The Earl Returns

by Marek, Lillian

  Captain Chester looked thoroughly confused. “I don’t understand. Lord Merton, you were on my ship?”

  “Indeed.”

  “But how did I not know of this? Why did no one tell me?”

  “Ah, that, you will have to ask Lieutenant Montague here.” Merton looked at the lieutenant rather as a wolf looks at his dinner while it is still on all fours. Everyone else looked at the lieutenant as well, awaiting an explanation.

  The lieutenant flushed even more. “I was only doing my duty. I was told he was a confidence trickster. I could not let him impose on you.”

  “Just a zealous officer, Montague?” said Merton. “I suppose it was also just zeal that made you have me flogged when I tried to see the captain?”

  “Flogged?” said the captain, suddenly looking very nervous. Flogging a peer—that could be considered a hanging offense. “That was not well done, sir. Not well done at all.”

  Montague held himself stiffly and looked at no one. “It was my responsibility to see that the ship was manned and to keep order on board. I do not believe I ever did other than my duty.”

  The admiral looked at him sadly. “Zeal is a very good thing, but good things carried to extremes… let us consider the case of Mr. Hodgson here, who was impressed in May 1812 from the ship Miranda.”

  “A British deserter,” spat out Montague, spinning to glare at Hodgson. “He should have been hanged.”

  Hodgson stared back coldly.

  “The embassy has provided me with a list of those men the Americans claim were unlawfully impressed.” Kendrick looked down at the paper he held. “Among them are the three men taken from the Miranda that day. It seems that the owner of that ship, a Mr. Joseph Rokeby, personally checked to make sure every man on board had papers proving his citizenship before he let them sail.”

  Captain Chester was growing paler by the minute. He licked his lips. “I never saw any papers.”

  “That would be because the good lieutenant tore them up and threw them overboard,” said Hodgson, his voice still soft.

  “They were blatant forgeries,” said Montague. His voice was growing strident. “I was certain of it.”

  The admiral nodded slowly. “Wait for us in the outer office, lieutenant.”

  Montague spun about to step smartly to the door. He stumbled slightly when he caught Merton’s eye.

  Merton smiled.

  The admiral seated himself once more, placed his hands flat on the desk, and looked coldly at Captain Chester. “The captain of a ship is in a position of great power. He has power of life and death over the men on his ship. He has the responsibility to wield that power justly. He must ensure that when he delegates his authority to the officers under him, they also wield it justly.”

  The captain seemed to wilt where he stood, but the admiral was not finished. “To claim ignorance of events aboard your ship is no excuse. Ignorance only exacerbates your offense. You should have known. It was your responsibility to know. And you will not be excused.”

  He turned to Merton and Hodgson. “I promise you that these officers will not go unpunished, but I promised myself the pleasure of handing you your official discharge papers along with the apologies of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

  Merton grinned as he took his papers and lifted them in a mock salute to the captain. Hodgson grasped his tightly, looking to make sure that they said what was promised, that he truly was free.

  They left the room, Merton jauntily, Hodgson grimly, and Ashleigh strolling elegantly behind them. Waiting outside was Montague, whose pale, tense face made Merton smile more broadly. “I believe they are now ready for you inside. Ready and waiting, little man.”

  Montague looked ready to choke with fury.

  Hodgson stared at the lieutenant like grim death.

  Chapter Two

  That afternoon, the duke’s carriage drew up in front of Number 17, Hanover Square. The house, nearly a century old, had been one of the first built on the square and retained its Neoclassical dignity. The iron rail in front may have been in need of a fresh coat of paint, but the steps were freshly whitened and the brass on the front door gleamed. Merton, the first one out of the carriage, looked at it with satisfaction. Hodgson stood beside him. “Well, it’s not quite so large as your friend’s house, but I suppose it will do.”

  Merton gave him a friendly blow on the shoulder and headed up the stairs. He had shoved down the starched peaks of his collar and loosened his cravat, and his elegant beaver sat tilted at an angle on hair that had been disheveled by impatient fingers running through it.

  He still held the walking stick, but just as he raised it to knock, the door flew open. Two footmen stood at attention on either side of the entrance. “Welcome home, my lord,” said the butler, a dignified and generally imperturbable personage who did not even try to keep a smile of welcome from his face.

  “I don’t believe it. Caldicott, how the devil did you know?” demanded Merton with a laugh.

  “Mr. Gregson at Ashleigh House thought the staff might appreciate the opportunity to make some preparations.”

  “So much for the element of surprise.” Merton sighed. “How is the family taking the news of my return?”

  “Oh, my lord,” said Caldicott, somewhat shocked, “I would not presume to discuss information of such a delicate nature with the family. I felt sure you would prefer to deal with them in your own time.”

  Ashleigh, who had come up behind Merton, made a sound that in a less dignified man might be called a snort. Hodgson, who had heard quite a bit about Merton’s family over the past three years, continued to look sardonic. Merton simply smiled. “Very good. And are any members of my family in residence at the moment?”

  “Mr. Edgar Wortham and his wife, his mother, and his father-in-law—Mr. Bennett Browne,” Caldicott explained at Merton’s look of inquiry, “are all in the back parlor, my lord. Your grandmother has moved to a house of her own, across the square.”

  “His father-in law? Never tell me Edgar married Pamela Browne?” Merton looked at Caldicott in amazement. At the butler’s nod, he gave a roar of laughter. “Oh, Peter, don’t tell me the silly chit thinks she finally is a countess. And her father… this is too rich. Dick, we will have to tell you the tale, but later, I think. I cannot wait to see my nearest and dearest.”

  Merton started to go through the hall. Then he stopped. “Oh, Caldicott, my bag is in the carriage. Have it taken up to my room—and if anyone else has been using it, move him. This is Mr. Hodgson, who will be staying. Give him the green chamber.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Merton strode ahead, with Hodgson and Ashleigh only a step behind when he slowed enough to allow a footman to open the doors to the drawing room.

  Inside were four people. A young woman perhaps a year or two younger than Merton sat by the fireside concentrating on a piece of embroidery. She was a graceful creature, dressed in the height of fashion in a round dress of pale pink muslin trimmed with blonde lace at the neck and on the three flounces of the skirt. The full sleeves were pulled in by bands of embroidery, creating a series of little puffs down her arms. On her head, pale blonde hair was arranged in an intricate confection of ringlets and ribbons topped with a frill of lace. Her slightly feline features were pinched in displeasure, though whether the displeasure was caused by the needlework or something else was not clear.

  An older man stood behind her chair. His features—he had the look of an aging tomcat—and coloring suggested that he was probably her father. His look of displeasure was similar to hers, but it was directed clearly at the young man currently engaged in pouring a glass of wine.

  That gentleman seemed somehow soft all over, neither his face nor his body clearly defined. His middling brown hair was so perfectly cut that it might almost be thought a wig, since no other part of him was as perfectly turned out. His waistcoat bore a gravy stain, his cravat had collapsed, and the sleeve of his coat had obviously been used to wipe his mouth. The care with whi
ch he poured the wine suggested that this was far from his first glass of the day.

  The other woman seated by the fireside was as spare as the young man was fleshy. Irritation sat so easily on her features that it appeared to be her normal expression. She wore a jaconet muslin gown in a shade of red so dark it was nearly black. A stiff ruff at the neck would have been enough to keep her head high even if she had wished to relax. She sat with her back ramrod straight, not touching the back of the chair, her hands clenched in her lap, as if to keep her from striking out.

  They all turned when the door opened.

  Merton smiled. “Good afternoon,” he said.

  There was total silence. Then…

  The young man’s jaw dropped, followed by the decanter.

  The older man’s jaw dropped, and he clutched the back of the chair.

  The young woman gave a shriek, raised a hand to her forehead and collapsed carefully back in her chair.

  The older woman leaped to her feet and screeched.

  “No,” croaked the older man. “No, it can’t be.”

  “Tom, is it you? It can’t be you.” The young man stared around wildly. “You’re dead. Everyone knows you’re dead.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you all, but I’m afraid that I am quite definitely alive.” Merton looked relaxed as he strolled into the room, but the knuckles on the hand that held the cane were white.

  “No, this is impossible,” moaned the young woman. “It must be some mistake. Papa,” she reached up to the older man, “tell me it is some mistake.” Her father patted her hand and glared at Merton, but could find no words to reassure his daughter.

  “This is indeed impossible. How dare you come in here frightening everyone.” The older woman had no problem making her anger known. “It’s just like you to intrude this way, after three years, without giving us a word of warning. You have no right…”

  Merton seated himself in a comfortable chair, stretching his legs out casually. “No right, Aunt Arabella? I have no right to enter my own house? I might more appropriately ask what you are all doing here. I don’t recall inviting you, but you seem to have moved in. I see Edgar has found his way to the wine cellar. I do hope he’s left me some of that brandy I was partial to.”

  He turned to his friends. “Ashleigh, you know them, but do let me present these people to you, Dick. The fellow with the wine splashed all over himself is my cousin, Edgar Wortham, and this angry hen is his mother, Mrs. Bertram Wortham. The young lady draped over that chair is the former Miss Pamela Browne—that’s Browne with an e at the end—now, I gather Mrs. Edgar Wortham, and the gentleman trying to comfort her is her father, Bennett Browne. Ladies and gentlemen, my friend, Richard Hodgson.”

  “Not Mrs. Wortham,” growled her father, patting her cheek ineffectually. “She’s married to an earl now….” He caught himself. “I mean….”

  “That’s right, Browne. Edgar is not the earl. So she is plain Mrs. Wortham, after all. Just like my dear aunt. My, but she must be disappointed, no? Just as you are, no doubt.” Merton continued to smile.

  Edgar seemed to recover most quickly, his initial shock turning to anger. “What the devil do you mean by this, Tom? It’s been three years. Everyone assumed you were dead. People have made plans—damnation, everyone knows you’re dead. Where have you been hiding all this time?”

  “Hiding? I assure you I haven’t been hiding. I’ve been serving king and country, and I assure you it was not with any wish to disguise my identity.”

  “You bought a commission?” Edgar looked confused as well as angry. “Whatever made you do a fool thing like that? And why keep it secret? I know Grandmama would have been upset, but why not let us know?”

  Pamela, having decided to revive, burst into pretty tears. “You ran off simply to punish me, I know it! Oh, Tom, how could you?”

  Merton looked at her, unable to hide his distaste. “You flatter yourself, Pamela. I cannot think of a single action I have ever taken with a view to affecting you one way or another. And no, Edgar, I did not buy a commission. Someone arranged for me to spend these years at sea—a somewhat precarious occupation, but one I have nonetheless survived. Now, as you can see,”—he gestured at Ashleigh, who gave a courteous bow—“others know of my survival, so any accidents in the near term might be considered suspicious.”

  “Someone arranged? What do you mean?” Edgar seemed to be trying with some difficulty to understand.

  “I mean that someone had me drugged and handed over to a press gang, along with a story to guarantee that I would not be released. They were told I was a bastard relative who had been passing myself off as the earl, and the real one wanted me gone.” Merton spoke coldly, sounding every inch the earl.

  Aunt Arabella gasped in outrage. “Surely you are not suggesting that one of us would…”

  “Someone did, my dear aunt. Someone did. I wonder who that might have been. Do you suppose it might have been someone who wanted Edgar to be the Earl of Merton?”

  *

  “Kicked out of the navy? They’ll be kicked out?” Hodgson shouted, outraged. “That’s all?”

  After a week of discussions, Merton had just told his friend the navy’s final decision, and was trying to calm him down. “Well, not quite all. Captain Chester and Lieutenant Montague don’t just lose their careers. They also lose the prize money they had won during the wars. That will go to you and the families of the two men seized with you.”

  “Money? You think money can make up for lives?” He seized Merton by the lapels of his coat and shook him. “My wife and son are dead because of Montague!”

  Merton grasped Hodgson’s hands but didn’t try to pull away. “It was an accident, Dick. They were run down by a drunken carter. It could have happened anyway.”

  “No. No, it couldn’t.” Hodgson’s hands fell and he turned away. “Elspeth… she’d taken in sewing and was delivering it. And Billy was helping her. If I’d been there, she wouldn’t have needed to do that. And Billy would have been in school, where he belonged.” Tears filled his eyes and his voice was anguished. “If I’d been where I belonged, and not in your bedamned navy!”

  Hodgson slammed out of the house. Merton stood there irresolute, not knowing what to do to help his friend.

  It was still worrying him later that evening. Seated before the fire in the library at Ashleigh House with a glass of brandy, Merton told the duke about both the decision and Hodgson’s reaction.

  Ashleigh frowned. “Understandable, I suppose, for him to want some sort of vengeance, but it really wouldn’t do.”

  “Wouldn’t it? You didn’t see him when he got the letter telling him his wife and son were dead. He went berserk. He would have torn Montague’s throat out if he could have gotten to him. We were trying to hold him back and, finally, one of the men had to lay him out with a belaying pin. Then the ship’s doctor dosed him with laudanum until he finally calmed down.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it was very sad, but that’s really beside the point.”

  “Is it? I don’t know. The admiral was so determined that the navy not be brought into disrepute, but when I saw Hodgson’s reaction…” Merton shook his head.

  “Sentiment,” Ashleigh said dismissively.

  “Is it mere sentiment to desire justice?”

  Ashleigh heaved a sigh. “You must try to understand. Montague may be a repulsive specimen and the captain may be a lazy toad who doesn’t live up to his responsibilities, but neither one of them broke any laws.”

  “What do you mean? For God’s sake, I was kidnapped, and Hodgson’s papers were ignored!”

  “Yes, I know that, and you know that, but proving it before a court martial? We were at war, Tom, and all Montague and Captain Chester need to say is that they did their best with the information they had.” Ashleigh held up a hand when Merton looked likely to explode. “If you hadn’t been flogged, it would have been difficult to punish them at all.”

  “At least with a trial, there’d have been some
public humiliation for them.”

  “That’s the last thing the government needs at this point,” Ashleigh said. “The admiral was right. You haven’t been here, so you don’t know how much unrest there is abroad. The radicals are everywhere with their demands for reform. Some of them are even threatening insurrection.”

  “Insurrection?” Merton laughed his disbelief. “You must be joking. We just fought a war over that.”

  “And there are men out there proclaiming that we fought it on the wrong side.”

  Merton continued to look incredulous.

  “You think I’m exaggerating?” Ashleigh stood up, opened a drawer in his desk, and pulled out a sheet of cheap paper. “Look at this. There have been bills like this posted all over London, all over the country.”

  “Britons to arms,” Merton read. “The Whole Country waits the Signall from London to fly to Arms! Haste, break open Gunsmiths, and other likely places to find Arms!! Run all Constables who toutch a man of Us. No Rise of Bread, No Regent! No Castlereagh. Off with their heads. No Placement Tythes, or Enclosures. No Bishops, only useless lumber! Stand true or be Slaves for Ever!”

  He stared at the paper, stunned. “This is madness! People can’t possibly take this seriously.”

  “No?”

  Merton shook his head in disbelief. “But this is England, not France.”

  “Yes, and after years, decades even, of fighting the French, Englishmen came home to find their families in poverty, high taxes, no employment, a fat fool of a regent who spends thousands on decorating his blasted pavilion, and a home secretary whose reaction is to crush those who protest.” Ashleigh took back the paper. “This is one of the milder ones, you know.”

  “Milder?”

  “Oh, yes. You can encounter bills calling for guillotines to be set up and providing a list of those who should be first in the tumbrils.”

  “Is it really that bad? All those soldiers and sailors who fought for us, are they really suffering?”

  “They are, and their families were suffering even before they returned. Taxes are high, the new Corn Laws keep the price of bread high even as wages fall, and too many landlords cope by raising rents.”