My Kind of Earl

by Vivienne Lorret

  “Jane,” he whispered, the single syllable spoken with raw agony. “Don’t send me away. Not yet. Come downstairs with me, first, and see what all the children have done.”

  He held out his hand. She was helpless to resist.

  A static jolt stole beneath her skin when their fingers clasped, curling into each other with achingly tender familiarity. Her breaths came out, stilted and shallow. She moved beside him, trying not to absorb too much too fast.

  Perhaps Ellie was right and she was sleepwalking. These days had been nothing more than a cold fog surrounding her. Surely this couldn’t be real.

  She turned to her friend as she passed her at the top of the stairs and whispered, “Pinch me, quick.”

  Ellie smiled and obliged her. And on her other side, Jane felt Raven relax marginally.

  The stairway was woven with evergreen garland and dark red ribbons. The main hall glowed with bright golden light as Theodore and Graham, home from school, were assisting Henry with lighting beeswax tapers by the dozens. Phillipa and Charles were hanging paper snowflakes. But most surprising of all was Mr. Miggins trying to wrangle a tumble of puppies into a shawl-lined basket.

  “What is all this?” she asked in wonderment, turning around in a circle.

  A hesitant smile curled the corners of Raven’s mouth. “As I said, we’re celebrating Christmas today. And the cook is mixing the batter right now for a fortune-telling cake for your birthday.”

  “My birthday is in June,” she said, perplexed.

  “I know. Ellie told me,” he confessed, shifting from one foot to the other as if nervous. “I wanted you to celebrate these special days with your siblings, so that you’ll have a memory to take with you.”

  “Oh,” she said, dejected. He must have heard the news from Ellie about her parents sending her away. Those blasted tears threatened again. “I don’t know why you would bother. You and I have bid our farewells.”

  “I’m making a muck of this,” he said, chagrined. Then he pointed an accusatory finger at her. “You were supposed to be asleep for another hour, then it would all be clear. Charles,” he called out across the hall. “Did you take that pouch to the cook, yet.”

  Her brother smacked his palm to his forehead, then he trotted over and gave the small leather sack to Raven. “Blast! I knew I was forgetting something. Apologies. Got caught up in watching the twins make snow outside with your new contraption. Too bad it’s all melting. But it makes a great snowball . . . while it lasts.”

  Jane looked toward the windows to the side garden just as Sebastian and Tristram strolled in through the door, pushing a familiar wooden box, while wet globs of snow dripped from their heads.

  She looked to Raven. “You put wheels on my snowflake maker? That was quite clever of you.”

  He shrugged. “It was your design. But this,” he said, placing the pouch in her open hands, “was going to make everything clear. At least, as soon as you had your cake. You see, there was going to be one of these in every slice.”

  He untied the drawstring.

  A swirling ribbon of hope filled Jane. Then she looked down and . . . frowned.

  “You were going to put buttons in every slice?”

  “What—” He glanced down, his mouth set in a grim line, just as the twins started snickering. He growled. “Sebastian. Tristram. I can just as easily take away that new toboggan.”

  In a blur of movement that could rival Phillipa on her best day, they both dashed forward and began to unload pocketful after pocketful of golden ring trinkets into Jane’s waiting hands.

  Her breath caught and slowly she looked up at Raven.

  “You were right, Jane. I pushed you away because I was afraid. I knew I’d lose you when it turned out that I wasn’t anyone anymore.”

  “I don’t care about your title. I never have.”

  He smiled and brushed her damp cheek with his fingertips. “I know. But your parents wouldn’t have let me marry you. If we went against their wishes, then you wouldn’t see your siblings and that would break your heart. So, I thought that I’d just say some terrible, unforgivable things and keep you at a safe distance from me, and close to them, then everyone would be content.”

  “And that turned out swimmingly,” she said wryly as her heart fluttered painfully beneath her breast in anticipation.

  “I’ve been going mad these past fourteen days. I deserved to be in hell after what I said. And I didn’t mean a word of it,” he said earnestly. “You’re not forgettable, Jane. I’ve spent every moment apart wishing you were. I’ve nearly torn down my house with a sledgehammer. I need you, every brilliant part of you.”

  Trying not to let her heart overpower her thoughts again, and blocking out the sound of Ellie’s sighs, she said, “But I’ve brought you chaos since the moment we met. That, I’m afraid, is indisputable.”

  “Only the best kind of chaos, the kind I can’t live without. And there’s something else I realized, too. My life is one massive locked cupboard without you. So, you’ve got to marry me.”

  She sniffed and tears spilled down her smiling cheeks in a great flood. “Is that truly how you’re going to propose? I think it was more of a command than anything else.”

  “How about this, then?” He lowered to one knee. “I love you, Jane Pickerington. It happened when you had your first epiphany. I didn’t want to ask what it was. Because if you’d have told me, right then and there, that you thought we should get married and have a big, chaotic family . . . well, then . . . I just might have carried you off that day.”

  She was trembling now, shaking so much that some of the rings began to tumble from her hands, pinging and jingling to the floor. So, she sat down onto his knee, put her arms around his neck and let the buttons and rings fall in a clatter as she kissed him.

  Then she whispered, “If that’s true, then I had an epiphany just now, too.”

  Chapter 37

  For the first time in his life, Raven was truly happy. He was filled with hope for the future. And, if he were honest, it was slightly terrifying.

  He was so used to being a miserable, jaded cynic that he didn’t know what to do with this feeling. So, he reached for Jane’s hand and, when she squeezed his in return, he instantly relaxed.

  She laughed brightly, looking away from the first flakes of downy snow falling outside the carriage window and back to him. “I cannot believe we’re dashing off to Gretna Green, while my parents are still asleep. I think Ellie is actually looking forward to telling them the news. She even borrowed my vinaigrette.”

  Raven lifted her fingers to his lips and held her gaze. “I promise that you’ll get to see your siblings often, even if we have to steal inside the house.”

  On the other hand, he didn’t think there would be any need to sneak around. He’d had a lengthy chat with Ruthersby and the baron had agreed to recant his claims about seeing Jane at Moll Dawson’s.

  “I’m not worried any longer,” she said with scholarly certainty. “I have this strange sense of peace about it all, which requires no planning or overthinking whatsoever. Regardless of what happens tomorrow or the days that follow, I know that I’m precisely where I belong.”

  He couldn’t resist stealing a kiss and lingering over her plum-sweet lips. He’d been such a fool to spend those days apart. And a fool not to trust her. He should have listened to her and fought like hell—as Sterling said—against his own demons.

  A love like theirs was too precious to lock away. He’d never lose sight of that again.

  Ending the kiss, he put his arm around her and snuggled her closer as she rested her head against the crook of his shoulder on a contented sigh.

  “Do you mind if we make one stop along the way?” he asked, thinking about wasted time and all the unopened letters waiting on the table in his foyer.

  She feigned a gasp of shock. “Was that actually a politely worded question?”

  “Forget I asked,” he teased and called up to the driver to take them to St. Jame
s’s.

  Less than a quarter hour later, they were standing at a black door, opened by a rather cross housekeeper who tapped her foot on the floor. “So ye’ve returned, ’ave ye? Took your time about it.”

  “It’s a pleasure to see you, as well, Mrs. Bramly. Is my”—he stopped and cleared his throat—“is the earl at home this morning?”

  “In the library. You know where it is.” She jerked her head toward the stairs, then tromped off in a snit.

  As Jane walked up beside him, she whispered, “At least she doesn’t think you’re a ghost any longer.”

  “No, she only wishes I was.”

  The familiar sweet fragrance of old books greeted Raven as he stepped into the library through the partially opened doorway. Warrister was in his usual chair. But he wasn’t alone.

  Herrington was there, too, hands braced on the mantel and his arms and shoulders tense as though he were in the midst of an argument.

  At the sound of the door creaking, he turned his head, then sneered.

  Warrister looked over at the same time and his countenance brightened with affection, tinged with a frown of scolding. “Here you are, at last. I’ve sent an invitation to your house every day for a fortnight.”

  “My humblest apologies,” Raven said instantly, pleased to be here and even gladder that Jane was on his arm. “In fact, today is a day for apologies. As I confessed to Miss Pickerington earlier, I have recently realized that I tend to shut out the people I want most in my life when I fear I’m about to lose them. I’m afraid I did that with you, as well. But I am here to admit that I would like, very much, to remain in your life. No matter who I really am to you.”

  “Of course, my boy. There’s never been a question of that.”

  Herrington scoffed.

  “Hush, nephew. Make peace with the fact that he is your family.”

  “How can you say that, after everything I’ve told you?”

  “Because there are many things I know, which you do not. However, I did not choose a public forum to air mine. That should serve as another lesson for you.” Warrister turned his attention to Jane. “Miss Pickerington, my deepest gratitude for the heartfelt correspondences, along with the parcel. With your assistance and research, I believe I’ve finally gained a complete understanding about the events that transpired so many years ago.”

  “I was more than glad to be of assistance,” she said with a modest shrug. “I don’t like unanswered questions either.”

  Raven looked at Jane with a measure of surprise. Apparently, even when they were apart, she’d been campaigning for him, believing in him. And all the while, he’d been a confounded idiot.

  She blinked up at him and nodded as if reading his thoughts, and it took every ounce of his control not to kiss that smirk off her lips. He’d wait till they were in the carriage.

  “Those letters were invaluable,” Warrister said.

  “What letters?” Herrington asked crossly.

  “The ones in the casket, there on the mantel. They were from the maid, Helene Bastille. I believe you were acquainted with her, nephew,” the earl said carefully and Herrington stiffened, his gaze riveted on the black box. “Read through them if you like. I daresay, without the letters, I never would have thought to look at the maid, and then to her husband for the answers. But, as it turned out, that was the key.” Then, as if he’d just commented on the weather and nothing at all earth shattering, he turned to Jane with a smile. “My dear, would you be so kind as to hand me those papers, waiting on the table by the window?”

  “Of course,” she said and received a pat on the hand when she returned, along with an invitation to sit beside the earl.

  Raven pulled up the chair for her, his brow puckered in confusion. He heard himself ask, “What key?”

  “The key that finally unlocked the whole truth,” the earl said with an ambiguous air that demanded the forbearance of his audience. “In those pages, Helene Bastille refers to her husband as le Sinistre. The name could easily be disregarded as merely a moniker that an abused wife might have given her estranged husband. However, it means a great deal when one discovers that there was an infamous French spy by that same name.” He paused, lifting his brows thoughtfully. “Not only that, but le Sinistre’s method of covering up his tracks was through arson.”

  Arson? A shock jolted through Raven, the hair at his nape standing on end. He looked from Warrister to Jane, and to the casket beneath Herrington’s hand on the mantel. He’d never bothered to look at the letters. Not even when he saw that Jane had translated each and every one. At the time, just seeing her handwriting had nearly broken him, so he’d sent them back.

  “Does that mean this . . . le Sinistre . . . is responsible for setting the fire that day?”

  Warrister nodded solemnly. “I believe so. From what I have uncovered, he had several contacts in England—traitors willing to sell British secrets and others who engaged in smuggling for him. Regrettably, one of those traitors had fallen in love with his estranged wife and planned to flee with her child. I can only imagine that this was the reason le Sinistre brought his wrath down upon my son’s household.”

  Herrington whipped around, fury marked in his high color. “If you think for a moment that I had anything to do with this, then you’re sorely mistaken!”

  “Calm down, nephew. I’m making no such accusation.”

  “Then what are you doing? Why are we even talking about Helene in the first place? Unless you’re about to tell me what I already know, that this imposter”—he flung an arm toward Raven—“is really her child.”

  Raven straightened, head high and ready for confrontation. If he was the maid’s child, then that’s who he was. There was no changing it.

  “No need for a battle,” the earl said, exhaling his impatience. “Let’s put that aside for the moment. I should like to read the final letter that my son wrote to me. It should clear up many of the doubts plaguing both of you,” he said looking from one to the other.

  “‘Dear Father,’” he began, the rasp in his voice redolent with emotion. “‘I shall arrive straight to the topic of your last letter and tell you that yes, your grandson is perfectly hale. He grows stronger by the day and seldom cries, which is likely because Arabelle keeps him with her always. I am teeming with jealousy—or I would be if I could love either of them less.

  “‘But there is news to report of another birth in this house. You may recall that maid I mentioned, the one who sought sanctuary with us from her husband. She has brought a son into the world just today. A boy with dark hair and dark eyes and a healthy set of lungs.

  “‘Merrick acts very much the elder infant and studies this other child with equanimity. He is ever-stoic, and I have never seen a more inquisitive child in my life. He studies us with that pale watchful gaze like a king, waiting for us to entertain him. And I am embarrassed by the amount of foolishness I’ve put forth simply to earn a smile.

  “‘Today, it finally happened—the smile—and I did nothing to inspire it. My only activity at the time was sitting near the bassinet in our rooms and reading aloud. I heard a gurgle and a coo that stopped my oration. I turned to attend to him, but he simply stared back, expectant. So I read again and—behold—there it was. A smile. I am happy to report that Arabelle was positively teeming with jealousy.

  “‘I look forward to seeing you in the springtime, Father, and be assured I will read your every letter to your grandson. Your son, Edgar.’”

  Raven felt as if his heart was in his throat and he swallowed thickly. Looking to Jane, he saw that her own heart was swimming in her eyes.

  But, of course, Herrington had something to say about it.

  He cast a sweeping gesture to Raven. “That letter gives no proof at all. Everyone knows that the color of a child’s eyes often alters after birth.”

  Raven fought the urge to growl.

  “Yes, I thought you’d say as much.” Warrister drew in another deep breath before he continued. “What I have h
ere is a complete confession from Mr. Pickerington which should finally end this speculation.”

  He shuffled the pages on his lap. “Pickerington mentions working for my son and his affair with the maid, Helene. He further admits that he’d been intending to run away with her, and to having double-crossed her husband—the man to whom he’d been selling secrets while working for many notable military families—le Sinistre.”

  Raven watched as Jane read the page and her face paled. He went to her side and took her hand.

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. “My own uncle. If not for him then you would have had . . .”

  “Shh . . .” He knelt down and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “None of this is your fault.”

  “Quite true. No one in this room is to blame,” Warrister said, looking warningly at his nephew. Then, skimming through the pages once more, he paused briefly, closing his eyes. After a moment, he cleared his throat and continued. “According to Mr. Pickerington’s account, he was set to abscond with Helene the night of the fire. Regrettably, he arrived too late to save anyone—” He broke off, his voice gravelly. “Anyone other than the child in my son’s outstretched hands, as his body was being consumed by flames.”

  The breath fell out of Raven’s lungs. Beside him, Jane stifled a sob in the cup of her hands.

  Warrister looked into his eyes, holding his gaze as he reached out and put a warm hand on his shoulder. Then he nodded and Raven knew.

  There was no ounce of doubt any longer. There never would be again.

  Then the earl turned back to his nephew. “In these pages, he even mentions seeing you that night and how he’d hoped you wouldn’t hear the baby crying from underneath the bench. How he’d hoped it was dark enough that you didn’t see the soot on his clothes.”

  Herrington cringed as he pressed his fingertips to the center of his forehead. “I did see him that night.”

  Warrister nodded, unsurprised. “I suspect you didn’t tell me that you saw him because that would lead back to the maid. The maid had ensnared you, as well, despite what you said at the ball.” Then softly, he added, “She was likely playing her part with both of you.”