A Wicked Earl's Widow

by Aubrey Wynne

  She kissed his cheek. “You’re wonderful, you know. Thank you. Eliza is my dearest friend.”

  Kit snorted. “Pardon me but I believe this whole plot was my idea.”

  Giggling, Grace returned to her husband and gave him a chaste kiss on the lips. “You already know I think you’re wonderful.”

  A teacup clattered against a china plate and Nate saw his mother trying to set the dish down with a shaky hand.

  “Mother, are you well?” He was next to her in a heartbeat, taking the dish from her trembling fingers. “You look pale and your hands are ice cold.”

  “It’s been an exciting day, that’s all, and I need a rest. We can gather again for supper.” She rose slowly and Hannah hurried to her side. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  Nathaniel decided he would send an invitation to Dr. Goodman that afternoon. His mother would be examined by the physician whether she liked it or not. In the meantime, he had guests to entertain.

  “Lady Eliza, would you like a tour of Pendle Place?” he asked, holding out his arm. “I admit I’m quite proud of the manor and the estates.”

  “As he should be,” added Grace. “At twelve, he learned how to manage the estate, eventually paid off his father’s debts, and made wise investments.”

  “You make it sound much more astounding that it really was. I had the best advice and an excellent steward.” Nate shook his head. “I managed not to repeat the mistakes of my father or make any major blunders.”

  “Modesty is another of his qualities,” she said with a grin.

  “Good God, soon there will be poems in my honor.” Lady Eliza had taken his arm, and he took the lead out into the garden. “Do you read poetry, my lady?”

  Her flaxen hair caught the sun as they descended the steps into the manicured, neatly plotted gardens. He was no Byron or Donne, but this woman made him feel romantic.

  “Please, call me Eliza, and I do enjoy poetry,” she answered. “I-I’ve even written some.”

  “There’s an accomplishment. I can’t imagine the mishmash I would make trying to put words of love on paper. It would be a waste of fine vellum…Eliza.”

  He watched her inhale deeply, taking in the scent of spring, and exhale. As she did so, her body relaxed. She reminded him of a wren with a broken wing he’d found as a child. His mother had told him to do away with it. Instead he had fixed a small cage for the bird and fed it some fruit. It had rewarded him with a song, its voice clear and loud for such a tiny creature. It was that hidden strength which convinced him not to give up on the bird. Yes, Eliza was his wren with a broken wing. With patience and care, she would sing again.

  Chapter Eight

  London

  The following week

  The Marquess of Landonshire was pleased. Fate seemed to be smiling down at him for a change, and he whistled a cheery tune as he strolled along Pall Mall Street toward his destination. White and pink blossoms colored the bare tree limbs that lined the avenue. Lilacs had begun to bloom, and the sweet scent hung heavy in the air. He’d been to White’s the night before and came away one hundred pounds plumper in the pocket. His card had been sent to the Falsbury townhouse, announcing his intention to make a morning call. Yes, he would collect Eliza and promptly take her over to Bellum’s and seal the bargain.

  His partner had the documents prepared and ready for signatures. It was as easy as selling a fine piece of horse flesh. Except his daughter would bring him much more. Thirty thousand pounds would pay off his debts, perhaps buy back a couple of the properties he’d been forced to sell, and set him up with a comfortable annual income. It had all worked out well enough. Why did the little doxy care about the man’s age? Christ, Bellum wouldn’t last more than five or ten years and she’d be free. A rich widow once again. She should be thanking him. Addle-pated women. They didn’t understand business. His hounds had more sense than a female.

  Landonshire stopped in front of the brick home, faced with expensive white-gray Portland stone. Sunny yellow daffodils and tulips in red and orange brightened the windowsills. His own rowhouse had been one of the first things to go when the first venture failed. No matter. His wife didn’t accompany him to London since the Boldon shrew had died, and he preferred the hotel. Less expensive, good food and liquor, and close to his office and other…entertainment. He fingered the perfectly tied white cravat, double-checked the buttons on his new single-breasted dove gray tailcoat, and flicked a speck of dust from the white trousers. Removing his matching silk hat and smoothing back his hair, he opened the gate and ascended the stone steps.

  The brass knocker held a miniature lion’s head. Landonshire grasped it and rapped sharply three times. A butler promptly answered.

  “May I help you?” he said in the stiff, indifferent tone of a well-trained servant.

  “Lord Landonshire, Lady Eliza’s father.” He smiled benevolently at the man, pleased at the warm day, the sunshine, and his upcoming windfall. It had been an ugly few years, but it was all behind him now. “I believe I’m expected.”

  “Ah, indeed you are.” The butler stepped to the side, opened the door wide, and waited patiently for coat and hat.

  “No need, I shan’t be here long.”

  The butler nodded. “Very well, sir. Follow me, please.”

  He took in the great expanse of the entry as he ambled over the marble floor. Halfway down the hallway, a door stood ajar. The servant stopped at the threshold.

  “Lord Landonshire,” he announced with a bow.

  Entering the study, he was surprised to see both Lord and Lady Falsbury. The marquess sat behind a large oak desk with intricately carved square legs, his hands folded and resting on the glossy top, a stack of papers neatly piled next to him. Two leather chairs flanked the high desk, the lady seated on the right. He bowed to both host and hostess and took the vacant chair.

  “Is Eliza on her way down?” he asked politely. “She’s more like her mother every day. Always late, never a thought to time or appointments. It’s a female trait, I suppose.”

  His chuckle faded from the glare cast by Lady Falsbury. “I don’t suppose it is. Eliza has been with us for several years now, and she’s proven to be very punctual.”

  “Beg your pardon, madam.” He struggled for another thread of conversation. “I’m looking forward to seeing my granddaughter again. I imagine she’s grown since the last time I held her.” He turned his lips up in his most charming smile.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Falsbury without rising.

  “She’s a sickly thing, then? My daughter was puny as a child but look at her now.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Falsbury said as he sat back in the overstuffed leather chair, an odd look on his face.

  His jaw ticked in irritation. “What won’t be possible?” A finger of apprehension scratched at his gut.

  Falsbury steepled his hands, a bland expression on his face. “I’m afraid you won’t be meeting with your daughter.”

  “Is my sweet Eliza ill? My poor little girl. I’m in town for the week. I can come back in a day or two.” This put a damper on his plans, but Bellum would have to understand. “Like I said, she’s always had a delicate disposition.”

  “Really, Lord Landonshire? I think she’s quite resilient surviving a childhood under your roof.” The marchioness faced him, accusation in dark brown eyes.

  He blinked. Her tone hit him like a bunch of fives in the face. What had that little hoyden told them? His face burned hot; his heart pounded. He leaned forward, ignoring the addle-pate, and turned his attention to the marquess. Idiot women.

  “Falsbury, what the devil is going on? Where the hell is my daughter?”

  “On a ship to America.”

  “I want her down—what?” He ran a hand over his face. “This is not amusing.”

  Falsbury stood. “I agree. Nothing about you or your despicable tactics are amusing. But your game is up, and the bread and butter you were counting on is no longer on the table.”
<
br />   “I’m her father. She has no right taking my granddaughter and sailing off to—”

  “You have no rights when it comes to Althea. Not a court in England would allow you custody.” Lady Falsbury stood. “From what I understand, you couldn’t afford a barrister without selling Eliza.”

  Landonshire’s fingers curled into a fist, his jaw set. “I’m within my rights to punish my wife and child as I see fit. I’ve broken no laws.” Oh how he wanted to slap the smug look off her face. “And how would you know about my finances? If that little maggot pie has been telling her lies again, she’ll be sorry.”

  “I’m afraid you are the only sorry creature here, my lord.” Falsbury’s eyes burned a direct path to Landonshire’s fist. “And if you raise those knuckles even a hairsbreadth, I will enjoy beating you to a bloody pulp.”

  Panic skittered through his body like a rat in a dark alley. It ran down his spine, through his chest, and into his belly. What in blasted tarnation had just happened? Ten minutes ago, he’d been high on the ropes, and now his bright future was sliding into the gutter. He’d make the little whore pay when he got his hands on her.

  “Explain this to me, real slow, since I’m obviously not comprehending.” He sucked in a breath to calm his temper. Falsbury’s older family name had more influence than his with or without the debts. But that didn’t give him the right to interfere with Landonshire’s property. And his most valuable asset was no longer within his grasp. “Eliza and the baby have left for America. Now how did she manage to make all those arrangements in a week’s time without anyone knowing?”

  “I made the arrangements after you threatened my granddaughter. Then I fired the new gardener. I do not take kindly to spies on my property. Eliza and Althea were on a ship at first light the day after your visit to the cemetery. It’s an expensive journey, and I’m not inclined to tell you where in that vast country she might settle.” Falsbury crossed his arms. “This interview has come to an end.”

  Something wasn’t right here. He could smell it. “I think the whole story is a clanker. You wouldn’t send them away just to spite me. I bet they’re still at your country house.”

  “I would do anything, and I mean anything within in my power to keep my granddaughter safe. She is the child of my dead son and will never know the pain your daughter has.”

  Landonshire’s lip curled. “I won’t track them down. I’m resourceful, you see, and persistent.”

  “Let me make this very clear, my lord.” Falsbury straightened, his chest wide and body still lean and muscular. “No one endangers my family. Especially a coward who takes his own incompetence out on those weaker and dependent on him. I know your game. Eliza didn’t need to say a word. My solicitor informed me that you sold her dowry property. I know she asked him to send bank notes in your name on several occasions. Unlike you, sir, I am a scrupulous businessman, and nothing goes on in my realm without my knowledge.”

  Sweat broke out on Landonshire’s forehead. He resisted the urge to wipe it away. Damnation, he wouldn’t give the pompous ass the satisfaction. “I made some bad investments during the war. I had to recoup my losses, and the property was mine to begin with.”

  “No, it belonged to your wife as part of her widow’s dowry,” countered Lady Falsbury.

  Good God, he’d like to shut that woman up. If she were his wife…

  “You pitched the gammon to my son after the wedding, trying to get him involved with one of your peep-o-day schemes. Another catastrophe. Every business venture you’ve attempted, except with Bellum, turned to dust. The only thing keeping you from debtor’s prison is your title.” Falsbury gave a tight smile. “Unfortunately, short of treason there isn’t much I can do about that, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Falsbury put both hands on the desk and leaned forward. “If I were you, I would take my losses and scuttle back to my estate like the weasel I am. Or my spies will see what they can dig up.”

  “I’ll find her, by Christ. Mark my words. You’ll pay for this.”

  Landonshire turned on his heel, leaving a string of foul words behind him. He stormed down the steps, his heels clicking on the pavement as he hailed a hackney. Bellum would be irate. Good, it would give him an ally in the next plot. Nobody crossed the Marquess of Landonshire, not without a reckoning.

  The previous Lord Sunderland had crossed him. The whoremonger should have agreed to any business proposal by his own father-in-law straight away. Instead, he’d checked into it. The bloody ninny hadn’t even had the decency to decline in person. Landonshire received a letter from his son-in-law’s solicitor. Ah, but revenge had been sweet.

  He grinned, a warmth spreading through his body as he remembered that night. The earl was known for being a rake and a drunkard. It had been easy enough to pay someone to challenge Sunderland. The fool never turned down a horse race. No one had questioned the fall or checked the tack for a cut in the girth. It had been Landonshire’s good luck the horse had stumbled. But Sunderland had been an excellent rider. Without the tampered equipment, he would have stayed in the saddle sober or drunk.

  Now the little widow was trying to thwart him. He imagined his hand around Eliza’s pale slim neck, squeezing the life from her, face purple and eyes bulging. The image sent blood rushing to his groin. His manhood throbbed, anticipating the pain he would cause when he found her. If Bellum changed his tune, he would kill the ungrateful slut. The thought put a smile back on his face.

  * * *

  Bellum stared at him, disgust in his red-rimmed gray eyes. The office was dark, the sun outside barely penetrating the dusty windowpanes. He wiped a hand over his bald head then pulled at the fuzzy gray bits surrounding his ears.

  “She’s left the country? Did you send anyone out to check the docks? See when—or if—a vessel was bound for the colonies. A lovely woman and her young daughter would surely be noticed.” Bellum squinted, raising his glasses from his nose to get a better look at Landonshire. “Wait, let me guess. You came straight here.”

  “Well, er, yes. I thought you might have an idea of what to do.” Why did this ancient cur always make him feel dimwitted? If it wasn’t for the money…

  “I thought you might have an idea of what to do,” Bellum mimicked. “Do you have a brain of your own? Blast it, man. Get your bollocks down to Bow Street and hire a runner to find out what the hell is going on. That’s my bride.” The old man’s silver brows pushed together. “Don’t try to go yourself, or word will get out you’re snooping around. If she hasn’t left yet, and gets wind we’re on to her, the chit will disappear again.

  “My offer stands for one month. After that, I call in your vowels.” Bellum licked his thin lips and smiled, a center gap exposing a pointy tongue, surrounded by pointy yellowish-brown teeth. His skin resembled a piece of gray parchment, crinkled up then smoothed back out. “My collectors can be very persuasive. I’ll take your house, send you off to the widow’s quarters, and keep the wife. You married her young—sixteen wasn’t she? Even if your weak seed stopped filling her belly, she could still bear a babe of mine. I’m no member of the peer. Why should I care if my heir is a bastard? He’ll still have blue blood.”

  Landonshire’s mouth fell slack. Then the slow burn began, the fire that could only be put out by pain. Someone else’s pain. “Careful, you old codger. Don’t threaten a man who has nothing left to lose.”

  Chapter Nine

  Pendle Place

  Durham County

  It had been a glorious week, but her dear friend would soon be leaving. They had all fallen into some type of routine. Eliza, Nathaniel, Grace, and Kit would ride out in the mornings before breakfast. Part of the property ran along the River Wear, and Lady Hannah had shown them the best spot for picnics. In the afternoons, there were also walks in the garden, croquet, or lawn bowls. Althea would accompany them, and Mrs. Watkins would spend an hour or two at the stables or enjoy some peaceful solitude.

  There was afternoon tea in the drawing room or outside under
the gazebo with Lady Pendleton, who had recuperated quickly but still was not quite herself, according to Hannah. Dr. Goodman, delayed by several emergencies, had arrived that morning. Lady Pendleton had assured him that she was fine, and he should concentrate on enjoying his visit. So in the evenings after supper, the group would play charades or cards. Hannah played the pianoforte beautifully with Grace or Nathaniel lending their steady voices. She had been surprised at Nathaniel’s deep, clear tenor.

  Eliza wished this time could go on forever. She’d never been so happy, felt so carefree. Althea thrived under the attentions of so many caring adults, and any shyness the toddler felt had disappeared by the second day. She had taken a particular liking to Nathaniel, perhaps due to his silly antics. He would get on his hands and knees and let her climb onto his back. Putting a hand behind his back to brace her, little hands clutching his collar and legs gripping his waist, he’d take her for a ride on a runaway horse. The game would end with a tickling match. Yesterday, they had engaged everyone in an ugly face contest, screwing up their features and demanding a vote on who looked the most hideous or terrifying. Ridiculous should have been a category.

  Today Grace and Eliza sipped tea under the pavilion, breathing in the

  scent of lilac and chatting about the previous day’s picnic.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked Grace, pushing a gold-red curl behind her ear. “Lord Pendleton?”

  She blushed. “About the entire week. I wish you didn’t have to leave.”

  “If the architect wasn’t arriving from London, I would stay. But certain renovations need finished before winter. Though I must admit, there are days when I think getting that ancient fort into livable condition will be a life’s achievement.”

  “I was looking forward to seeing it.” Eliza bit her lip, hesitating to ask. “Are you trying yet for another baby?”