Deceiving an Earl

by Sharon Cullen

  He had a need to reach out to Ellen, to let her know that she was not alone, and if she needed anything he was there for her. But he feared that the olive branch he was extending would be refused. Just like his proposal had been refused. And then he wondered why he wanted to help. For so long he’d allowed a low hum of anger to churn toward Ellen. He’d needed the anger to survive, to justify what she had done to him. And now he found himself reaching out, offering help.

  Was he a fool or had he finally grown past the old hurt?

  Until the night of the salon they had not spoken in seventeen years. She may not—probably did not—want him in her life again.

  And yet he could not walk away from her until he’d reached out to her.

  But what to say and how to say it?

  How to even start the letter? Did he call her Ellen? Too informal? Too presumptuous?

  Lady Fieldhurst? Definitely too formal. They had a past, no matter how hard each of them tried to forget it.

  My lady, he finally wrote.

  I hope all is well with young Fieldhurst and that he has recovered from his revelries. If there is anything you need of me, please don’t hesitate to ask.

  Sincerely,

  Here he hesitated again. Lord Armbruster? Again, too formal and Oliver was too presumptuous. So he signed it:

  A

  Before he could think twice he folded the paper, put it in an envelope, sealed it, and called for a footman.

  “Please purchase a small bouquet of flowers,” he said. “Nothing too extravagant, but something small and…pretty.” Good Lord, he sounded like a ninny. The footman looked confused. “A small bouquet of poppies. Deliver them to Lady Fieldhurst.”

  The footman’s confusion cleared, and he trotted off, but Oliver remained unsettled, wondering if he had done the right thing. Maybe he should have left well enough alone, acted like last night had not even happened. Maybe Ellen would read too much into his words.

  He pulled Ashland’s ledgers toward him and began to sort through them, forcing Ellen, and poppies, and drunken lads out of his mind.

  …

  “I cannot persuade the headmaster to take you back,” Ellen said at luncheon the next day.

  It was the first she had seen of Philip since Oliver had carried him home. Her son had spent the entire day in his closed bedchambers, refusing her entrance.

  He was shoveling food into his mouth and did not answer her.

  “What am I to do with you, Philip? You must go to school.”

  “Why? I’m almost finished and they haven’t taught me shite.”

  “Philip!” Ellen wanted to cover her ears. She had not taught her son to talk like that.

  “Well, they haven’t. I have an earldom to oversee, Mother. School interferes.”

  “Your father’s steward is overseeing everything until you are deemed ready to take over. Your behavior last night and your behavior at school has not convinced me you are ready.”

  He balled up his napkin and threw it on the table. Ellen nodded to the lone footman in the room to leave, and he quietly slipped out. If Philip wasn’t careful he would be the talk of the servants—if he wasn’t already.

  “And who is overseeing the steward? How do we even know he’s doing an adequate job of it? For all we know he is fleecing us. Stealing from us.”

  “Philip, that is enough!” She was appalled by what was coming out of his mouth. “The man has been employed by this family for years and has always done an exemplary job. I cannot believe you would question such a thing.”

  Philip put his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Mother, but you have no idea how frustrating it is to be stuck with those…children…at Eton, knowing that I should be home taking the reins of the Fieldhurst earldom. It is my right and my duty. Staying in school is teaching me nothing.”

  “It seems to me that it has taught you much.” She was referring to the latest incident that had gotten him kicked out and he knew it, because he looked away, his cheeks turning red.

  “You will not take the reins of anything, except your good behavior, until I say you will,” she said.

  “Begging your pardon, but that is not up to you.” He scooted his chair back, stood, and left the room.

  Ellen pushed her plate away, no longer hungry. Indeed, she was feeling quite sick and quite angry at her deceased husband for leaving her in this mess.

  At her desk she pulled Oliver’s note toward her and read it for the hundredth time. The small bouquet of poppies was also sitting on her desk in a small crystal vase. He was the last person she would have expected to reach out a helping hand and offer kind words.

  Not that Oliver was unkind. He wasn’t. But he was also the last person from whom she wanted help.

  She put her head in her hands and fought the tears pressing against her eyes as so many emotions overtook her.

  Ellen watched Lord Fairview—Oliver—walk away. Her heart was beating wildly, and she cursed half of the men on her dance card for taking up time that would be wasted with them. She’d so wanted to find some space for him, but that would have been rude to the men who had written their names down.

  She fingered the card hanging from her wrist, wishing she could erase just one name and put Oliver’s in.

  His eyes had not flickered, no regret had crossed his face, when she’d denied him a dance. And that, most of all, was what sealed it for her. He was so self-assured. Not pompous, just…assured.

  His friend, a boy whose name she could not remember, turned to follow Oliver. Ellen quickly grabbed his sleeve to stop him. He jumped, as if pinched.

  “Tell Lord Fairview that I will be in Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon. Around two,” she whispered.

  At first his brows came together as if he didn’t know what to make of her pronouncement. And then his expression cleared. He nodded and hurried after Oliver.

  Immediately she was nervous. What had she done? She should go after the friend, tell him to forget what she said. But she wanted to talk to Oliver, to meet with him, to get to know him. He was intriguing, so different from the boys she knew.

  Maybe she should have asked him to call on her. That would have been more proper, but she didn’t know how her parents would feel about that. They were very strict with the people she called friends. All her life she’d been told that their social success rested on her shoulders.

  Oliver was a viscount; surely that would be socially acceptable to her parents.

  But she didn’t want him to come to her house. She wanted to meet him somewhere where they could talk without the watchful eyes of her mother.

  No, she would not rescind her invitation. She would be in Hyde Park the next day even if she had to lie to her mother to get there, and she would see where this would lead her.

  She was also to blame for the indiscretion. She was the one who had wanted an adventure, who had wanted Oliver all to herself without her parents hovering.

  She had not wanted to marry Arthur. She had been so young, and he had been so…old. Ancient in her seventeen-year-old eyes. But her objections had been no match for her parents, and she had not realized until then how determined they were to control her entire life and how powerless she had actually been.

  She felt just as powerless now.

  She did not want to accept Oliver’s offer to help. But, like so many years ago, she felt that maybe she did not have a choice.

  …

  “My sources tell me that Lady Fieldhurst is hosting another salon. Tonight. Will you be able to attend?”

  It had been a whole week since Oliver had sent the note with the flowers, and he had not heard from Ellen.

  Maybe he had assumed too much. Maybe he had seen things that weren’t really there. Maybe her problems with her son were nothing more than the usual problems with boys coming out of childhood and feeling their way to adulthood. Maybe he’d been a fool to reach out in the first place. There had been no need to open old wounds, but he’d done it anyway, and now he was suffering for it.
>
  O’Leary wanted him to go back, and he wasn’t sure he could.

  “Isn’t there someone else you can send?” he asked. “Someone who can get closer to Bertrand other than at these events?”

  “We’ve tried. He has a very tight circle of friends that don’t take kindly to strangers.”

  Oliver sighed and put his empty mug of ale down on the desk. “Very well.” He’d go tonight, do what he needed to do, report back to O’Leary, and wash his hands of the whole mess.

  He was glad that Ashland wasn’t here. He would see that Oliver was out of sorts and would want to know why, and Oliver had never told Ashland about Ellen. Out of respect for her he’d never told anyone, and he wasn’t going to start now.

  Chapter Five

  He saw her as soon as he walked in. She was wearing blue this evening. Ironically, so was he. Hers was a deep blue, the color of royalty. She looked regal with her head held high and her slight smile.

  He tore his gaze from her and searched for Bertrand. He found Amelie instead.

  “My lord,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Who told you?” he asked.

  “Lady Fieldhurst. She said you are the Earl of Arlington.”

  “Armbruster.” He wanted to laugh because Amelie seemed to find his subterfuge entertaining, and she wasn’t the least bit upset that he’d lied to her.

  “Armbruster,” she repeated.

  She was wearing another cream gown tonight, a different style, but the same color. She put him in mind of an ice princess, although she’d never been cold to him.

  “Are you here with your father?” he asked.

  She nodded but didn’t elaborate. Her hair was swept up in an elegant twist, loose tendrils brushing her neck and the top of her shoulders. Amelie put him in mind of his sister, Josie.

  “I hear tonight’s entertainment is an ensemble.” Much better than a poetry reading. He thought he might gouge his eyes out if he had to live through another of those.

  Her smile was slight, as if she were reading his thoughts. “That is what I hear as well.”

  Silence fell between them after that.

  “What part of France are you from?” he asked. A waiter came by with a tray of wine and Oliver snagged two, handing one to Amelie.

  She took it with a soft thank you.

  “Paris.”

  “I have been many times. A beautiful city.”

  “I miss it,” she said quietly.

  Oliver tilted his head. “Oh? How long have you been in London?”

  “A few weeks. I am ready to return home, but Papa says we must stay a bit longer.”

  “Is he here on business?”

  Amelie shrugged, a purely Parisian gesture that was an answer in itself.

  “What business is your father in?” Oliver asked.

  “He works for the government. I am unsure what exactly he does.”

  Oliver doubted this story but didn’t doubt that this was what Amelie believed. Bertrand more than likely worked with some sort of government, but not the French government.

  Ellen was making her way around the room, smiling and stopping to talk to random people.

  Amelie’s crystal gaze swept the room as well but in a bored, resigned sort of way.

  “Why did your father bring you along on a business trip? It seems you would have preferred to remain in Paris.”

  Her gaze met his. “I do not want to seem rude. I’m happy to be here, of course, in the most vibrant city in the world. Please don’t think I am unappreciative that my father would like to expand my knowledge of the world.”

  “I don’t think that at all. You just seem sad.”

  Her gaze swept the room, but this time he thought it was so she could collect her thoughts. “It is lonely. My friends are in Paris and Father does not have time to introduce me to people my own age.”

  “Have you attended any balls?”

  “We have not been invited.”

  Oliver had a brilliant idea to introduce Amelie to his sister. Josie would love to introduce Amelie to her friends. But bringing a possible Chartist into his family was probably not a good idea.

  “Let me see what I can do about that,” he said recklessly, while also chastising his big mouth.

  “Oh, I couldn’t ask that of you,” she said quickly.

  “I can’t guarantee anything, but I will see.”

  The good doctor had reached Ellen’s side and cupped her elbow with his hand. She smiled over her shoulder at him, and Oliver’s stomach twisted. He had no right to Ellen. For God’s sake, she’d been married for nearly fourteen years to another man. If he’d had any rights, he’d given them up long ago.

  “Amelie?”

  Antoine Bertrand approached, his gaze bouncing between his daughter and Oliver. Clearly the man was confused as to why his daughter was speaking to Oliver.

  “Papa, I would like you to meet Lord Armbruster. My lord, this is my papa, Antoine Bertrand.”

  Bertrand eyed Oliver warily. Oliver gave him his most charming smile. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bertrand. Miss Bertrand was telling me all about her home in Paris and how much she misses it.”

  Bertrand’s eyes clouded, and Oliver wondered if maybe he had misspoken. Recklessly he went on, ignoring the clanging in his head to shut his mouth.

  “I was thinking that Miss Bertrand and my sister would suit well. My sister could show Miss Bertrand around the city. They could go riding in Hyde Park one morning. It would all be very proper.”

  Bertrand now seemed intrigued. “Poor Amelie has been lonely since I dragged her to England. I will admit that I don’t know many people her own age. That is very kind of you to offer.”

  Oliver noted that Bertrand did not take him up on the kind offer.

  “Where are you staying? I can have my sister call on Miss Bertrand.”

  “My lord.”

  Oliver turned to find Ellen at his elbow, and his breath caught in his chest. Would he ever not be surprised to see her so close to him?

  “Lady Fieldhurst.” He bowed over her hand as her gaze flickered between him and Bertrand.

  “Mr. Bertrand, I hope you don’t mind if I pull Lord Armbruster away for a moment?”

  “Of course not.” Bertrand took his daughter’s elbow and steered her toward the refreshment room. Oliver was disappointed to see them go. He’d been hoping to find out more information from Bertrand.

  “That is an odd acquaintance to make,” Ellen said, looking at him closely, not willing to admit that she was curious as to his interest in Bertrand.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” But he did know what she meant. Ordinarily, Bertrand was not the sort of person Oliver would talk to at any type of event. “I was merely welcoming him and his daughter to London.”

  She raised her brow in disbelief.

  “Can I speak to you privately?” he asked.

  The other brow rose. “Here? Now?”

  “I realize it’s probably an inconvenient time…”

  The doctor was nowhere to be found, and Oliver wondered where he had gone off to. Normally he was hovering closely behind Ellen, like a lap dog.

  The thought was unkind, but Oliver didn’t care.

  Ellen seemed to be considering him. “I have to make sure the ensemble is ready, then direct my guests into the room where they will be playing, but…”

  “There you are, dear.” And just like that, when Oliver was hanging on that word “but,” the doctor appeared, frustrating Oliver to no end.

  She smiled up at Needham and patted his hand.

  “We are almost ready to go in,” he said.

  “Splendid.” She turned back to Oliver. “You are staying, of course. It’s a most excellent ensemble.”

  He almost mumbled, “Better than the poetry reading?” but held his tongue and nodded.

  “Shall we start herding the people in?” Needham said to her.

  Ellen hesitated, glancing at Oliver. “Give me one moment, William, a
nd I will be right with you.”

  Needham shot a confused look at Oliver before walking away.

  “Call on me tomorrow morning,” Ellen said hurriedly. “There is something I need to discuss with you.”

  It took a moment for Oliver to realize what she was asking. What could Ellen possibly need to discuss with him?

  “Very well.”

  She reached out to squeeze his arm. “Thank you for what you did for Philip the other night.”

  “I’m assuming he’s feeling better?”

  “It took the better part of the day but, yes, he’s his old self.”

  By the way she said “old self” Oliver got in the impression that maybe that was not a good thing, but he held his tongue. He was doing a lot of that this night.

  “Tomorrow then,” he said.

  She hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, but nodded, then hurried after the doctor.

  …

  “Really, Oliver, you ask too much. I don’t even know this girl.” Josie had not been as open to showing Amelie around the city as Oliver had hoped.

  He’d stopped by his mother’s house on his way to Ellen’s to ask this favor of his sister and had not found Josie in the best of moods. He probably should not have come here rushed as he was.

  “Just a ride around Hyde Park. She’s lonely, Jose.”

  Josie huffed and put her stitching down. He was stuffed in a small, delicate chair that was more for decoration rather than utilitarian purpose, in her sitting room on the second floor.

  “How do you know this girl?”

  “I met her at a salon.”

  Josie’s brows went up, and she asked a thousand questions with just one look.

  Oliver sighed and then thought he might be able to turn Josie to his side with the truth.

  “You can’t tell anyone, Jose. Not even Mother.”

  Josie sat forward a bit more, curiosity lighting her features. Josie—short for Josephine, a name she despised—was considered a beauty of the first water. She’d had marriage proposals the moment she’d debuted, but nothing Oliver would even seriously consider. More than once she’d told him that she would marry for love or not marry at all, and he adored her enough to take that proclamation seriously. Because he felt the same way. He’d experienced love once, a deep, abiding love, and wanted nothing less with the woman he chose to spend the rest of his life with.