The Earl Most Likely

by Goodger, Jane

  Gloom continued to permeate the Anderson house the next day. Breakfast was a solemn affair, and her mother, who usually had an unladylike appetite in the mornings, picked listlessly at her food. Harriet pushed down a stab of annoyance that her mother was acting as if she were in mourning. Her father was silent, but for some reason this morning his silence seemed somehow heavier. Perhaps she noted this only because Harriet believed she now knew the reason behind his silence. Clara, on the other hand, had rushed into her room, fully dressed, just after dawn, her sun bonnet and garden gloves already on. At breakfast, she ran into the room, her cheeks flushed from the chilly air, and had to school her features when Harriet looked up and subtly shook her head as a reminder that she wasn’t supposed to be feeling quite so happy.

  “How is Mr. Tower faring?” Harriet asked her father simply to break the silence. Mr. Tower was one of her father’s foremen who had been injured in the mine.

  “Well enough. Broke his arm, but he’s back today. ‘e’s a tough bas—”

  “Silas,” Hedra said sharply.

  Her father gave Hedra a level look, then sighed. “Well enough.” Then he went back to his breakfast.

  “What are your plans today?” her mother asked, taking Harriet by surprise.

  “I have no idea.”

  “I thought you might come with me to Mrs. Pittsfield’s luncheon.”

  Dread filled Harriet. “I’d rather not, Mother.”

  Hedra pressed her lips together. “You cannot continue to hide away, Harriet. Shyness is no longer charming as it was when you were a child.”

  She felt a familiar sick twist in her stomach and was about to explain why she didn’t care to spend an interminably dull afternoon with Mrs. Pittsfield and her petulant son (the real reason she’d suddenly been asked to accompany her mother), when their butler entered the room carrying a thick, cream-colored envelope.

  Her mother took it, examining it curiously before breaking the large, red seal. “Oh. Oh!” Harriet could not immediately tell if this was an ‘oh’ of excitement or one of shock.

  “What is it, Mother?”

  When Hedra beamed a smile, Harriet knew it must be something very, very good. She smiled back at her mother, glad that something had made her so happy.

  “Lord Berkley,” she said, holding her hand against her heart. “He sends his apologies for sending this so late, but he has invited us to the ball. The ball at which he will look for a bride.”

  Harriet fought the urge to smile, and instead grabbed the napkin from her lap and pretended to wipe something from her face. Hedra immediately looked at Clara, who sat there stunned, her mouth open slightly, her expression that of one who is bracing for terrible news. “We’ve been invited to the earl’s ball,” Hedra gushed. “Mr. Anderson, do you hear? The earl’s ball! The very same ball that we would never have been invited to if not for our luncheon. I knew he was interested in our Clara, I just knew it.” Hedra read the invitation again as if to be certain she wasn’t seeing things.

  “Mother,” Clara said, with the sort of accepting horror of someone who was about to face the executioner.

  Hedra either didn’t recognize her daughter’s distress or she didn’t care. Harriet hadn’t seen her mother so happy since they’d returned from London. How tempted she was to tell everyone sitting at the table that the only reason any of them were invited was because Augustus, her lover, her love, wanted her there.

  “Am I invited too, Mother?” Harriet said, as her heart rejoiced. She almost wanted her mother to say she was not, she was feeling just that contrary.

  “Of course,” Hedra said, beaming. “We’re all invited. To the most exclusive ball in all of England. Oh, dear, I think I shall faint.” In dramatic fashion, she used the invitation as a fan. “Oh, thank goodness we have gowns for you to wear, Clara. It’s fate shining down on us, it is. All those lovely dresses and now you have a place to wear them.”

  “Surely, Clara cannot wear more than one dress, Mother,” Harriet said, and she felt Clara kick her beneath the table.

  Her mother’s smile faltered slightly; then she waved a dismissive hand at Harriet. “Don’t be a ninny,” she said good-naturedly. Harriet felt she could say just about anything to her mother at that moment, and Hedra wouldn’t care. Anything, that was, but the truth of why they’d all been invited.

  As her mother prattled on about which dress Clara should wear, Harriet went back to her breakfast, relishing the wonderful feelings coursing through her. How on earth would he be able to explain their presence at his ball to his grandmother? Everything he’d said about that lady made her seem rather formidable. He’d admitted, with a fair amount of amusement, that his grandmother was a stickler for propriety. So much so that Harriet had been more nervous about meeting her than trying to fool an entire ballroom of aristocrats that she was a princess from some obscure European country.

  And now all of them would be there.

  Oh, Lord.

  * * * *

  “I have an addition to our guest list,” Augustus said that evening, having received the Andersons’ response a mere two hours after he’d sent one of his footmen to deliver the invitation. He’d smiled, imagining Harriet’s surprise, as he was fairly certain she’d decided that attending the ball would now be impossible.

  At first, he’d agreed with her. She couldn’t possibly attend the ball now. What was she to do, sneak out wearing a ball gown and walk to Costille? He couldn’t send a carriage, not without everyone in her household knowing about it. It was a shame—he had wanted her with him when he revealed Lenore’s murderer, but he would tell her about it—after making love all afternoon. And then he had a terrible thought: They had agreed to continue their affair only until the night of the ball. And if she was not attending the ball…

  He’d crumpled that note and thrown it in the fire, then taken out his stationery and written a quick invitation. It was impossible for him not to see her again, never to hear her laugh or hold her. Or beat her at checkers. She would be out of his life forever and he’d never get a chance to say a proper good-bye, to let her know just how much he…

  Well, it was impossible. He had to see her again. She must attend the ball, and that meant he would have to invite her embarrassing family. And that meant he’d have to warn his grandmother, because she sure as hell would see something was amiss with the Andersons. He cringed, just thinking of what might happen—particularly if Mrs. Anderson fortified herself with a bit of whisky, as Harriet said she was wont to do.

  He had to warn his grandmother of the additional guests and perhaps hint that they were not quite the type of guests he usually invited.

  “You’ve added to the guest list?” his grandmother said, as if he’d said he’d hired a troupe of gypsies to perform at his ball. Her spoonful of consommé paused and she glared at him before taking a delicate sip.

  “I have. A local family.”

  Lady Porter wrinkled her brow. “I cannot imagine who. The Hubbards perhaps?”

  Augustus’s lips curved up slightly, more of a grimace, really, than a smile. “No. The Andersons.”

  His grandmother thought for a moment. “Who is their family?”

  “His father was a tin miner and hers was a pig farmer.” He almost enjoyed the look of horror on his grandmother’s face. She stared at him, sucking in her cheeks and narrowing her eyes as was her habit when she saw or heard something disagreeable and wasn’t certain how to react to it.

  Then her face cleared. “You are joking.” She seemed to relax, dismissing from her mind any talk about tin miners and pig farmers, and took another spoonful of soup. “Please give your cook my compliments. This soup is excellent.”

  “I will.” While Augustus agreed that the soup was excellent, he put his own spoon down. “I am not joking, Grandmamma. I have invited the young woman who helped me restore Costille House. And her family.”
<
br />   “The one with the memory. You are paying her, are you not? Surely that is enough compensation.”

  Augustus drummed his fingers against the linen table cloth, ignoring his grandmother’s censorious glance at his tapping. “Here’s the rub.” Lady Porter’s mouth tightened at his use of slang. “I rather like the girl. She’s worked hard and I enjoy her company—”

  His grandmother waved a dismissive had. “Very well, invite the family. Invite anyone you please. Invite the entire village. What do I know about propriety?”

  “Excellent,” Augustus said, pretending his grandmother had given her whole-hearted approval.

  Guests began arriving the next day, among them Lansdowne, looking more drawn than he remembered. And even though it was only ten in the morning, Augustus distinctly smelled alcohol on his friend’s breath.

  “Good to see you, Lansdowne,” Augustus said, greeting his old friend as he stepped from the carriage. “Wait ’til you see what I’ve done with the old place.”

  As they entered, Lansdowne stopped cold. “It’s all gone,” he said softly. “Every bit of her.”

  Augustus gave his friend a confused look. “Well, yes. Lenore ruined the old girl and I’ve brought her back. I take it you’re disappointed.” Oddly, Lansdowne seemed more than disappointed. As he watched his friend step further into Costille House, his expression one of pure desolation, Augustus fought back the suspicion that had been eating at him for weeks. Could Lansdowne be the C of his wife’s letters? When Lansdowne turned toward him, his eyes red and slightly damp, Augustus very nearly felt the urge to cry himself.

  “You loved her, didn’t you?” he said softly, praying his old friend would revert to the man he knew, that jovial chap who had made his youth so much fun.

  “I did.” Lansdowne continue to walk through the entry, lifting his hand to touch the suit of armor lightly as he did. “She hated this thing,” he said absently.

  Admitting he’d loved Lenore did not necessarily mean Lansdowne was the killer, but Augustus dreaded the coming interview. “Tell you what, let’s go into my study and have a drink. It’s not too early, is it?”

  This suggestion seemed to brighten Lansdowne’s mood a bit, and the two men headed toward the study, Augustus feeling uncertain in his friend’s company for the first time. A man who had murdered a woman would have no compunction murdering him. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise up as Lansdowne followed him to his study. When they entered, Lansdowne laughed, a bitter, humorless sound.

  “You’ve undone her entirely,” he said, looking around the room with unmasked anger.

  “She destroyed this house,” Augustus said evenly, cautiously, as he went to his sideboard and poured two drinks. Turning, relieved that Lansdowne was across the room and not standing behind him bearing a weapon, he studied his friend, who continued to look around the room with unveiled dislike.

  Handing Lansdowne the drink, he said, as casually as he could, given the circumstances, “Were you her lover?”

  Lansdowne’s reaction, unschooled and unrehearsed, was gratifying. “Good God, no. What sort of man do you take me for?”

  “You did just admit that you loved her.”

  “I did. Everyone did. Except for you, it seems. She was your wife, Augustus. You are like a brother to me. Why do you think I went to Singapore? I could not bear to see you, to have you suspect what was in my heart. I was ashamed, but I hated you as much as I loved her. It was intolerable.” Lansdowne’s eyes filled again and he looked away as if ashamed by his emotions. “When she died… I was here, you know.”

  “In England?”

  He let out a laugh. “At Costille House. She called it her last hurrah ball, for she knew you were returning.” He took a thoughtful sip of his brandy, closing his eyes briefly to savor the drink. “As always, the finest brandy.”

  Augustus studied him, unsure whether to believe him or not. How could it have been that more than one man had loved Lenore?

  “She was happy, you know. Glad of your return. I think, despite her anger over the marriage and what your father had done, that she actually liked you, that she was glad the two of you would try to do your duty. It killed me, knowing you were returning, knowing I would have to witness you falling in love with her. You would have, you know.”

  Augustus remained silent, allowing Lansdowne to continue to speak, praying he would say something that would reveal himself as the murderer—and praying he would not.

  “That night, she’d never looked more beautiful. Well, you saw her. We didn’t expect you so soon, you know, and when I heard you’d arrived, I left. I couldn’t bear to see you, to have you suspect how I felt. And that night, she killed herself.” He shook his head. “I’ve always thought that odd. She seemed, if not happy about your return, then at least resigned to it. I’ve gone over that night a hundred times, trying to recall something, anything, that would have told me she was planning to do such a horrid thing.”

  Perhaps Augustus was a blind fool, but he believed Lansdowne. For a moment, he weighed telling him how he believed Lenore had died, then thought better of it. Instead, he went to his desk and retrieved a pen and ink and piece of paper, laying it atop his desk.

  “Did you ever believe that I had killed her?” Augustus asked.

  “No, never.”

  “Suspicion continues to dog me,” Augustus said. “Would you mind very much putting that in writing?”

  “Truly? I am sorry, Augustus, that you came under suspicion. I thought that matter had been quickly resolved. If I had known you continued to be suspected, I would have come forward immediately. Certainly, I will write whatever you’d like.”

  Augustus stepped aside and allowed Lansdowne access to the desk. Lansdowne took up the pen, then glanced at him. “Something formal, you think? Such as ‘I, Charles Green, Viscount Lansdowne, do not believe Augustus Lawton, etcetera, etcetera.’”

  Augustus smiled grimly. “That will do.” And then he watched as Lansdowne wrote down those words, holding his breath for a long moment. Lansdowne wrote in a bold, looping manner, and Augustus let out his breath slowly, fighting a smile, his relief so immediate, he felt nearly giddy. His friend’s handwriting was so different from that of the letters, it was obvious they could not have been penned by the same person.

  “Thank you,” Augustus said, slapping his friend heartily on the back. “You have no idea what that means to me.”

  “Of course.” Lansdowne looked down, still clearly distressed. “And thank you for not pummeling me for falling in love with Lenore. I didn’t mean to, you know.”

  “Of course, I know that. I have found that love cannot be stopped, even when you most fervently wish for it.”

  “No, it cannot.” Lansdowne took up his drink, then placed it down again. “I think I may be done killing myself over this. You have no idea how it has weighed on my mind.”

  “You never acted on your love?” Lansdowne may have said he had not, but Augustus needed to hear it again.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I swear to you. But I wished a thousand times that I had. I wished you would never return, that you would be scalped and killed by Indians, that you would drown at sea.” Augustus laughed, and his friend looked at him as if surprised by his laughter. “Thank you, Augustus.”

  Augustus shook off his thanks. “No need. Just help me get through this evening. Can you believe I have done something as foolish as to invite every eligible lady in all of England to a ball in hopes of finding a bride?”

  “I did think you’d gone mad,” Lansdowne said.

  “And the worst part is I do not plan to marry a single one of them.”

  * * * *

  Of course, Harriet had already seen herself in the gown, but now that she had her hair done and her eyes were glowing with excitement, she couldn’t help but think she looked at least a little bit like someo
ne named Catalina. The beadwork was stunning, the lace exquisite, and Harriet knew trying to convince her mother that she was wearing one of Clara’s altered gowns would be a challenge, if not impossible. The Anderson girls had never owned such an extravagant gown, and the fact that Harriet had accepted it without a smidgeon of guilt made her realize how far removed she was from the girl who’d stared shyly at Lord Berkley the first time they’d met.

  “That is not my gown,” Clara said, startling Harriet, who was staring at herself in their full-length mirror. “Where did it come from?”

  “Alice,” Harriet said quickly, proud and a bit shocked that she’d come up with a lie so quickly and said it so smoothly. “Don’t tell Mother; she would be mortified that I am wearing her cast-off. Alice insisted.” Harriet made a mental note to tell Alice her tale—just in case.

  Clara laughed. “Mother will know, silly. I don’t think she’ll mind very much.” Clara walked to her and examined the gown more closely. “It is lovely, isn’t it? You look like a fairy princess. And the color makes your eyes stunning. How lucky Alice had it.”

  “It only needed a bit of alteration,” Harriet said, feeling a sudden rush of guilt for lying to her sister.

  “What needed a bit of…” Hedra’s voice trailed off as she entered the room, her eyes on Harriet.

  “Alice said she would never wear it again and it’s so beautiful, Mother, I couldn’t resist, especially since I don’t really have anything appropriate for such an important event,” Harriet said quickly.

  “Oh, Harriet,” Hedra said, “you’ve never looked more beautiful. Even with your hair so…” She looked with a critical eye at the intricate coiffure that allowed her curls to show in all their glory. “…wild.”

  Harriet laughed at this last. “You never can give me a complete compliment, can you, Mother?”