If Miss Barbury and Miss Singleton were looking forward eagerly to the end of dinner, it was not because of any real distress over dashed hopes. While each thought that being a countess would no doubt be pleasant, the earl himself had been a bit of a problem. He had struck them as far too difficult to manage, and like Miss Saunders, they did not fancy having a bear pacing around the house. On the other hand, the elopement of an earl, and with an American at that, was a bit of gossip too utterly delicious. They could scarcely wait for the meal to end so that they could enjoy it.
Their mamas held a similar view of things. Although both agreed that it would have been pleasant to have an earl for a son-in-law, both had also noted quite early on that it was Miss Rokeby, and only Miss Rokeby, who had drawn the earl’s attention. They scornfully thought Lady Carraby a bit of a fool to have persisted in pushing her poor daughter—a nice enough child, but hardly countess material—at the earl when it was so clear that they would not suit and neither was interested. Lady Barbury and Lady Singleton could hardly wait to spread the news. They would dine out on the tale for months.
Arabella was torn between smugness at having her worst thoughts about Merton confirmed and her humiliation at the disgrace his behavior brought on the family. Pamela was not torn, but was having difficulty keeping a smug smile from her face. Her husband observed her sardonically and signaled a footman to refill his wine glass.
When the ladies withdrew, they left the gentlemen to their port and their gossip, which they had been looking forward to every bit as much as the ladies. The younger gentlemen promptly set up a book on where the eloping couple would head. Would it be London and a special license or Scotland and a marriage over the anvil? Lord Carraby was not quite so cheerful. He was of the opinion that his sister and brother-in-law would not be at all amused to hear that their daughter had eloped with an earl. More to the point, they might be inclined to blame him, since they had left Miss Rokeby in his care. Mr. Wortham and Mr. Browne, as usual, showed interest only in making inroads into the port as quickly as possible so that they could empty the decanter and move on to the brandy. It was not long until they were left to it.
Meanwhile in the drawing room, as soon as the teacups had been distributed, Mrs. Bertram Wortham lost no time in cornering Lady Merton, and she was followed by an amused Mrs. Edgar Wortham.
“Well,” exclaimed Arabella with smug righteousness, “now you see Merton for what he is. Utterly scandalous. A complete boor. No respect for the opinions of decent people.”
Lady Merton took a deep breath. “Please, Arabella, I am quite distressed enough. There is no need…”
“No need, no need,” mimicked Arabella. “You have never seen any need to curb him, not when he was a child running harum-scarum over the landscape and not now, when he disgraces the family and runs off with a mannerless chit with neither family nor fortune. Now perhaps instead of finding excuses for him, you will value Edgar as he deserves.” Arabella tried to look haughty, but succeeded only in looking spiteful.
“A surprisingly clever little chit, isn’t she, to manage to trap herself an earl?” mused Pamela, examining herself in one of the mirrors on the wall.
Lady Merton had enough. “More clever than you, apparently, since you were not able to manage it.” Pamela spun around with a hiss, but Lady Merton held up a hand. “I cannot believe Merton has eloped. Even if he cared so little for his family, he would have a greater care for Miss Rokeby and her reputation. I greatly fear that some accident may have befallen them.” She stood up and straightened her shoulders. “I shall send a note to Mr. Hodgson. He may know something. Meanwhile,” she looked coldly at Pamela, “you may play hostess. I know how you covet the role.”
Pamela bowed coldly, but she could not suppress a slight smile as Lady Merton left the room. She hoped the old woman was correct, that some accident had befallen Merton. For if that had indeed happened, she might well be mistress here in the not too distant future. And in that future, Lady Merton would be the dowager countess, and could dispense her airs in the dower house. She would not be welcome in any house where Pamela reigned, not here and not in London. As she seated herself again, she could hear Arabella’s complaints whining on. Her mother-in-law was another who would not be welcome, thought Pamela.
She ignored the drone of complaints and began thinking of the possibilities the future held. Redecorating here, of course, but London presented a problem. Hanover Square was no longer the fashionable address it had once been. She was not sure about the entail, but if the house could not be sold, it would have to be let and a new one purchased, or built if nothing suitable was available. Grosvenor Square, perhaps. Something to rival Ashleigh House.
She would ask Prinny for advice, she thought. That would flatter him and bring her to his attention. She was certainly prettier than the aging Lady Hertford, his current mistress. Perhaps he would make Edgar a duke. That would show Ashleigh.
*
Upstairs, Lady Carraby was bemoaning the turn of events to her husband. “I thought things were going so well,” she wailed. “She rode with him in his phaeton to the picnic, and they were laughing when they arrived.”
Lord Carraby looked at his wife with amazement. “Merton? You thought to marry Lydia off to Merton? That is why we are here?”
“Of course that is why we are here,” said his wife in exasperation. “Why did you suppose we came?”
He shrugged. “Never thought about it one way or the other. You wanted to come, so we came. Pleasant enough place. But a match between Merton and our Lydia?” He shook his head.
“And why shouldn’t Lydia marry an earl?” Lady Carraby was affronted. “I can think of no reason why she should not be a countess, and Merton’s grandmother was all in favor of the match.”
Her husband shook his head. “My dear, Lydia is a delightful child, and there is no reason she should not be a countess if she comes across an earl she fancies, but not Merton. Surely you must recognize that. Even I can see that he terrifies her, and he has shown not the slightest interest in her.”
“Really, Carraby, have you no ambition at all for your children? Are you willing for your daughter to marry a… a nobody like that Mr. Rollins who is dangling after her?”
“Young Rollins?” He looked interested. “Is he in the running? Nice, quiet lad. I know his father well. There’s a good estate in Gloucestershire, and quite a few other properties, I believe. Now that might be a good match for her.”
“But he has no title, and he is barely known in society,” she protested. “He would probably want his wife to spend all year with him in the country.”
“And isn’t that precisely what our Lydia would like?” He put his arms around his wife and she reluctantly surrendered. “Now, which would you prefer, to have Lydia married to a noble title and miserable or married to an honorable gentleman and happy?”
She twisted her fingers around the lapel of his jacket and made a face. “Well, I don’t see why she couldn’t marry a noble title and be happy.” When he chuckled, she continued, “Besides, I thought that was what you wanted. You are forever bewailing the fact that your sister didn’t make a brilliant match and threw herself away on an American merchant.”
“Oh, Fanny, my dear, is that what you thought? You were trying to please me? Did I give the impression that I misliked my sister’s marriage? No, no. She did the only thing she could. My father’s attempt to marry her off to Carbonyl was despicable. My only objection was that she went off to the other side of the ocean. I missed her, but I always wanted her to marry someone she loved, just as I did.” He dropped a kiss on her temple.
“Oh, Carraby.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rumors that the Earl of Merton had eloped with an American soon reached the Star Inn. Montague had been relaxing with his ale in a corner of the common room when he overheard the talk. His eyes widened, and he rose carefully to stroll over to the bar where a cheerful carter was recounting the tale.
“Another
pint, landlord,” he said. Then he turned to the speaker. “An elopement, eh? What did they do, take a carriage for Scotland?”
“Nay, not our earl.” The carter grinned. “A sailor to the last, he is. Took her off in his little boat. I’d wager they headed for Brighton. They could hire a carriage there to take them to London in no time.”
A round of toasts and cheers followed the carter’s comments. It seemed that the earl was popular with the denizens of this tavern as well as with the workmen at the shipyard. No matter. Montague buried his face in his ale to drown a shout of glee. But he realized there was no need to hide his smiles. Let these idiots think he shared their pleasure.
In the morning, he would move a bit further off. He had no wish to be in the area when the bodies washed ashore. Some might be suspicious about the accident. Hodgson almost certainly would be, and he would be hunting for someone to blame. Montague intended to be well away before that happened.
He would just send a note to make sure his payment found him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The next morning found Hodgson closeted with Lady Merton in her sitting room. He looked even more hard-bitten than usual set among the delicate gilded furniture and flowery fabrics, but no less worried than the lady. Both were tense, but his distress took the form of anger while hers left her on the verge of tears. He stood, leaning against the wall, while she paced back and forth, wringing her hands. He had never seen anyone actually wring their hands before. If it had not been so damned serious, he might have been amused.
“No,” he said, “they never eloped. There was no need. Her father might not have liked the match, but if she wanted it, he’d have agreed.”
Lady Merton was affronted for a moment and stopped to stare at him. Her father might not have liked the match? How dare Hodgson suggest that Miss Rokeby’s family could possibly have any objection? It would be a spectacular coup for them. Was he quite mad?
“His boat’s gone. That much is sure,” Hodgson continued, “but there’s been no word of them coming ashore.”
“Could they have sailed all the way to Scotland in that boat?” She was still not discounting the possibility of an elopement, and had resumed her pacing.
Hodgson looked at her pityingly. “It’s a small boat, my lady, designed for pleasure sailing, not travel. Merton could probably get himself to Scotland in it, if he had to, but he would have to be desperate to try it, and he would never take Miranda with him. He wouldn’t risk it.”
“Surely not another accident, so soon after the last one. I refuse to believe it.”
Hodgson stared at her, uncertain what to tell her. She looked so frail, so old. Tom had wanted to protect her, but that decision may have cost him his life, and Miranda’s, too. Bitterness rose in his gut. Not only were these aristocrats pampered and privileged all their lives, they never even had to face any unpleasant realities. Perhaps it was time they did, perhaps it was time she did.
“Not an accident, ma’am,” he said flatly. “There have not been any accidents. The fire at the shipyard was set, and it was set to kill Tom. And if his boat went down, I’ll wager it was sabotage that caused it.”
She blanched and staggered. He caught her and eased her into a chair. Christ, he didn’t want to kill the old girl. He just wanted to make her face reality. “Easy there, easy,” he said soothingly.
“But who, who would do such a thing? Why?”
Hodgson sighed. “Lieutenant Montague and, I would wager, someone in your family. Edgar, for my money. Or else someone who is determined to have Edgar be the earl. Whoever landed Tom on that ship four years ago never intended for him to come home.”
She pulled herself together slowly. It took a while, but her posture gradually stiffened into rigidity. Finally, she spoke. “He was trying to spare me, wasn’t he? He allowed me to think it had all been an accident. Foolish boy. If I had been aware, if I had been watching… no matter.” She turned to Hodgson. “But I refuse to believe he is dead. He or Miss Rokeby. We will find them and we will find those responsible and they will pay. I swear to you, they will pay.”
The old woman had transformed before his eyes into a warrior. Hodgson was impressed in spite of himself.
“Right,” he said. “I’ve set men to searching along the coast for someplace they might have come ashore. They aren’t likely to have gone more than a few miles, not if they planned to be back for dinner, but the coast here is full of little coves and bays. We may not know for a while yet. I’d suggest you not say anything. Let them all think we believe they ran off together.”
“No. It has been difficult enough trying to restore Merton’s reputation. All those nonsensical stories people have been spreading about him. I won’t have people thinking he was the sort of scoundrel who would run off with a girl, and a girl of decent enough family even if she is an American.” Lady Merton had fire in her eyes now. “We must notify the magistrate, call out the neighbors to search…”
“We’ll do nothing of the sort,” Hodgson said, breaking in on her. “I have men searching the coastline, but they’re keeping quiet about it. Let his enemies think they’ve succeeded so they’ll lie low and not be trying to work out how to finish the job.”
“But the scandal!” she protested.
“Hang the scandal!” he said brutally. “Do you want him dead?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Montague’s note was read, then crumpled and tossed into the fire. The note itself had been ambiguous, but its very existence was risky.
Yes, it seemed they had achieved success at last. But that did not mean there was no further need for caution. Suspicion could still arise. With Hodgson around, it almost certainly would.
However, caution did not mean one could not savor this moment, and in the privacy of one’s own bedchamber, a smile could be allowed. A smile of pure delight.
There could be no claims, of course, until the sea returned its victims, or at least evidence of the wreck. Smashed timbers, bits of canvas. A body would be even better. Then there could be no questions, no doubts. And with a body, there could be a funeral and an interment, not simply a memorial, which would always leave questions. A funeral, complete with mourning garments, black gloves, even mourning rings, and the will.
Not that much gain could be expected from the will, of course. Merton had doubtless assigned any personal wealth he had to beneficiaries outside the family. However, by far, the bulk of the estate was entailed and it would soon be enjoyed by someone who appreciated it, someone who truly deserved it.
Soon.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Miranda was awakened by a tickling sensation. She wrinkled her nose and lifted her hand, but something was falling on her. She opened her eyes and peered up. There was Tom, with a sort of rueful half-smile, propped up on one elbow and with the other hand dropping bits of hay on her.
“Rose petals,” he said. “There were supposed to be rose petals.” She doubtless looked confused, so he continued. “I used to lie awake, thinking about our first night, planning it. There was going to be an enormous, soft feather bed, and pillows, piles of pillows, and sheets of linen so fine and smooth they would feel like silk. Candles. Flowers. Champagne. And I was going to shower you with rose petals.”
“Mmm. How lovely. And where was this delicious scene to take place?”
“In the earl’s bedchamber, of course. Where else should my countess be?”
She gave a dreamy sigh.
He tossed aside the remaining bits of hay. “I have made a muck of it, haven’t I? You deserve so much more, so much better. I should have been watching out for you, protecting you, and instead I damned near got you killed.”
She sat up abruptly and gave a shove at his shoulder. “Do not you dare to say such things ever again. Remember that I chose to come with you, I chose to be with you. I am not some little china doll to be wrapped up in cotton wool and kept safely on a shelf, and I will not be treated like one.”
“No, you aren’t,
are you?” His face lightened a bit, then he reached out and tangled his fingers in her hair. “You should be a queen, an empress, but all I can offer is an earldom.”
She left her hand on his shoulder for a moment and said, “I love you, Tom. You. Only and always you.”
He came back down, his mouth seizing hers hard, possessively, and then he simply held her.
Eventually, they stood and retrieved what was left of their clothes. Her shift and dress were nearly dry, but he put what was left of his shirt over her as well. It was ragged, but provided a bit of coverage. His trousers were stretched and torn, but covered enough for decency. He tore up one of the grain sacks and sat her down on a bale of hay. He lifted her foot and brushed it off gently. He carefully wrapped the strips of the sacking around it and then did the same with the other foot. Using the blankets as cloaks, they set out to find help.
Tom kept his arm protectively around her as they walked along the side of newly planted fields. She leaned against him. It was bizarre. She could not help but smile. She had nearly drowned, swum further than she thought possible, been caught by a storm, spent the night in a barn, and was now stumbling half-naked in search of help—and she had never been happier in her life.
Tom stopped and turned to face her. “Tell me again.”
She smiled. “I love you.”
He pulled her close and rubbed his cheek against her hair. “You will have to keep telling me. I cannot quite believe that you are mine. I don’t know how to find the words. It is as if the whole world has dwindled to you. There is nothing else that matters.”
She leaned back to smile at him, still safe in his arms. “You fill my heart. I never knew there could be such joy.”
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