How to Catch an Errant Earl

by Amy Rose Bennett

  He appreciated her attempt at levity but he couldn’t return her smile. “This is serious, Bella. I promised you I wouldn’t get you with child until my title was assured. Which doesn’t look likely at this stage . . .” He sighed heavily. “I neglected to tell you I didn’t find anything useful in Scotland. Not a goddamned thing.”

  Compassion lit Arabella’s hazel eyes. “Don’t worry. It will be all right. Whether you are the Earl of Langdale or simply Mr. Holmes-Fitzgerald, our child will be loved and will want for nothing. That’s enough for me. Nothing else matters. Nothing at all.”

  A strange warmth suffused Gabriel’s heart, and his vision blurred with unexpected tears. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

  She smiled tenderly. “Probably not. But I think we can muddle along together, don’t you?”

  This time Gabriel did smile back. Resting his forehead against Arabella’s, he murmured, “Yes.” He’d never been more sincere in his life.

  Chapter 17

  The Season has ended and no doubt many of the ton are repairing to their country estates.

  But never fear, our intrepid editors will be sure to keep you abreast of all the latest scandals, both big and small, wherever and whenever they transpire . . .

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page

  Langdale House, St. James’s Square, London

  Later that day . . .

  More wine, Bella?”

  Arabella tilted her head and smiled at Gabriel, who was currently playing servant. “Yes, please,” she said, pushing aside her plate of cheese, sliced apricots, and plump red grapes. “But only just a little.”

  They were eating a light alfresco dinner on the terrace rather than in the stuffy dining room. Behind the horse chestnut, the evening sky was awash with glorious shades of burnished gold, orange, and crimson. The scent of summer roses and freshly cut grass drifted past on a light breeze.

  Gabriel replenished her glass with the pale but sweet Rhenish wine, then subsided into his seat beside her with a satisfied sigh. Even with smudges of fatigue beneath his eyes and in a state of elegant dishabille—he currently wore shirtsleeves, waistcoat, snug-fitting buckskins, and boots—he was effortlessly handsome. Sprawled in his chair with his long, muscular legs stretched out before him, Arabella was suddenly filled with a wave of desire. She wondered if Gabriel would want to bed her again tonight.

  Anticipation curled through her, making her more light-headed than the wine had. What they’d done this afternoon was astounding. Her husband’s lovemaking—dare she call it that?—was addictive, and even if she did fall pregnant, she wouldn’t regret a single thing.

  She pressed her hand against the peach muslin skirts hiding her belly. No doubt Gabriel would be even more vehemently opposed to her visiting the Seven Dials Dispensary if he suspected she carried his child. They hadn’t settled their differences over that particular topic, but she was reluctant to spoil the evening, so she let the subject lie.

  Gabriel reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “I must confess, I’m exhausted, Bella.”

  She smiled at him. “I don’t doubt it. The last few weeks have been hectic indeed.”

  He frowned and played with her fingers. His silver rings glimmered in the warm and golden gloaming. “Yes . . . What are your plans for tomorrow? Are you seeing any of your friends?” His tone was mild, but Arabella sensed he was fishing for information about Dr. Radcliff. She still couldn’t quite believe he was jealous of her perfectly innocuous relationship with the doctor. It suggested that perhaps Gabriel did care for her a little, just as he’d claimed a week ago on their second wedding day.

  He was waiting for her to respond, so she thought it best to put him out of his misery. “I’m going to see Lady Chelmsford and some of her other well-connected friends who are members of the Mayfair Bluestocking Society. Charlie, Sophie, and Olivia—she’s just back from Brighton—will be there too. Charlie’s aunt thinks the society will be most interested to hear about my plans for establishing an orphanage in Edinburgh. Such a project will require considerable capital, so they’d like to discuss holding an event to raise funds later this year. I’d also thought about writing to Bertie to see if his father’s bank, Arbuthnott and Allan, might like to be involved in supporting the cause; the head office is in Edinburgh. I don’t think you’d be too happy if I spent all your money.”

  Gabriel gave a wry smile. “I have plenty, don’t you worry, pet. I don’t know if I ever told you, but my mother was an heiress in her own right.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Yes, her father, Walter Standish, made a fortune from mining in Yorkshire. When he passed away, my mother inherited the lot. My father already had his own fortune, so you see”—he shrugged a shoulder—“I’m practically swimming in blunt.”

  “Goodness. Perhaps I should start two orphanages.”

  He kissed her hand again. “Start as many as you like. As long as you don’t get too busy overseeing them.” His gaze dipped to her belly and she blushed. “It might be the case that you’ll be busy with your own child before too long.”

  Arabella drew breath to say she was certain she could manage being a mother and doing her charity work when Jervis appeared on the terrace. “My lord, my lady.” He gave each of them a deferential bow. “I apologize for the interruption but”—his gaze transferred to Gabriel—“you have a visitor.”

  Gabriel straightened. “Really? At this hour? Can’t whoever it is come back tomorrow? It must be getting onto nine o’clock?”

  “Yes it is.” A strange look flitted across Jervis’s face. Was that little quirk at the corner of his mouth a smile? “But I do think you’ll want to see this particular person, my lord.”

  “Well, who is it?” Gabriel scowled at his butler. “Do you have a name? Or a card?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Jervis approached and offered his master a small cream card embossed with gold lettering. “She gave me this. I hope you don’t mind, but I installed her in the drawing room.” He nodded at the set of French doors at the other end of the terrace.

  “She?” As Gabriel took it and read the name, he shrugged. “I don’t know a Mrs. Caroline Renfrew.” He passed Arabella the card. “Do you, Bella?”

  She shook her head.

  And then Gabriel’s whole demeanor changed. “Her name is Caroline?” His gaze sharpened on Jervis. “Out with it, man. Who the bloody hell is this woman?”

  Jervis’s face split with a broad smile. “I haven’t seen her for fifteen years, but I do believe it’s your mother, my lord.”

  * * *

  * * *

  What? Gabriel shot to his feet. He felt as though he’d just been struck by a bolt of lightning. “You’re joking.”

  “Indeed I’m not, my lord.”

  Gabriel reached for Arabella with a shaking hand and caught her fingers in his. “I can hardly believe it, Bella. This could change everything for you and me. For us.”

  She smiled up at him. “I pray it is indeed the case, Gabriel.”

  Gabriel turned his attention to the still-grinning butler. “She’s in the drawing room you say?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And you’re sure it’s my mother?”

  “Yes. I’m completely sure.”

  Gabriel nodded. “All right.” Judging by the name printed on her calling card, it seemed she must have heard about her husband’s death and remarried, but then had decided to eschew her title, the Countess of Langdale, even though it was her right to still use it. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. And it probably explained why he’d had so much trouble finding her.

  Nerves skittered about his gut as he snagged his coat off the back of his chair. “How do I look, Bella?” he asked as he adjusted his cravat. His pulse hammered so fast, it felt as if he’d just boxed a round at Gentleman Jackson’s.

 
She rose to her feet. “Handsome as always.”

  He dragged his fingers through his hair. “Christ,” he muttered. “I probably need a haircut.”

  Arabella laughed. “Yes, you do. But I don’t think she’ll care. She’s your mother, Gabriel. And she’s come home to see you.”

  He blew out a sigh. “Yes . . .” He clasped Arabella’s hand in his again. “I hope to God she can help. This affects us both equally . . . and the future of our children.”

  She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. “You know how I feel about that. But yes, I hope she can help too.”

  Drawing a deep breath, Gabriel took Arabella’s arm, and together they entered the candlelit drawing room.

  As soon as he saw the attractive, dark-haired woman in a well-cut, peacock blue gown, hovering by the empty fireplace, Gabriel knew it was his mother. Felt it to his very bones.

  She turned away from her examination of a Meissen figurine on the pale gray marble mantelpiece and her green eyes, so like his own, came to rest upon him. A tremulous smile played about her lips. “Gabriel?” she murmured. A pale, slender hand fluttered to the strand of pearls at her throat. “I . . .” She swallowed and lifted her chin as she seemed to collect herself. “It’s so wonderful to see you. It’s been so long and I’d all but given up—” She broke off as her gaze flitted to Arabella. “I hope you can forgive my incoherence and apparent rudeness for intruding at such a late hour.” She inclined her head. “I trust you are Lady Langdale?”

  Arabella nodded. “Yes. And you’re not intruding at all, Mrs. Renfrew.”

  “Please, call me Caro,” she said, then frowned. “Unless, of course, you think that’s too familiar . . .” Her mouth twitched with a nervous smile. “This encounter is so out of the ordinary, I’m not sure if the usual rules apply.”

  “I don’t think it’s too familiar at all. And please, call me Arabella.”

  His mother’s hesitant yet yearning gaze returned to Gabriel. His mind and his heart were caught up in such a wild tumult, he struggled to find the right words to express everything he was feeling. Indeed, his tongue seemed to be tied to the floor of his mouth. Swallowing past a lump the size of a boulder in his throat, he whispered in a voice hoarse with emotion, “Would it be all right if I call you Mother?”

  Tears shimmered in the former Countess of Langdale’s emerald green eyes, and she bit her lower lip to still a tiny wobble. “Of course you may,” she murmured. “I would like that very much.”

  To hell with it. Gabriel crossed the room in a handful of ground-eating strides and caught her up in a fierce hug. He felt his mother’s arms come up around his back and settle lightly on his shoulders. Then her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat as her body quaked with gentle sobs.

  Gabriel pressed his own wet cheek against her smooth brown hair. The delicate scent of orange blossoms wove around him like an enchantment, transporting him back to his childhood. Joy and sorrow mingled in his breast. The bittersweet memories made his heart ache. For so long he’d resented this woman for abandoning him, but now that she was here, his anger had dissolved faster than the sugar in his coffee.

  At last, when they drew apart, his mother looked up at him with slightly puffy, red eyes. “You’ve grown into a fine young man, Gabriel,” she murmured. “I’m glad to see that you’re so settled and happy.”

  He frowned. Settled and happy. Never in his life had he thought himself to be either of those things. “I suppose married life suits me,” he said, and was jolted by the thought that perhaps that wasn’t a lie.

  “Might I have a glass of brandy?”

  “Of course.”

  He poured one for himself, one for his mother, and a whisky for Arabella, and then he joined his wife on a damask-upholstered sofa while his mother took the adjacent bergère.

  She took a delicate sip of her drink, then her intelligent green gaze met his. “I heard you were looking for me? Is that true?”

  “Yes, and it’s been quite a challenge to say the least,” he replied. “Almost like searching for a needle in a haystack, blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back. Of course, I had no idea you’d wed and might be using a different name.”

  “Yes, I’m so sorry.” His mother’s brow creased in sympathy. “It would have made it doubly difficult to find me.”

  Arabella sat forward and her incisive gaze met his mother’s. “So how did you hear Gabriel was trying to contact you, Caro?” she asked in that smooth, unruffled way of hers that Gabriel secretly thought of as her doctor’s voice.

  “A few weeks ago, I was staying in Cologny near Geneva, when one of my oldest and dearest English friends, Lady Wilfred, who’s been spending the summer in Nyon, paid me a visit. She mentioned a handsome young man with jet black curls and green eyes who went by the name of Gabriel Holmes-Fitzgerald, the Earl of Langdale, was looking for me.” Her attention slid to Gabriel, and a concerned frown creased her brow. “I’m sorry if she was a bit standoffish at first. My friend can be quite the lioness. I’m afraid she’s heard the most frightful gossip about you, and she thought you might take after your father a bit too much. But by the end of your visit, she was convinced you were of sound character and your intentions in seeking me out were sincere.”

  “I’m very glad,” said Gabriel. Actually, he was relieved beyond belief. He found Arabella’s hand on the sofa beside him and gave it a small squeeze. He wasn’t unconvinced his remarkable wife was the one who’d made all the difference when she’d so ably assisted the baroness’s grandson.

  “When Lady Wilfred gave me your card, I thought I must be dreaming.” A luminous smile lit his mother’s eyes. “I was never sure if you received any of my letters, and there have been many times when I thought I might never—” Caroline broke off and wiped a tear from her cheek. Drawing a steadying breath, she added softly, “I hope you can forgive me for turning into a watering pot.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” murmured Gabriel. He reached out and touched her arm. “I take it Lady Wilfred informed you that I’d returned to England?”

  “Yes and that you’d recently married a lovely young Scottish woman. So”—Caroline smiled shyly—“here I am. I couldn’t wait to see you. Both of you.”

  Gabriel smiled back. “You have no idea how pleased I am that you did decide to come all this way.” It didn’t sound like Lady Wilfred had mentioned he needed to speak with his mother about an urgent matter. But how best to broach the messy subject of Timothy’s quest for the title? As he took a sip of his brandy and contemplated what to say next, his mother began to speak again.

  “It shouldn’t surprise me, but I can’t believe how much you’ve changed,” she said quietly. “Of course you would have. You were a slight, thirteen-year-old boy when I last saw you. And now look at you.” She smiled at him with genuine fondness in her eyes, but then a haunted look crossed her face. “You’re so much like Michael. The resemblance is uncanny.”

  Gabriel grimaced. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear that he looked exactly like a man he’d grown to despise. “I . . . I have some sad news actually. I’m not sure if you’ve heard but . . . did you know Uncle Stephen passed away just recently? He had a belly canker.”

  She nodded and her expression grew solemn. “Yes, I did know. I saw his obituary in the Times. The hotel I was staying at in Calais had all the English papers. He was a good man.”

  “He was . . .” Gabriel’s tone was acerbic as he added, “But Timothy isn’t.”

  “Oh, really?” His mother’s forehead pleated into a frown. “That’s such a shame.”

  “It’s more than a shame I’m afraid.” Gabriel held his mother’s gaze. “You see, Timothy wants to challenge me for the title.”

  His mother’s eyebrows shot up. “But that’s absolutely ridiculous,” she exclaimed. “He doesn’t have a legitimate claim whatsoever. It’s yours.”

  “Ah, but you se
e, that’s the crux of the matter,” said Gabriel drily. “My cousin believes I’m illegitimate.”

  His mother’s brows snapped together. “But you’re not.” Her whole body bristled with righteous indignation. “You were born within wedlock.”

  “But you and Father eloped, did you not? Your irregular Scots marriage may not even be deemed valid given the evidence supporting it is so scant.”

  His mother sat up very straight. “Well, I can assure you that we were married legally,” she said vehemently. “And here in England, not just over the anvil.”

  Shock jolted through Gabriel, and beside him, he heard Arabella gasp. “What . . . what did you just say?” he asked, unable to hide the note of incredulity from his voice.

  “It’s true your father and I eloped to Scotland,” his mother said with the steady gaze of someone who spoke the absolute truth, “but when we returned to Hawksfell Hall in Cumberland, my father was waiting for us. He wanted our union to be recognized by the Anglican Church, so he carted Michael off to the Archbishop of York to obtain a bishop’s license. Two days later, we married quietly in the private chapel at my family’s estate near Appletreewick in Yorkshire. My father also insisted that a marriage contract be drawn up, otherwise he would disinherit me. ‘An anvil wedding isn’t good enough for my daughter. And you shall have your own money,’ he said to me. Your uncle Stephen was one of the witnesses. And my godmother.”

  Am I dreaming, too? Gabriel shook his head. It seemed that Uncle Stephen had spoken the truth even though he was in a laudanum-addled state. “Please don’t tell me you’re jesting. I couldn’t bear it if you were.”

  His mother’s expression softened. “I assure you I’m not. Our union is recorded in the parish register at St. John’s in Appletreewick, and I have a copy of the marriage lines. They’re with my belongings at Mivart’s Hotel—that’s where my husband and I are staying while we’re in town. I’ll make sure you have the certificate first thing in the morning. Your title and your legacy are safe, Gabriel. You and your lovely wife”—she cast a smile Arabella’s way—“have nothing to worry about.”