The Earl Most Likely

by Goodger, Jane

  “Pride goeth before a fall,” Hedra quoted, then took a closer look at the gown. “This bead work is a wonder. Do you know the dressmaker?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “So it is not Worth?”

  “As I said, I do not know, but I could find out if you would like me to. Worth embroiders his signature on the gown, does he not?”

  “And it says ‘Paris’ too,” Clara said distractedly.

  “Still, even if it is not Worth, it is lovely.” Hedra sighed. “I fear this dress would be too dear for us but as long as no one knows it’s a hand-me-down I suppose it’s fine. Oh, you should have seen the way women dress in London. Each time I go there I am stunned by the fashions. But you two look lovely for a country ball.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” Clara said. “You are looking quite handsome yourself.”

  Hedra waved a dismissive hand. “It doesn’t matter how I look, dears. I already have a husband.” This last was said pointedly and directed at Clara, who apparently chose to ignore her and instead smiled. Ever since their return from London, Hedra had eased up a bit on the husband hunt, but Harriet feared being invited to the earl’s ball would only give her mother hope.

  Once the Andersons were all in their finery, they headed to their new carriage, purchased especially for their time in London. No one mentioned what a terrible waste of money it had been. Hedra had dreamed of driving in Hyde Park and attracting all sorts of attention for Clara. Harriet had little doubt their ornate and flashy carriage did draw attention, simply not the attention her mother had hoped.

  The carriage looked like something royalty would ride in, with decorative gilded adornment along the top and doors that Harriet thought made it look like fancy pastry. Her father had even commissioned a crest, although where it came from she had no idea. It featured some sort of mythical creature that Harriet had never seen before and was no doubt a figment of the artist’s imagination. It was, in a word, embarrassing, and it was almost heartbreaking how very proud her parents were of it.

  Unlike other balls they had attended, there was only a short queue of carriages, most guests having arrived at Costille House two days prior. Her mother was in good spirits; as they’d waited to get into the carriage, Clara had whispered that she smelled no sign of alcohol on her mother’s breath and for that both girls were grateful. This outing was fraught with enough danger without the threat of her mother becoming tipsy.

  “Oh, goodness,” Hedra said, looking out the window warily. For all her outward confidence, Harriet knew her mother was exceedingly nervous because she kept adjusting her gloves. “I’ve heard the castle is haunted.”

  “It’s not,” Harriet said, then immediately wished she’d said nothing.

  “And how would you know that?”

  “I toured it twice, Mother. Once with Cousin Emmy and once with my friends. We didn’t see a single ghost,” Harriet said, suppressing a smile.

  “You can make fun if you want, missy, but Cornwall is full of spirits and I wouldn’t be surprised if this old castle hosted a few unwanted guests. I never did have much use for ghosts.”

  “No such thing as ghosts,” her father said gruffly, startling the women in the carriage. Her father so rarely spoke, it was nearly always surprising when he did.

  The carriage pulled up in front of the main entrance, and Harriet couldn’t help but smile to see flaming torches lighting the way. How proud Augustus was of his home now, and Harriet felt like an intimate part of the old place. They could hear the general noise of people, murmurs and laughter, subdued and not at all like the John Knill ball that had drawn mostly locals. She hadn’t even set foot inside, and already Harriet was feeling conspicuous.

  “Remember, girls, we were invited,” Hedra said, and Harriet knew her mother was reminding herself of this fact. Hedra had talked about meeting a baron for weeks; how would meeting dukes and viscounts and marquesses affect her?

  Clara and Harriet, walking arm-in-arm, trailed behind their parents. “I think I’m going to be ill,” Harriet said, and Clara gave her arm a squeeze.

  Mr. Pearson greeted them, and Harriet could not have been more relieved when he pretended as if he had never seen her before. But just as they were passing, he gave her a subtle wink, and Harriet smiled, grateful to have a friend here. “The ball is being held in the Great Room to the left,” he said.

  “I have an invitation,” Hedra said, sounding nervous.

  “No need, madam. The Andersons are on the guest list.”

  As they walked toward the Great Room, Harriet heard her mother say in awe, “He knew who we were,” and her heart ached for her mother just a bit.

  The orchestra had not yet begun to play, but all had gathered in the Great Room, a large crush of people facing toward the front of the room where Harriet knew Augustus planned to announce the poetry contest. Never before had Harriet seen such a gathering of the ton and she almost wished she could have pretended to be Princess Catalina rather than simple Miss Harriet Anderson. The air was filled with soft murmurs and expensive perfume, mingling with cigar smoke that clung to many of the gentlemen’s evening suits. A sea of colorful and expensive gowns interspersed with the black and white of men’s formal wear made Harriet glad she was wearing such a beautiful creation and not one of her sister’s ill-fitting cast-offs.

  “Attention, all, attention.” Harriet smiled. She could not help herself, for it had been three days since she’d seen Augustus and just hearing his voice made her heart sing. Suddenly, she could see him above the crowd—he must have stepped onto a chair—and Harriet forced herself to look away, fearing her love would show too clearly to anyone who happened to look her way.

  “Before the dancing begins,” he said, his voice booming over the crowd, “I have a special surprise. Because this ball is being held so close to Christmas, I would like each of you to write a Christmas poem. The winning poem will win this silver candlestick, which was forged from good English sterling one hundred years ago.”

  The crowd murmured its approval, and Clara gave her a look that said, “Isn’t this exciting?”

  At once, several servants began handing out small slips of paper and pencils, until each guest had the proper accoutrements for this ruse. Harriet started to make her way to the front of the room, but Clara stopped her with a hand to her upper arm.

  “Where are you going?” she whispered. “You know I’m terrible at such things. I need your help.”

  “I want to get closer to the front. Come along. I’ll write in my head as we go.”

  “Don’t forget to sign your names,” Augustus called. “Please place your poem in the bowl next to me. Then, ladies, you may collect your dance cards for the evening.”

  He stepped down and Harriet lost sight of him for a time, then spied him making his way through the crowd, stopping to chat now and then or be introduced to a young lady. She couldn’t bear to think that one of the young ladies here might one day be his wife, so she turned her back to him and made a pretense of talking to Clara. All this time, she’d tried to prepare herself, to distance herself from the true purpose of this ball. Now, faced with all these high born ladies, she found it nearly impossible to remain indifferent.

  “Imagine, someone in this room will likely be the new countess,” Clara said, clearly excited by the possibility. Then she leaned forward and said, “And I cannot tell you how glad I am that it will not be me.”

  Harriet laughed in spite of her heavy heart. “You never know, Clara. You were invited, after all.”

  Clara furrowed her brow. “I don’t know why. You would have thought Eliza would have been invited before we, but she was not. Why us?”

  Harriet shrugged. “Perhaps because Mother practically invited herself that day the earl came for luncheon?”

  “Perhaps.”

  All around them, guests were busily writing. If Harriet hadn’t known the cun
ning plan to expose a murderer, it might have been a fun way to open a ball. “Hurry, Harriet,” Clara said, looking pointedly at the still-blank piece of paper.

  Harriet thought for a moment, then wrote:

  As our Lord and Savior looks down on us

  I pray that he is glad

  To see us celebrate this birth

  So a bride for the earl can be had

  Harriet giggled, then showed it to Clara, who gasped. “Oh, you cannot. It is so…”

  “Amusing?” Harriet asked. “I can sign my name to this one if you like.”

  “Please do.”

  “Very well.” She thought for a moment, then wrote another poem for Clara.

  Christmas Season brings much joy

  As we hark the angels sing

  We celebrate the birth of Christ

  And pray good tidings bring

  Harriet wrinkled her nose, not liking it at all, but Clara snatched it out of her hand and proclaimed it perfect. “Don’t you think we have enough silver in our house as it is?” she asked, and Harriet laughed.

  “It is terrible, is it not?”

  Clara grinned. “Perfectly terrible.”

  The two girls made their way to the front of the room and deposited their poems in a large bowl. Harriet, not knowing whether she should acknowledge Augustus, kept her eyes averted, though her senses were attuned to his proximity.

  “Miss Anderson, I wonder if you might help me judge the contest.”

  Harriet stilled until Clara nudged her and whispered, “The earl is talking to you.” Harriet looked at her sister, whose eyes were filled with excitement and perhaps a bit of relief that she had not been the Anderson sister to whom the earl was speaking.

  “Oh. Yes, of course, my lord.” Augustus smiled at her and Harriet felt a small bit of panic in her heart; he was making no effort to hide the fact he was happy to see her. She turned to her sister, but Clara was already heading back to their parents. Torn between excitement and reluctance, Harriet moved to stand next to the earl, but he forestalled her by touching her arm briefly.

  “Miss Anderson, may I present to you Lady Porter, my grandmother. Grandmamma, this is Harriet, the girl I told you about.”

  Harriet realized to her horror that she hadn’t even seen the older woman standing next to Augustus, and she gave an inward grimace. Dipping a curtsy, Harriet said, “It is an honor to meet you, my lady.”

  “Thank you for assisting my grandson in restoring Costille House,” Lady Porter said, her voice clipped.

  “It was my pleasure,” Harriet said, giving a look around the room.

  “My grandson has told me much about you. You are a clever girl, I believe.”

  Harriet smiled uncertainly, not sure whether Lady Porter was complimenting her intelligence or somehow insulting her; she had little experience with the subtleties of the aristocracy.

  “I told my grandmother the reason behind the poetry contest,” Augustus said quietly, but Harriet still wasn’t certain the old woman was praising her.

  “I do hope you do not disappoint,” Lady Porter said, and when Augustus shot his grandmother a look of bemused irritation, Harriet suspected the old lady was not pleased that she and her family had been invited to the ball.

  “As I am certain you have a low opinion of me, I believe it will be nearly impossible to disappoint, Lady Porter.”

  The older woman’s eyes flashed some emotion, but Harriet wasn’t certain whether the woman was angry or showed grudging respect. It didn’t matter, for Harriet was quite certain she would never see the old lady again.

  In short order, all the poems were collected and laid out on a long table. Augustus and Harriet eagerly looked them over, pulling a few out that were the closest to the penmanship in the letters. The writing on the letters was so distinctive, Harriet quickly ascertained that none of the poems was a match.

  “All the Cs are here?” Harriet whispered.

  “They are,” Augustus said, not bothering to hide his frustration as he looked over the poems. He surreptitiously withdrew one of the letters and laid it on the table so they could compare the few they’d separated out to C’s writing.

  “This one,” Harriet said uncertainly. While the writing was diminutive, it did not match precisely, and when Harriet saw the author, she sighed. “Margaret Hatch.”

  Augustus muttered a curse, then took up a random poem and proclaimed a winner.

  “We have a winner,” he said, then looked down at the scrap of paper. “Lord Merritt.”

  The crowd broke into applause, and began urging the elderly Lord Merritt to read aloud his winning effort.

  “Was it even good?” Harriet whispered.

  “I have no idea.”

  With a glint in his eye, the old gent took up his poem and cleared his throat.

  “There once was a maiden from Nazareth

  a prettier girl than the rest

  When an angel did see her

  And left a babe in her

  Joseph was put to the test”

  Utter silence followed, until Augustus stepped up, clapping politely, and thanked Lord Merritt for his poem.

  “Perhaps we should have actually read the thing,” Harriet said, trying not to smile.

  “Indeed.” His gaze swept over her. “You are stunning this evening, Miss Anderson.”

  Harriet felt her cheeks flush and she dipped her head.

  “Dancing will begin shortly,” Augustus announced. “Ladies, you may now retrieve your dance cards.” Then he turned to Harriet. “You may come with me.”

  Augustus led her away from the noise and chaos of the ballroom, and as soon as they were shielded from prying eyes, he grabbed her hand and dragged her down a short hallway and around a corner. Once they were safe, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her like a man who has not kissed his woman for a very long time.

  “Goodness,” she said softly, not wanting to draw the attention of anyone who might be nearby. “It appears you have missed me, my lord.”

  He kissed her again, his arms tightening around her. “I have missed you,” he said, drawing back and looking intently into her eyes. “Dare I think you have missed me?”

  Harriet couldn’t help but giggle, for she’d been absolutely bereft. The separation, even though it had only been for three days, had been nearly unbearable. “I tried to come up with some pretense to visit Costille House, but nothing I thought of was remotely believable. If your grandmother is as smart as you say she is, she would have seen right through me and thought me a common hussy.” She laughed again. “Which I suppose I am, given my recent behavior.”

  “Do not say such things,” he said fiercely, his brow furrowing. “You are my Catalina and she is no hussy.”

  Harriet grinned and kissed his chin. “I feel like Catalina in this gown. It is the most beautiful dress I have ever owned.”

  “You are beautiful, not the gown,” he said huskily. He gave her another, long, drugging kiss, dragging a hand up her side to cup one breast and Harriet wished they were not steps away from a crowded ballroom. He let out a groan and stepped back to take her head gently in his hands. “I don’t believe I’ll be able to give you up,” he said, his hands on either side of her face, his thumb caressing her cheeks. It wasn’t his words that made her heart soar, but rather the way he said them, the way he looked at her, as if his words held an unspoken promise. She did not want to dream, to believe what she saw.

  Harriet swallowed, searching his face. “What are you saying?”

  He smiled gently down at her, then gave her a hard, swift kiss. “I want—”

  “’arriet. Where are you, gel?”

  Harriet gasped. “My mother!” she whispered, pulling away. The sound of footsteps and rustling skirts told Harriet that her mother would be upon them at any moment.

  “Go.�
�� He gave her another quick kiss, then pushed her into the hall, but not before she saw he was smiling, a smile that gave her hope that she wasn’t dreaming.

  Harriet hurried to the corner, took a deep breath, then nearly ran into her mother. Taking her arm, Harriet led her back to the ballroom before she could see Augustus in the shadows. Her heart was beating madly in her chest—not because of nearly being caught with the earl, but because of what she believed Augustus had been about to say. He knew she would not be his mistress, so what else could he possibly be proposing but marriage? I don’t think I’ll be able to give you up. I want... It was maddening not to know how that sentence ended. But the way he’d looked at her, kissed her. …to marry you. Oh, God, to think such a thing, to even allow it to enter her mind was so very dangerous to her heart.

  “Why aren’t you in the Great Room, Mother?” Harriet asked with forced cheerfulness, leading her mother to where nearly all the guests had gathered for the first dance.

  “I was looking for you, luv,” she said, and stumbled a bit.

  Harriet realized, with no small amount of horror, that her mother had obviously imbibed. With a sick feeling of foreboding, she slowed her steps. “Perhaps we should find you a place to rest,” Harriet said calmly.

  “Rest? Rest! The men are already swarmin’ around Clara like caggle ona barn floor, arem? And the Lord Berkley is nowhere to be found.”

  Oh, lord, Harriet thought, her mother was far more into her cups than she would have thought possible. They’d arrived not one hour prior, and she was already slipping heavily into her Cornish dialect. Harriet stopped and forced her mother to look at her. “Mother, it is very important that we present ourselves in the best possible light. For Clara’s sake.”

  “Of course. What do you think I am, a great dobeck?”

  Harriet winced. “No, I do not believe you are stupid, but using the word ‘dobeck’ is what I am speaking of. These fine people will not know what a dobeck is, Mother. You will reveal us.”

  Hedra looked momentarily confused. “Of course, ’arriet. You’re a good girl, you are.” Then she repeated her name, over-pronouncing the ‘h’. At that moment, Harriet felt as sorry for her mother as she felt for herself. Attending the ball were the highest members of English aristocracy; it would take very little for the Andersons to be revealed as frauds. Oh, what had Augustus been thinking when he’d invited her family to the ball? It wasn’t so vital that she be present when the murderer was revealed. Augustus had handled the ruse with aplomb and to a person, they had all busily written their Christmas poems, hoping to win the prize—a lovely silver candlestick. And yet, had she not gone, she would have been at home wishing fervently that she’d attended, like some abandoned Cinderella without a fairy godmother to rescue her.