The Earl Most Likely

by Goodger, Jane

  After each win, he would demand a kiss, and each kiss became longer and deeper the more she won, until she finally said, “I do believe you are letting me win on purpose simply so you can claim a kiss.”

  By the end of the week, Harriet knew all about his lonely childhood, his time in school, his friendship with Lord Lansdowne, and his years in America. And Augustus knew about life in St. Ives, how her sister loved her garden more than anything in the world, and how her mother and father had grown rich. One topic they carefully avoided was Lenore’s murder, for Harriet had convinced herself it was, indeed, murder.

  She was surprised, then, when during an endless game of pinochle, Augustus said nonchalantly but with an underlying tension, “Every ‘c’ on the list has accepted.”

  Harriet had been about to take a trick when she paused. “That is exciting.” She studied his face, and though he was seemingly concentrating on the card game, she could sense something was wrong. “That is not exciting?” She took the trick and he frowned.

  “It is only that I cannot imagine any of the men on the list committing murder. I know most of them and the ones I do not have impeccable backgrounds. Then again, I fear I cannot imagine any man committing such a terrible act.” He closed his eyes. “I keep picturing her, struggling, screaming…” She laid down a king of hearts, which happened to be the trump suit, and he threw a random card, allowing her to take another trick. “Do you have any suit other than trump?” he asked.

  Harriet wrinkled her nose at him. “Don’t you think it strange that no one heard her scream?”

  “I didn’t at the time. Not when we thought she’d killed herself. But since we found the letters, yes. I keep going back over that night and trying to remember if I heard anything strange. It does seem to me that someone would have heard her. The servants’ quarters are very near the tower and I know some of them would have just gone to bed.”

  Though it was her turn to lead, Harriet clutched her cards, lost in thought. “Perhaps he killed her beforehand, then threw her from the tower so that it would look like a suicide. I’d like to think that’s what happened. Either way is horrible, of course. What about Mr. Pearson? Have you asked him who on that list would have had the opportunity to spend that much time with Lady Greenwich? From her diary, it seemed that whoever it was would have been a frequent visitor.”

  Augustus tossed his cards down. “I dislike where this leads,” he said darkly.

  “I apologize. I did not wish to upset you.”

  “You misunderstand. There is only one person who regularly saw my wife.”

  “Who?”

  “Lord Lansdowne.”

  His oldest and dearest friend, the man he had entrusted to watch over Lady Greenwich in his absence. “It may not be him. It may not have been anyone at all. Perhaps she did throw herself from the tower. It would explain why no one heard a scream.”

  Augustus stared blindly at the cards for a long moment. “Do you know why the constable did not pursue charges against me, even though more than a dozen people had seen and heard us arguing that night? Several heard me threaten her.”

  By God, I could kill you for what you’ve done. She’d read that account in the newspaper. “Because of the diary. Because it seemed clear that Lady Greenwich had meant to end her life.”

  Augustus let out a bitter laugh. “Yes. Thank God for that diary.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That Mr. Bennet did not press charges because it would have been far too much work and brought too much attention to this little village. Yes, the discovery of the diary made a difference but I cannot help thinking it was not enough to exonerate me. We have found out ourselves how ambiguous Lenore’s words were. Do you know for years they’ve been trying to dismantle the position of constable? I believe the real reason Mr. Bennet did not arrest me was because he simply could not stomach the idea of putting an earl in jail. Why do you think half the people in this village walk in the other direction when they see me coming?”

  “That does not happen,” Harriet said firmly. Then most hesitantly, “Does it?”

  “Not so much anymore, but you know there are people who still talk about it, who still believe I killed her. That is why it is so important that we find the real killer. And I simply do not believe a single man on that list could have done it.”

  Harriet gathered up the cards, for it was clear their game was over. “Who else, then?”

  Augustus shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  The cottage, their haven, was cozy from a warm fire. Augustus had brought a picnic lunch that they ate indoors, thank goodness, for it was another chilly day. Harriet had thought that during the time of her woman’s flow, she would not see Augustus privately, but each day he arranged for them to meet. It was the sort of thing that made trying not to love him exceedingly difficult. They spent the days playing cards or checkers, and talking incessantly. And laughing. Harriet could not recall laughing as much as she’d laughed these last few days. With each day that passed, Augustus revealed more of himself and in the end, he’d reduced himself to simply a man, no longer an earl or a lofty title. To Harriet, he had become Gus, and she couldn’t help but fall more in love with him.

  After they’d put the cards away, Augustus drew her to him and simply held her. “Would you mind very much lying with me?”

  “It’s a bit soon,” Harriet said, mortified.

  “No, I meant simply lying with me. On the bed.” They lay down and he drew her against him, her back to his front, and they watched the fire crackling. “I like the way we fit,” he said softly, bringing his hand up to cup her breast. Harriet breathed in deeply, feeling need grow, and definitely feeling his.

  “I can feel you,” she said boldly.

  He chuckled. “I cannot control that part of me when I am with you, I fear.” He pushed against her, then stopped, letting out a low groan. “I should not torture myself like this, but I want you near me. Someday I shall show you how to please me another way so I don’t go insane with wanting you.”

  “Two more days.”

  “I shall die,” he said, and she laughed. “Tell me about your cottage.”

  “You really want to know?”

  “No. I really want to make love to you but since that is not possible, tell me about your cottage to get my mind off your lovely body.”

  Harriet giggled. “It doesn’t exist, I know that, but if it did, this is what it would look like.” She closed her eyes and pictured it, her perfect little cottage somewhere by the sea. “It is whitewashed and lovely, with roses surrounding it and diamond-shaped windows all looking out to the sea. On the second floor, there is a small balcony, and I will go there on fine days and stare out for hours. The balcony is off my room, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “A stone path leads to the front door, and there is a slate step, worn from years of footsteps. Inside is a large room with beams stretching across it, much like a ship captain’s quarters. The floor is honey-colored wood, and there’s a pretty little fireplace at one end. The stairs are shaped in an upside down Y and there is a small landing a few steps up where the stairs join.” She turned to look back at him and he kissed her cheek. “Much like Costille House but much smaller. The newel posts are sturdy and square and plainly decorated, and the stairs lead up to two bedrooms, mine, looking out to the sea, and another, looking over the pretty back garden.”

  “Yes, you mentioned you wanted a garden for Clara.”

  “Yes. A kitchen garden and one just for pretty things. And that’s it. That’s my house.”

  Pulling her against him, he said, “It sounds lovely.”

  “It is, and if I ever find it or even something close to it, I shall purchase it on the spot.”

  The entire time she’d been speaking, Augustus had been caressing her arm, up and down, but he stopped just then. “This cottag
e, it won’t be too far from St. Ives, will it?”

  “I shouldn’t like to be close enough for my parents to drop by, if that’s what you mean. Perhaps not too far. I cannot imagine living in another part of England where it’s cold enough to snow. Somewhere in Cornwall, I suppose. I used to think I would want to move to America, to be as far away as possible. But I have friends here, and I would miss Clara terribly.”

  “Only Clara?”

  “I already miss you, so you don’t count.”

  “Already miss me,” he said in mock outrage. “Why, we have another two weeks together at least.”

  “More than enough time.”

  He pushed her gently to her back, then leaned over her. “Will you miss me terribly?”

  She shrugged. “I daresay I shall forget your name within a fortnight.”

  “You’ll remember me as long as that?” he asked, grinning.

  “Or until I find a new lover,” she said pertly, and giggled when he growled and buried his head against her neck.

  “No other man shall have you,” he pronounced, still jesting. But Harriet didn’t find such a jest at all amusing. Though she tried not to let her heart ache, it did. The truth was, she could not imagine ever loving another man as she did Augustus.

  “I should return home,” she said, and started to sit up, but Augustus held her down easily.

  “What is wrong?” he asked, but Harriet could only shake her head, for her throat was closing up and she feared if she said aloud what she was thinking, she would dissolve into tears. “Tell me, Catalina. What have I said?”

  She swallowed. “It’s only that this time with you has been grand, and I will miss our days together. I don’t want to think about that now, though.” Forcing a smile, she turned to look at him. “I fear you have ruined me for all other men, Gus. Was that your intention?”

  He looked about to speak, then shook his head and drew her against him again. They lay like that for several long minutes before he said, “I can let you go now.”

  * * * *

  Augustus watched her gather up her coat and wrap a thick, wool scarf around her neck. When she was adorably bundled, she came over to where he still lay in bed, propped up slightly by two pillows, and kissed him good-bye.

  Long after she’d gone, he lay in bed, thinking about his last words to her. I can let you go now.

  He had a terrible feeling that when the time came, letting her go would be the most difficult thing he would ever do.

  Chapter 10

  Harriet stared out her window, the image blurry from a hard rain. Even though only a skeletal staff remained at the house, she knew it would draw suspicion if she ventured out in such a storm without a good reason. The under butler, who had remained behind, had taken his responsibilities more seriously than Harriet had thought he would, and she found herself reporting her whereabouts to him on nearly a daily basis.

  “Yes, Mr. Barkley, I thought I’d take a stroll in the cold, icy rain. Good for the constitution, you know.” No, that would never do.

  Half wishing Augustus would send a carriage, she looked down the road and was surprised to see a black conveyance heading up their drive. A mixture of panic and joy ran through her as she thought perhaps Lord Berkley had sent a carriage for her. She prayed not—for how on earth could she explain such a thing?–but she also found herself praying it was his carriage. What could she possibly say to Mr. Barkley should he take note of the crest on the vehicle? Other than their meeting at the disastrous luncheon, she wasn’t even supposed to know the earl, never mind having him send a carriage for her.

  The carriage went to the front of the house and out of her view, so she ran to her mother’s parlor, which overlooked the drive. By the time she got there, though, whoever was in the carriage had already departed, for she got a quick glimpse of some person just as he or she was going up the shallow steps. Harriet hurried back to her room and waited, wringing her hands and pacing, for one of the servants to come fetch her. In a matter of minutes, Mr. Barkley was tapping on her door.

  “The seamstress, Miss Anderson.”

  Seamstress? Furrowing her brow, she said hesitantly, “I was not expecting the seamstress today.” Or any day. But she remained cool, thinking that perhaps Lord Berkley had sent someone as a ruse, who would sweep her away to Costille House and into his arms. “I’ll be down directly.”

  Mr. Barkley gave a quick bow, then disappeared, leaving Harriet behind, wondering who was actually visiting her. She quickly looked in the mirror and grimaced. There was no hope for her, not with Jeanine away in London with her sister. She donned her shoes and hurried down to where Mr. Barkley had put the “seamstress,” only to find the room filled with four women she had never seen before in her life, bustling about as if they owned the place.

  The oldest of the women stepped forward. She was tiny, coming up only as far as Harriet’s chin, and was wearing a smart suit of hunter green velvet with black trim. “My name is Mrs. Statler, Miss Anderson, and I am here to measure you for your ball gown.”

  Harriet looked from her to the other three women, who were busy setting out fabrics and all the accoutrements needed for creating a gown, flitting back and forth from two large trunks to the settee where they were placing everything.

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Statler, but I believe there has been a misunderstanding. I have not sent for a seamstress. Perhaps you are looking for a Miss Clara Anderson, my sister?”

  Mrs. Statler stepped closer, went on her tip-toes, and whispered, “Lord Berkley sent me, miss. He was quite adamant that I should not leave until you were dressed in the finest gown in all of England. ‘A gown fit for a princess,’ he said.”

  Wearing her hair in a simple bun and her worst gown—she hadn’t expected to be seen by anyone but servants this day—Harriet did not feel very princess-like, and it was clear from the way Mrs. Statler’s eyes swept over her form that she was not very impressed with her either. “I am sorry to waste your time, Mrs. Statler, but I cannot possibly accept this…gift from Lord Berkley. I pray you will kindly explain to him that…” And that’s when one of the seamstress’s helpers came forward with the most beautiful satin material Harriet had ever seen in her life. She couldn’t help but reach out and touch it, and nearly moaned aloud at how luxurious the fabric felt beneath her hand. It was as beautiful as it was expensive, Harriet suspected, and it was the color of St. Ives Bay in July. The girl held the material up by her face, and Mrs. Statler nodded in appreciation.

  “Perfect,” she pronounced. “His lordship himself picked out the color. He was quite insistent, you see, even though I tried to convince him that it might not be suitable. Not everyone can successfully wear this color blue. But I see he was correct. It will be extraordinary on you.”

  Harriet bit her lip, torn between propriety and avarice. And as it seemed to go of late, she erred on the side of avarice and said a little prayer for her soul.

  Mrs. Statler smiled, sensing she had a customer after all. Stepping back, she looked at Harriet more thoroughly, until Harriet felt like the woman could see right through her dress to the woman beneath. She tsked a few times, shaking her head—rather demoralizing, that—then clapped her hands and demanded some book from one of her assistants. Flipping through the pages quickly, she stopped abruptly and pointed to a picture. “Voilà,” she said.

  Harriet leaned over to look at the fashion plate and her panic grew. The dress was magnificent and she feared she would look silly in such a beautiful piece, a plain girl desperate to look beautiful. Perhaps most enticing of all, it was a modern dress, not a cast-off from two or three years earlier. “It’s lovely, but I don’t think—”

  “Good. Do not think, miss. Leave this up to me. Lord Berkley hired me for a reason. I am the best dressmaker in England. I shall make you look like a princess. Claudette will dress your hair the night of the ball,” she said, nodding to a young girl wh
o dipped a quick curtsy. “She doesn’t speak much English but what she can do with hair, c’est manifique. And that is the extent of my French.” She let out a laugh. “Lord Berkley had very specific instructions on your hair as well, and I can see that his lordship has excellent taste.”

  Harriet couldn’t help but smile. While all this was a bit overwhelming, it was rather exciting to think that Lord Berkley had planned all this, had thought enough of her to realize she likely did not own a gown that would be appropriate for such an event. The temptation was terrible. It was so wrong to accept such an intimate and expensive gift from a man, and if anyone found out where the dress had come from, her reputation would be ruined.

  As if reading her mind, Mrs. Statler said, “We will be exceedingly discreet, Miss Anderson. It is in our best interest.”

  Harriet put her cool hands on her flushed cheeks, mortified that Mrs. Statler might know the nature of her relationship with the earl. “I should not,” Harriet said.

  “Lord Berkley explained all about your parents’ dilemma, that they are only able to afford to give one daughter a season. He is all that is kindness to take your family under his wing.”

  “Oh.” Relief flooded her. “Yes, he is. Very kind.”

  “So you will allow us to make you look like a princess?”

  The girl with the material stepped forward again, and Harriet lost her battle with her morals. “I will,” she said.

  Two days later, Harriet stood in front of a full-length mirror and stared at a stranger. Behind her, the seamstress’s claps mingled with the sound of the rain hitting the windows. As if Lord Berkley had somehow controlled the weather, it had rained each day, allowing Mrs. Statler and her assistants time to fit and sew the gown. They would depart each evening to stay at a nearby inn, and return the next day, cheerful despite the cold rain.

  “Rain is better than snow,” Mrs. Statler would say each time she stepped through the threshold, closing her black umbrella with a sharp snap.