Godfrey seemed to squirm in his seat, and Oliver thrilled that for once the tides had turned and he had made the headmaster squirm instead of the other way around.
“As I told Lady Fieldhurst, there is nothing I can do for young Fieldhurst. He must serve out his suspension.”
“I hear that there was talk of expulsion.”
Godfrey sighed deeply. “We don’t take expulsion lightly. It reflects badly on the school. But we also can’t keep a student who has no desire to be here and whose antics could affect our reputation.”
“I understand that his indiscretion was…inappropriate and that the young earl is apologetic.”
Godfrey tilted his head. “Is he? Knowing Fieldhurst as I do, I question his remorse.”
Truth was, Oliver had no idea if Fieldhurst was apologetic. He should have known Godfrey would question his claim.
“May I be honest, Armbruster?” Godfrey leaned forward, hands folded on the desk. The same desk that Oliver had been summonsed to many times in the past.
“Of course.”
“Fieldhurst is one of the most difficult lads we’ve had at the school. This isn’t his first suspension and quite frankly, if we bring him back, I see more suspensions in his future. He’s a bully, he’s self-centered, and he feels the world owes him something.”
All traits that Oliver had glimpsed the night he’d picked Fieldhurst up from the Yard. He understood Godfrey’s point, but he’d also told Ellen he would try.
“What if I vouch for him?”
Ashland looked at Oliver like he’d grown a second head.
Godfrey grinned. “You would attach your name to the boy? Put your reputation on the line?”
Oliver hesitated. He’d worked hard to build his reputation as a solid businessman who could be trusted. Could young Philip destroy it? He doubted it, but was he willing to put it to the test?
There was something about Philip that reminded Oliver of himself. Maybe not the blatant disregard for the rules, but the recklessness. Without a father to guide him, Oliver could see why Philip was out of control. Oliver had been lucky enough to have a wonderful father who’d let him be himself to an extent and had reined him in when needed.
Philip was not lucky enough to have a father in his formative years.
“He needs the guidance of Eton to set him straight.”
“You don’t think we’ve tried? He cares little for punishment. Will gladly serve it and not change his ways one bit. He’s a wild one and needs a very firm hand. He has been suspended until the end of the school year, and I will not bring him back early from that. But I will consider bringing him back for the next school year if you can vouch that he will behave himself. His behavior has to change, Armbruster. I will not back down on this.”
…
“How in the hell are you going to vouch for the lad’s future behavior?” Ashland asked on the way back.
Oliver had been wondering that himself.
“Do you even know what you agreed to? The boy sounds like a right bastard.”
“I promised Ellen I would help,” Oliver said.
Ashland raised a brow. “Ellen, huh? You must know her awfully well if you’re on a first name basis.”
Oliver didn’t comment and Ashland did not let the point go.
“How long have you known her?”
“Many years. Seventeen.”
Both of Ashland’s brows went up. “Seventeen years and you’ve never told me? Hell, our friendship goes longer than that.”
“It wasn’t important.” But he felt a betrayal even saying that, because it had been important. At the time it had been everything.
“She’s special to you.”
“Enough, Ashland.”
“I’ve never seen you like this with another woman. What happened seventeen years ago?”
Ashland would not let it go, and so Oliver gave him a bone to chew on without divulging the entire story. “She was important, but then she wed the former Earl of Fieldhurst and she became a countess and we never spoke again.”
“And then suddenly she reappears in your life and asks you to help her son? It doesn’t add up.”
“I’ve been to a few of her salons. We’ve spoken a few times, and I helped Philip out of a scrape with Scotland Yard.”
There was a long pause, and Oliver kept his eyes on the road, not daring to look at Ashland.
“It seems that much has happened in your life since I got married,” was all his friend said.
…
“Are you a spy?”
“I’m not a spy.”
“Because if you are, I won’t tell anyone.”
“I’m not a spy, Josie.”
“It just seems like you are. I can help you.”
“I’m not a spy. I promise.”
“Would you let me help you if you were?”
“No.”
“Really, Oliver. You are so vexing.”
“So are you with all of this spy talk.”
For a few glorious moments Josie was silent and Oliver leaned back in his chair and enjoyed the pleasant weather and the view of his mother’s garden.
“Amelie Bertrand is nice,” Josie said, shattering his temporary peace. “Quiet, but nice.”
After Oliver’s talk with Ellen about Bertrand, Oliver was almost convinced the man was harmless. Worth keeping an eye on, but harmless. Nevertheless, he was curious as to what Josie had learned.
“We went riding in Hyde Park,” she said. “She’s an accomplished horsewoman.”
“And what did you think of her?”
“I told you. Quiet, but nice. Really, Oliver, you would make a horrible spy. You don’t listen.”
“I already told you I’m not a spy.”
“I can see why.”
Oliver tamped down his irritation, but really, he was more amused than irritated. “What did you think of Miss Bertrand other than she was quiet and nice?”
“We were riding so there wasn’t much opportunity to speak. Although she seemed pleased to be out. She said she missed riding.”
“Are you riding with her again?”
“We talked about it. She said she would ask her father.”
“Did she mention how long they would be in London?”
“She didn’t seem to know.”
But Oliver’s mind had wandered from the conversation. He had not yet spoken to Ellen about his visit with Godfrey, and he needed to do so today. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say, because things did not look promising for young Philip.
“Oliver, there you are.”
Oliver winced as his mother walked onto the back veranda. Not that he didn’t love his mother, because he did, but one had to be prepared to converse with her. The Dowager Countess of Armbruster was a beautiful woman, who had effortlessly held on to her beauty and grace through her later years. One would be surprised to learn that she was approaching sixty, because she looked to be forty at the very most.
But there was far more to Lady Armbruster than looks. Under that full head of black hair that was just now beginning to gray was a mind as sharp as any man’s in Parliament. One did not simply verbally spar with Lady Armbruster without being prepared.
She was also a scion of Society. Invitations to her balls were sought after and, if one were lucky enough to receive an invitation, one didn’t skip the ball unless you were dead. She was admired by all the other matrons, her style copied, her opinion revered.
Being her offspring was an onerous task at times. Half the time Oliver didn’t know if a woman was interested in him or interested in meeting his mother.
Oliver stood and kissed her offered cheek. “Mother.”
“I feared you would escape without seeing me like you did the last time you were here.” There was no inflection in her voice, no motherly hurt look to accompany her words, but the cut was there just the same.
“My apologies for running off the last time. I was late for a meeting.”
“Hmm.” There was
a wealth of meaning in that sound that put Oliver on alert. “Josie, dear, run along so I can speak to your brother.”
“I don’t mind listening,” Josie said, making Oliver roll his eyes and hide his smile. Josie loved to rile their mother, but Nora had tremendous willpower and patience, and she rarely rose to the bait.
All she had to do was give Josie a look and the girl pushed herself up from her chair with a heavy sigh. “I hate when you have to talk to him alone.”
“Off you go. I believe you have some Latin to learn.”
Josie left, mumbling about how she despised Latin. Oliver waited for his mother to get to the point, knowing the wait wouldn’t be long.
It wasn’t.
“I heard you’ve been in the company of Lady Fieldhurst.”
Oliver never knew where his mother received her information. Josie was worried about Oliver being a spy, but Oliver often wondered if their mother ran the biggest spy network in London.
“You have, have you?”
“Don’t be coy, Oliver.”
“I’m not being coy.” He was being evasive. He’d learned a long time ago not to tell his mother anything, or at least as little as possible. Of course, that just led to the vicious cycle of his mother trying to find out information on her own.
“I attended a few of the countess’s salons.”
“You’ve never done that before.”
“I have not.”
She sighed in exasperation. This verbal sparring was the foundation of their relationship, and neither would admit that they both enjoyed it.
“I hear they’re quite bohemian, these salons.”
“They’re not as bad as you think. Just a different sort of people than you’re used to.”
“Actresses and poets.”
“Yes, they are there as well.”
She paused. “I just think it’s interesting that you attended these salons when you had no previous interest in them.”
“Maybe I wanted something different.”
“Maybe.” But she sounded skeptical.
Often Oliver had wondered if his mother had known about him and Ellen. He didn’t think so. She’d been pregnant with Josie and preoccupied with his sister’s imminent arrival. He’d barely seen her during his brief affair with Ellen.
“She is a widow now,” she said.
“Mother,” he warned. If there was one project that Nora worked on, it was correcting Oliver’s status as a bachelor. She would find him a wife if it was the last thing she did.
Unfortunately, she’d been woefully incapable of it, but that meant she only tried harder.
“What?” She tried to appear innocent, but it didn’t work on Oliver.
He stood and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Don’t even think of it.”
“Where are you going? I was hoping you would stay for lunch.”
“I have an appointment. I will stop by next Tuesday for lunch, if you are available.”
She pressed her lips together and narrowed her blue eyes, so much like his own. “I will have to check my calendar.”
“Do that and let me know.”
“She’s a beautiful woman.”
“Stop.”
“A mother can try.”
He laughed as he let himself out.
Chapter Eight
They were sitting inside Gunters, huddled at a small table in the far back corner, eating ices.
Ellen had told her mother that she was shopping for a new pair of gloves, having ripped her favorite pair. It was all a lie, of course. She’d not ripped her favorite gloves. She was eating a lemon ice with Oliver. Except she couldn’t quite bring herself to tell her mother about Oliver.
Maybe because it was all so new, this feeling.
And her parents had plans for her. Ellen had known that since she was a little girl. Aspirations, her mother had called it. It fell on Ellen to elevate the family.
But Ellen had aspirations of her own. Plans that didn’t include what her parents thought she should be doing. She had things she wanted to do with her life that had nothing to do with men and their titles and Society and her place in it.
“A little bird told me something,” she said, licking her spoon.
“Animals speak to you?” Oliver’s eyes crinkled in laughter, and she dissolved into giggles.
Oliver scared her. Or rather her constant thoughts of Oliver scared her. Her heart beating out of control when Oliver was near scared her.
“This particular little bird spoke to me.” The bird was her friend Ruth, but she would play this game with him because she loved being silly with Oliver.
“And what did the bird say?”
“That your father is the Earl of Armbruster.”
He put his spoon down, suddenly serious. “Is that a problem?”
“No.” She stabbed her spoon into her melting ice. She’d been surprised when Ruth had told her, although she shouldn’t have been. Oliver held himself like someone who was important, someone of nobility. It was just another thing that frightened her, his titles.
Because it was everything that Ellen’s parents wanted for her and it was everything that Ellen did not want. Not now. Not yet. She had plans.
She swallowed and stabbed her spoon repeatedly into the ice until it was mush.
Oliver put his hand over hers, and she froze. It was the first time they had touched other than Oliver helping her off her mount or the occasional brush of arms.
His hand was warm, the pads of his fingers rough.
He was staring at her intently. At first she’d been very much aware of the other patrons in the establishment. Now she saw nothing but the deep azure of Oliver’s eyes.
“Why so serious?” he asked.
She shrugged, suddenly shy when she’d never been shy with him before.
She released her spoon, and it clinked as it hit the glass bowl. “Do you ever want more out of life than this?”
He sat back, his hand sliding off hers. She wanted to grab it, hang on to it, put it back over her hand, and keep it there. “More than what? Ices at Gunter’s with you? No.”
She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. “More than what life has given us.”
He drew in a deep breath and seemed to think about her question. “We’re lucky, you know. Born into the lives we have. Wealth. Social connections. Access to an education, if you are male.”
She waved her hand in the air. “Yes, yes.”
“What more could you want?”
“It just all seems so…small. We see the same people every day, walk the same streets, attend the same balls, plays.”
“You are far too young to be this jaded,” he said.
She blew out a frustrated breath. He wasn’t understanding what she was trying to tell him.
“What more do you want?” he asked.
“I want to meet people. I want to expand my life, to learn things.” She leaned forward. He was watching her intently, honestly listening to what she was saying, and the idea was so novel, so exciting, that someone was truly listening to what she had to say. “Do you attend the opera? Plays?”
“Of course. That’s hardly expanding your horizons.”
She shook her head. “Do you ever look at the actors, the performers, the musicians? I mean, really look at them? Do you ever wonder who they are? What they do after a performance? Who are their friends? How did they get into this line of work?”
He tilted his head. “I can’t say that I’ve ever thought any of that.”
“There is a whole world of people out there and we converse with the same ones over and over. Why? Why can’t we make friends from the theater? Because there is some unwritten rule that says we can’t? That’s silly.”
He blinked, then blinked again. “You’re right. We ostracize ourselves and by doing so we are hurting only ourselves.”
She pounded her open palm on the table, making the silver spoons in the glass bowls rattle. A couple at the next table paused their conversat
ion to stare at them.
“Finally, someone who understands,” she said.
“Is that what you want to do? Meet new and interesting people?”
“Yes,” she breathed, excited by the prospect. “Do you know any of those people?”
“No.”
Her shoulders deflated. “Oh.”
He leaned forward and took her hands in his and stared deep into her eyes. “But if you were my wife, I would not stop you from befriending such people.”
She drew in a deep breath, shocked at his words. They’d never mentioned anything close to marriage. They’d met only a few times, clandestinely. That he mentioned it now took her aback.
She’d not wanted to marry, but maybe, if her husband was someone like Oliver… Maybe she would consider it.
When Ellen entered the sitting room, she didn’t need to see Oliver’s carefully and quickly concealed surprise at her pale complexion and worry in her eyes. She was put together, as always, but Oliver was good at seeing what was beneath. He saw the real her.
That both bothered and comforted her, because he was the only man, the only person, really, who could do that.
There was one thing that he did not see, because she was very careful to not even think it while in his company—that Philip was his son. She’d never had any intention of telling him, and that had been easy to do for the past sixteen years, because they had avoided each other.
But when she’d seen Philip draped over Oliver’s shoulder the night Oliver had brought him home, she had nearly fainted with fear that her terrible secret was about to be revealed. And then she had been so shocked at the resemblance between the boy and the man that she’d wondered that no one else saw it.
It had taken so much courage for her to ask Oliver for his help, and a great amount of guilt had followed the request. She was asking the man to help his son, and he didn’t even know it was his son. Did he have a right to know?
Would he even want to know?
Yes, he would want to know. He was that kind of man. The kind who would take his responsibilities seriously. After he’d become earl, he’d thrown himself into making the Armbruster estate and holdings even richer than it had been. He’d been innovative and creative in finding new ways to make money. He’d stepped outside the norm and had been one of the first of the aristocracy to invest in trade—something that had always been looked down upon.
Deceiving an Earl Page 6