by Anne Gracie
Remembering his duties to his supper partner, Thomas tried to tempt Lady Ashendon with morsels from the various dishes, but she ate sparingly, even though she was eating for two. He ate without tasting much—though he did enjoy the crab patties. His mind was wholly on the news he’d just received.
Uncle Walter and Gerald dead. And Thomas was now the earl. It was unthinkable.
It wasn’t long before Thomas became aware that many of the murmurs and whispers and glances, sidelong and direct, were directed at him. Whenever he caught someone’s eye he was treated to a congratulatory smile and a raised glass. It was a strong contrast to the curious and often disparaging looks he’d received at the beginning of the ball.
Lady Ashendon leaned across. “I suspect your secret is out.”
Thomas frowned. “But I thought we agreed to say nothing.” Cousin Cornelius was safely locked away, so he couldn’t have spread the news. In any case, he would hate having to explain his demotion back to plain old Mister.
Lady Ashendon sent a meaningful glance toward Lady Salter. “I’m guessing she’s the source of the gossip.”
“You mean my dear aunt-by-marriage who always knew I was noble and never once called me a nobody? Or a scarecrow. And certainly never ever ordered me to be tossed into a gutter. Twice.”
She laughed. “You remember that, do you?”
“When a lady orders you tossed into a gutter, it creates a certain bond,” he said dryly. “And twice? Well, that just seals the deal.”
She laughed again. “I’m so glad you don’t hold a grudge, Thomas—may I call you Thomas, since we are family now? And you must call me Emm.”
“Of course.” It wasn’t true that he didn’t hold a grudge. All this time he’d nourished hatred for Uncle Walter and Gerald, swearing revenge against them. And they were innocent.
Who had sent those letters?
However the story got out, it was soon clear that the news had spread like wildfire: Lady Rose’s impossible nobody of a husband was in fact the Earl of Brierdon.
Thomas was congratulated right, left and center. People who’d barely talked to him before, people who’d simply looked down their noses at the nobody whom Lady Rose Rutherford had married, now wanted his opinion on everything. If he’d thought the squeeze was bad before, now that the attention was centered on him it was even worse.
“Oh, you are such a naughty man, Lord Brierdon.” An arch voice behind him accompanied by a sharp tap on the shoulder caused him to turn. It was the Roman-nosed matron. She gave a trill of laughter and said to the people standing closest, “We are old friends, you know, Lord Brierdon and I.”
Thomas looked at her in stupefaction.
She trilled with laughter again and smacked him on the arm with her fan. “Do you know he calls me ‘Lady Er-Um,’ a little joke between us because when we first met he forgot my name. Isn’t that naughty of him?” With a playful titter she smacked him again.
Thomas gritted his teeth. If she hit him again with that thing . . . No. If his first act as an earl were to destroy a lady’s fan it would be an inauspicious beginning. Probably. Although quite satisfying. He tore himself away from the temptation.
“Excuse me, Lady Toff-er-um-dammit, I’m needed over there.” He pushed his way through the crowd, leaving Lady Roman-Nose entertaining people with tales of his delightfully naughty pretense that he couldn’t remember her name.
“Toff-er-um-dammit! Too funny!”
He fled.
* * *
* * *
The first Rose knew the secret was out was when people started addressing her as Lady Brierdon, instead of Lady Rose. They were full of congratulations, and there was much talk of how sly she’d been, pretending in the note she’d sent with the invitation that she’d married a simple navy officer.
She wanted to say that she had married a simple navy officer, that she hadn’t married Thomas for any other reason except love, and that neither of them had known he was the Earl of Brierdon until fifteen minutes ago.
But she didn’t want people gossiping any more than they already were. If they knew there was an added mystery, how much worse would the interest be?
She could see that Thomas was hating the attention. He had that grim, granite look she was coming to know so well. “Excuse me, please,” she said to the latest batch of well-wishers. “I must speak with my husband.”
She hurried across to him.
“Would you like to leave now?”
He brightened. “Can we? It seems awfully early. People are still dancing.”
“It’s three in the morning. A lot of people have left, but others will stay until the band stops playing, and they will play until four. Or maybe five, I can’t remember what the arrangement was. And some of the card players will be here all night. In any case, Cal has already sent Emm upstairs. She’s worn to the bone, poor thing. My aunt has agreed to play the role of hostess in her absence.”
“Which aunt?”
“The aunt who is soooo delighted with you for becoming the Earl of Brierdon—of course, Aunt Agatha.”
“Is Aunt Dottie not delighted with me, then?”
She smiled and patted his chin. “Darling Aunt Dottie has been delighted with you from the very start, earl or not. She’s having a fine old time rubbing Aunt Agatha’s nose in the fact that she’s always had one of her ‘feelings’ about you—that’s a good thing, by the way. Aunt Dottie’s ‘feelings’ are legendary in the family.”
“So we can leave?”
“Yes. And if anyone wonders, well”—she dimpled—“we’re married and only recently reunited. I think people will understand.”
He looked horrified. “I won’t have them thinking that we’re doing that.”
She laughed. “Thomas, of course they’re going to think that.”
“But we’re not—not in your brother’s house.”
“Why not?”
“With your brother just down the hall? No, thank you. He’s likely to murder me in my bed—your bed.”
She laughed again. “Thomas Beresford, I never would have picked you for a prude.”
“I’m not. Just . . . this is your brother’s house.”
“Very well, then.” She made a careless gesture. “Stay and flirt with Lady Toffington, then. She seemed very taken with you.”
Thomas scowled and muttered something under his breath. “Very well, let’s go. But understand me, there will be no . . . joining of giblets.”
“No, Thomas.” She batted her eyelashes at him and led him upstairs to her old bedchamber.
* * *
* * *
Thomas was surprised to see everyone at table when he and Rose came down to breakfast the next morning. They were the last to arrive, and he knew full well why.
It was the usual relaxed meal, with everyone helping themselves from the covered silver dishes arranged on the sideboard. Despite her stupendous effort of the previous night, the cook and her staff had not stinted on breakfast, with a dozen hot dishes to choose from.
He was deciding between bacon, sausages and stewed mushrooms when Rose stood on tiptoe and murmured something naughty in his ear.
“What was that, Rose?” Emm had come up behind them. “Did I hear you say something about giblets?”
“Yes, it turns out Thomas is very partial to giblets in the morning.” She smiled guilelessly up at him, her eyes dancing with mischief.
“Really, Thomas? Giblets?” Emm cast a doubtful glance at a waiting footman. “I’m not at all fond of offal myself, but I suppose we could ask Mrs. Jacobs . . .”
“No, no,” he assured her, darting a quelling glance at his beloved. “This is more than adequate. Is Mrs. Jacobs your cook? She and her staff did a superb job with supper last night. I wonder she can provide us with anything this morning, and yet look at all this.” He gestured.
> Emm beamed at him. “What a lovely thing to say, Thomas. Most gentlemen don’t even notice the efforts of servants. I’ll pass on your compliment to Mrs. Jacobs.”
The rest of the meal passed in discussion of Thomas’s new position and how his cousin would deal with it, but, as without any further facts it could only be speculation, conversation soon passed to gossipy chitchat about other things that had happened during the ball. Since these concerned people Thomas didn’t know, he didn’t take much notice. He was mentally preparing for the meeting with Cousin Cornelius.
* * *
* * *
At ten o’clock precisely, Galbraith arrived with Cousin Cornelius, who presented a sulky face and a put-upon air. His all-white outfit was still pristine—no doubt Galbraith’s valet had taken care of him. Wearing white was an odd affectation, Thomas thought. He might have to adopt more practical colors, now that the income of an earldom was no longer his to squander.
Thomas still found it hard to accept that he was the earl.
They went to the library, where they were unlikely to be disturbed by the busy servants still working to restore the rest of the house to its usual tranquil state. Thomas had invited Ashendon to be present, not only because it was his house but because Thomas would welcome his impressions. Rose’s too, of course, because she was better at reading people than he was.
The enmity he’d initially felt for Ashendon had faded a good deal, and though they were hardly bosom buddies, the man was very sharp. And as Rose’s brother and head of her family, he had a right to be kept informed.
Thomas questioned Cousin Cornelius closely, but the man’s answers were much the same as they’d been the previous night. He claimed he knew nothing of any ransom letters, seemed genuinely appalled to learn Thomas had been enslaved, and was openly scornful when Thomas tackled him about the regular emptying of his bank account. “Why on earth would I bother with some paltry allowance when I had the income of the whole earldom at my fingertips?”
He had a point.
He also insisted he knew nothing about the continuance of the allowance. “Nothing to do with me. Sounds as if the old man—”
“Uncle Walter or ‘the earl,’” Thomas grated. “Show some respect.” He felt ashamed now for misjudging his uncle.
Cousin Cornelius huffed. “He never liked me.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Ashendon said sardonically.
Cousin Cornelius pursed his lips. “It sounds to me as if the previous earl had arranged it through one of his little pet projects—he was a soft touch, the old m—earl. Ambrose has had the devil of a time sorting them out. Like a squirrel with nuts he was, accounts and legacies all over the place and no central record.”
“Ambrose?” Ashendon leaned forward. “Who’s Ambrose?”
“My cousin,” Thomas said. “A good fellow.”
“Cousin?” Cousin Cornelius sniffed. “I suppose, if you don’t count the fact that he’s ‘wrong side of the blanket.’ Personally, I don’t recognize the relationship.” He turned to Ashendon. “The old m— the old earl got him on some maidservant. Made a ridiculous fuss of him, treated him almost as one of the family.”
Thomas nodded. “We grew up almost as brothers, Ambrose, Gerald and me. We did everything together, our lessons as well as running wild on the estate.” Thomas smiled, remembering. “They were good days. We three were inseparable until Gerald and I were sent away to school, and after that we all went our separate ways.”
“Ambrose didn’t go far,” Cousin Cornelius said cattily, adding to Ashendon, “He’s the estate manager now. Runs everything like clockwork, but”—he made a dismissive gesture—“no conversation. A complete country bumpkin.”
Ashendon raised a brow at Thomas in silent query.
“Ambrose?” He considered it briefly, then shook his head. “I can’t see it. Ambrose has always been like a brother to me.” But Gerald had been like a brother to him, too, and for the last four years he’d had no trouble believing Gerald had betrayed him.
Ashendon said suddenly, “What do you know about marzipan, Beresford?”
Thomas blinked, then recalled he was no longer Beresford. He was Brierdon now, which sounded strange: Brierdon was Uncle Walter. Cousin Cornelius was Beresford.
“Marzipan? What do you mean, what do I know about marzipan?” Cousin Cornelius said irritably. “What does anyone know about marzipan? You eat it. And why the devil have you dragged me here at the crack of dawn if all you’re going to do is throw stupid questions at me?”
Ashendon sat back and, meeting Thomas’s gaze, shook his head. Thomas agreed. Cousin Cornelius seemed to know nothing. Either he was innocent, or he was a very good actor. Thomas didn’t know him well enough to be sure which.
Thomas stood up. “You can go now,” he told Cousin Cornelius.
“Well, I like that! There’s gratitude for you. I’m dragged out of the ball—and I was really looking forward to it—locked up like a criminal, then hauled out of bed at some ungodly hour to answer a bunch of dashed ridiculous questions, and then it’s ‘you can go now.’ Not so much as a ‘thank you’ or a glass of sherry.”
“Thank you,” Thomas said grimly. “Now go, or else I’ll—”
“Push you in a muddy puddle,” Rose said brightly. “Good day, Mr. Beresford, or should I call you Cousin Cornelius? I’ll show you to the door. What a lovely velvet coat that is. So unusual . . .” She hurried him away.
“What do you think?” Ashendon asked.
Thomas shook his head slowly. “I can’t be sure. He could be a damned clever actor—”
Ashendon gave a scornful snort.
“Yes, that’s what I think too,” Thomas said. “He doesn’t seem all that bright to me.”
“You don’t have to be clever to be ambitious.”
“That’s true.” Thomas had witnessed the cunning of the downtrodden, and the most successful manipulators weren’t always the cleverest.
“This Ambrose he mentioned . . .”
Thomas made a face. “I can’t see it. Ambrose . . . we were always so close, the three of us growing up. And Ambrose was always a gentle soul. He hardly even leaves the estate. Besides, what would be the point? Ambrose is illegitimate; how would he benefit from my death or absence? He can’t possibly inherit. There would always be an earl, whether it was me or Cousin Cornelius, or whoever is next in line after him. It can never be Ambrose and he’s known that practically since birth. So what reason would there be for him to plot against me?”
Ashendon shook his head. “Well, whoever’s behind your betrayal, this inheritance is certainly going to disrupt your plans. You won’t be able to leave tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
Ashendon’s expression was sardonic. “Because there will be a hundred papers to sign, all kinds of arrangements to be made—you don’t just up and call yourself Lord Brierdon and buy yourself a new hat, you know. There’s the devil of a lot of tedious paperwork involved. Believe me, I know.”
Thomas shrugged. “I’ll attend to it when I come back.”
Ashendon frowned. “Why wait?”
Thomas met Ashendon’s gaze deliberately. “Because all that paperwork might not turn out to be necessary.”
A small distressed sound from the doorway alerted him to the fact that they were not alone. He swore under his breath. Rose was standing in the doorway, her face pale and set. She’d overheard what he’d said. And had immediately understood the implications.
“You mean because you might not come back, don’t you? See, I knew it was dangerous, and finally you’ve admitted as much. Thomas, you can’t go. Please, I beg of you!”
“I made a promise, Rose.”
“And what of your promise to me—to love me, and cherish me, and keep me?”
“I’ll keep that promise too.”
“As long as we both shall l
ive, yes—but what if you’re dead, Thomas? What if you’re shipwrecked or taken by pirates again? How can you keep your promise then?”
He offered her a smile. “At least this time if I’m captured I’ll know who to write to.”
“Don’t! Don’t you dare joke about it, Thomas! I won’t have it.” She dashed angry tears from her eyes. “You’re determined to risk your life—and my happiness—our happiness—unnecessarily, and now you try to make light of it?” She glared at him, her eyes swimming with tears, and then whirled and ran from the room.
There was a short silence, then Ashendon cleared his throat. “Got a lock on that cellar door of yours, I presume.”
Thomas nodded. “Looks like I’m going to need it.”
“What time does your ship leave tomorrow?”
“I need to be on board an hour or so before high tide, to take advantage of the current. High tide is just before two.”
“Right then. I’ll drop by Bird Street some time after four to let her out.”
Chapter Twelve
Defer not till to-morrow to be wise,
To-morrow’s Sun to thee may never rise;
Or should to-morrow chance to cheer thy sight
With her enlivening and unlook’d for light,
How grateful will appear her dawning rays!
As favours unexpected doubly please.
—WILLIAM CONGREVE, LETTER TO COBHAM (L. 61)
Thomas and Rose returned to Bird Street. “What will you do when I leave tomorrow?” he asked her. “Will you return to Ashendon House, or will you get Lady George or someone to stay with you?”
“I’m going with you,” she said. And went upstairs to pack.
Stalemate again.
Remembering his plan, he went down to the cellar to inspect it. As a storage place for wine and spirits it was quite suitable; as a prison, albeit a temporary one for Rose, it left a great deal to be desired.
He found Briggs, their manservant, and instructed him to sweep the cellars thoroughly, paying particular attention to removing every last spider and cobweb. Rose was not fond of spiders. While Briggs was doing that, Thomas carried down the most comfortable chair in the house and a small side table and arranged them in a hidden corner of the cellar.