Her guilt would consume her, and she would desperately try to distract him.
“To see you with him…it was difficult. Especially after…”
Please, stop. Please. But she sat silently, wringing her hands, her words locked in her throat.
Oliver suddenly stood, startling her. “I must go. It’s been a long day. Tell Philip I will be by soon to go over the books with him. His tutelage on how to be a real earl will start then.”
She stood on shaking knees, feeling as if she had just escaped something life changing. “I will tell him.”
…
A week later Oliver was still kicking himself for mentioning his and Ellen’s past relationship. Why the hell had he asked her if she’d told anyone about them? Had he wanted her to? Had he secretly hoped she had said something to Arthur? What kind of twisted thought was that?
He’d certainly never told anyone, and he would expect Ellen not to have, either, since she had chosen Arthur over him.
He wouldn’t say anything to her again about that night. It obviously made her uncomfortable, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.
But he also couldn’t stay away from her. It had nothing to do with his promise to her and to the headmaster regarding Philip. It had nothing to do with Philip and everything to do with Oliver and his strange, awful need to see her again and again and again.
He had no reason to continue to attend her salons. O’Leary had said that they were no longer looking at Antoine Bertrand as a threat to the Crown, that Bertrand seemed to be working on his own without any serious backing from anyone in France. Oliver’s services were no longer needed. And yet he found himself dressing for tonight’s salon and eagerly looking forward to it as if he were still that lad from long ago.
He didn’t even care if tonight’s performance was another boring poetry reading.
Good Lord. He shouldn’t go. He should go to his club, drink himself into oblivion, and lose some money in cards. And that was exactly what he had decided to do, but instead he found himself in front of Ellen’s home, staring at the bright lights coming from the windows and listening to the laughter and chatter floating out the open front door.
And he found himself not entering his club, but walking through Ellen’s entryway, taking a glass of wine off a passing tray and moving farther and farther inside, away from his club.
He saw her immediately. Tonight’s color was green. He was not wearing green but rather a boring black. She was laughing at something someone said. He thought it was an actor but really didn’t know. Next to her was William Needham, smiling, nodding, and talking.
And suddenly, Oliver had an urge to put his fist through Needham’s perfectly ordinary face and rearrange his thin nose. He didn’t know why he didn’t like the man. There was no reason to not like him. He was a well-known surgeon, serving the royal family, for God’s sake. He had a sterling personality and was obviously very gifted.
Oliver turned his back to the couple and took a sip of his wine. He should leave before Ellen saw him. He felt like a fool, mooning over her this way when she was being courted by Needham. Their past meant nothing to her and should mean nothing to him as well.
Just as he was about to leave, a glimpse of color caught his attention. Or rather, a glimpse of pale ivory, the hem of a gown around the corner.
Amelie Bertrand.
He hadn’t seen her at the last few salons and was curious as to how she was getting along and if Josie had been a good friend. He followed the gown and entered into the music room where he came face-to-face with not only Amelie but Josie, too.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
Josie looked startled, then guilty. Amelie took a step back, her gaze flitting between brother and sister.
“Oliver.” Josie licked her lips.
“This is not a place for you to be, Josephine.”
She winced, hating the use of her full name.
“I brought her,” Amelie said softly, stepping forward. “I invited her.”
“Amelie is allowed to attend the salons,” Josie said defensively.
“Amelie has the permission of her father, and he is here with her. Did you get permission from Mother? Is Mother your chaperone?” He was absolutely certain that she had not received permission, nor that his mother was here, because their mother would never allow Josie’s reputation to be tarnished by being seen at a salon that hosted actors and actresses and singers.
By Josie’s guilty look Oliver knew he was right.
“You must return home. Now.”
“But Oliver, I was so looking forward to this night. Amelie says it is interesting to meet all of these different people from different backgrounds.”
She sounded so much like Ellen when they were that age that he almost winced.
“Mother will have a fit and no doubt blame me.” He may be a grown man of thirty-four, but he still feared his mother’s wrath.
“I will tell her it was my idea,” Josie said, nearly pleading.
“Go home.”
Her lips pursed and her eyes took on a mutinous expression he’d seen too many times in the mirror.
“Josie,” he warned.
“Armbruster. Who do we have here?”
Oliver closed his eyes before turning around. He knew that voice too well and, by the look on Josie’s face, she was taken by the lad behind her. Of all the bad luck. Oliver had never seen Philip at any of his mother’s salons. Why this one?
He stretched a smile across his face and turned around. “Fieldhurst, fancy seeing you here.”
But young Philip had eyes for only Josie.
“It is my home,” Philip said, still not taking his gaze off Josie.
And Josie was looking at Philip with an expression that Oliver didn’t even want to contemplate. This was not happening. This was not going to happen. Over Oliver’s dead body would Philip come within ten feet of Josie.
“Will you introduce us?” Philip asked, a sly smile curving his lips.
The boy knew exactly what he was doing, and Oliver wanted to blacken his eye again.
“Lord Fieldhurst, this is Lady Josephine McCaron, my sister.”
“Josie. Most people call me Josie.” She smiled at Philip, and Oliver wanted to step between them and sweep Josie out of there.
“Most people call me Philip,” the boy said. His voice rose an octave.
“Josie was just leaving,” Oliver said.
“Why so soon?” Philip asked. “The entertainment hasn’t even begun yet. Poetry, I believe.”
Josie fluttered her lashes. She actually fluttered her lashes! Oliver had never seen her do that before.
“Ah, poetry,” Josie breathed. As if poetry was her very favorite thing when they both knew it wasn’t. Josie was like Oliver. She preferred numbers and facts to silly words strung together.
But tonight she seemed to be changing her tune.
And Oliver felt he was losing this battle, and he was desperate to stop it. He didn’t like the looks in either of their eyes.
“Lord Armbruster.”
Oliver was entirely too pleased to see Ellen glide up to them, looking between her son and Josie.
“Philip, you didn’t tell me you would be attending tonight,” she said in veiled reproach.
“I thought I would wander through before meeting friends. You didn’t tell me that your guests were so…fetching.”
Josie blushed, and Oliver bit back a groan.
Their mother was going to be furious when she found out what happened tonight, and she would blame Oliver for not taking care of the situation from the beginning.
“Lady Fieldhurst, this is my sister, Lady Josephine.”
“Lady Josephine,” she said. “Your sister?”
“Yes,” Josie said.
Ellen had gone white, and for a moment Oliver feared she would faint. He had no idea what would cause such a reaction. It wasn’t as if he’d kept Josie a secret. His mother had been pregnant with Jo
sie when he and Ellen had been together.
“May I speak to you for a moment?” Ellen asked him.
Oliver hesitated, not wanting to leave Philip and Josie alone.
“Philip, aren’t your friends waiting for you?” Ellen asked.
“I believe tonight I will forgo that entertainment and stay for this.”
Ellen made a choked sound and forcibly yanked Oliver away from the group.
“This cannot happen,” she hissed once they were out of earshot.
“I agree.”
“Philip and Josie cannot… You agree?”
“Of course I agree.” But Oliver felt a rising anger. Josie was a beautiful, accomplished young woman, and any man would be lucky to have her. Why Ellen thought she wasn’t good enough for Philip, he didn’t know, but he wholeheartedly agreed that the two couldn’t be together.
“Why do you agree?” she asked, confused.
“Because Philip has a hot temper and he’s spoiled and thinks only of himself. I don’t want my sister with someone like that.”
Ellen’s shoulders drew back, and fire flared in her eyes. “How dare you.”
“How dare I?” They were whispering, but the words and tone were angry on both sides. “He’s too quick to temper and uses his fists. Don’t forget I’ve spoken to the headmaster. I know exactly why Philip was kicked out of Eton.”
Her shoulders seemed to fold in on themselves, and her anger retreated. “Of course.”
“Why in the hell you don’t think Josie is good enough for your boy is beyond me, but I can tell you that Philip doesn’t hold a candle to my sister.” He was letting his anger take over, and he knew that he would regret the words. But right now he wanted to say them. He wanted to hurt Ellen, and he realized that the anger was not coming from the fact that Ellen thought Josie inadequate for Philip, but from a deep well of anger that he’d been carrying inside for years.
“I’m not… Do you think…?” She stood straight. “Just keep them away from each other,” she said and marched off.
Chapter Twelve
“Come, Josie, we’re leaving.” Oliver grabbed his sister’s elbow and practically dragged her away from Philip, who was standing far too close, in Oliver’s opinion.
And if Oliver wasn’t mistaken, the lad had a smirk on his face.
“Leaving?” Josie squeaked. “But why?”
“Because this is not an appropriate place for you.”
“But Amelie is here. And Philip.”
He bundled her into his carriage as she continued to protest.
“This is a great opportunity for me to learn,” she said.
“Learn what?”
“About the theater. And poetry. And music.”
“Then attend the theater, and the orchestra, and buy some poetry books.”
“Ooh. You are vexing.” She crossed her arms and turned her head toward the window. She refused to look at him the entire way home.
Oliver sat in the corner and stewed. Why did Ellen not think that Josie was good enough for her boy? If anything, Philip was nowhere near good enough for Josie. She was far too refined for such a lad, and their mother had groomed Josie to be the perfect wife to the perfect husband.
Even though Josie had been insisting for years that she didn’t want to marry except for love. But that was neither here nor there. Oliver would never allow Josie and Philip to be so much as in the same room together. Love was out of the question.
In that he agreed with Ellen.
…
Ellen found her son lounging in the corner, a glass of wine in his hand, as he surveyed the people milling about with hooded eyes and a guarded expression. Since when had he become so cynical? So closed?
“Armbruster dragged his sister off,” he said by way of greeting.
Good.
“He doesn’t like me much,” Philip said.
“And yet he’s willing to help you get back into Eton.”
He took a swig of wine and dangled the glass between his fingers. If she wasn’t careful, she could see him becoming quite the rogue, and Josie would merely be the first eligible woman forbidden to him by a respectable family. He was already cultivating an air of ennui, his gaze constantly roving for the next exciting adventure. He would not stop at swiving the help in the linen closet, and that frightened her.
He needed a strong male presence, and she had hoped Oliver might provide that, however twisted it was to ask Philip’s real father for help. But she feared that she’d angered Oliver and pushed him away by insinuating that his sister was not good enough for Philip when that wasn’t the case at all. She quite agreed with Oliver that Philip was not good enough for Josephine. But her determination to keep the two apart had nothing to do with any of that and everything to do with the fact that Josephine was Philip’s aunt.
She closed her eyes at the tangled web she had woven over the years, never once thinking that things would get this complicated. Keep Oliver away from Philip. It had been her goal for sixteen years, and she’d done a decent job of it until recently. Until Philip had messed everything up so badly that she’d been forced to turn to Oliver for help.
“And why is he willing to help me get back into Eton, Mother?”
“Because the headmaster asked him to.”
“Mmmm.”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Philip. You are impossible. And you need to leave Lady Josephine alone.”
“She was quite fetching. Stunning, really.”
“And she is not for you. Not ever. You stay away from the Armbrusters. Do you hear me?”
He seemed taken aback by her vehemence. There was little that Ellen was strict about, and she was well aware that was the cause of most of Philip’s problems. But in this she would not be swayed.
“Tell me you will stay away from her,” she insisted.
He pushed himself from the wall. “She seemed a bit too prim and proper anyway.”
“Her mother would have a fit if she knew the girl had been here tonight. Lady Armbruster is a stickler for propriety, and she is not a person we want to anger.”
In truth, Ellen had always been in awe of Oliver’s mother. Maybe even a little scared. Especially after Ellen discovered that Philip carried McCaron blood.
“I think I’ll be off to find my friends,” Philip said, and sauntered away.
Ellen was in no mood to stop him and in fact was relieved that he was leaving. Hopefully, he would forget about Lady Josephine.
…
Ashland sank down into the chair opposite Oliver and eyed the stack of papers on the table beside him. It was their weekly meeting at their gentleman’s club where they discussed current events and unsolved mysteries.
“Anything new?” Ashland asked.
“Not really. Things seem to be quiet.”
“What about the murders O’Leary was telling us about?”
“Murders aren’t uncommon in the East End.”
“True. But I find it intriguing. Different.”
Ashland accepted a port from the servant and sat back. “You seem preoccupied tonight.”
“I have a lot of things on my plate right now.”
“Such as Lady Fieldhurst?” Ashland grinned, but Oliver was not in a humorous mood and didn’t want to discuss Ellen, especially with Ashland, who was still in the first stages of marriage and thought everyone should subscribe to the institution.
“Not Lady Fieldhurst,” he lied, hating himself for lying to his best friend.
Ashland laughed, seemingly sensing the lie and not caring. “Come now, Armbruster. Lady Fieldhurst is a beautiful woman, around your age, I’m thinking. And a widow.”
“And?” Oliver eyed Ashland unkindly. He didn’t want to discuss Ellen at all.
“And you should court her.”
Oliver huffed out a breath. “She’s already being courted by Sir William Needham.”
“Is she?”
Oliver sat up straighter. “What do you know about any of this?”
“
Nothing at all. But what does it matter if she’s being courted by Needham? It’s not as if it’s official or anything.”
Oliver waved his hand in the air and sat back. “I’m not interested.”
Ashland tilted his head and studied Oliver in such a way that made Oliver uneasy. In his former life, before he’d become an earl, Ashland had been a solicitor. His mind was astute, and he was quick to draw mostly correct conclusions.
“By your admission, she meant something to you a long time ago, before she wed Fieldhurst. I don’t believe you’re not interested.”
“That was a long time ago. Affections die. People move on.” Or so he’d once believed, but now he wondered if that was entirely true.
“I just find it interesting that she asked for your help. Why you?”
Oliver felt himself bristling over the inquisition. “Why not me? I have good standing at Eton. I’m well respected in Society.”
“Of course you are, but so are many other men.”
Oliver didn’t dare think of Ellen approaching any other men to ask for their help. That idea was not at all appealing.
“Have you accomplished anything with young Fieldhurst?” Ashland asked, changing tactics.
“I took him to the pig farm on his estate and made him work on it for a full day. At first he was angry, and when I picked him up he was exhausted. I don’t know if it opened his eyes to the life of his tenants or not.”
“What were you trying to prove to him?”
“That he is no better than a pig farmer.”
Ashland chuckled. “I am fairly positive that did not change his opinion but rather reinforced his belief that he is happy not to be a pig farmer.”
Oliver sighed. “I don’t know what to do with him. I’m not a father to tell him what he should do and not do.”
“Pretend you are. If he were your son, what would you do to turn him around?”
“I would tan his hide.”
They both grinned, but Oliver’s faded first. If he were the lad’s father he would have taught him from the cradle what it took to become an earl and the responsibilities it would entail.
Deceiving an Earl Page 10