Entrancing the Earl

by Patricia Rice

  She pensively nibbled on a finger. “I’ve not had enough experience in this climate to know when the bees will settle in for the winter. I’d really wanted the hives done by now. But I suppose we could start in the spring. It’s just. . . we’d have to start building a fence or hedge now to protect the hives we have.”

  “Or Avery will have to train his beast better,” Gerard agreed.

  “Nettles,” she said in dry amusement. “I should start a nettle hedge.”

  And that was the moment he recognized her. . . the tart-tongued servant who had saved his life in Rainford’s library.

  Five

  “You!” the earl exclaimed out of the clear blue sky.

  Startled and frightened, Iona pushed her chair away from the table. Did he recognize her? How? She’d been so absorbed in the drawing appearing beneath his talented fingers that she hadn’t paid attention. . . always a danger. She wasn’t prepared to flee, but her thoughts were already doing mental leaps and bounds.

  “You’re the one who brought Lady Alice here,” he grumbled in a slightly lower voice. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  Iona tried to slow her panicked response to read his scent, but beneath his usual façade of indifference, he was so many layers of confusion that she couldn’t sort him out fast enough. He only recognized her from that night? If she didn’t have to run again. . . She could breathe a little easier.

  “She needed help?” A simple response seemed to be her only option.

  “Not my help.” He shoved back his chair.

  The other ladies were discreetly staring at them over their handiwork.

  Unaccustomed to dealing with more than bees and servants, Iona floundered. She couldn’t order an earl to sit down and shut up. She wasn’t even entirely certain why he was. . . what? Angry at her? Definitely upset but not exactly angry, she decided.

  And then she recognized the problem. He was angry because she’d brought Lady Alice here, to his home. He must have learned about her delicate condition. Since she’d seen him in a compromising position with the lady. . .

  She stood up so the earl wasn’t glaring down at her so much. “I did not know who you were at the time,” she reminded him. “We weren’t introduced. I had no idea I was bringing her to your home. I was bringing her to Winifred. She’s a midwife.”

  He ran his hand through his hair and growled under his breath. That was frustration, she could tell. He was big, but she was pretty certain he wouldn’t strike her. She wasn’t afraid of men any longer. Men toppled like rose canes when she cut them off in the right places.

  “Fine. I’ll stay in my tower, out of the way. I’ll order that book for you.” The Earl of Ives and Wystan strode off, tall, lean, and the most handsome man she’d ever met.

  Probably also the most confusing—not that she knew many men for comparison.

  Iona sighed. It would be lovely to be normal and attend balls and learn to attract the attention of handsome men. She’d be a doddering old spinster before her stepfather died, though.

  She could marry, she supposed. She had just never given it much thought after the disaster her mother had made of the wedded state. And then her own circumstances had made hiding more essential than looking for a husband.

  “The earl is temperamental,” Simone said reassuringly, looking up from her crochet. “Stifling one’s gifts leads to frustration.”

  Iona put away the drawing materials and nodded as if she understood. If the earl had a gift, it was for upsetting women, it seemed.

  “How is Lady Alice this morning?” she asked. Had the earl thought she’d brought the lady here because she believed the child was his? Or maybe it was. Who knew?

  “I don’t believe she mourns the child,” Simone said curtly. “We’ll keep her away from the earl.”

  Iona almost smiled at that. It was amazing how the women here understood each other so well. “I think he’ll appreciate that.”

  Lady Alice was apparently a conniving woman of loose morals, but women lacked the opportunities available to men. She’d not judge.

  But now that husbands and marriage had occurred to her, Iona couldn’t stop thinking about them. She returned upstairs for her beekeeping habit, gathered her equipment from the shed, and set out for the orchard.

  Instead of worrying about honey and hedges, however, she realized that if she married, Arthur would leave her alone. He might go after Isobel. . . But a powerful husband could go to court and prove Iona was the eldest. He’d want her to petition the court for her grandfather’s title, but. . .

  She couldn’t go past that thought. Her mother had refused to allow her second husband to use her title and look what had become of that.

  She should have been a queen bee, Iona thought wryly as she watched a few worker bees return to the hive with their late summer harvest. Mate once a year, lay a thousand eggs, and let the male die and blow away at the end of the season.

  Except human children took a little longer to raise than a season—which was where her mother had succumbed to weakness and married again.

  Iona hummed as she worked, soothing the bees and letting them settle down for their long winter’s rest. She had only been able to bring one queen with her when she’d fled, but that one would pass on her wisdom to her offspring. They would recognize Iona.

  “Next year, you’ll have newer, nicer homes,” she assured the queen as she worked. “It’s warmer here, isn’t it? Just think of all the honey the apple blossoms will produce. It will pay for our new homes in no time.”

  The queen hummed in appreciation. Bee wisdom was limited.

  “I may trade some of your honey for hedge roots so you’ll have your own fortress. Blackthorn, maybe, they’ll provide lovely flowers in spring and we can make gin from the fruit. I think we’ll be happy here.” She added the last part for herself.

  It was hard to be completely happy when others suffered, but at least now that she was free, she could plan. While she’d been trapped, she had only been able to suffer along with everyone else.

  She wished she had someone more knowledgeable to plan with. Girls’ boarding schools did not teach law.

  * * *

  With his treasure-promising artifact in his pocket, Gerard rode the well-worn paths of his estate. The cultivated fields were easily studied. He’d already been told it had been a poor year for apples but a good year for sheep.

  The medallion didn’t acknowledge field or orchard.

  Wystan’s boundaries did not reach the Roman wall in the south. That seemed a more likely place to find soldiers’ loot then a rocky fell.

  “I need a little more direction than just Wystan,” Gerard complained as he rode to the edge of the grain field and gazed glumly upon the rolling hills where the sheep fed.

  Treasure is not always buried, the spirit in his head finally deigned to reply—with his usual world-weary cynicism.

  “So you don’t know where it is!” Disgusted, mostly at himself, he turned his mount toward home. The sun was setting, and he was half starved. “I bet you were simply a common foot soldier guarding the wall and thought this old keep looked wealthy and welcoming.”

  You would lose.

  Gerard imagined he heard amusement in the spirit’s voice. Sometimes, he thought he imagined it all. He’d like proof that his gift was useful and not insane.

  Not insane, the spirit voice said wearily. Stulti et caeca.

  “Blind and stupid, thanks for that.” Gerard had plenty of proof that he wasn’t stupid. He’d studied law to better understand the exalted position he’d one day inherit. He’d spent his youthful summers learning agriculture from his father’s estate agents. He could read contracts and calculate profits better than most solicitors—which made him his father’s unpaid errand boy.

  Stupid, the voice muttered.

  “I can shove you in a box,” Gerard muttered back.

  A dog’s barking and a woman’s shout had him spurring his mount into a gallop, heading downhill at a breakneck
pace. The action felt good. The reason for it—was probably stupid. Dogs barked. Women yelled.

  But he couldn’t erase the image of the slender beekeeper weeping over a fallen hive. Women should be safe at Wystan.

  Galloping into the courtyard, Gerard recognized the screams as fury. The damned beast was leaping on the beekeeper, attempting to reach the pails she held above her head. The dog probably weighed more than she did.

  Women poured from the house, armed with their weapons of choice—knitting needles, scissors, rolling pins—none of which would hold off a determined animal. Sliding his stick from his saddle pack, Gerard spurred his horse into the fray.

  The woman with the pails sensibly froze as he galloped close, swinging the stick at the animal’s haunches. The dog yelped and stood down long enough for Gerard to place his horse between the dog and the beekeeper.

  Sending him an uninterpretable look, she scurried off to safety with her pails of honey. Her short gray skirt swayed, revealing trousers and boots and not ankles.

  Gerard dismounted and regarded the stupid beast deprived of his treat. He almost sympathized. The beekeeper was a tempting morsel. “C’mon, hound, you’re mine now.”

  He grabbed its collar and dragged the reluctant animal toward the stable. More mastiff than hound, Gerard concluded, wrestling with the animal. A stable lad ran out to take the reins of his gelding so he could employ both hands.

  “Pen this beast up until I find a chain,” he told the next lad emerging from the stable. “He lacks proper training.”

  Gerard had trained horses. He could probably train the dog. He would just have to stay longer than he’d anticipated.

  “Miss Mike is good with animals,” the stable boy suggested.

  Of course she was. An orphaned cousin, Mary Michaela hadn’t taken well to society—probably because she preferred women to men. She’d brought her maid to Wystan a decade ago and the two had settled in happily. Where would they go if he closed the castle?

  “Have her train this creature to behave,” Gerard ordered, as if the lad wouldn’t have done so on his own. He wasn’t so stupid as to know when he wasn’t needed.

  Blind, his spirit voice added.

  Once in his rooms, Gerard threw the medallion on his desk. He’d add it to the other useless artifacts upstairs later. He stripped off his confining coat, and in waistcoat and leather riding breeches, sat down at his desk.

  He’d finish going over the books in the morning, consult with Avery in the afternoon, and be gone the next day. Maybe he could sell his artifacts to a collector and stretch his income another year. He wasn’t stupidly searching for imaginary treasure any longer.

  The bell rang before he could even open a book. “Damn it all to perdition.” Usually, his tenants left him alone unless it was important. He took the stairs down again.

  A footman waited. “We have guests, my lord. The ladies request your presence at dinner.”

  “Do they now? I don’t suppose they told you who the guests are?”

  The footman held out a card. Rainford.

  “Did he bring a retinue with him?” Gerard asked in resignation. A duke’s heir never traveled alone.

  “Several gentlemen and their servants, my lord. They’re stabling the horses now.” The footman stood at attention like a good soldier.

  “And the ladies are in more of a lather than the horses, I imagine. Very well. I’ll dress and be there shortly.”

  The footman relaxed in relief and ran off to deliver his happy news.

  What the hell was Rainford doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be wooing a bride? It wasn’t as if this desolate outpost was on the path to anywhere, so the marquess had to be here for a reason.

  He was just drawing his bath when the bell rang again. Grateful he hadn’t stripped to his drawers, Gerard climbed back to his small foyer.

  A gnarled gnome of a man stood on the step. “The ladies said you might need a valet, my lord. The marquess has given me a reference.” He held out Rainford’s familiar stationery.

  Gerard wanted to disabuse the ladies of that idiotic notion, but instinct said to read the reference first.

  Lowell is a former batman, a crack shot, and saved the life of a friend. Hire him.

  Gerard snorted at the peremptory command. Rain didn’t believe in long explanations. He’d hear the story later.

  “Looks like you’re hired, Lowell. I don’t have much in the way of fine attire here, but I’m sure you’ll make yourself useful.”

  Lowell relaxed his stiff stance. “Thank you, my lord. Shall I draw your bath and lay out your evening attire?”

  “Aye, and you can tell me why the marquess has shown up at my door unannounced.” Gerard led him downstairs to show him the bath.

  “There’s a tumult about missing heiresses and a reward but I’ve not heard more.” Lowell admired the bath and plumbing. “Heated water, amazing.”

  “Thought Northumberland would be the wilderness, did you? I can use a shave and trim, if you’ve a talent for that.” Gerard generally wasn’t interested in gossip, but his mind chased around the news of a reward.

  If a scoundrel had run off with an heiress, he could track him through Northumberland easily. He knew the land, knew all the innkeepers, as well as the railway men.

  He also knew the only likely place for a runaway heiress anywhere about was Wystan.

  Six

  “No, I have no interest in meeting a marquess,” Iona assured Winifred when asked to join the company. She’d avoided meeting Rainford in his own home. Surely she could avoid it here. “I’d much rather put up the honey so the kitchen can concentrate on dinner.”

  “Don’t be foolish, child. A lady in the kitchen will just fret them. If you don’t have a proper gown, I’m sure we can find one. We have wardrobes of—”

  “Is it a requirement that I attend?” Iona held her voice steady and met Winifred’s gaze with the assurance she’d had to learn after her mother’s death.

  The older woman refused to back down and lectured instead. “No, of course not, but sometimes, knowledge of the outside world is more important than hiding from it. I think Lady Alice brought enough crinoline for an entire household. I’ll ask her maid if there’s one you can borrow.” She swept off.

  Iona didn’t want knowledge of the outside world if it meant exposing herself to it.

  But the ladies asked very little of her. She supposed it wouldn’t hurt to sit at a large table with a crowd of people. She’d simply perform her invisible act. Over the years, she had become very adept at not being seen.

  She’d only packed one semi-decent dinner gown, made over from her one season in London. It wasn’t as if her stepfather entertained or that they’d had coins to buy better. She had vaguely hoped she might be able to buy a few stiff petticoats in a secondhand shop, but she hadn’t really needed a crinoline here. Few of the ladies were wealthy enough, or cared enough, to be fashionable.

  But they did know how to put on a show, Iona learned when she joined the party gathering in the great hall.

  She was wearing a modest gold-and-brown merino over the half-crinoline borrowed from Lady Alice. The gown was old-fashioned, without a bodice apron or train or even a modified bustle, but the colors suited her. She drew her best shawl over her nearly bare shoulders and stood in the shadows, admiring the colorful array of company. Her gold-threaded shawl and flowered coronet disguising her false chignon paled in comparison.

  Even Iona knew most of the gowns sweeping about the hall were terribly out of date, but the rainbow of silky fabrics, swathes of lace, feathered hair ornaments, and puffs of curls adorned in diadems appeared the height of splendor to her rural eyes.

  “Do we have any notion why Rainford is here?” Lady Alice asked, joining her in the dark corner.

  Iona surreptitiously studied the lady. She looked wan but had rouged her cheeks and lips to give the appearance of health, despite the miscarriage.

  “I thought he was simply visiting. Isn’t that do
ne?” Iona found the tall, silver-blond, smartly tailored marquess in the hall’s center, surrounded by ladies.

  “No one visits Northumberland if it can be avoided,” the lady said sourly. “I think I’ll find someone willing to offer me a ride anywhere else but here. Surely they must have a baggage cart.”

  She drifted away in a cloud of French perfume, anxiety, and dissatisfaction. Iona felt rather sorry for her. Black was not the lady’s best color, and she did not seem to be mourning the loss of a child.

  Iona entertained herself watching her new friends practice long-abandoned flirting skills with the marquess and cadre of young gentlemen. Like the earl, Rainford had assumed a courtesy title from his father and had little actual power beyond that of his wealth and connections. But society gravitated toward titles, wealth, and beauty. With his icy blond good-looks, the marquess possessed all three.

  With twice as many women as men attending, there could be no formal pairing off into the dining room. When dinner was called, all precedence was abandoned under Malcolm insistence on equality. Iona drifted into the dining hall alone.

  Winifred had obviously set the name cards, Iona decided, finding her name at the earl’s right hand at the head of the table. She cursed herself for not slipping in here earlier and rearranging the cards. She’d become accustomed to taking a seat in the middle and had simply assumed her anonymity would be honored. She glanced longingly at the epergne she preferred to hide behind.

  “I have never understood how ladies arrange to have so much hair, but yours looks lovely tonight, Miss Malcolm.” Using formal address, the earl skeptically eyed her fake coiffure. He’d seen her without bonnet or chignon.

  “When we cut our hair, we stuff it in netting,” Simone explained matter-of-factly from his left side. “I suppose it’s less expensive than buying hats and lace and tiaras.”

  Iona’s lips twitched. She wouldn’t have to say a word all evening with Simone sitting across from her. Winifred was an evil planner.