Deceiving an Earl

by Sharon Cullen

  “Stop it,” she said.

  William was suddenly very still. “Don’t ever tell me what to do.”

  She swallowed her fear, but it stuck in her throat like acid, eating away at her.

  “Never forget, dear Ellen, that I know everything. I know that whelp of yours is Armbruster’s son. I know the secret you’ve been carrying inside you for sixteen years. And I know what it can do to you and that bastard son of yours. I can ruin all of you.”

  …

  Philip waited until Needham had gone before confronting his mother. The anger had come after the paralyzing shock of hearing Needham threaten his mother with the knowledge that his father…his father…the man he had thought was his father was not actually his father.

  Even thinking about it made his head pound and caused a great pressure behind his eyes that made him blink to clear his vision.

  Eventually, he had run to his father’s study and slammed the door closed. Philip had stood in front of the fireplace and looked up at his parents’ portrait, painted right after their wedding.

  Philip had never thought that the rendering was a good likeness of his father. But last year, when he realized that he was forgetting his father’s face, he would come to the study to look at this portrait.

  Now he studied it with an intensity he’d never had before. He searched his father’s face, looking for a resemblance to himself. For anything that would indicate that Arthur had sired him.

  Needham had to be wrong, except his mother had not bothered to correct Needham. She hadn’t denied the disgusting revelation. In fact, she’d said nothing at all.

  Nothing.

  Philip curled his fingers into fists and wanted to punch Needham right in the face.

  But—and he would never admit this out loud—there was something about Needham that frightened Philip. A coldness that chilled him. When Philip looked into Needham’s eyes he saw two things—hatred and evil.

  He listened to Needham leave, the door close behind him, and still he stared up at the man who he thought had been his father. Then anger propelled him back to the parlor and his mother.

  “Is it true?”

  She was sitting on the couch when he walked in, bent forward, elbows on knees, face in her hands.

  She turned her head and dropped her hands, and Philip was taken aback by the dead look in her eyes, the defeated slant to her shoulders, the paleness of her usually vibrant skin.

  He’d never seen her like this before, even when his father had died.

  His father.

  Who was his father?

  “What Needham said to you. Is it true? Is Armbruster my father?”

  She stood and for a moment he thought she might fall over, she was so unsteady. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Through the door.”

  She closed her eyes, and her lips went pale. “You shouldn’t be listening at doors, Philip. It’s bad manners.”

  “Forget the bloody door,” he burst out. “Is it true what he said?”

  “Of course not.” She tried to smile, but her lips couldn’t quite complete the act.

  “So he lied when he said that? And you just let him lie about you? And about Father? You just sat there and let him say these horrible things about you?”

  “Philip…” She seemed so weary. So…beaten down. “You don’t understand.”

  “Then make me understand why you would want to marry a man like Needham. He has people killed so he can cut them up and pretend he is this great person in front of other people. He lies to you about me and about Father and he implies that you are less… That you are a…” His throat was slick with outrage and an emotion he couldn’t quite name. Sadness that she was unwilling to defend his father and herself.

  “That’s enough,” she said. “No more, Philip. Just know that…what I’m doing is important for you.”

  “No. I will not accept that. I want… I demand an explanation.”

  Finally, color flooded her face. He didn’t even care that it was anger. “You have no right to demand anything.”

  Philip took a step forward and pointed to his face and his swollen eye. “He hit me, and you allowed it. You didn’t even defend me.”

  “Everything I do, I do for you. Make no mistake about that.”

  He had no words left. He felt that she wasn’t hearing him, that she had created this wall between them that he was banging his head against. After his father had died they had become close, but it seemed that lately that closeness had evaporated. Part of it was his fault, he knew. He’d behaved abominably and had no excuse for his actions.

  He could say he was sowing his wild oats, but really he’d felt out of control, lost without his father. Angry that his father had left him, and he’d acted out in inappropriate ways.

  But this rift between he and his mother frightened him more than losing his father had. At least he’d had his mother after his father’s death. If he lost her, he had no one. And he feared he was losing her not to death, but to William Needham.

  “You will be returning to Eton in a few weeks,” she said. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was concentrating on the floral pattern at the top of the stuffed chair, running her finger over the edges. “I want you to stay there through the holidays.”

  Philip felt the blood drain from his face. His eye throbbed with the beat of his frightened heart. “You’re sending me off? You’ll not allow me back even for the holidays?”

  She drew in a shaky breath. “You saw what he did to you. Staying at Eton is safer than being here, with him.”

  She was claiming that she was protecting him, but it didn’t feel like protection. It felt like abandonment.

  “Needham doesn’t want me around,” he said flatly. “And you won’t fight for me.”

  “I am fighting for you. You just don’t understand.” But she still wouldn’t look at him, and there was no heat in her denial, so he knew it was true.

  “Why?” he whispered. And then an idea came to him, a horrible thought that had to be voiced. “It’s true, isn’t it? What Needham said about my father. Armbruster sired me, didn’t he? My father…” He swallowed through the lump in his throat. “Isn’t really my father and Needham is blackmailing you with the information.”

  She lunged toward him, grabbed his arm in such a tight grip that he flinched. “Don’t ever say that again. Never. Do you hear me, Philip?” She shook his arm. “You are never to say those words again.”

  They stared at each other, her with her anger and desperation, he with his fear and dawning horror.

  He shook off her grip and walked out of the parlor and the house.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  He walked all night, without a destination, without an idea of what he should do. Could he do anything? He was just a lad of sixteen, trying to get through this strange life he had been given.

  Two months ago, he’d been on top of the world, attending his father’s school, well-liked by the other students, known for his exploits both in the classroom and out. Some of his reputation was not good, but he’d thought that was fine. It wasn’t all that bad.

  Then he’d been kicked out for swiving one of the servants and the funny thing was, the swiving had been disappointing. Not what he’d expected. He’d bragged about his exploits, but in all honesty, the maid in the linen closet had been his first. He’d been a bumbling fool, and she’d laughed at him while showing him what to do.

  It hadn’t been at all what the older boys had described. Truth be told, it had all been a bit embarrassing.

  And certainly not worth being kicked out of Eton.

  If his father had known, he would have been severely disappointed.

  His father.

  Not Arthur. The man he’d thought of as his father all his life.

  But Armbruster. Oliver.

  At some point the tears came, running down his cheeks so fast that as soon as he swiped them away, more came to take their place. He walked and cried like a damn baby, and he mourn
ed the life he thought he’d had.

  It had all turned out to be a lie.

  His mother had lied to him. To his father—Arthur. To Oliver. To everyone.

  And somehow Needham had discovered her lie, and he was using it against her.

  Just know that everything I do, I do for you.

  Philip stopped walking. At some point it had started raining, a fine mist that sat on his shoulders but didn’t penetrate his clothes.

  The lies came together, the story took on meaning and form.

  He put himself in his mother’s shoes seventeen years ago. Newly wed. Pregnant with another man’s baby. Had she and Oliver done it before or after she’d wed his father?

  Philip refused to believe that it was after. She would never have done that to Arthur because, despite everything, Philip knew that his mother had loved Arthur.

  But she had also loved Oliver. Or had she?

  He shook his head, droplets of rainwater falling from the tips of his hair into his eyes. He didn’t know. He just didn’t know that part of the story.

  But the rest he could imagine. He could deduce.

  How was she supposed to tell Arthur that the son she bore was not his? There would be scandal. She would be abandoned, probably divorced, and Philip would have been a bastard.

  But by keeping the secret, no one was the wiser except for his mother. Arthur had his coveted son. Philip had a father who adored him, and the title was secure.

  A title that Philip didn’t deserve, but now had to keep.

  Because revealing his mother’s secret would be disastrous.

  And Needham knew this. And Needham was using this information to his advantage.

  Why?

  Philip didn’t know the answer to that. All he knew was that his mother was being blackmailed, and Needham was pitting Philip against his mother.

  The eye that Needham had punched had stopped throbbing hours ago, but it was difficult to see out of it. His friends would think he was a hero for getting into a scuffle. No one would know that his soon-to-be stepfather had hit him.

  Philip’s stomach roiled at the thought of his mother married to that evil man.

  And he was evil.

  Philip didn’t believe that Needham knew nothing of the killings done by his assistants, but he knew enough to know that Needham would not be implicated in the murders. He would walk free. Free to marry his mother and plunge her into a life of misery. And Needham would force Philip to stay away.

  That was not acceptable. Philip couldn’t let that happen. Needham was a prominent surgeon. A physician to the royal family. He was well-respected and, like the snake that he was, he would slither out of this scandal.

  No.

  Philip couldn’t allow it. But he didn’t know what to do to stop it.

  …

  “Excuse me, my lord, there is a situation that needs to be addressed.”

  Oliver looked up from the coat sleeve that he was adjusting. Richard was searching through his closet for the shoes Oliver wanted to wear.

  In an hour he had a meeting with a representative from the American shipping company in which he was thinking of investing. He believed that this investment would be profitable, and he was anxious to begin.

  After the meeting he had an appointment with his secretary to plan his trip abroad. There was no reason to remain in London, especially after he signed the paperwork with the American. And he certainly could not stay and watch Ellen marry Needham.

  It was time to admit defeat and move on.

  For a very short moment he contemplated courting Lady Sylvia, but in his heart he knew that a marriage to her would be disastrous. He could not give her what she wanted, and that would not be fair to her.

  His butler cleared his throat, and Oliver realized he had been wool-gathering. “A situation, you say? What type of situation?’

  “You’d best come see for yourself, my lord.”

  Oliver made a point to hire a competent staff who did not overly rely on him to run his home. If his butler said something needed his attention, then something needed his attention.

  Richard emerged with Oliver’s shoes in hand, and Oliver stepped into them.

  “Very well. Lead on.”

  Oliver knew he was playing a role, pretending that Ellen’s marriage was not affecting him while inside his heart was broken.

  The butler led him to the front room that Oliver rarely used, since he rarely accepted callers, stopped at the window that overlooked the street, parted the curtains, and stepped back.

  “We think he’s been there since the wee hours of the morning.”

  Oliver peered through the crack in the curtains to see someone sitting on his front stoop, hunched over, obviously very wet and miserable. He remembered a heavy rain coming through in the dead of the night and awakening him for a bit.

  “What the devil?” He peered closer. Who would camp on his doorstep? The clothing indicated that this was not a tramp or a vagrant, but someone of means.

  Oliver strode to the front door, opened it, and stepped out. The air was cool, and the person on his steps was shivering. Having meticulously chosen his clothes for his meeting, Oliver did not sit down on the wet steps. Rather, he descended until he was one step below the person.

  It was most definitely a he, with short, light brown hair. His arms were crossed on his knees, his head pressed against his folded arms.

  “Philip?”

  The boy raised his head slowly, and Oliver winced at the shiner that had injured his eye.

  “A rough night? Fisticuffs with another mate?”

  Philip’s face was red-splotched and he was soaking wet, his body trembling in the cool air.

  Oliver’s first reaction was irritation that the boy had landed on his doorstep in this condition. He had an important meeting in less than an hour and the paperwork to go over beforehand. Not to mention that he’d convinced himself he was finished with both Ellen and Philip.

  But the boy looked miserable, and he was obviously cold, and Oliver couldn’t turn him away. He wasn’t that much of a bloody ass.

  “Come inside,” he said.

  “Have Richard run a hot bath,” Oliver said to the hovering butler. “And find some clothes that will fit him. Tell Cook to put on an extra pot of coffee.”

  Philip stood in the entryway, dripping rainwater on the marble floors. His housekeeper was going to have a fit, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

  “Were you out all night?” he asked Philip.

  Philip nodded, his head still hanging, as a drop of water dripped off the tip of his nose.

  “Good God, son. You have got to straighten your life out if you want to make something of yourself.”

  Philip flinched at Oliver’s harsh tone but did not raise his head to defend himself.

  “Other than your eye, is the rest of you intact?”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “You’re not hurt anywhere else?”

  “No.”

  Oliver contemplated him for a moment longer. Why show up on my doorstep?

  “The bath is ready, my lord.”

  Oliver nodded to his valet.

  “Go with Richard,” he said to Philip. “He’ll get you cleaned up and Cook will give you a warm breakfast and hot coffee to warm your innards. I have an important meeting that I must prepare for. We’ll talk after.”

  He sensed that sending the boy back to his mother was not prudent at the moment. There was a reason Philip was here, and Oliver would get to the bottom of it just as soon as he concluded this business.

  Philip trailed after Richard, his head still low. Oliver shuddered at the tongue-lashing he was going to receive from his housekeeper at the mess Philip made in his wake. Even his shoes squished when he walked.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The meeting went well. Oliver was very pleased with the contract and the representative from the American shipping company seemed to be equally satisfied. He wouldn’t see any profit for a few
years, but he speculated that when the profits started rolling in, they were going to be very fine, indeed.

  When he returned home, he half expected Philip to be gone, but he was still there, sitting in that rarely used front room, staring down at his feet.

  Oliver sat in the chair across from him. “You look a bit warmer and drier.”

  Philip nodded.

  “I’m assuming you were fed as well?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” The words were said so softly that Oliver barely heard them. This was not the Philip he had come to know. What had happened to send him here?

  “Do you want to tell me how you got that black eye?”

  Philip shook his head.

  “I’m assuming there is a reason you were sitting on my front stoop all morning.”

  “How did your meeting go?”

  Oliver hesitated. So this was how it was going to go. Philip did not want to talk about what happened, yet he’d stuck around, waiting for Oliver to return. Which meant, what? That he really did want to talk about it, but in his own time?

  How the hell was Oliver supposed to know? He didn’t have children of his own, and it’d been a hell of a long time since he’d been Philip’s age.

  “It went well. I invested in an American shipping company. We’ll be transporting cotton and tobacco, among other things.”

  Oliver thought he saw a flair of interest in Philip’s one eye but he ducked his head again, before Oliver could be certain. They had briefly spoken about foreign investments, and Oliver thought that was something Philip might like, but it was not something Oliver could teach him, since Ellen did not want him near her son any longer.

  “Does your mother know you are here?”

  “It doesn’t matter to her where I am.”

  Ah. So they were finally getting to the crux of the problem.

  “I’m certain that is not true. She’s probably beside herself with worry.”

  Philip shrugged. “She has more important things to think about, like her wedding.”

  Oliver felt a stab in the region of his heart, but he brushed it away. He needed to become accustomed to hearing about Ellen and William together. And this was precisely the reason he was going on an extended holiday.