by Anne Gracie
Thomas nodded. The dinner before the ball had been a grand affair with honored guests and close Rutherford friends and relations. When asked whom he’d like to be invited, Thomas could only think of Ollie, his sole friend in London. An ally at the table.
“Penny knows everyone and is such a good-hearted soul, and your friend Mr. Yelland not being acquainted with many people, I thought it might be a good match, but now I’m wondering whether it might not become another sort of match entirely.”
Thomas looked across at Ollie dancing with Miss Peplowe. They did seem to be enjoying the dance. But his wife was a romantic. It was just a dance.
The first dance came to an end, and now Thomas’s duty was to dance with ladies he didn’t know. Lady Ashendon, bless her, took him in hand, leading up to his next partner, murmuring her name so he didn’t make a fool of himself and generally making it easy for him.
From time to time Burton boomed out the names of the late arrivals. “Lord and Lady Carradice! Lord and Lady Davenham!”
Thomas danced on. He was on his fifth partner, a Roman-nosed matron who reeked of patchouli—Thomas loathed the scent of patchouli—and was wondering how long to supper, when Burton announced, “The Duke of Everingham! The Honorable Mr. Sinclair.”
The Duke of Everingham? There was a sudden hush as everyone turned to where the displaced Duke of Everingham, dressed almost entirely in black, stood with another gentleman on the threshold of the ballroom. The duke surveyed the room in an unhurried manner, looking elegant, saturnine and bored.
The Countess of Ashendon rose and glided across the floor to greet him, releasing a buzz of conversation. Rose joined her, and everyone at the ball watched as she engaged the duke in what looked like a brief, but unexceptional and apparently pleasant conversation. A few moments later, he bowed to the ladies and he and his friend drifted off in the direction of the card room.
“Well, that was unexpected.” Thomas’s partner, Lady Roman-Nose, regarded him with an avid expression. “Embarrassing, isn’t it?” Her eyes gleamed with malice.
“Not at all,” Thomas said. “My wife invited him.” And had no expectation of him coming. What was the fellow up to, he wondered. But he wasn’t going to speculate for this lady’s entertainment. “Do you hunt, Lady, er, um?”
“No,” she responded in a snippy tone. Thomas wasn’t sure whether it was because she was balked of any juicy gossip or because he’d forgotten her name, but he didn’t much care which. “And my name isn’t Lady Er-Um,” she added acidly. “It’s Lady Toffington.”
“Of course it is,” Thomas said, embarrassed. “My sincere apologies, my lady. It’s just that I’ve met so many new people this evening, your name temporarily slipped my mind.”
“Yes, it must be difficult, being a nobody in such distinguished company.”
Oh, she was a charmer, this Lady Er-Um. Thomas danced grimly on, waiting for the wretched dance to finish.
Burton continued to boom out late arrivals. “The Earl and Countess of Wainfleet! The Earl of Brierdon! The Honorable Gilbert Radcliffe!”
The Earl of Brierdon? Thomas stumbled. Uncle Walter? He whirled around to face the door but couldn’t see his uncle.
“Still learning to dance, Mr. Braithwaite?”
“Sorry, Lady er—” His mind was blank. He scanned the room. Uncle Walter was here?
“Yes? You’re sorry, Lady who?” She regarded him beadily and waited.
“I’m sorry, lady, I have to go.” Thomas left her standing in the middle of the dance floor and hurried across to where Burton, the butler, stood.
“Burton, the Earl of Brierdon, where did he go?”
“I’m not sure, sir.” Burton scanned the room. “Perhaps one of the card rooms?”
Thomas looked into the first card room. No Uncle Walter. He checked the second. Not there either. He turned to continue his search when Lady Ashendon touched his arm. “Are you looking for your next partner, Thomas?” He blinked. When had she started calling him Thomas?
“No, it’s—I’m sorry, I don’t have time to dance. Do you know the Earl of Brierdon?”
“Yes, of course. He was invited, naturally.” She looked at him, puzzled. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, no—I just need to speak to him.”
Ashendon appeared at his wife’s elbow. “Something the matter?”
“Thomas is looking for Lord Brierdon.”
“Why?”
Thomas took a deep breath. If Uncle Walter was here, there was no point in denying the relationship. It was bound to come out anyway. But if Uncle Walter intended to publicly repudiate him, here, in front of Rose and everyone she cared about, he had to be stopped.
“Remember the uncle I said disowned me?”
Ashendon’s brows snapped together. “The Earl of Brierdon? He’s your uncle?”
Thomas nodded. “I don’t know why he’s here, but if it’s to make trouble . . . I won’t allow him to embarrass Rose. Or you two.”
Ashendon looked grim. “I won’t allow it either. Right, I’ll get Galbraith onto it. You stay out of sight—better yet, go to the library. We’ll find Brierdon and bring him to the library. If he’s bent on mischief, we’ll soon find out.”
It went against the grain for Thomas to let Ashendon take charge, but it made sense to ensure that their meeting took place in private instead of witnessed by a ballroom full of gossips.
He went to the library to wait.
“Thomas?” Rose entered. She hurried to him and slipped her arm through his, a wordless gesture of solidarity. “Emm told me what has happened. Your uncle is here? The one who so cruelly disowned you?”
Thomas nodded. His mouth was dry. He didn’t know what he was going to say to Uncle Walter. He’d take it as it came.
It didn’t take long. The door opened. Ashendon entered, followed by a slender gentleman dressed all in white—white knee breeches, a white shirt and a white neckcloth tied in such an intricate arrangement he could hardly turn his head, a white waistcoat and a tight white coat bearing a dozen gold fobs and chains. Galbraith followed, and a moment later Lady Ashendon entered.
Thomas frowned. “That’s not my uncle. You’ve brought the wrong man.”
“You said the Earl of Brierdon,” Ashendon said.
“Yes. I don’t know who this fellow is, but he’s not the Earl of Brierdon.”
The newcomer uttered a huff of outrage. “I certainly am the Earl of Brierdon. Who are you, you impertinent—” His quizzing glass dropped. “Thomas? Good gad! It is you! My friend Venables did ask me whether the Commander Beresford mentioned on the invitation was any relation, but I told him I had no idea. Lord knows there are enough Beresfords scattered around the country, and I mean, you’d been dead for years, after all.” He lifted his quizzing glass and peered at Thomas. “But you’re alive.”
Thomas’s jaw dropped. “Cousin Cornelius?”
“Cousin Cornelius?” echoed Ashendon. “He’s not your uncle?”
“No, of course not. He’s some sort of cousin.”
“Second cousin once removed,” Cousin Cornelius said sulkily. “You never did get that right.” Thomas hadn’t seen Cousin Cornelius since they were boys. He hadn’t improved.
“But I heard the Earl of Brierdon announced. Where is Uncle Walter?”
Cousin Cornelius rolled his eyes. “Dead, of course. How else would I be the Ear—er . . .” He trailed off, looking uncomfortable.
“Dead?” Thomas was shocked at the news. Uncle Walter couldn’t possibly be dead. “But how? When? He wasn’t old, or at least not very old.”
“Broke his neck on the hunting field four years ago.”
Thomas stared at him, trying to come to terms with the news. Uncle Walter? Dead? And then he realized what else Cornelius had said. “Four years ago? Four? Are you sure?” The date had to be wrong.
“Of course I’m sure,” Cousin Cornelius said pettishly. “As if I’d forget the date I inherited an earldom.”
Rose slipped her arm through Thomas’s and murmured, “Lord Brierdon—your Cousin Cornelius, I mean—has been a member of London society for some years.”
“But I talked to you about Uncle Walter.”
“Yes, but you never mentioned him by his title. I never put the two together.”
Thomas turned back to Cousin Cornelius. “Why are you calling yourself Lord Brierdon? Gerald is the heir. He should be the earl.”
“Gerald died before Uncle Walter,” Cornelius said. “Caught some horrid disease in Italy—cholera or something like that. Nasty end. Was shipped home in a barrel, poor sod. The old man was devastated, first his beloved Gerald dead, then you, lost at sea.”
Thomas’s head was spinning. “But Uncle Walter had to know I was alive. At least—when exactly did he die?”
“Uncle Walter? Fourteenth of June, 1814.”
“Fourteenth of June, 1814?” Thomas turned to Rose. “My ship went down on the twenty-fifth of April. I don’t know how long it would have taken for the news to reach him, but I do know it took us weeks to cross the desert. I don’t know the exact date when I wrote to him, but by my reckoning it was early June.”
She saw the implications at once. Her eyes widened. “He can’t have received the ransom letter.”
“That’s right. He was already dead.” For most of May 1814, Thomas and his men were still battling to cross the desert. They hadn’t even reached Mogador. And when they finally did reach Mogador and sent off the ransom request, it would have taken weeks by ship to reach England.
But the letter refusing Thomas’s ransom had been signed by Walter Beresford, Earl of Brierdon. Thomas had seen it with his own eyes. A letter signed by a dead man. Two dead men, seeing that Gerald had died before Uncle Walter.
So who had sent the letters?
Thomas turned to Cousin Cornelius. “You bastard!”
Cousin Cornelius gave an indignant huff. “I’m not a bastard! My parents were married!”
“You sent those damned letters! I’m going to wring your scrawny neck!” He prowled toward his perfidious cousin, fists clenched.
“Letters? What letters? I don’t know anything about any letters! Don’t look at me like that! I didn’t do anything! Stay back!” As Thomas approached, Cousin Cornelius gave a frightened squeak and hid behind the Earl of Ashendon. The Earl of Ashendon gave him a distasteful glance and stepped away.
“You refused my ransom.”
“What ransom? I don’t know anything about any ransom. Help me, Lady Ashendon, he’s gone mad!” Cousin Cornelius dived behind the very pregnant Emm.
“Nobody is going to hurt anyone,” Lady Ashendon said in her calm way. “Thomas, you know perfectly well I’m not going to allow you”—she glanced at her husband—“or anyone else to wring any necks. I am in the middle of giving a ball, and I will not have my guests brawling, no matter what the provocation.”
She gave Thomas a flinty look that somehow combined sternness with understanding. “Thomas, sit down, you’re frightening the earl. Lord Brierdon, you sit over here, beside me. I promise, nobody will hurt you.”
“Yet.” Thomas sat down. He gave Cousin Cornelius a look that made him wriggle closer and clutch Emm’s skirt.
Thomas shook his head. “It sounds so wrong, hearing you addressed by Uncle Walter’s title.”
“That, my dear boy, is because it is wrong.” Lady Salter appeared from nowhere and inserted herself into the conversation with all the ease of a well-oiled adder. “That title correctly belongs to my dear nephew-by-marriage, the seventh Earl of Brierdon.”
Thomas blinked. “Who’s that?”
Rose slipped her hand into his. “I think she means you, Thomas.”
Lady Salter gave a tinkling laugh. “Of course I mean dear Thomas, you foolish child, who else would I mean?” She turned back to Thomas. “Walter Beresford was your uncle, and you are his nephew, his only nephew. A nephew takes precedence over a mere second cousin twice removed.” She made a gesture that effectively dismissed such lowly relatives.
“Once removed,” Cousin Cornelius said sulkily from behind Emm.
“Dear Thomas has always been my favorite nephew-in-law,” Lady Salter continued.
Thomas glanced at Galbraith, who until now had been the only nephew-in-law Lady Salter deigned to acknowledge. Galbraith winked.
Lady Salter glanced around the room and added, “You don’t imagine my niece would marry a complete nobody, did you? Rutherford ladies have always shown superior judgment.”
Rose giggled. “Watch Aunt Agatha rewrite history,” she whispered to Thomas.
But despite his amusement at the old lady’s complete volte-face, Thomas’s mind was still reeling. Uncle Walter hadn’t repudiated him at all. Neither had Gerald. They couldn’t have.
He hadn’t been mistaken. He’d been loved, as he’d always believed he was . . .
But who had sent those letters in their name? Who else could it be but the man who’d taken their place? By the time his ransom letters reached England, this white-clad popinjay was swanning around the place calling himself the earl.
He glowered at Cousin Cornelius. The bastard, he’d as good as murdered Thomas in order to steal the title. Thomas had never even thought of the title in relation to himself—why would he when it belonged to Uncle Walter? And then to Gerald when Uncle Walter died.
Poor Gerald . . . Cholera was a terrible way to go. Thomas was no stranger to death by cholera. But for his body to be sent home in a barrel, it must have broken Uncle Walter’s heart. “When you say Uncle Walter died on the hunting field, how exactly did it happen?” Uncle Walter had always been a punishing rider to hounds.
“I’m sorry, Thomas,” Lady Ashendon interrupted. “You must have a hundred questions for the—for your cousin, but we’re in the middle of a ball here, and I’m afraid it will cause a great deal of gossip if all the principals disappear for such a long time. You know what society is like.” She glanced at the clock. “Supper will be announced in a few minutes. We should all be out there.” She added, “And perhaps nobody should mention this new development until we’re more sure of our facts.”
Thomas frowned. “I can’t let him just walk out of here.” He wasn’t going to let Cousin Cornelius out of his sight until he’d wrung the truth out of him.
Cornelius gasped. “You can’t force me to stay!”
“I could lock you in a closet,” Thomas growled.
“Thomas, you will do no such thing,” Emm said.
Galbraith, who’d said nothing up to now, stepped forward. “I’ll take him home to my place. Lily’s staying here for the night, so she won’t need an escort home. How would that be, Cornelius? A nice comfortable bedchamber for the night, instead of a cramped closet.” He glanced at Thomas. “I’ll keep him safe.” In other words, he’d lock him in his bedchamber.
Thomas turned to his cousin. “There’s your choice, Cornelius—a closet or Galbraith’s hospitality.”
“Why can’t I just go home?”
“Because I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you,” Thomas said bluntly.
“Such a frightful ruffian you’ve become, Thomas,” Cornelius said, but seeing that Thomas wasn’t going to back down, he gave in with a pout. “Oh, very well, I’ll go with Galbraith if I must.” He stood, hesitated, then said in a rush, “I have no idea what bee you’ve got in your bonnet, but I assure you I know nothing about whatever letters you’re talking about. And it’s not my fault that I was declared the earl. Everyone, even the navy, said you were dead, so you can’t blame me.”
Thomas, aware of Emm’s desire to get back to the ball, stood. “We can continue this conversation tomorrow morning.” He turned to Galbraith. “Will you bring him back here at ten?”
“Ten?” Cornelius shuddered. “I never arise before noon.”
“Then it will be a new experience for you. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning, here”—he glanced a silent query at Ashendon, who nodded—“at Ashendon House.”
Cousin Cornelius pouted. “I think you’re all being horrid. And I was so looking forward to the ball.”
“Come along, Cinderella,” Galbraith said. “Pumpkin time.”
* * *
* * *
They returned to the ballroom. The supper dance was in progress and at the end of it, supper was announced. They went in to dine, Thomas escorting Lady Ashendon, Rose escorted by her brother while Lily, most unfashionably, sat with her husband, who had returned, having locked Cousin Cornelius in a guest bedroom and setting a sturdy footman to guard the door.
Ollie escorted Miss Peplowe to the table, behaving in a very attentive manner toward her. Rose caught Thomas’s eye and made a see-I-told-you face. Thomas shrugged. It was just supper.
Finally, in a move that caused a great deal of murmuring and subtle nudging, the Duke of Everingham escorted Lady Georgiana in to supper. Lady Salter and her tame escort followed, her smug expression making it clear who was responsible for that pairing. George grimaced at Rose as she passed. Rose laughed.
The supper was a veritable feast, with all kinds of dishes to tempt the appetite: white soup, of course, chicken fricassee, as well as squab and pheasant. There were pies—beef pies, veal pies and fish pies. There was venison, ham sliced paper thin, lobster, prawns and crab patties and two whole baked salmons. There was a range of vegetable dishes, including asparagus and green peas, and there were curd cakes, both savory and sweet.
For those with a sweet tooth there were cakes, blancmanges, glistening tartlets, cream pastries, ices, colorful jellies and brandied custards. For fruit lovers there were compotes of fruit, and the centerpiece of every table held an ornate arrangement of fresh fruit, including grapes frosted with sugar and several whole pineapples.
The tables positively groaned. No expense had been spared.