How to Catch an Errant Earl

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Aunt Flora shook her head emphatically. “I, for one, do not wish to see or hear anything about that dreadful man or his ghastly poem about the prison.”

  Lilias shuddered. “Neither do I.”

  Mrs. Kerr concurred. “That man is too wicked for words,” she declared with a haughty sniff. “My sister, the Countess of Cheviot, met him once, and she believes he’s a sinful scoundrel beyond salvation. I have no interest in anything Byron has written. In print or carved in stone.”

  “I am more than happy to go along with whatever the ladies decree,” observed Dr. Kerr. He took his wife’s arm. “Come, Eleanor. I hear there is a fine banqueting hall and a chapel somewhere about.”

  “Oui, oui. There is indeed, my good monsieur.” The gendarme beckoned them toward another archway on the other side of the cobbled courtyard. “This way, s’il vous plaît.”

  After Bertie offered one arm to Lilias and the other to Aunt Flora, the trio followed the gendarme and the Kerrs.

  Arabella breathed a sigh of relief. Her aunt hadn’t bothered to look back and she wouldn’t follow. For the moment she was free to do as she liked. The others might not want to explore the prison, but she certainly did.

  As Arabella stepped through the doorway the gendarme had pointed out, the entrance to the dungeon yawned before her, a dark gray mouth flanked by iron-hinged doors of thick latticed wood. Her belly fluttered with a combination of excitement and trepidation as she carefully picked her way down the worn stone steps into a chamber that appeared to be a wine cellar, of all things; the vaulted ceiling was supported by slender stone columns, and large wooden barrels were stacked neatly against rough brick walls. A narrow gash of a window on the far wall provided sufficient light for her to discern another arched doorway leading to a larger, cavernous chamber.

  The dungeon.

  It was much cooler down here in the dank shadows, and Arabella gathered her shawl about her shoulders as a shiver slid down her spine. Standing on the prison’s threshold, she took in the seven massive pillars supporting the high vaulted ceiling that brought to mind a Gothic cathedral, not a dungeon. A series of tall, arched windows on the lake side spilled enough sunlight into the vast chamber for her to see it had been carved from the very bedrock upon which Chillon sat. The wall to her right was little more than roughly hewn stone, and in some places, the floor was littered with jagged rocks and piles of dark gray boulders.

  The opening of Byron’s poem “Sonnet on Chillon” wandered through Arabella’s mind as she slowly traversed the chamber.

  Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!

  Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,

  For there thy habitation is the heart—

  The heart which love of thee alone can bind . . .

  She might have felt imprisoned when she was but a child, alone and afraid in the orphanage without any hope of love or light in her life, but at least the institution had more creature comforts than this godforsaken place. She counted the pillars until she reached the fifth one; this was where the monk Bonivard, the prisoner immortalized in Byron’s poem, had been chained to an iron ring.

  After removing her silk gloves and tucking them into her reticule, Arabella reached out and splayed her bare hand against the cold stone. Poor man. Her heart wept for him and everyone else who had suffered within these castle walls: men, women, and children alike. And that’s when she heard something, a soft rustle followed by a quiet scuffing sound like a footstep on stone.

  She wasn’t alone. There was someone down here with her, perhaps in the next chamber. Arabella’s pulse pounded in her ears and a frisson of unease slid over her skin, raising gooseflesh. She wasn’t prone to flights of fancy, but for one mad moment, she wondered if the dungeon might be haunted.

  There was only one way to find out. Inhaling a bracing breath, Arabella called out, “Qui est là? Who’s there?” and stepped around the pillar.

  And then she gasped. The tall, masculine figure standing before her, stealing her breath clean away with his fallen-angel smile, wasn’t an apparition. Far from it.

  He was simply the handsomest man she’d ever seen.

  Chapter 4

  We passed on to the Castle of Chillon, and visited its dungeons and towers.

  Mary Shelley, History of a Six Weeks’ Tour

  The handsome stranger folded his tall, muscular frame into an elegant bow; clad in the attire of a gentleman rusticating in the country—a simple neckcloth, hunter green riding coat, snug buckskin breeches, and top boots—he was a perfect specimen of a young, athletic male in his prime. “My apologies, fair lady,” he said, his wide mouth tipping into another enigmatic smile. “I did not mean to startle you.”

  Yes, Arabella was startled, by the man’s physical beauty more than anything else, and it took her a moment to actually register that he was English. And very well-spoken. His cultured accent brought to mind ton ballrooms, whereas his voice was rich and deep with an appealing rasp—a rough, smoky edge that reminded Arabella of the whisky her grandfather used to drink.

  As the man straightened, a stray beam of sunlight illuminated his sun-bronzed countenance, revealing moss green eyes beneath slashing black brows and a riot of ebon curls. An aristocratic blade of a nose, carved cheekbones, and a sharply cut jaw. His unabashed gaze roamed over her face, and Arabella’s cheeks grew hot beneath his curious regard.

  Amusement sparked in the man’s eyes, and Arabella realized that she was not only blushing but openly gaping at him. And she hadn’t uttered a single word. He must think her bird-witted.

  “I . . . I will confess I am a wee bit startled,” she said at last, annoyed with herself for being so rattled. “Are you . . . are you here for a private tour?” She glanced past him, into the chamber he must have come from, but she couldn’t see or hear anyone else.

  Another smile, this time a little wider. Arabella became transfixed by a dimple in the man’s lean cheek. “Not exactly,” he said in his whisky-warm voice. “One could say I’m simply here for the scenery.” He removed a large book that had been tucked beneath his arm and showed it to her—it appeared to be an artist’s sketchbook.

  “You’ve been drawing down here?” Arabella frowned. “Surely you’d have a better view from outside.”

  “Ah, but you see, I sometimes like to sketch the outside from the inside. To capture the essence of something just out of reach. And to show the light beyond the darkness.” He arched a brow. “I’m a little peculiar that way.”

  “But the windows are too high.” Arabella tilted her head up and squinted over the top of her glasses; she needed them for reading more than anything else. “One can only see the sky from here.”

  “There’s a larger window in the next chamber with a view of the lake,” he said. “Come and see.”

  Before Arabella could argue that she really shouldn’t be lingering in a deserted dungeon with a strange Englishman, he was walking through to the next room as if he expected her to follow without question; he had the air of someone who was accustomed to being obeyed. A natural authority. Ordinarily, Arabella would exercise caution in a situation like this—it wouldn’t do to get caught alone with a gentleman she didn’t know—but she hadn’t been down here long, and she calculated that she still had a little time until Aunt Flora came looking for her.

  So she followed.

  The man’s description of the chamber had been accurate. Four stone steps led down to a barred window as large as a doorway. The wooden shutters were open, and one could see across the expanse of bright, turquoise blue water to the mountains on the far side of the lake.

  Arabella descended the stairs to better take in the view, and after a moment, the gentleman joined her. Proffering his sketchbook, he asked, “What do you think?”

  In the narrow space before the window, he was obliged to stand quite close to her. His upper arm touched hers and his s
cent drifted around her—sandalwood soap, leather, and the musk of clean male. Decorum decreed that Arabella should move away, but it seemed her body had other ideas; her feet were rooted as firmly to the stone floor as the dungeon’s ancient pillars as she took the book. When the man’s bare fingers brushed against hers, her nerves tingled with a strange awareness, and the hot rush of her blood made her pulse quicken and her face burn.

  How odd. Disconcerted at her physical reactions to this man—and yet flattered that he would ask her opinion—Arabella dropped her gaze to the page, hoping her bonnet would hide her flush of pleasure. The sketch of the scene through the window was rendered in charcoal and cleverly done. In fact, the detail was quite astonishing, the interplay of light and shade masterful. The texture of the lightly ruffled water and the bold lines of the jagged mountains were captured perfectly behind the grill of dark, latticed iron bars.

  “I think you’re quite the artist,” she said, lifting her gaze to the man’s face. As she’d studied his drawing, she sensed he’d been watching her. And she was right.

  As their eyes met, he smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Do you paint too?”

  “Sometimes. But it’s only a hobby. Something to while away the time as I wait—” He broke off, then laughed. “It’s a good thing I don’t need to make a living from it.”

  Arabella handed the sketchbook back to him. “I think you could if you needed to.”

  “Perhaps.” He closed the book, tucked it under his arm again, and then flashed a dazzling smile that revealed perfect teeth. “Have you seen Lord Byron’s signature yet?”

  “No. I wasn’t sure where to look.”

  “It’s back in the main chamber. I’ll show you if you like.”

  “Aye, I would. Very much.”

  After retracing their steps, they paused at the third pillar. Sure enough, Byron’s name was carved into the gray stone.

  “I’ve heard that some dispute the authenticity of the autograph,” Arabella said softly. But the quiet awe in her voice had nothing to do with Byron and everything to do with the man beside her. To her dismay, she found she was captivated by the sight of the stranger’s long, decidedly masculine fingers as his hand rested on the column beside the poet’s name. There was a smudge of charcoal on one of his knuckles, and for the first time she noted that he wore several silver rings. Sunlight glancing off the largest signet ring revealed a hawk’s head with flashing emerald chips for eyes.

  She really should ask this man’s name. But before she could voice her question, he responded to her remark.

  “I think it’s real,” he said. “It’s something Byron would do.”

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve met him on the odd occasion,” he said after a momentary pause. “In London. But it was a few years ago now.”

  Arabella nodded. So her initial assumption had been correct. This man was well connected and probably a member of the ton. “I hope you don’t mind, but I really should ask you . . .”

  She trailed off. The gentleman was watching her face again and she wasn’t used to such scrutiny. He was making her flustered, putting her to the blush like a silly, infatuated debutante. Again. It was a feeling she really didn’t like. “Why do you keep looking at me in that way?” she asked, unable to mask the slight note of indignation in her voice. Her Scots burr was also more pronounced, making her sound a little harsher than she’d intended.

  The man didn’t seem put out though. A spark of curiosity lit his green eyes as he cocked his head. “In what way?”

  “Like you’re studying me.”

  “Well, perhaps I am. A little,” he conceded. “But in my defense, I rather enjoy looking at beautiful things I’d like to draw. Or paint. Blame it on my artist’s eye.”

  Arabella arched an eyebrow. “You were right. You are peculiar. Or you need to borrow my spectacles.”

  To her astonishment, the roguish gentleman threw back his head and laughed. The deep throaty rasp of it echoed about the chamber. “You certainly don’t mince your words,” he said at last, propping a wide shoulder negligently against the pillar. “But perhaps you’ll forgive me when I tell you I’ve been in Switzerland a month and despite the beauty of the countryside, I’m a trifle tired of sketching and painting the same scenery.”

  “And you really want to draw me instead?” Arabella didn’t believe him. With her glasses, willow-thin frame, and less-than-perfect teeth, she was as plain as could be.

  “Yes I do. In fact, I’d love for you to sit for me. There’s a castle garden, did you know? If you would allow me to escort you outside, I’m sure we could find a nice shady spot right by the lake.”

  Arabella frowned. She suddenly didn’t trust this charming stranger’s pretty words and smooth-as-silk manner. It was about time she went upstairs. Aloud she said, “I hardly think that’s appropriate. I don’t know you.”

  “Then allow me to introduce myself.” The gentleman stepped back and affected another courtly bow. “I’m Gabriel Holmes-Fitzgerald, Lord Langdale.”

  Lord Langdale? Arabella knew that name. “You’re on the list,” she murmured without thinking.

  The gentleman—an earl no less—gave her a quizzical look. “List?”

  Arabella blushed. She couldn’t very well admit the Society for Enlightened Young Women had put together a list of prospective husbands—many of whom were rakehells—before she’d quit London. So she said, “I mean . . . you’re a friend of Lord Malverne’s, are you not? I’m a very good friend of the viscount’s sister, Lady Charlotte Hastings. We attended—” Arabella broke off but then lifted her chin. She was tired of being ashamed about that particular aspect of her past. Besides, why should she care about Lord Langdale’s opinion? It wasn’t as though she looked upon him as a prospective suitor, let alone a husband. “Charlie and I attended the same young ladies’ academy. Until we were expelled. I’m Arabella Jardine.”

  “Ah . . .” Understanding dawned in the earl’s eyes. “I do recall something about that. What a deuced nuisance that business must have been for you.”

  Arabella blinked, taken aback by Lord Langdale’s unexpected reaction. Was that a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes? Most people tended to look aghast when they heard about the unladylike things she and her friends had done. How they’d smuggled alcohol, cigarrillos, lewd pictures, and erotic reading material into the dormitory for a late-night party. “Aye. It was.” And still is, considering Aunt Flora can’t seem to forget about it.

  Which reminded Arabella, she’d been gone awhile now and she really must find her family, lest they discover her down here alone with the very rakish Lord Langdale. The furor that would ensue didn’t bear thinking about. Stepping away from the pillar and the earl, she glanced toward the door of the wine cellar and the stairs leading up to the courtyard. “I’m afraid it’s time for me to go. My family is probably looking for me.”

  Lord Langdale inclined his head. “Of course. But before you leave, I must ask you for your direction.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Lord Langdale’s perfectly cut lips lifted in a smile. “For noble not nefarious reasons, I assure you, Miss Jardine. I have a letter for you. From Lady Charlotte.”

  “Oh, how wonderful.” Arabella’s heart leapt with such joy, she clapped her hands together like a child who’d just received a box of sweetmeats at Christmas. “But I must ask you, how has that come about?” She began to head toward the stairs, and Lord Langdale fell into step with her.

  “Some correspondence recently arrived from England. Lord Malverne arranged a private courier to deliver mail to my villa in Villeneuve,” he explained, offering his arm as they encountered an uneven section of the dungeon floor. “Do you know the town?” he asked as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “It’s only three miles from here.”

  When Arabella nodded, Lord Langdale continued. “But I digr
ess. The note from Charlie, which accompanied your letter, mentioned you were currently staying at the Hôtel d’Angleterre in Montreux. But when I visited the hotel a few days ago to deliver your letter, the proprietor informed me that Miss Arabella Jardine was not, and had never been, a guest there.” The earl smiled down at her as they paused at the bottom of the stairs. “So it seems we are well met indeed.”

  Ah, so that’s why she hadn’t received any correspondence. What a perfidious hotel manager. Tamping down her annoyance, Arabella smiled back at Lord Langdale. “Yes. It would seem that we are. However, I must leave you here, my lord. For the sake of appearances, you understand. But I will quite happily share my address with you. It is the Maison du Lac in Clarens.”

  Lord Langdale relinquished his hold on her arm. “Excellent. I will make sure your letter from Lady Charlotte is delivered later today.”

  “Thank you.” Arabella dipped a quick curtsy. She supposed she should have done so earlier when the earl had introduced himself by name. But she’d been so surprised by his disclosure, she didn’t think to adhere to the usual proprieties. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Lord Langdale.”

  He bowed and offered a lopsided smile—a rakish smile if ever she’d seen one. “Believe me, the pleasure has been all mine, Miss Jardine.”

  Arabella had almost reached the top of the stairs when he called after her, “You know, I would be most honored if you would agree to be my muse sometime?”

  “And you, my lord, should definitely have your eyes checked,” she called back over her shoulder. “Farewell.”

  Lord Langdale’s rich laughter followed her out into the sunshine. What a lovely, unexpected adventure she’d just had. And she had a letter from Charlie to look forward to.