The Indebted Earl

by Erica Vetsch

  Charles nodded, his hands gripping his thighs under the table.

  Mr. Allard rocked on his heels, surveying the room. “At this time, I would like to recall several of the witnesses who have spoken against Lord Rothwell.”

  One by one, he put the witnesses on the stand. Though some were defiant, his questioning was so skillful, he picked apart their stories as if his words were a seam ripper.

  When the Revenue officer took the stand, Mr. Allard was in fine flow. “Sir, who brought you the note you thought condemned my client?”

  “An informant.”

  “His name, if you will, sir.”

  “I’d rather not say. If folks knew he was an informant, he’d be no use going forward.”

  “Sir, a man’s future and liberty are at stake. You will tell me your informant’s name and find another source for your leads. And going forward, as you put it, I pray you will find one more reliable than your current talebearer.”

  The officer looked at the prosecuting barrister, and then at the magistrate, but there was no help for him there. “Porter MacFie, butcher in Gateshead Village. He brought the note in the middle of the night. Said he’d found it on the floor of the assembly rooms after the social when he was helping to clear away.”

  Was that possible? Charles had thought and thought about how they might have gotten the note, and he could remember only showing it to Grayson. Then Reverend Dunhill had intervened, and Charles didn’t remember seeing the note after that.

  “And you assumed without investigating that the note was genuine and that it could only refer to my client?”

  “I had no reason to doubt it. We’ve been watching Gateshead for some time, and this seemed to prove what we suspected, that the estate was involved in smuggling.” The officer leaned forward. “All the pieces fit.”

  “And yet is there a date on the note? Is there any way to know if that note was written to the current earl, his uncle, perhaps his grandfather?”

  “The paper looks new,” he said, frowning.

  “Ah yes. And if you were going to frame a new earl, putting this crime on his head, wouldn’t you write the note on newer paper?”

  Charles sat straight in his chair, fascinated at this line of defense. It was like watching a drama in a London theater. Or it would be if his entire future didn’t rest on the outcome.

  Allard commanded the attention of the room, and the witnesses responded to his demands. The audience remained quiet. Charles had to hand it to his brother-in-law. He had brought the best barrister in the country to defend him.

  The man who had testified about the flag took the stand.

  “Sir, are you a resident of Gateshead Village?”

  “No. I live in Seaton, down the coast.” His hands were big, gnarled, with swollen knuckles, and his clothes were plain and heavy.

  “And how do you make your living?”

  “Fisherman.”

  “I see, and that’s how you came to see the flag on the Gateshead cliffs so often?”

  “That’s right. I fish all along that bit of coast.”

  “Have you witnessed the Shearwater making rendezvous with a ship off the coast at a time when that flag has been displayed?”

  “I have.”

  “Have you ever seen my client aboard the Shearwater when she met this ship?”

  “No, sir. But I never got too close. I didn’t want anything to do with whatever they were up to. I keep my nose out of other people’s business, I do. Wouldn’t be here now if the bailiff hadn’t said he’d bung me into a cell if I didn’t show up and tell what I saw.”

  “When did you first see the flag and the corresponding boat activity?”

  He scratched his bulbous red nose. “Don’t know exactly.”

  “Did you ever see this behavior prior to six weeks ago?”

  “Oh yes. Been going on a long time. All last summer, and the summer before. Funny thing though—it dropped off lately. Haven’t seen those boats together since June, if I recollect.”

  Charles thumped his fist on his thigh. Allard was making good progress.

  “So you’re saying you saw this peculiar activity before my client’s arrival at Gateshead, but you haven’t seen it since he arrived?”

  A small disturbance caught the magistrate’s attention, and heads swiveled toward the door. Allard stopped and glanced back, as did Charles. It was Marcus, but Marcus unlike Charles had seen him before. Dusty, travel worn, and carrying a disreputable cloak—that somehow looked familiar. Where had Charles seen something like that before? In Marcus’s wake, a dignified man of perhaps fifty strode in.

  “Sir, if you will give me a moment?” Allard asked the magistrate as Marcus came to the rail. They whispered together, and Marcus produced a folded document and gave it to the barrister. Then he motioned to the austere man beside him.

  Allard’s brows rose, and he bowed to the stranger, clearly recognizing him. Then he read silently the pages Marcus had given him. A smile spread across his face, and he turned back to the magistrate.

  “Sir, I pray you will forgive me. I’d like to introduce to you the Right Honorable Sir Winston Pierpont, president of the King’s Bench. Would it be possible to find him a chair near the proceedings? He’s come to watch this trial.” Allard trod heavily on that last word, as if he thought travesty might be a better name for what the court was putting Charles through.

  A ripple went through the room. Charles studied the man as a chair was brought and placed at the end of the defense table. Who was the president of the King’s Bench? He must have considerable influence, because the magistrate looked as if he’d swallowed his tongue.

  “Also, I’d like to present to the court documents procured by His Grace, the Duke of Haverly. My client has been accused of smuggling French wines and spirits and secreting them at his property. That contraband was discovered by the Revenue officer when executing a warrant to search his holdings. The cases were clearly marked as to their origins. I have here the provenance for that shipment of alcohol. It left the docks in Calais, traveled to Ostend, in Belgium, and was smuggled here aboard the Dutch ship Adelaar June twelfth of this year.”

  He sorted through the papers in his satchel, grabbed one, and marched both documents across the small open space, placing them forcefully on the magistrate’s desk. “I also have here my client’s service records. On June twelfth of this year, Captain Charles Wyvern, now Earl of Rothwell, was recovering from wounds suffered in the course of his war service. He was in a hospital in Oporto, Portugal, and nowhere near Gateshead. If you need further proof, Admiral Barrington, his superior officer, is in this meeting room and will testify to these statements.”

  Allard paused, turning slowly and looking from face to face, his expression at once stern and outraged at this miscarriage of justice.

  “Sir, that concludes the remarks for the defense. I trust you will rule rightly in this matter and dismiss these ridiculous charges, as they should have been from the beginning.”

  Charles turned in his chair to search for Sophie. She sat along the back wall with Barrington and Coles flanking her, and he saw hope in her wide eyes. Hope he was beginning to feel himself.

  And in only a few moments, the magistrate wilted, whether under the weight of the exculpatory evidence or the scrutiny of Sir Winston. If he had been paid off to find Charles guilty, he couldn’t go through with it under the stern eye of his superior. The magistrate said, “I find there to be no evidence that Charles Wyvern, Earl of Rothwell, colluded in the crimes outlined here today.” He stared hard at Charles. “However, it is clear that crimes have been committed. I’m ordering you to cooperate with the Revenue Office in their efforts to find those responsible.” He rose, and everyone in the room followed suit … except Sir Winston Pierpont, who remained seated.

  Marcus clapped Charles on the shoulder, and Charles shook Mr. Allard’s hand. “Thank you. Thank you to both of you. Marcus, I don’t know where you got your information, but I’m glad you did.”
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  Then Sophie was worming her way through the crowd. Charles barely had time to open his arms before she dove into them. She collided with his chest, and he was forced back a step. “Oh, Charles, it’s over. You’re free.”

  He hugged her, pressing her head into his buttons. “I am free, but this is far from over. I have questions. The foremost is, why? Why go through with this trial at all?”

  “We’ll answer those when we return to Gateshead,” Marcus said. “For now, there are some very worried people residing at a local inn who will be happy to see you.”

  Charles kept his arm around Sophie as they left the assembly room. Sir Winston declined their invitation to join them.

  “I believe I will have a short conversation with our friend the magistrate.”

  Marcus herded them outside. “I’m glad we arrived in time. When I explained to Sir Winston what was happening in one of his lower courts, he insisted on coming in person to investigate.”

  “I have another question.” Charles stopped on the street. “Where is Grayson in all of this? I assumed he would be called to give testimony. Tell me he hasn’t escaped.”

  “He’s hiding in the village. I have an idea as to why he needed you in jail for a while.” Marcus shook his head. “We’ll talk further when we get you home.”

  Charles nodded. There would be a reckoning. But first he needed to see to his family.

  CHAPTER 15

  SOPHIE LEANED HER head against her husband’s shoulder, tired to her very bones. The tension of the last twelve days bled away like wheat from a sack, leaving her slack and drowsy.

  Betsy insisted upon sitting on Charles’s lap the entire journey back to the estate. Awkward, since she also insisted upon wearing his hat.

  Thea watched everyone in the coach, eyes tight, mouth pinched. Penny wore a lovelorn expression, sorry to be leaving her latest “attachment” behind in Lyme Regis. The girl seemed to change affections like she changed bonnets. Now that things had been resolved at court, Sophie would need to direct her attentions to giving Penny some guidance. Girlish fancies were one thing, but constancy and faithfulness were traits to be cultivated.

  “Admiral Barrington will meet us at Gateshead. He’s coming aboard the Revenue cutter and will anchor up the coast out of sight. We’ve some matters to discuss.” Charles smiled. “He invited Marcus to travel with him. They will arrive before our evening meal.”

  “It must bring you happiness to have someone from the navy here. You must have missed being able to speak of those things with someone who would understand without explanation.” Sophie braced as the carriage jounced. Charles tightened his hold on Betsy, who giggled as he added an extra bounce with his knees.

  “I saw the admiral’s boat.” Thea spoke for the first time. “If it’s coming to Gateshead, can we go aboard?”

  Charles shook his head. “I shouldn’t think so. That cutter is an official vessel, not a pleasure craft. You’d need the permission of the captain. I’m not certain he’d want a little girl climbing over every inch of his boat.”

  The thin arms crossed, and she sagged into the corner of the seat once more.

  “It feels good to be going home.” Mamie sighed. “I never thought I would call anywhere but Primrose home, but Gateshead has become just that. Home is where your family is, and as long as I’m with you and the girls, Sophie, I can be happy anywhere.” Her voice held wonder and realization, as if just coming to accept that fact. “I don’t even worry about Primrose and what might be going on there. I will remember it as it was, and I will keep the memories I made there … at least as long as the Lord lets me.” A little frown crossed her face. “I don’t always remember the best.”

  Penny, who sat beside her, took her hand, and leaned into her shoulder a bit. “We love you, Mamie. You’re like the grandmamma we never had. Gateshead has become our home too. Thanks to the captain and Sophie and you.”

  Warmth spread through Sophie at the bond that had formed there. Though they hadn’t gotten to spend time at a seaside cottage, just Mamie and her, they’d been given something much better. A family. The family Sophie had thought they would never have after Rich died.

  She stole a glance at Charles.

  He’d come to mean so much to her. In spite of her intentions, she had come to love him. But before that path could be taken and she was free to give her heart, there was something she must do.

  The carriage rolled through the village and headed out onto the peninsula, passing through the iron gates and winding around the swales and curls of the landscape until the manor house and the point came into view.

  Pulling to a stop outside the front doors, Sophie noted that the fountain now splashed clean, clear water in bright spurts that caught the sunshine.

  The new steward greeted them at the door.

  “Welcome home, Lord Rothwell.” He bowed and trotted down the stairs to help the ladies from the carriage. “Alastair Lythgoe at your service.”

  “Lythgoe. You have met Lady Rothwell?” Charles helped Sophie himself and kept hold of her hand.

  “It is good to see you again. Are you responsible for the fountain?” Sophie reveled in the feel of Charles’s handclasp.

  “Yes, milady. It seems a shame to have such a pretty piece and not have it in use.” He set Betsy carefully on the gravel and handled Mamie as if she were made of Venetian glass. Penny alighted and sized him up, evidently assuming he was too old at somewhere around thirty to be considered in the game of suitors, and moved toward the front door.

  Thea stood in the carriage, hands braced on the doorjambs, looking up at the house. Without waiting for aide, she leapt to the ground, red hair bouncing, and clattered up the steps.

  “I’m pleased you were released, milord. As per the admiral and duke’s wishes, I’ve not toured the estate, keeping mostly to the house. I’ve noticed a few things, though, by using your spyglass from the upper stories.” Something in Alastair’s tone lent the matter urgency, and Sophie squeezed Charles’s fingers.

  “Go ahead. I’ve things to attend to as well.” She preceded them into the manor and headed toward the kitchen to search out Mrs. Chapman. Charles led his new steward upstairs to his study.

  She found the housekeeper in the servants’ dining room polishing silver. “Oh, milady, welcome home. The girls pelted right inside to see me first thing. Wasn’t that nice?”

  “It was. They think the world of you, Mrs. Chapman.” Sophie untied her bonnet ribbons and lifted her hat away. “You’ve become an anchor for them. They count on you being here, as do I. Where are they now?”

  “Penny took Betsy upstairs, and Thea hit the back door with a couple of tea cakes in her hand and mayhem on her mind.” Mrs. Chapman smiled indulgently at her reflection in a serving tray as she buffed the metal. “That one is too restless to stay indoors on such a beautiful day.”

  “We’ll have guests for dinner. My brother, and an admiral, and Mr. Lythgoe. Oh, and though I know it’s not the custom, since this is by way of a celebration, please set places for the girls too.”

  Mrs. Chapman nodded throughout. “I’ll see to it. Do you have a menu preference? I’ve managed to fill several of the positions here at the house while you were gone—subject to your approval, of course—and the maids and laundresses are working well. I haven’t found a cook yet, but the scullery maid will assist me.” She set down the rag and picked up a red brick, scraping it with a knife to grind a bit more powder into the polishing dish. A dip of the cloth into a bowl of water and then into the dust, and she rubbed again at the hints of tarnish on the silver. “The dining room is clean and ready to use, and the parlor for after dinner as well.”

  Sophie broke protocol entirely. She dropped her bonnet onto the table and embraced the shocked housekeeper. “You are a pearl of great price. I can’t tell you how much it put my mind at ease that you were here watching over the house while I was away. I don’t know where I would be without you.”

  After a frozen moment, Mrs. Chapman re
turned the embrace and then stepped back, flustered and bustling about her work. “It’s my duty, and I’m glad to do it. I’m glad the captain was released. Load of codswallop those charges were.”

  “I heartily agree. There are a few things I must tend to upstairs, and I would appreciate some privacy. If the girls come down, please keep them occupied. And Mamie too.” Sophie paused. “Where is Mamie?”

  “She went with Penny and Betsy. Betsy asked Lady Richardson to read her a story. I believe both of them will nap for a bit before dinner.”

  “They do tend to keep the same hours, don’t they?”

  Sophie went upstairs, noting that the driver had deposited the bags inside the front door. Had Miles left their employ then? Perhaps it was for the best if he was embroiled in the smuggling. Though it made her sad. He was young enough to be reformed if he wanted to be. She would speak to Charles about it.

  But first there was something she must do, and she’d put it off for far too long. She entered her bedchamber and closed the door, and for the first time, turned the key in the lock.

  The chest sat just inside her dressing room, pushed back under the bench. Grabbing the leather handle, she tugged it out into the middle of the bedroom rug. She sank before it, placing her hands on the stenciled name. Major Richard Richardson, Royal Marines. And in small letters beneath his name, Baron, in parentheses.

  “If I’m going to move forward with my life, I need to lay to rest my past.” She whispered the words. “I need to say goodbye.”

  She fetched the key from the reticule in her bedside table and returned to the trunk. The lock stuck for a moment, then snicked open.

  When she raised the lid, a musty, foreign smell emerged. The contents were a jumble, but that should be expected, considering how far the sea chest had come. She lifted out a red tunic with the high blue collar, trimmed in white. She held the cloth to her nose, hoping to catch a hint of Rich’s scent.