For now, though, she could at least take heart in the fact that Dr. Radcliff wanted to continue corresponding with her. And dare she believe he wanted to see her again when she returned to London? Why else would he ask how long she would be away?
It might still be raining, but Arabella’s spirits weren’t the least bit dampened as she hailed another hackney coach. Hopefully this Grand Tour she was about to embark upon would be over with before she knew it. And then she could get on with the life she truly wanted.
Chapter 2
It seems scandalous scoundrels and wanton women galore were present at a certain address in C. Square last night.
Find out what really happened at that ball . . .
One wonders if the ton’s most Errant Earl will ever learn his lesson?
The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page
Langdale House, St. James’s Square, London
April 19, 1818
Gabriel Holmes-Fitzgerald, the Earl of Langdale, gave a huff of disgust as he threw the Beau Monde Mirror onto the walnut occasional table beside his wing-back chair. It was a wide-held view that the so-called newspaper was little more than a gossip rag meant to titillate rather than illuminate.
Yet the article he’d just read was very close to the truth. Too close, in fact.
Gabriel sighed heavily as he poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver pot his valet had just brought to his sitting room, hoping the bitter brew would ease the pounding in his head—a megrim brought on by poor sleep rather than the aftereffects of alcohol—and to mask the taste of stale tobacco in his mouth from smoking a cheroot last night. He didn’t doubt the “Errant Earl” in question was him, not Lord Astley, the earl he’d been openly cuckolding for several months.
Indeed, the nobleman had confronted Gabriel about the adulterous affair in the middle of his very own ballroom at Astley House, right in front of the who’s who of the ton, including Camilla, his very beautiful and—unfortunately for the Earl of Astley—very accommodating wife. No wonder the incident had been recounted in the Beau Monde Mirror. It was probably even mentioned in the Times.
It served him right, he supposed, that he should be so roundly and publicly chastised. Gabriel scrubbed at the stubble on his face and winced. Lord Astley might be fast approaching middle age, but he could still plant a decent facer. But then, a split lip and bruised jaw were but a small price to pay considering Lord Astley had been on the brink of calling him out last night. And Gabriel had not wanted to meet the irate earl on the dueling field. Because that would mean he’d have to shoot the man, and frankly, he couldn’t be bothered. For the most part, he’d enjoyed his time between the sheets with Lady Astley, but as he was a superb shot—his reputation as an excellent marksman in Wellington’s army was well earned—he’d rather not kill a man over something as trifling as a casual affair.
Well, it had been casual for Gabriel, at any rate. Unfortunately, he was only just beginning to realize it had meant rather more to Lady Astley.
He’d already thrown the tearstained, heavily perfumed note Camilla had sent early that morning into the fire. He skimmed the contents—full of overwrought declarations of undying love and the mad suggestion that they should run away together. The woman should be making amends with her husband, not pursuing him. Even though it would hurt her, it was for the best if he severed all ties with her cleanly and immediately.
And that would be relatively easy to do now that he’d decided to quit town.
Rising from his seat, Gabriel moved to the window and, after flicking the claret velvet curtains aside, looked down onto the square below. It was a dismal rainy day, but that hadn’t stopped a small mob of jeering protesters from congregating in front of his town house. No doubt they believed hurling insults at the door of “Langdale the filthy libertine” would help him to “learn his lesson.” Gabriel’s mouth tilted into a wry smile over the rim of his coffee cup. He might not be quite as infamous as Lord Byron, but he was, in effect, charting a similar course to avoid having to deal with the consequences of such a public scandal.
Aside from that, he needed a change of scenery. He was sick of London and tonnish society. Bored with frequenting the same clubs and gaming hells, the same brothels, tupping the same society women. Doing the same meaningless things over and over again. While he’d never tire of the company of his old comrades-in-arms—Lord Malverne, Lord Sleat, and the Duke of Exmoor—he’d recently been overwhelmed by an oppressive, suffocating sense of ennui. And when he was so afflicted, he knew from past experience that he was in danger of doing something wild. Of venturing so close to the edge of disaster—just for the thrill of it—that he might actually regret it.
As he’d said to Nate, Lord Malverne, after the altercation with Astley—it was always too much or too little with him, even if it led him to self-destruction. There was never any middle ground. For his own well-being—and that of Lord Astley and his lady wife—it was better that he leave London. As soon as his valet had finished packing his trunks and Gabriel dressed for the day, he would depart for the Continent posthaste.
Of course, given that his decision to leave had been made on the spur of the moment, he hadn’t quite decided on his destination or how long he would stay away. He’d travel to Dover and at that point choose whether to sail for Calais or Ostend. Last night, when he first discussed his plan with Nate, he mentioned he might spend some time in Switzerland and rent a villa by Lake Geneva. Gabriel smirked. Now, that really would be following in Byron’s footsteps.
However, as he regarded the leaden gray skies and the swathe of heavy rain sweeping across the square—the downpour had at last sent the mob at his door scurrying for cover faster than a pack of rats abandoning a sinking ship—Gabriel decided the warmer, sunnier climes of southern France or Italy, or even Greece, had more appeal. Basking on a sun-flooded terrace by the bright blue Mediterranean Sea, supping on plump figs, creamy goat’s cheese, and rich red wine would surely refresh his mind and spirit even if there was no hope for his benighted soul.
Ryecroft, his valet, tapped on the door and announced his bath was ready. “Also, Jervis wishes to inform you that your cousin, Captain Timothy Holmes-Fitzgerald, has made an unscheduled call. He’s been installed in the front parlor for the time being as Jervis wasn’t certain you’d want to receive him . . .”
Jervis, his butler, was right. Gabriel wasn’t sure he wished to see his bloody penny-scrounging, self-serving, profligate cousin at all. For a man who had once served in His Majesty’s cavalry, Timothy didn’t appear to possess an honorable bone in his body. Indeed, Gabriel suspected his own little finger contained more integrity.
Sighing heavily, he set aside his coffee cup. “Fetch my green silk banyan, Ryecroft. And have one of the footmen show him to the library. Tell Captain Holmes-Fitzgerald I’ll be down directly.”
Ryecroft’s forehead wrinkled with a frown that bordered on disapproving. Clearly his master’s current state of dishabille—unshaven and unwashed with a rumpled cambric shirt, loose trousers, and leather slippers—affronted him. “It won’t take long to shave you, my lord. And I’ve already put out the clothes you request—”
Gabriel waved a dismissive hand. While it was tempting to make Timothy wait, he’d rather be rid of him. “If my cousin dares to arrive on my doorstep without an invitation at an indecent hour, he’ll have to take me as he finds me. I’ve no desire to make an effort for the sorry sod.”
Ryecroft bowed. “Very good, my lord.”
A short time later, Gabriel entered the library to find Captain Timothy Holmes-Fitzgerald sprawled across a silk-upholstered settee at the fireside with his muddy hessians propped on the marble-topped table and a glass of brandy in hand. “I hope you don’t mind that I helped myself, cuz,” he drawled, lifting his drink in the air.
By the look of him—his slightly glassy gaze and ruffled appearance—Gabriel suspected Timothy had ar
rived in an inebriated state. And it was only midday.
Ignoring his cousin’s greeting—such as it was—Gabriel stalked over to his desk and flopped into the leather chair behind it. His headache had already kicked up a notch. Hopefully this meeting wouldn’t take long. In fact, he already knew how it would go.
Timothy would declare his father’s latest business venture was failing—again—and he therefore needed a ridiculous sum to shore up the investment. It was complete balderdash.
Gabriel’s uncle, Stephen Holmes-Fitzgerald, had always been astute when it came to managing his family’s finances. But Gabriel also knew that his uncle’s health had begun to fail over the past year and since that time, he suspected Timothy had been dipping into the dwindling family coffers—when his father wasn’t looking—to hide his ever-increasing gambling and drinking debts. But those debts had to be repaid at some point lest his father find out. Hence Timothy’s periodic visits to Gabriel to try to cadge money from him. Timothy might claim he’d been discreetly taking care of the family’s business interests to ensure his father wasn’t exposed to any undue stress. But Gabriel knew the truth of the matter.
He glanced at the Boulle mantel clock above his cousin’s dark curly head. He’d give Timothy five minutes to haggle with him and not a second more. As much as Gabriel would dearly love to send Timothy away with nothing but a flea in his ear, he also didn’t wish to cause his ailing uncle unnecessary pain. Stephen Holmes-Fitzgerald, his own father’s younger brother, was a man of great integrity, and Gabriel had always admired him. So in the end, even though it irked him, he would write Timothy a banknote for a few thousand pounds. And then he’d kick him out.
“How much do you want this time, Timothy?” he asked, not bothering to disguise the note of boredom in his voice. He began to toy with a charcoal pencil within his reach.
“Now, now. Don’t you want to know how I am?” Timothy sat up straighter, placing his soiled boots on the fine Turkish rug. “Or how my father is?” The smile twisting his mouth in the moment before he took a sip of brandy was more of a sneer.
Alarm jangled through Gabriel. “I hope he hasn’t taken a turn for the worse.” During Timothy’s last visit about a month ago, he mentioned his father had been diagnosed with a canker in the belly.
His cousin sighed. “I’m afraid he has, old chap. The doctor says it might only be a matter of weeks—two or three months at the most—before he goes to meet his maker.”
Gabriel raked a hand through his hair. How could he in all good conscience leave for the Continent now? “Is the physician certain?”
Timothy shrugged. “As certain as anyone of his profession can be. Everyone knows most of them are quacks.” He rose to his feet and, after topping up his glass from the crystal decanter on the sideboard, sauntered over to Gabriel’s desk.
Gabriel watched him all the while; his knuckles cracked as his hands fisted on his thighs. He sometimes wondered if Timothy was actually a devotee of opium. It would explain why his pupils were often no bigger than black pinpricks in his pale gray eyes. And why he was always so short of funds. “You know that when your father passes, you’ll not get another penny from me,” he bit out through clenched teeth.
Timothy settled himself in the bergère before the desk with a studied nonchalance that increased Gabriel’s unease tenfold. His cousin had always been an arrogant man, but there was something else about him today—a calculating, almost cutthroat gleam in his cold gray eyes—that made Gabriel’s nerves prickle with awareness, rather like a hare waiting for the hawk to swoop. It was an unfamiliar feeling and Gabriel didn’t like it. Not one little bit.
Another smirk. “I wouldn’t count on that, cuz.”
What the devil is Timothy playing at? Gabriel forced himself to yawn and lean back in his chair, feigning an indifference he in no way felt. “I really wish you would speak plainly,” he said as he picked up the pencil and began to absently sketch a hawk’s wing on a blank piece of parchment left out on the blotter. “I have better things to do with my time.”
Swirling his brandy, Timothy studied the whirlpool he’d created in his glass for one long moment. He was deliberately taunting Gabriel. Making him wait. When he at last raised his gaze, his pale eyes glinted with a feral light. “As soon as my father dies, I’m going to take your title and everything else you own.”
Gabriel paused in his sketching and arched a sardonic brow. “What, you’re going to murder me in cold blood? Because the only way you’ll become the next Earl of Langdale is over my dead body.”
Timothy made a scoffing sound in his throat. “Good God. There’s no need to be so dramatic, cuz.”
“Well, you’ve clearly lost your mind then. You won’t get a damned thing unless I die. There’s no other possible way.”
“Isn’t there?” Timothy watched him over the edge of his glass as he took another sizable sip.
Gabriel returned his stare without flinching. “No.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Timothy put down his glass and made a show of brushing a speck of dirt off his pantaloon-clad thigh. “You see, Father’s developed a habit of quaffing laudanum like it’s small beer to ease his pain”—he gave a snort of laughter as though that were the funniest thing in the world—“and not that long ago, he let something slip. Something about your parents’ marriage.” Timothy’s arctic-ice gaze returned to Gabriel’s. “Or lack thereof . . .”
Gabriel’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”
There’d been a huge scandal almost thirty years ago when his father, Michael, Lord Langdale, had eloped to Scotland with the beautiful and not-quite-of-age heiress Caroline Standish. An only child of the abominably wealthy Walter Standish, Caroline—or Caro, as Gabriel’s father had once called her—had wed the wicked Lord Langdale “over the anvil” in a small toll-side alehouse in Springfield, just outside of Gretna Green. Caro’s irate father, who’d made his fortune mining lead in Yorkshire, had chased them over the border but was too late to stop the marriage.
Apparently the notorious “Priest of Hymen,” Joseph Paisley, had conducted the wedding ceremony. At least, that was the name Gabriel had been able to make out on the stained and crumpled marriage lines he’d presented as evidence of his parents’ union when he’d submitted his petition for a writ of summons to the House of Lords—as he was required to do—in order to claim the earldom of Langdale following the death of his father two years before.
“Surely you understand, cuz.” Timothy gave an exaggerated sigh as if he were about to deliver a complicated explanation to a simpleton and his forbearance was rapidly running out. “But just in case you don’t, as soon as my father croaks, I’m going to mount a challenge for the title.”
Gabriel’s eye twitched. “On what basis?”
“Well, obviously that you’re a bastard,” replied Timothy in a tone that was so patronizing, Gabriel had to grip the arms of his chair to stop himself from throttling the dog. “Because your parents’ marriage was never legal according to the laws of this land. Surely you’re familiar with the Hardwicke Act. Even under Scots law it’s likely it won’t stand up to scrutiny. And once you’re declared illegitimate”—Timothy made an expansive gesture encompassing the room—“all this will be mine.”
Fuck. What had his uncle said to Timothy? “You’re wrong. My parents’ marriage was valid. The House of Lords has already accepted my right to inherit.” Gabriel’s father wasn’t the first English peer to have eloped to Scotland with his sweetheart, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last. Indeed, the Beau Monde Mirror regularly reported such scandalous goings-on.
“Yes, but no one has contested your claim. Until now.” Timothy paused, no doubt for dramatic effect. “You mark my words, cuz, the Committee for Privileges and Conduct will hold a hearing when I demand one. And as the so-called priest who officiated at your parents’ so-called marriage died four years ago, he can’t be subpoenaed to
testify. Oh, and let’s not forget your mother is missing, so she won’t be able to attest their irregular marriage was valid either.”
Timothy leaned back and steepled his fingers beneath his shadow-stubbled chin. He was clearly relishing this encounter far too much. “How long has it been since she deserted your father for another man? Fifteen years and counting? Even if you could find her, I doubt she’d make a credible witness given her shameful past. And do you have any idea who the witnesses were or where they can be found? My inquiry agent certainly hasn’t been able to locate a record of the marriage in Scotland. You might possess some sort of certificate—and I use that word in the loosest possible sense—but without another verified copy in existence, no record in a civil marriage register, and no witnesses to speak of, you’re really not going to have a cat in hell’s chance, old boy. I’d say you’re about to get well and truly rogered.”
“Get out.” Gabriel’s command emerged as a low, thunderous growl.
Timothy raised his hands in a placatory gesture. “Now, there’s no need to be rude, cuz. I mean—”
“You heard me.” Gabriel stood so quickly, his chair toppled backward and crashed into the bookcase behind him. “Get out this instant before there is a dead body in this room. And it won’t be mine.”
Timothy must have registered the murderous rage in Gabriel’s eyes, as he immediately leapt to his feet and retreated across the room. However, conceited cock that he was, he couldn’t resist a parting shot when he reached the door. “You’re a bastard and a disgrace to the family name just like your father was. I can’t wait for the day you’re stripped of your title.”
How to Catch an Errant Earl Page 3