Deceiving an Earl

by Sharon Cullen

  And he was a very wealthy, much respected earl in business.

  In Society it was a different story. He had a reputation as a rogue, and it had always confused Ellen why he cultivated that reputation when he was so much more than that.

  She often wondered how much her son had inherited from his father. Philip was obviously working on the reputation as a womanizer. Ellen had hoped that Philip would have inherited the brains and the drive to succeed instead.

  She swallowed all of those thoughts and proceeded into the room. Oliver stood but did not smile at her, which made her insides shrivel.

  Oliver had been a handsome young man, and the years had only been good to him. He had filled out. His shoulders had widened and his body had matured. Those bright blue eyes were more cynical, always searching and weighing, but never revealing anything.

  She sank down onto the couch and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Well?” She could not handle the pleasantries, the trite banter before the real conversation started. She needed to know the fate of her son. For this was his fate. If he didn’t go back to school, she didn’t know what she was going to do with him.

  “I’m sorry, Ellen.”

  She blinked, expecting that answer but hoping for so much more.

  “Th-thank you for trying, anyway.”

  “The headmaster said that there have been too many indiscretions. Too many suspensions to overlook this last one and bring him back early. I have to agree with him. It sets a bad example for the rest of the lads.”

  “I understand.”

  Oliver searched her face, and she turned her head away, not wanting him to see her fears.

  “Young Fieldhurst seems to find trouble easily.”

  “I think rather than finding it he creates it.”

  “I have no words of wisdom for you, as I don’t have a son.”

  She closed her eyes, the guilt so overwhelming that she nearly blurted out the truth to him. But that would be disastrous. It would destroy Philip, and he would lose his title. And it could possibly destroy Oliver as well.

  And it would paint her as the worst sort of person for not only lying to her husband and all of Society, but for sleeping with Oliver when she’d been promised to another.

  “Since Arthur’s death, Philip has been angry and has acted out. Philip was the center of Arthur’s universe and Arthur doted on him. He’d not had any other children, you know.” Her voice cracked. After many years of trying for another baby, Arthur had concluded that he was just too old to father again and had set the sun and the moon on Philip. Only Ellen knew that he’d not fathered Philip, either. She’d let Arthur believe that the boy he loved so much was his, and all had been well for many years. She’d learned to live with the lie and had discovered that the more you lived with a lie the more you began to believe it yourself.

  “He misses his father, and he’s at the age where he needs one to guide him,” Oliver said. “Did Arthur teach him anything about the earldom?”

  “Some. Philip thinks he’s been taught enough that he doesn’t need school anymore.”

  “There is more to school than learning. There are connections to make and friendships that will serve him far into the future, if he cultivates them correctly.”

  She looked down at her hands clutched in her lap, the knuckles white. “Yes, I know. I try to tell him that, but he rarely listens to me.”

  Oliver was silent for a long while, until finally Ellen looked up at him. His brows were pulled together, two vertical lines creased between them, and his lips were turned down.

  “The headmaster isn’t even sure that he can bring Philip back the next school year. Apparently, he’s disruptive enough that they would consider expelling him.”

  Ellen winced. Oh, Philip. What have you done?

  “This is serious, Ellen. Eton prides itself on forming even the most difficult students. To admit defeat is of great significance.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “Maybe one of the other schools…”

  “No other school can touch Eton’s reputation. The institution is known to educate most of the nobility.”

  “I remember how excited Arthur had been to put Philip’s name on the waiting list the day after he was born.”

  “Arthur was a product of Eton?”

  “Of course.”

  Oliver sighed and rubbed his forehead. After a lengthy pause, Ellen said, “Thank you for trying. I truly appreciate that you took the time to drive there and speak to the headmaster.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’ll think of something. Maybe the break from school will clear his head and he will come to his senses.”

  Oliver looked at her in pity. They both knew that was not going to happen. Philip was on a road to destruction that he had no interest in veering from.

  “The headmaster…” Oliver stopped, paused, seemed to consider what he was going to say. “He said that if I vouch for the boy they will bring him back next school year.”

  A flicker of hope had her sitting up straighter, but then her shoulders slumped. “But what can you do? I refuse to let you put your reputation on my son’s head.”

  “I don’t know how I would even help him,” Oliver said. “But…I’m willing to try.”

  “I can’t ask that of you.” As much as she wanted, needed, someone to help her with Philip, it could not be Oliver. Never Oliver.

  He looked at her curiously. “It’s your only hope. If Philip stays on this path he will ruin his reputation. There will be no hope for a good marriage. No one will want to do business with him.”

  “I don’t think it is all that dire.” But she knew it was. She’d had those same thoughts herself. Ellen stood and Oliver quickly stood as well. “I will find a way to set Philip straight. As a mother it’s my duty.”

  And as a father it was Oliver’s duty to help. But their paths had been set long ago, and it was far too late for either of them to change now.

  “Very well. I will respect your decision and hope for the best for you and Philip.”

  When he left, Ellen slumped back on the couch and brushed away the tears that had started to drip down her cheeks. She was lost and afraid, and the one person who was willing to help her was the one person she could never allow to help her.

  …

  Ashland finally joined Oliver and O’Leary for a drink in O’Leary’s office, and it was almost like old times. Except Oliver didn’t feel the same. He felt different, like something had changed within him, although he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what that was.

  Ashland spoke of his new life with an inflection in his voice that had been missing since his first wife had died of childbed fever, and Oliver was glad to see a glimmer of his old friend back. He couldn’t begrudge Ashland his happiness, and he refused to admit that he was jealous.

  Until lately, he’d never felt that his life was empty or unfulfilled. If he was honest with himself, when he’d seen Ellen again, it had made him remember how fulfilled he had been in the short time they had been together. He was surprised to find that he missed that companionship. He’d had many women over the years and had cultivated a somewhat shaky reputation as a womanizer. And he’d thought he was having fun, living the bachelor life.

  But now it felt so superficial.

  “Armbruster? Where did your mind wander off to, mate?”

  Ashland was looking at him oddly, and Oliver pulled his mind back to O’Leary’s office and his friends.

  “Just thinking,” he mumbled.

  “We were talking about the strange disappearance of a few people in East End.”

  “East End?” Oliver’s attention was captured. “There are always murders and the like in the East End.” The East End was one of the poorest sections of London where crime was rampant and no good gentleman ever ventured.

  O’Leary took a long drag of his ale and put his mug down. “We have two separate reports from women who claim they were lured into a home, p
lied with ale, and then their lives threatened. One said she barely escaped, and she thought it was the end for her. The other sensed something was amiss with her hosts and claimed she needed to use the privy, whenceforth she escaped.”

  Ashland’s eyes narrowed. This was where Oliver and Ashland excelled. Or rather, this was where their inflated egos felt they could do their best work. Over the years they had come to O’Leary with many thoughts and ideas on cases that Scotland Yard was working on. Seventy percent of the time they were correct. They knew that percentage because they kept a log.

  It was a strange pastime, and Oliver wasn’t even certain how or when it had started, but eventually he and Ashland began to meet weekly, read the newssheets, and discussed the murders and other foul play reported. Then they speculated on motive and suspects.

  It was a game to them, but it was O’Leary’s livelihood.

  Oliver felt his blood humming with this new mystery.

  “Why would someone lure women into their home, get them drunk, then try to kill them?”

  Ashland and Oliver’s eyes met. They were both thinking of Ashland’s wife’s cousin, who had murdered at least half a dozen serving girls.

  “You don’t think there is another murderer on the loose, do you?” Oliver asked. “Surely there can’t be two in such a short time.”

  “The press went to town on the last murderer.” O’Leary shot Ashland an apologetic look. “Maybe someone read the newspaper reports and got it in his head to do the same thing.”

  “Like a sort of imitator?” Ashland asked.

  O’Leary shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. But it seems odd. And now they’re saying that Blue Posey is missing.”

  Even if you weren’t from East End, you knew who Blue Posey was—a young man touched in the head, who sold posies on the street corner of Cheapside. The only word he knew was “blue” and so everyone called him Blue Posey. Despite his disadvantages, everyone knew and respected Blue Posey and no one ever tried to cheat him. While Blue didn’t know how to speak other than the one word, he knew math very well, and he could add and subtract quicker than anyone Oliver had ever met. He knew if someone was trying to shortchange him.

  That he was missing was somewhat concerning, but Blue was also a man who kept to his own schedule.

  “Do you think he fell victim to these people who tried to get the two women drunk?” Oliver asked.

  “I think it’s a stretch to think that,” O’Leary said. “Blue’s a large fellow. It would be difficult to get him drunk, let alone kill him.”

  “Why don’t you go to this house and poke around?” Ashland asked.

  “I would if I knew where it was, but neither woman could confidently pick it out. Just knew it was ‘somewhere off the main road.’ That doesn’t help.”

  They all fell silent, lost in their own thoughts. After a while, talk turned to other things, and Oliver and Ashland soon took their leave. They walked out of Scotland Yard into the damp night air.

  “How are things with young Fieldhurst?” Ashland asked.

  “I spoke to his mother today. She’s at her wits end. Doesn’t know what to do with him. He doesn’t listen to her, thinks he can do what he wants, now that he’s an earl.”

  Ashland chuckled. “Ah, the poor lad. If he only knew that being an earl meant exactly the opposite. You can’t do anything you want. What is Lady Fieldhurst going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” Oliver had an uneasy feeling in his stomach, like a rock was sitting there.

  “Did you tell her the conditions of his return?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, out with it, man. What did she say?”

  “Damn it, Ashland. I know nothing about lads like that. I can barely keep myself respectable.”

  Ashland held his hands out to the side in surrender. “Did I say that you should take him under your wing? No. I was just asking.”

  Oliver was immediately contrite. “Apologies.”

  “Why are you so touchy about this? It’s not up to you whether young Fieldhurst complies with his mother or Eton.”

  Oliver didn’t know why he felt this compulsion to help Fieldhurst. Ashland was right. He had no obligation to the young man, nor to Ellen. He needed to move on and maybe, for once, he should take his mother’s advice and seriously look for a wife. A respectable countess who would give him respectable children. Children who would not be expelled from Eton and who would obey all the rules and grow up to marry respectable spouses of their own.

  It all sounded very…respectable.

  And boring.

  Chapter Nine

  “Where ye want ’im, sir?”

  “Put him on the table.”

  Henry and his accomplice huffed and puffed as they hauled their package to the surgical room. With a heave and a ho the package landed with a solid thump that made William wince.

  “Watch it, mate,” he said harshly.

  Henry didn’t seem to care, and his skittish partner shrank back as if he’d been pinched. For being such a tall, gangly man, he frightened easily.

  Henry shifted from one foot to the other as William reached into his pocket, withdrew eight pounds, and handed it with a twist of his lips to Henry.

  Quick as the street urchin that Henry probably was, the money disappeared and Henry all but pushed his friend out the door, leaving William alone with the corpse.

  This was the part that William loved the most, the quiet moments before the surgery, before the students filed in and took their seats in the auditorium, when William ran through the motions in his mind.

  He turned to the ceramic bowl of cold water and dipped his hands in, closing his eyes as his hands soaked in the water. Studies had shown that washing hands was a great way to stop the spread of infection and, while the body was no longer living, William still washed his hands, because he couldn’t abide dirty hands in his operating room. Or in life in general.

  William liked things to go according to his plan. That was why Lady Fieldhurst was such a frustration to him. How could she not see that she was his perfect mate? That together they could become an invincible, respectable couple in English Society?

  But Ellen was proving difficult. She insisted on keeping their relationship at arm’s length, pretending they were friends, when William knew they were much more than that. It was destined, the two of them. Fate.

  He’d been patient, thinking she needed time. After all, her husband had died only three years ago, but William’s patience was coming to an end, and he was ready for the next stage in their relationship—an official betrothal.

  Except Ellen refused to consider the possibility. She liked her life the way it was, she’d said. She wanted to remain friends, she’d said.

  Friends.

  William was beginning to hate that word.

  Men and women couldn’t be friends. It went against everything God had decreed.

  He would simply have to press his suit more forcefully. He’d given her the time he thought she’d needed. He’d been patient. He’d been solicitous to her every need and had attended those ridiculous salons she insisted on hosting.

  That would come to an abrupt end once they were wed.

  The students started shuffling in, their voices hushed, as he required. The body might be dead, but it still deserved respect. That was the first thing William taught the young men lucky enough to listen to his tutelage and woe to the person who disrespected William’s rules.

  He dried his hands on a towel that he insisted had to be laundered just so and untouched by anyone but his assistant, and turned toward his rapt audience.

  He felt a swelling inside him, a pride that took over every time he looked into the avid faces of his students. They had fought and studied and worked hard to be in this room, and he never forgot that these men yearned to learn from one of the best surgeons England had to offer. Their pencils were poised above their papers, ready to write down every word he uttered, and he was ready for them. He took the knife from his dour-
faced assistant, paused so his audience could get the full effect, and because William liked just a little bit of drama, he began to cut.

  There were murmurs when steam rose from the body. Every person in that room knew it meant that the body was recently deceased, and William silently cursed Henry.

  Did these students not realize that dead bodies were hard to come by, since all of the medical schools demanded a steady supply? William had told Henry to do what he had to, in order to give William the bodies he needed.

  He shot a quelling look at the students, and the muttering immediately ceased. They would not question the freshness of the body, because that would mean questioning William, and that would mean being tossed from the program.

  No one wanted to be tossed from the program.

  “As you can see,” William began, “the deceased is a young man, possibly in his late teens.”

  William continued cutting, and all else faded away until he was one with the body.

  …

  Ellen floated through the rooms, smiling and stopping to talk to people as she went, keeping a keen eye on the servants as they passed around drinks and food. Normally, she loved nights like this, but tonight things had been off.

  She felt like a ghost, flitting about the crowd, no one really noticing her.

  She’d been happy married to Arthur. They had loved each other in a comfortable, quiet kind of way. It had taken time, of course, and she’d had to put Oliver out of her mind, but Arthur had been kind and even somewhat grateful for his young wife. He’d treated her well, and she had done her duty by him, but beneath it all, she believed that there must be more to life.

  She often remembered her conversation with Oliver over ices at Gunters. She’d never told anyone else what she’d told Oliver that day, about wanting to meet new and interesting people. Only he had known of her secret desire.

  And eventually she had accomplished that. Her salons had taken time to grow, but eventually she’d found a group of people who had become her friends. A strange mixture of people with one thing in common—their open-mindedness and willingness to embrace diversity.