The Indebted Earl

by Erica Vetsch

  “Allow me, madam.” Charles assisted Lady Richardson. Mrs. Chapman followed, and then he reached up to help Lady Sophia. Her fingers brushed his, and the touch of her skin sent awareness thrumming along his veins. The moment her shoes graced the cobbles, she released his hand. He took a moment to get his bearings.

  The coachman jumped down as hostlers emerged from the stables. “The baggage cart is a fair way back. I can bring in the bags atop the carriage, and you can let me know what else the ladies need for the night.” He stretched his back and shook first one leg, then the other. “Stiff as starched iron. Must be weather coming in. Here,” he shouted. “Be easy with that off fore. He’s skittish.” He nodded to Charles and hurried to where the lead horse sidled and jerked his head. “Let me do that. You’d think you’d never seen a horse before.”

  Charles turned away and headed into the taproom. The windows and doors were thrown open to catch any breeze that might wander by, and the fireplace was dark. Lady Richardson sat on a bench beside the long table, and a handful of men around a table had stopped playing cards to stare at the women. Or rather, one woman.

  Lady Sophia knelt before Lady Richardson, chafing her hands, smiling encouragingly. Mrs. Chapman had her basket over her arm, one hand clenching the opposite wrist, staring balefully at the group around the card table.

  An old woman with a dried-apple face stood behind the counter. She was thin as a stick and short enough to walk through a gun port without bumping her head. “You needin’ rooms?” Slap! A wet cloth smacked the counter, sending droplets flying. “I got two. That’s all.”

  By his count, they needed three, if he was to have space for himself. One for Lady Sophia and one for Lady Richardson. Perhaps Mrs. Chapman would sleep in one of their rooms. Plus they would need a place for the baggage driver and the coachman.

  “There’s bunks in the barn for your driver and the like.”

  He grimaced. However, he’d slept rougher in his time, and one night wouldn’t hurt him. “Fine. If you would get some refreshment for the ladies, we’ll take the rooms and meals.” He looked about the taproom. It hardly seemed the place for ladies to dine. There was a bit of the rough element about it.

  “Perhaps you would care to dine in one of your rooms?” He didn’t like the hard stares of the cardplayers, and with evening coming on, the taproom was sure to fill up.

  “No need,” the crone behind the counter said. “I got a private room for when swells visit. You won’t hafta rub shoulders with the likes of these blaggards.”

  “That’s no way to talk about your best customers.” The oldest of the quartet rose with his pewter tankard and made his way to the counter. Amazing that he didn’t collide with the furniture, since he never took his eyes off Lady Sophia. “Gimme another, and mind your tongue, you old harpy.”

  The wrinkled woman took the mug and turned the spigot on a keg behind her. With a quick twist, she stopped the flow of ale just before the tankard overflowed. “There, Paul Pipkin. Put that down your gullet. It’s the only way to stop your gob.”

  Lady Sophia straightened and sent Charles an imploring look. “We’ll take that private room, if you please.” She lowered her voice. “Mamie is very tired.”

  Later that night, Charles surveyed his sleeping quarters with a jaundiced eye. Men lay on the straw like forgotten piles of cargo, snoring and snorting, scratching and shuffling. Most were soaked in ale.

  Charles dropped his bag on the floor, and by the light of one weak lantern, withdrew a precisely wrapped canvas parcel. Taking stock of his options, he chose two stout columns and affixed the ropes of his hammock to them, testing that the knots would hold against the queen posts. With his bed sorted, he shrugged out of his coat and yanked at his cravat. He’d find water to wash and shave in the morning. For now, he just wanted sleep.

  Stuffing his necktie into his coat pocket, his fingers brushed something smooth and cold. With a jolt he realized he still carried the miniature painting of Lady Sophia. He had intended to return it to her the morning after he’d “borrowed” it, but he’d been interrupted by the arrival of the new baron and baroness to Primrose Cottage. In all that had transpired since, it had slipped his mind.

  He withdrew the oval, letting the flickering light play over the likeness. Guilt and pleasure mingled in his chest. She was beautiful of face, but he’d also seen she was beautiful of heart. Her care of Lady Richardson, her acceptance of him as the bearer of bad news, and her kindness to all, no matter their class, were things he admired even more than her beauty.

  How to return her possession with as little embarrassment and fuss as possible eluded him. Having once girded himself up for the admission, he now felt more reluctant than ever to expose his sin. Might it be possible to slip the painting into the baggage without ever mentioning that it had been taken?

  It might be the coward’s way out, but at this point it also seemed the best way to avoid giving Lady Sophia additional hurt.

  CHAPTER 6

  SOPHIE STUDIED CAPTAIN Wyvern—Earl Rothwell—across the small carriage space.

  Ever since learning of his inheritance, the man acted as if someone had informed him he was about to be deported to Botany Bay for a life of penal servitude. Most men would be giddy at the prospect of a peerage and property. Why wasn’t the captain?

  Rich had never mentioned that Captain Wyvern had also been heir to a title. Had Rich known? Perhaps not. It didn’t seem as if the captain enjoyed talking about his past.

  As they rocked along the coastal road, she tried to ease her stiff back without drawing notice. Though the journey had been pleasant, aches and jostling and confinement had taken their toll. Last night they had stayed in Lyme Regis, and Sophie felt the bloom of adventure wearing off. Now that they were in Devonshire, with glimpses of the sea out her window, she was ready to settle in a cottage.

  First they were going to the captain’s new property, Gateshead. The estate was only a few miles from Lyme Regis, but they had arrived in the town so late last night, the captain thought it best they find lodgings rather than press on.

  Or perhaps he was that reluctant to get to his destination.

  “When was the last time you visited the estate?” Sophie asked, to break the silence in the coach.

  The captain stirred. “I’ve never been there.” He studied the rolling fields out his window.

  Mamie leaned forward. “Never been to your family’s home?”

  His mouth thinned.

  They were prying. An unforgiveable breach of protocol. Discomfort was writ plain on his face. He owed them nothing, certainly not explanations. Though she could admit to herself she was curious beyond what was considered proper, and her mind populated all sorts of reasons why he might never have laid eyes on Gateshead.

  “You don’t have to tell us. Your reasons are your own, and we don’t wish to invade your privacy.” Sophie winked at Mamie to let her know there was no harm done.

  He didn’t speak immediately, and then he shrugged. “If you’re going to stay in the region, some version of the story will reach your ears eventually. Better it should come from me. My mother’s brother was the previous Earl of Rothwell, recently deceased. My uncle never married and was the youngest of three children. The eldest, Eliza, married a diplomat and courtier named Nathaniel Bracken, and she had one son, Arthur Bracken, known as Viscount Fitzroy.”

  Sophie’s mouth fell open, and she blinked.

  “Yes, that Arthur Bracken. It turns out in addition to being a less-than-competent assassin, he was also not the legitimate son of my aunt Eliza. Nathaniel Bracken and Aunt Eliza passed him off as her son, though his real mother had been Nathaniel’s first wife, a Frenchwoman he met in Normandy. They hid Arthur’s origins by disappearing into the country for a period of time, and because our family was estranged, no one was the wiser. Portraying Arthur as an Englishman ensured he would be the next in line to inherit the earldom and would sidestep the awkwardness of being French in a country that was at war with F
rance. All of this came to light after the investigation into the assassination plot earlier this year.”

  Sophie pondered this blackest of black sheep in the Rothwell family line. No wonder Captain Wyvern did not wish to discuss it openly. Her brother, Marcus, had been involved with the capture of Arthur Bracken, having been a guest at White Haven estate last year, where the assassination attempt on the Prince Regent’s life had been made. Though she had tried to worm details out of Marcus, Sophie hadn’t been able to crack his reticent defenses. What she knew of the affair she’d gleaned from the newspapers and her mother’s gossip. Unreliable sources, to be sure.

  Captain Wyvern let out a sigh. “As for my never having been to the estate, that’s easily explained. There was a rift in the family before I was even born. My uncle disowned my mother when she had the audacity to marry for love, well beneath her station. She eloped with my father, an able seaman, and she set up house in Portsmouth, while my father continued to serve in the Royal Navy. They had me, sent me to a day school for would-be sailors, and when I was twelve, I enlisted in the navy. My mother had been forbidden from ever returning to Gateshead, and when my uncle learned of my birth, he issued the same command regarding me, even though I was his heir for a time, before Arthur came on the scene.”

  “That’s dreadful. What a terrible man your uncle must have been.” Sophie couldn’t imagine making such a decree against a child, who had no part in his parentage, nor shunning a sister merely because she married for love.

  Sophie felt a kinship with Charles’s mother, though she hadn’t suffered the same extremes. The Duchess of Haverly hadn’t been thrilled with Sophie’s selection of a husband either, thinking a baron too low on the register for a duke’s daughter, though she’d resigned herself eventually. A chill went through Sophie as she recalled that her mother had plans to reopen the marriage discussion when Sophie returned from her trip to the seaside.

  Why couldn’t Mother understand that Sophie had no plans to fall in love again? And Sophie would never marry for less than love.

  They passed through a village, shops, houses. A church flashed by. Faces stared as they made their way.

  “That’s Gateshead Village. According to the stories my mother told, you must go through the village to get to the estate on the peninsula.” Charles supplied the information, but his voice was devoid of emotion. Was he excited? Uneasy? In his place she would be filled to the brim with expectations and adventure, and perhaps a bit of vindication?

  The carriage traveled along a lane bordered on one side by a long hedgerow, and it slowed, turning through a pair of gates to a long, winding road that led south toward the sea.

  The captain shifted in his seat, his back straightening. “The estate comprises the entire peninsula. There are steep cliffs and a cove where boats shelter.” Half a coat of arms glinted on the gate. When closed, the gates must form the entire shield.

  Odd that he was coming to a family home he’d never seen before, and now he owned it. Not just owned it, but was the titled lord of this manor. What must he be thinking?

  The road serpentined around the low hills. Stone walls bordered pastures and fields, and here and there a copse of trees nestled in the cleft of a small valley. Crofters’ cottages and barns dotted the fields. The estate certainly looked large and prosperous.

  They topped the last rise, rocked down a slope, and turned in an arc that took them along a circular drive. Sophie couldn’t see much of the house, being on the far side of the carriage when it came to a stop. Stone, a row of windows, a heavy door. On her side of the coach, in the center of a circle of grass, a fountain sat dormant. From the middle of the fountain rose a moss-splotched statue of a young boy raising his hand to feed a bird perched at the tips of his fingers, wings outstretched.

  But the fountain itself was choked with debris, stagnant water filling a few inches of the pool.

  A shame it had been so neglected. It was quite lovely. Perhaps it could be restored.

  Captain Wyvern climbed out of the carriage, and punctilious as always, helped the ladies. When Sophie’s feet hit the gravel, the breeze off the sea tugged at her skirts. She put her hand atop her bonnet and looked up at the house.

  Stark came to mind. Cold gray stone, dark slate roof tiles, peeling white trim around the windows. A forest of chimneys rose into the sky, and the dark, heavy front doors looked as if they belonged on a Spanish prison.

  The house appeared solid enough, but it had an air of abandonment about it, sitting like a stodgy rectangular block, with no trees or gardens or even ivy to soften its bulk.

  Mamie adjusted her dress, blinking in the sunlight. “This isn’t a cottage. I thought we were going to a cottage.”

  Sophie tucked her hand into Mamie’s elbow. “It’s all right. We’re visiting Captain Wyvern’s new home first. We’ll get to a cottage soon.” She should probably call him Lord Rothwell now, but through Rich’s letters she had known him for so long as Captain Wyvern, she could hardly imagine him as anything else.

  He put his hat on and clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his toes as he surveyed the house as if assessing a new command. His frown deepened.

  With a squeal of protest, the massive front door opened, and a pair of sharp brown eyes skewered first Sophie and then Mamie, before his stare fell on Mrs. Chapman. “Who’s there and whacha want? We don’t need no maids around here. The staff is full.”

  Mrs. Chapman, who had been adjusting her lace cap, jerked her chin.

  Before she could retort with the sharp side of her tongue, the captain stepped forward. “I am Captain Charles Wyvern.” He paused. “And the present Earl of Rothwell.”

  The man blinked rapidly, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, something calculating in his eyes. “Your lordship. We didn’t know you were coming.” He tugged his forelock and bent at the waist in a sharp bow, going from belligerent to obsequious in a flash.

  “And you are?”

  “Halbert Grayson, sir.” He gripped the edge of the door as if the ground had shifted beneath his boots. “I’ve been steward here for six years.” His head bobbed with each word.

  “Perhaps we might be allowed to come inside?” The captain’s voice was dry as attic dust.

  “Of course, of course.” The short man stepped back, making ushering motions.

  “Ladies?” Captain Wyvern indicated they should precede him.

  Their footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. In ages past, the floor had been painted, but now it bore the scuffs and scrapes of much use, the wood grain showing through the leaves and flowers that had been stenciled on the planks.

  Dark paneling covered the walls, and tapestries much in need of cleaning hung from a picture rail. The entire place felt gloomy and untended, as if it had been closed up since the reign of George I.

  The steward yanked off his cloth cap, and with a swipe, removed a layer of dust from the table in the middle of the hall.

  “Place is a bit done in at the moment. The old earl was a bit of a Tartar, and he ran the housekeeper and maids off a few months before he met his end. Wasn’t nobody but me left when he died, and I can’t take care of everything.” He spread his hands. “I woulda left too, he was that mean, but I couldn’t abandon him.”

  “I thought you said you had no need of maids?” Mrs. Chapman dragged her finger along a ledge and showed the dark smudge to the steward. “I could employ a dozen girls for a solid week here and still not finish the job.”

  “I can’t be spending his lordship’s money or hiring people without leave. The magistrate said I had to wait until he heard back from London about who would be taking over the place before I made any transactions. Haven’t even been able to draw wages myself. Now you’re here, sir, you can set things right.” He held his hat against his chest. “Things haven’t been right at Gateshead for a long time, not since the old lord got sick, but with your leave, I can start getting the estate back on a good footing.”

  His eyes pleaded. He ducked his h
ead, the picture of humility. He must have been worrying whether he would catch the blame for the condition of the estate and whether the new earl would keep him on. Sophie could sympathize with his position, but something about the man made her wary.

  Charles removed his hat, smoothed his hair, and tucked the bicorn under his arm. “Very well. For now see if you can find refreshments for the ladies. They will be my guests for the next few days.”

  “Guests, sir? This isn’t your countess then?” He motioned to Sophie.

  “No.” The captain was quite curt and offered no explanation. “Where is the drawing room?”

  “Through there.” Grayson pointed across the hall.

  “I’ll see to the tea and biscuits, sir.” Mrs. Chapman folded her arms across her chest. “If this man will show me to the kitchens. No telling what state they’re in. And I’ll fetch my basket from the coach. I had the innkeeper stock it this morning.”

  The parlor was in better shape than the front hall, appearing only to suffer from the need for a good dusting. Heavy paintings coated with aged varnish covered the walls, narrow-nosed, be-ruffed ancestors glaring from the canvases.

  “It isn’t too bad.” Sophie tried to put a bright face on things. “A little attention and it will be a fine house again.”

  “It feels like an anchor roped to my boots.” The captain dropped his hat on the sofa and went to the south-facing windows. He jerked the heavy drapes apart. Clouds of dust swirled out, and he coughed, putting his forearm over his mouth and squinting. Beyond the fly-specked windowpanes, a furlong away, the level ground ceased, and far in the distance, the sky met the sea. “At least the view is decent.”

  “It will be even better from the upper floors.” From what Sophie could ascertain, there were at least three stories to the manor house and probably rooms under the eaves. Not as large as the Haverly estate house, but still sizeable.

  “That must be an abrupt cliff. I wonder if it’s stable and how far it is to the water below. I’m surprised there isn’t a hedge or fence to mark the edge.” The captain clasped his hands behind his back and stared out to sea.