it until it bled. Until the skin was scraped raw.
He didn’t like those three words. There was no real finality in them. It left too much room for the most dreaded of all things . . . hope.
Jane’s fingertips brushed over his sleeve in a small, comforting caress. “Wouldn’t it be possible that the baby might have survived by some miracle?”
“Hope is one of humanity’s greatest gifts, Miss Pickerington. Though, in this particular circumstance, I’ve also discovered that it is a tool used by charlatans and opportunists to bring further pain to the remaining family. It would have been better if they’d been allowed to grieve their loss in peace and be healed.”
“And just what are these charlatans trying to gain?” Raven asked, confused.
But the answer that came was nothing he ever could have expected.
“Why, the earldom, of course.”
* * *
The pieces fit together for Jane in a sudden breath of enlightenment. “The Earl of Warrister. I’d completely forgotten the rumors.”
Looking up at Raven, she saw a brief flash of shock in his expression an instant before his handsome features rearranged themselves into inscrutable lines and angles. She felt guilty for luring him here for such terrible news. And yet, even as she was dismayed to hear about the tragedy, she was also filled with a sense of certainty.
The mark was not a coincidence. It couldn’t be.
“The Earl of Warrister is quite reclusive, though ’tis no wonder, what with the accusations,” the vicar added with a sigh.
“From what I now recall, his lordship still holds fast to the idea that his grandchild survived the fire, does he not?”
“Sadly, yes, even after all this time. There are some who believe that the earl’s mental faculties are somewhat . . . diminished. His nephew, Lord Herrington, has been the most vocal about his own suspicions.”
“Then Lord Herrington must expect to inherit,” she mused absently.
“The law of primogeniture will make it so, I’m certain. The baron is, after all, the eldest of the earl’s nephews. And better he than a usurper.” The old man’s age-rounded shoulders lifted in an inconsequential shrug as he began to cross the room with his prayer book in hand.
Jane’s gaze strayed to the baptismal record. Drat. In her haste, she’d put the book on the wrong shelf and it wasn’t pushed in all the way either. She only hoped the vicar wouldn’t notice or else he might imagine they were a pair of those charlatans he mentioned.
“Regrettably,” the vicar continued, “many are ensnared by the promise of money and power. Why, even in the wake of such a catastrophe, there were those who swarmed the rubble left behind in order to see what treasures they might take for themselves. A pity. Especially because Lord and Lady Northcott were always so kind and generous. There wasn’t a single parishioner who was ever infirm or hungry that her ladyship did not try to lend aid to in some way or another. His lordship beamed whenever she was on his arm, as any man would have done, I’m sure.”
“She was pretty, then?” Raven asked, his voice more tender than Jane had heard before. And in the muscled forearm beneath her hand, she felt the faintest tremor.
“Aye. None lovelier.”
She witnessed a soft smile touch Raven’s lips. A wealth of emotion welled in her throat as she thought of that fire and the child who’d lost his parents—the child who’d grown into a man who was starting to believe.
“What else do you know about the Northcotts?” she asked, completely missing the fact that the vicar had gone still, his uplifted arm half-suspended in the air.
With his prayer book in hand, he hesitated at the sight of the misplaced baptismal record. When he turned around to address his guests, his genial manner was gone.
He looked carefully from Jane to Raven, his wizened gaze narrowing. “And just what is your name, sir?”
“That,” he answered with a mystified shake of his head, “is a very good question.”
Chapter 15
After their unceremonious departure from the chapel, Raven walked with Jane to the hill where the Northcott house once stood, his thoughts distracted and distant.
The last day of October seemed to be exiting in proper gloomy fashion. As they approached the top, a chill breeze sent crisp leaves skittering along the path ahead of them, rushing from the dark clouds gathering overhead. They settled, shivering against the remains of the manor house
foundation.
Even after all this time, the memory of that night showed itself in the scorched fieldstones, laid out in long rectangles like an ancient skeleton that the earth was slowly devouring. The fire had destroyed everything else.
Or nearly everything, Raven mused.
Was it possible that the child had survived? Perhaps, like the other items looted from the ashes, the child had been taken away as well.
But for what purpose? Surely not to be left on the doorstep of a foundling home. After all, why go through all the trouble of saving an infant only to abandon it?
Raven didn’t know the answer. In fact, he was no longer sure of anything.
He felt altered, rearranged. It was as if someone had taken an egg whisk to his insides and was waiting to see what kind of pudding would come out after he steamed.
Jane stood by him, quiet aside from the silent murmur of her lips as she made her mental notes. He was oddly comforted by the familiarity of her habit. With so many uncertainties surrounding him, he found himself gravitating to the only things he knew.
Absently, he brushed his thumb over the delicate softness of her hand, not knowing exactly when he’d reached out and taken hold of it. Or even when he’d removed her glove. But he discovered it was gripped in his other hand, nonetheless.
Refusing to ponder over it too much, he merely focused on the tender cushion of her palm nestled into his, the clasp of her fingers, the feel of being tethered to something—to someone—real.
Without her beside him, he might later convince himself that it was all a strange dream.
“The vicar became quite reluctant to share any more information, even eager for us to leave,” he said. “I think he suspected us of usurpering.”
“Of usurpation,” she corrected quietly. “Is that what we’re doing, Raven? Are we . . . claiming your birthright?”
“No.” That much he knew for certain. “There isn’t anything to claim because neither of us has proof.”
“True. We cannot say definitively that you are Merrick Northcott. At least not yet. However, I’ve already begun to compile a list of places to visit once we return to London, as well as individuals who may have answers.”
My Kind of Earl Page 14