Deceiving an Earl

by Sharon Cullen

  How could he ask less of his sister?

  But she was also bored with her life as a debutante. Josie liked adventure and intrigue, and he feared that someday that would land her in trouble.

  “I was asked to discover some information on a man named Antoine Bertrand.”

  “That sounds French.”

  “He is French, as is his daughter, Amelie.”

  “What information? Who asked you to do this? Why you?” Her questions came one after the other with barely a breath in between.

  Oliver held up his hand. “Who asked is none of your concern. Why me, is none of your concern, either.”

  She sat back and folded her arms across her chest, pouting. “Then I won’t help you.”

  He contemplated her, testing the angles he needed to take to get her to do what he wanted. “Very well. I’ll find someone else to help me.”

  He stood, not an easy task when he feared the chair would collapse beneath him. “Tell Mother I’m sorry I missed her.”

  “She’ll be angry if you don’t stay until she returns.”

  “I have business to attend.”

  She was watching him warily, trying to decide if he would follow through with his bluff. “Business with this Bertrand?”

  He tweaked her nose and grinned. “None of your concern, since you said you wouldn’t help me.”

  She blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ll tell Mother you were here, and you will feel her wrath that you didn’t stay.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve heard it before. Besides, I really do have a business meeting.”

  He made it all the way to her door, stopped, hesitated, then pulled it open and walked out.

  She held out longer than he thought she would. He’d made it almost to the front door before she came barreling down the steps, skidding to a stop in front of him, practically flinging her arms out to block his exit.

  “What would you need me to do?”

  He barely concealed his satisfied grin.

  Chapter Six

  Oliver was making his second round through Hyde Park, feeling like a lovesick fool. Kitchener insisted that Miss Hillgrave told him to meet her here. Oliver had interrogated him over and over, and his friend’s story never changed.

  So here Oliver was, riding through Hyde Park, staring intently at any gaggle of chits that happened by him. But no Ellen. It was close to one o’clock and he’d not laid eyes on her.

  He felt strangely bereft. Like he’d missed a life-changing opportunity.

  And then he saw her. He wasn’t even that close, but he would know the curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulders, anywhere.

  His heart slowed and a calmness overcame him, as if her presence soothed him.

  He slowed his horse as they approached and tipped his hat to her. “Ladies.”

  She was with what appeared to be a maid. It was just the two of them. None of the chits from the night before were with her. Had she planned it that way?

  “Lord Fairview, what a surprise to see you here.” Her eyes twinkled with amusement, and she pressed her lips together as if she were trying not to laugh.

  Oliver grinned. “Just taking my usual stroll through Hyde Park.”

  “Would you care to join me?”

  His heart leaped in an uncharacteristic way. “I would be honored to join you, my lady.”

  He turned his mount around until they were side by side. They rode in silence for a bit, but it wasn’t an awkward silence, more companionable.

  “Did you enjoy yourself at the ball last night?” she asked.

  “Immensely. And you?”

  “It was well attended.”

  Not the answer he had thought she would say. “Well attended?” he glanced over at her, but she was looking straight ahead, again appearing as if she were trying not to laugh.

  “You seem amused,” he said.

  She drew in her breath sharply, then let out the laugh that she had been holding in. “Don’t you find this…odd?”

  “This?” he asked.

  She waved an elegant hand in the air. “You and I. Here.”

  “I find it…destined.”

  “Destined?” She pulled her horse up, and he followed suit, but they were in the middle of Hyde Park in the afternoon. They were causing the pathway to become congested. He motioned for them to move to the side, near a line of trees.

  “What do you mean by destined?” she asked when they were repositioned.

  He shrugged and looked out over Hyde Park. “I don’t know. It just seems that you and I meeting seemed like it was meant to be. Didn’t you feel it last night?”

  She was suddenly serious, looking at him with those dark eyes. “I felt something,” she said, making his heart fly.

  “A connection?”

  “I don’t know what it was. I’m not willing to name it yet.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, determined that he was going to convince her that they were meant to be together. He knew it in his bones. His blood hummed with her and he just knew, more than he’d known anything else in his life, that he and Ellen were meant to be together.

  Oliver was more nervous than he anticipated when he approached Ellen’s home. He didn’t know what to expect, and he didn’t know what he hoped to achieve from their meeting.

  He missed talking to her. Even years later, he missed the easy camaraderie they had shared and that he had never had with anyone else.

  So maybe there was some hope that she wanted something more than the awkward avoiding of each other they had fallen into.

  The butler led him into the sitting room. In the light of day, with no one else in the room, it looked like an average sitting room, decorated to reflect Ellen. Priceless vases and objects de art were scattered around the bright and airy room.

  She did not leave him waiting for long, and as soon as she entered he picked up on her nervousness.

  “Tea will be served momentarily.”

  He nodded, not necessarily wanting tea but willing to play out the scene.

  She sat on the edge of the couch, her hands folded primly in her lap, her body held so tight that he feared she would shatter if he moved too quickly. He sat opposite her in a comfortable chair meant to complement the couch.

  It was apparent that she was not going to speak about anything until tea was served. So they sat in an awkward kind of silence while questions crowded his mind.

  Finally he could stand no more.

  “How do you know Antoine Bertrand?” he asked, because the question had been preying on him.

  She seemed surprised that he had not only broken the silence but asked that question. “I’ve met him at other salons. He’s an interesting man.”

  “Are you aware that he is a Chartist?”

  She blinked, again seeming surprised by his question. “I don’t see why that matters. The Chartist movement died years ago.”

  “Some would like to think it died, but there are others who want to bring it back.”

  “Is it so wrong to be a Chartist?”

  He was stymied by that question because no, he didn’t believe there was anything wrong with the heart of the Chartist movement. “I believe that there should be equality among people. I believe that everyone should get a vote. But I don’t believe in the Chartists’ ways of going about it. Violence never solves anything.”

  She tilted her head toward him as if she were pleased with his answer. “Mr. Bertrand is not a threat to the Crown, if that is your concern.”

  “You know this how?”

  “We’ve spoken of it. Yes, he’s interested in resurrecting the Chartist movement, but only on a Parliamentary level. He does not believe in the violence of the past.”

  “And he truly thinks he can breathe new life into a nearly dead movement?”

  “He’s here to see what can be done.”

  The tea arrived and they fell silent as the serving girl set it out.

  “I will pour,” Ellen told her. “Thank you, Hannah.”


  Without asking, Ellen poured his tea exactly as he liked it. A bit of cream and one lump of sugar. “I’m surprised you remembered,” he said.

  Her cheeks colored, and she put the teapot down rather sharply before folding her hands in her lap again.

  “It’s still here, isn’t it? Between us?” he asked.

  She was staring down at her hands, and he thought he might finally get an explanation of what had gone so terribly wrong that long-ago night.

  “Do you hate me?” She looked at him with troubled eyes.

  “Now? No. Back then?” He shrugged. Hate was not the word that came to mind. Hurt, despair. Anger, definitely.

  Is that why she asked him here? To see if he hated her? Had it bothered her all these years that she thought he did?

  “You could have at least left a note,” he said.

  “I…” Her voice trailed off. “I’m sorry.”

  He waited for more, but none was forthcoming. He’d not wanted an apology. He wanted an explanation. It seemed that seventeen years was still not long enough to put it all behind him.

  “I know I have no right to ask this, but…” Her shoulders slumped. “I need your help.”

  He let that sink in, her need for his help, and realized that still, after all this time, after what she’d done to him, he would do anything for her.

  “And you may have it.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask you.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I told you once, a long time ago, that if you ever needed anything you only had to ask.”

  It had been the night they had made love, the week before her wedding when they had made plans to run away, to get married in Scotland. Plans that she’d never followed through with.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked softly.

  She drew in a deep breath as if she needed courage to voice her request. “Philip has been suspended from Eton.”

  Curiously, Oliver felt disappointment. He didn’t know what sort of help she needed, but his thoughts had not veered toward her son.

  “Boys are suspended from Eton frequently. It’s like a rite of passage.”

  “This isn’t the first time.”

  “Ah.” The lad was a handful. He’d seen so the night he’d picked him up from Scotland Yard. “Maybe he’s feeling his oats.”

  “I think it’s beyond that,” she said quietly as she studied her clenched hands. “I tried talking to the headmaster. I actually resorted to begging him to take Philip back early, but he refused. He hinted… He hinted that they might not take him back at all.”

  This was serious, indeed. Eton was known for producing the finest men and doing whatever was necessary to do so. All sorts of punishments were not unusual, but to be kicked out? That was unusual and a scandal that would follow Philip his entire life.

  “What would you like me to do?” Take a strap to the lad? Because that’s what Oliver felt like doing after seeing the devastation in Ellen’s eyes. The damn kid. Didn’t he know what he was doing to his mother?

  “Would you talk to the headmaster? You’re a fine product of Eton. Maybe he will listen to you.”

  Oliver tried to remember who the headmaster was but couldn’t recall. If he were someone who had been there during Oliver’s time, then Oliver might not be the best one for this particular mission. He had hardly been a saint himself.

  “What exactly did young Fieldhurst do for such a stiff punishment?”

  Ellen looked away. Her throat moved in a swallow. “I’d rather not say.”

  “I very well can’t fight for his reinstatement if I don’t know what he did. Maybe the headmaster is right in not taking him back.”

  Her head jerked back, and panicked eyes met his. “But they must take him back. He needs the structure of Eton. As much as I am loath to admit it, he needs the strong hand and constitution of a man. He doesn’t listen to me. He blatantly ignores my rules. He’s out of control, and I don’t know what to do anymore.”

  A lone tear slipped down her cheek, and Oliver’s heart twisted. He hated to see women cry, but seeing Ellen cry was a special kind of torture. She’d cried their one night together because she’d not wanted to marry Arthur, and he’d made all sorts of plans and promises to her.

  “Tell me what he did,” he said, banishing the memories.

  She covered her eyes with her hand. “He… He was found…in the linen closet with a maid.” She lowered her hand and looked at him. There was defiance in her eyes, mixed with the tears.

  “I see. Well, I can assure you he isn’t the first lad in that closet with a maid.”

  Her lips quivered in an almost smile. “Do you say this from experience?”

  “I’ve heard stories.” He was admitting to nothing. “Let me see what I can do. I might have to enlist some help.”

  She shook her head. “No one else can know about this. Please, Oliver. Tell no one.”

  “There is only one other man I would trust with your secret and believe me when I say, he tells no tales.”

  Oliver had met Ashland at Eton. Ashland had been a colleger, what everyone considered “poor,” but poor had been irrelevant. His parents had not been able to afford the tuition, but Ashland had easily passed the entrance exams, so the college had paid his tuition fees. Oliver had been an oppidan. His tuition had been paid for by his parents. He had been a future earl. His admission had been secure.

  Oliver and Ashland had met under bad circumstances that had ended in Ashland being beaten by some sixth form boys and Oliver suspended and sent home for a week. They’d become best friends after that.

  The faculty at Eton had loved Ashland, because everyone could see he had a solid future ahead of him. Having Ashland in his corner could only help Oliver in this situation.

  “You will help Philip?”

  “No.”

  Ellen’s face fell and her shoulders rounded. “I understand.”

  “I will not help Philip, but I will help you. I will ask the headmaster to take him back, but Ellen, that boy needs a firmer hand.”

  “I know.”

  “There has to be an uncle or someone he can go to for the summer who will straighten him out.”

  “There is no one. At least no one young enough. Arthur has one brother who is in his seventies and a sister who is approaching seventy.”

  “What if I fail?” he asked. “What will you do then?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  Chapter Seven

  “Why are we doing this?” Ashland asked, as Oliver maneuvered his curricle down the path toward Eton.

  Oliver had tried to give Ashland as little information as possible, while still convincing his friend to go with him. But Ashland hadn’t been a solicitor for nothing, and he was starting to ask questions that Oliver could no longer avoid.

  “Lady Fieldhurst asked me to speak to the headmaster regarding her son. Apparently, he’s very close to being expelled from the school.”

  “From Eton?” Ashland fell silent for a moment. “I don’t believe I know of anyone who has been expelled from Eton. The school has always been able to set their lads straight. Especially a future earl.”

  Oliver hesitated, but there was really nothing to do but tell the story. “He’s already the Earl of Fieldhurst. His father passed a few years ago, and the young earl feels that he doesn’t need Eton, now that he has risen to the title.”

  “Ha!” Ashland chuckled and shook his head. Ashland had been learning how to be an earl for the past several months so he knew what needed to be done and how foolish young Fieldhurst was being. “So what are we to do about this?”

  “Talk to the headmaster.”

  “And what? Convince him to take the ungrateful lad back? Sounds to me like he needs a switch to his backside.”

  Yes, well, Oliver felt the same way, but the boy wasn’t his son and it wasn’t his call to make.

  Suddenly Ashland turned toward him. “I wasn’t aware that you knew Lady Fieldhurst.”


  Oliver kept his expression impassive as he trained his eyes on the road before him. “Were you even aware that a Lady Fieldhurst existed until a few minutes ago?”

  “You’re skirting the question.”

  He was.

  “You’ve never mentioned her to me.”

  “There was no need to.”

  Ashland sat back, but Oliver knew that was not the end of his questioning. His friend was thinking, and that was often not a good thing.

  Ashland had been very reluctant to take on the duties of the earldom, but Oliver had walked him through it and, while Ashland wasn’t fully comfortable in his new role, he was becoming more enamored of it.

  They drew up to the school, and a boy came out to take the horses’ leads as Ashland and Oliver headed toward the doors.

  The headmaster was waiting for them, as Oliver had sent word ahead that they were coming, although he had not told the man why.

  They were ushered into his office and offered tea, which they declined.

  “Lord Armbruster, it’s been a long time. And I see you are still tight with Lord Ashland.”

  Ashland seemed surprised that the headmaster was aware of his very newly inherited title, seeing as how Ashland had not even known he was in line for it until the former earl had passed away. But Oliver knew that it was imperative for the headmaster to be aware of all of Society, since he was the one to educate its most illustrious sons.

  “We are still friends, yes,” Oliver said.

  The headmaster—Charles Godfrey, was very old, since he had been headmaster when Oliver and Jacob had attended Eton and had appeared very old back then—folded his hands on his desk and smiled at them. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “I have come on behalf of Lady Fieldhurst.”

  Immediately the smile faded, and a shuttered expression fell over Godfrey’s eyes. “It is highly unusual to speak to someone not of the family about a student.”

  “I understand these are unusual circumstances, but as you know, the young Fieldhurst does not have a father to speak for him, and apparently Lady Fieldhurst has already tried speaking to you.”