What Ales the Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

  I can’t really prefer death to marrying Lady Susan, can I?

  No, of course not.

  Grainger cocked a skeptical brow, but didn’t argue the point. “Don’t you have a cousin or some relative who will inherit if you should meet an untimely end?” he asked instead.

  Harry nodded. “Yes. A very distant cousin in my great-grandfather’s brother’s line.”

  “Ah. Now that would be quite the calamity, wouldn’t it?” Grainger said with a perfectly straight face.

  Of course, Grainger wouldn’t see the problem in letting . . . Harry wasn’t even sure of the fellow’s name who was next in line to be earl. Searching among the distant leaves of the family tree was precisely how Grainger had succeeded to his title. Until early this spring, he’d been merely Edward Russell, London solicitor—and then the fourth Duke of Grainger, along with his wife and children, had died suddenly and unexpectedly of influenza.

  Harry shrugged, acknowledging Grainger’s point. “Perhaps it wouldn’t, but Mama and Letitia aren’t eager to have their comfortable lives upended.”

  Grainger’s other brow rose as well, and then both settled into a frown. Clearly, he was biting his tongue.

  Well, Grainger wasn’t saddled—er, blessed—with female relatives.

  “Don’t make it bleed,” Harry said. Grainger grinned.

  “And it’s not just them, of course,” Harry continued. “I have a responsibility to all the people on the estate.” He might not have given a thought to being earl, but his years in the army and working for the Crown had impressed upon him the need to look out for the people who depended on him.

  Grainger still looked unconvinced. “I see. Well, then, I am very sorry to have put a spoke in your wheel. I hope—well, I don’t actually hope because I think it’s a dashed bad idea, but if you’re really set on it, then I imagine you can propose to Lady Susan in the morning.”

  Harry grunted and took another swallow of brandy. He’d never been enthusiastic about offering for Lady Susan, but now suddenly he felt trapped.

  Blast Grainger for cracking open the door to his prison. He was very tempted to bolt. It must be the brandy’s fault.

  He took another swallow. “So, do you have an urgent matter of some sort, Grainger, or was that just a ploy to get me away from Lady Susan?”

  Grainger poured them more brandy. If Harry were the suspicious sort, he’d suspect the duke was trying to get him drunk enough to disregard the urgings of his better, more responsible self.

  “I do, actually,” Grainger said, “though it’s not really urgent.”

  Harry might have growled, because Grainger smiled.

  “It requires some discretion,” Grainger said, “and I know you’ve done some discreet inquiries for the Crown.”

  I shouldn’t rise to the bait....

  He couldn’t help himself. “Tell me.”

  Grainger reeled him right in, though at least the duke permitted himself only the smallest smile as he did so.

  “I’ve been going over the estate books,” Grainger said. “They are a bit of a mess.”

  Harry nodded. Darrow’s books hadn’t been that bad, but it was always a challenge to jump into the middle of matters with which one had no previous experience.

  “As far as I can make out, for over a decade the estate has been supporting someone or something in a village called Little Puddledon.”

  Harry frowned. “Never heard of the place. And what do you mean, someone or something?”

  Grainger shrugged. “The entry just lists the recipient as JSW. It could stand for Joseph Samuel Withers or the Just Society of Weasels.”

  Harry snorted. “I’d say that unless the previous duke had an affinity for weasels, JSW must be his bastard.”

  The duke grimaced. “Yes, that thought had occurred to me.”

  “What did the old duke’s man of business say it was for?”

  Grainger ran his hand through his hair. “That’s the devil of it. The fellow was at the estate when the influenza hit, and he, too, died of the disease. No one else seems to know anything about the matter.”

  Harry frowned. “That’s odd.”

  Grainger nodded. “Very. However, it is only a small sum, paid out once a year, so perhaps it’s understandable that it was overlooked. I certainly haven’t felt it a priority to sort out before now.” He shrugged. “This year’s payment was to go out two weeks ago, but I stopped it until I could discover the particulars. I was planning to go down to Little Puddledon as soon as this gathering was over to see what I could find out.”

  It was Harry’s turn to cock an eyebrow. “The Duke of Grainger is going to visit an obscure village? That will get tongues wagging at record pace.”

  Grainger laughed. “I doubt anyone will recognize me, but I hadn’t intended to announce myself. I was going to ride down on horseback and use my family name instead of my title. However”—he gave Harry a hopeful look—“I freely admit I have no experience in skulking about.”

  “And I do.” Harry could see where this was going.

  “Precisely. It could get rather awkward, depending on what I find, if my identity was discovered. So, I thought, given the fact that you do have experience with, er, sneaking about, you might be a better person to investigate.” He grinned. “And it would give you a break from Lady Susan and the entreaties of your female relatives.”

  True.

  “Though I’ve often wondered how you managed not to call attention to yourself on the Continent.” Grainger gestured at Harry’s temple. “With your silver blaze, you might as well have a placard with your name pasted to your forehead.”

  His silver strands, contrasting starkly with his dark hair, did make him stand out in a crowd, though he would be surprised if anyone in Little Puddledon knew of the Graham streak. “It’s not a problem that a little blacking won’t fix.”

  The thought of getting away from Mama and Letitia—and Lady Susan—and getting back to a semblance of his old life, even for a short time, was extremely appealing.

  It will only be for a few days. Lady Susan won’t marry someone else that quickly.

  It was rather telling that the thought she might came with a jolt of relief.

  I’ll take this one last frolic and then I’ll settle down to be a model earl.

  Harry hesitated only a moment longer. “Very well. I’d be happy to see what I can discover.” Elated might be a more accurate adjective. “I’ll leave in the morning.”

  Grainger raised his glass. “Splendid. May I suggest departing early, before the women are up? I’ll tell them you went off on an urgent matter for me”—he grinned—“and I promise not to reveal your destination.”

  Chapter Two

  Sunday, Little Puddledon

  Penelope Barnes sat next to her daughter, Harriet, and studied the vicar as he climbed the steps to the pulpit.

  Sadly, the Reverend Godfrey Wright had not miraculously transformed into a prince while she’d slept. His slightly bulging, watery blue eyes still reminded her forcibly of an amphibian. Add to that his thinning brown hair, beakish nose, receding chin, and the pronounced paunch currently concealed by his vestments—

  Ugh.

  Single men aren’t thick upon the ground in Little Puddledon, you know, she reminded herself sternly. Godfrey is your best—your only—chance of getting Harriet out of the Home.

  She would do anything for Harriet, even marry Godfrey.

  And, really, what did it matter? Harry Graham was the only man who had ever made her heart beat faster. She must be sensible, and Godfrey was a sensible choice. At thirty, he was old enough to have put aside youthful foolishness but not so old that he was teetering on the edge of his dotage.

  A hideous image of Godfrey naked and approaching their marital bed sprang unbidden and far too fully formed into her mind. Bile rose in her throat.

  Old and feeble might be better.

  Nonsense. She frowned and sat a little taller to banish the sinking feeling in her stomach. Sh
e’d like to give Harriet a sister. She’d been an only child herself and had always wanted a sibling. Godfrey was a man of the cloth, focused on the spiritual rather than the physical realm. He must have mild appetites. In all likelihood, she’d have to do her conjugal duties only infrequently—just often enough to conceive. If she was lucky, they’d accomplish that goal on their wedding night.

  She was more than willing to undertake any other wifely duties in exchange for a roof over her head and Harriet’s. A roof that did not also shelter Verity Lewis.

  “Stop it!”

  Pen jumped and looked at her daughter, though not before she saw Godfrey freeze midword and swivel his head toward them.

  Blast! She couldn’t have the man taking a disgust of Harriet now.

  Her strong-willed daughter gave no sign she noticed the attention. Her entire focus was on Verity, the eleven-year-old girl sitting in the pew behind them. Verity’s eyes were demurely studying her hands clasped loosely in her lap. She was the picture of innocence—if one ignored the faint smirk on her lips and the fact that Martha Hall, Verity’s main partner in crime, was giggling next to her.

  Dear Lord, what has that girl done to Harriet this time?

  Pen felt a now-all-too-familiar lurch of anger, pain, and despair as she leaned over to whisper to her daughter, “Shh. You are disturbing Mr. Wright and the rest of the congregation, Harriet.”

  Verity was the reason Pen needed to get Harriet out of the Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children as soon as possible.

  Pen had been toying with the idea of marrying Godfrey since shortly after he’d arrived in the village that spring—she’d been getting very tired of sharing a house with so many women and had wanted Harriet to grow up in a real family. But in the days since Verity and her mother, Rosamund, had stepped through the Home’s door, her resolve to bring Godfrey up to scratch had hardened.

  She’d tried to give Verity the benefit of the doubt. New girls often had a difficult time adjusting to the Home. Verity and Rosamund had only been there ten days—yes, Pen had been counting—but each day had been worse than the one before. Verity was turning all the other girls against Harriet.

  Each snigger, every rude whisper, infuriated Pen, and the hurt and confused looks on Harriet’s face lanced her heart.

  She’d managed to hold on to her temper until yesterday morning when she’d overheard Juliet Walker, Harriet’s best friend—her only friend at this point—tell Harriet that Verity said she couldn’t play with her anymore.

  The memory still made Pen’s blood boil, even here in the Lord’s house.

  And she’d swear something else had happened this morning. Harriet had been unusually subdued when she’d come out of the dormitory to go to services.

  Harriet’s blue eyes—so much like her own—flashed. “Verity pulled my hair, Mama,” she said in a furious whisper.

  Pen couldn’t help it—she glanced back at Verity.

  Verity’s smirk grew.

  The nasty little cat. I’d like to—

  No.

  She forced herself to take a calming breath. Much as she’d like to box Verity’s ears, Verity was only a child—an obnoxious, scheming one, perhaps, but a child nonetheless.

  “Perhaps it was an accident,” she said.

  Right. Neither she nor Harriet believed that.

  Harriet’s expression turned mulish. “No, it wasn’t. She—”

  Pen put her hand on Harriet’s arm, certain she could feel Godfrey’s frown piercing through the back of her head. Whenever he disapproved of something—which unfortunately was rather often—his nostrils flared and then his nose wrinkled up as if he’d caught a whiff of Farmer Smith’s pigs.

  “We’ll talk about it later. Now do pay attention to Mr. Wright.”

  Harriet’s brows angled down so steeply they almost met, and her lower lip pushed out in a furious pout, but she held her tongue, thank God.

  Pen relaxed slightly and turned back to face Godfrey. He sniffed and then began his sermon, droning on—

  No, he was delivering an insightful . . . er, an interesting . . . well, an earnest . . .

  Oh, why dissemble? Godfrey’s sermons were an invitation to untether one’s mind and let it wander where it willed.

  She pasted a rapt expression on her face—at twenty-seven, she’d perfected the skill of masking boredom with a false façade—and mulled over her problem. Even if she could get Godfrey to propose today, they would have to wait three weeks for the banns to be read. She couldn’t let Harriet suffer that long. Something had to be done about Verity today.

  She’d mentioned the matter to Jo after the incident with Juliet—the Home was Jo’s creation and she oversaw all its operations—but Jo was a bloody saint. She’d counseled patience and understanding. Turning the other cheek.

  Bugger that. This was Harriet she was talking about. Jo didn’t have children so she couldn’t understand how fiercely the need to defend Harriet burned in Pen. She’d stand up to the Prince Regent himself to protect her daughter.

  I’ll even threaten to leave the business if I have to.

  She stiffened. That thought hadn’t occurred to her before.

  Would I really quit?

  A yawning hole opened in her stomach. The Benevolent Home had been the branch she’d grabbed just as life had been threatening to sweep her and Harriet over a cliff. If Mrs. Simpson, Aunt Margaret’s friend, hadn’t told her about the place the day after Aunt Margaret died, Pen would have been sleeping under a hedgerow with her eight-month-old baby.

  Her arrival had been good for the Home, too. She’d known enough about farming—her father had often been too drunk to tend their own fields so those duties had fallen to her—to manage the orchards and other crops and nurse the all-but-abandoned hopyard back to life. She and Caro Anderson, another Home resident, had come up with the idea of adding brewing to the many money-making efforts Jo had tried in the constant battle to keep the Home afloat on a sea of expenses, and they’d succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.

  They weren’t out of the woods yet—far from it. The weather the last two summers had been terrible, cutting their harvest to almost nothing, but they’d made it through and this year looked to be much, much better. The hop plants were groaning with cones almost ready for harvesting.

  Could she really give all that up?

  Yes. Yes, she could. Harriet’s happiness was more important than anything else. And it wasn’t as if she’d be twiddling her thumbs all day. She’d have a new position to fill—vicar’s wife. She’d be busy seeing to Godfrey’s comfort as well as the needs of his parishioners.

  Her stomach twisted. The less she thought about Godfrey’s comfort, the better.

  “Ow!” That was Verity.

  Pen’s attention snapped back to the girls. The brim of Verity’s bonnet was askew, and Verity’s hands cradled her head.

  Harriet’s hands hefted a hymnal.

  “Touch me again and I’ll hit you harder,” Harriet hissed into the sudden quiet.

  The congregation sucked in its collective breath in horror—or in anticipation of a shocking, scandalous row. Godfrey cleared his throat.

  Flight was the only option. Pen grabbed Harriet’s arm and bolted out of the pew, dragging her daughter behind her, down the aisle to freedom. “Excuse us. Pardon me. Harriet needs some air.”

  “Mama,” Harriet said as the heavy wooden church door closed behind them.

  “Not yet.” The odds were good that at least one of Godfrey’s flock would be struck by a sudden attack of curiosity and follow them.

  Harriet let Pen hustle her down the church steps, along the village green, over the bridge, and halfway up the hill to the manor before she protested. Then she dug in her heels and jerked her arm free.

  Pen stopped too, turned to face her daughter—and felt her heart seize. Harriet looked so much like Harry at that moment with her unflinching gaze, hard jaw, and fier
ce intensity. Pride, love, and worry started to churn in Pen’s belly. Such self-assurance and independence were admirable in a man, especially a man who was now an earl. They were far less of an asset in a young fatherless girl.

  “I’m not sorry I hit Verity, Mama. She’s mean.”

  “Harriet . . .” She should not encourage violence, much as she might agree with her daughter. “Verity is new to the Home. You know it’s always difficult for girls when they first arrive.”

  Harriet’s eyes narrowed and her jaw hardened to granite. “I know that. I tried to be nice to her, but she won’t stop picking on me.”

  Anger flared in Pen’s breast again. She struggled to keep her tone even. “I’ll have a word with Miss Jo—”

  “Verity called me a bastard, Mama!”

  Pen froze, mouth agape. Then her heart started to thump so hard she was afraid it would break free of her chest.

  Calm down. Verity can’t know. Little Puddledon is a small, obscure village in Kent. No one ever goes to London, and no one from London—or Darrow—comes here. We’re safe.

  Verity and her mother were from London.

  Her heart thumped harder. She had trouble breathing.

  “I told her you were a widow, Mama. That Papa had died fighting N-Napoleon.” Harriet swallowed. “She laughed at me. And then she pointed at my hair and said it proved I was a bastard.”

  Oh, God. Oh, God.

  Breathe. You can still bring this about.

  “If you mean your streak, I told you it was caused by that fever you had.”

  The moment Pen had realized she was increasing, she’d known she had to leave Darrow and never come back. Even if she’d been willing to marry the man her father and the earl had chosen for her, there could be no hiding who her baby’s real father was once that silver blaze appeared.

  Well, or worse, everyone would assume she’d consorted with Walter, and Harriet was just another of Walter’s whelps. The estate was littered with them.

  But then the streak hadn’t appeared. Year after year Harriet’s hair had remained as dark as night. Pen had begun to hope it would stay that way forever.