Earl's Ward (9781460320594)

by Scheidies, Carolyn R.

  The thought brought a frown to his lips. Why hadn’t the living at Little Cambrage been offered to one of his blood? He should have looked into the situation at the time. Dimly, he recalled his man of business asking him about it. Somehow, the thought hadn’t penetrated that Reverend Denning had died and not moved on to a more lucrative situation.

  His hands fisted at his sides at the thought of Angella’s plight. Had he been taking his responsibilities seriously, he would have known about her and about the new vicar. That is, if she’d told the truth, and he was more than half convinced she had.

  A cynical smile touched his lips. He deserved her condemnation and he deserved to be saddled with an unfledged chit. Letting his mind wander, he dressed her in the finest of satins and silks. His hands itched to caress that thick hair. He could well afford to provide for her.

  Thankfully, his father’s wise investments meant that when the war was over and farm prices went bust, his pockets would remain deep. The earl hoped his own investments proved as fruitful. He kept his farms in good repair, his tenants content.

  Unlike some of his acquaintances, who lived far beyond their means or lost their money in bad investments and had to sell off their country estates, his own estate was secure. His lips twisted cynically. He knew many of his beggared peers continued to comport themselves about London as though their pockets were not to let.

  As head of the family, he took care not to squander his money unwisely. This time his cynicism turned inward as he recalled the gowns, jewels and fripperies with which he had delighted his flirts. At least he had left none of his family destitute—not if he knew their plight. This even extended to a profligate nephew of Ellen’s. He smiled as he thought about his aunt Helga and favorite young cousin, Betsy. He’d rescued his cousin out of awkward social situations more than once. His thoughts turned to Angella, who was of an age with Betsy. How could a grandfather so cut off his own flesh and blood, that his granddaughter had not even a roof over her head?

  Angrily the earl turned from the window. He stopped beside the large kidney-shaped desk behind which his father used to sit as he worked. He used to think his father too straitlaced, always concerned with his estate.

  Now-remembered incidents gave the earl fresh insight. His father had cared—truly cared—not only about the estate, but also about each servant, each farmer and worker in his employ. It was because of this concern he had not wanted his son squandering his life needlessly in the war. The earl had never seen things in this light before. He still wasn’t sure he agreed, but at least he understood.

  Angella, too, was now under his care, though by default. Striding to the wall, the earl tugged at the gold-tasseled bellpull.

  A liveried footman answered the summons. “M’lord?”

  “Tell Trowbridge I wish to see him.” He paced the room as he awaited the secretary. He had done well snapping up the ex-soldier as soon as he arrived in London looking for work. He had found the short, solid man both loyal and enterprising.

  Brushing a shock of blond hair from his eyes, the secretary entered the room. “M’lord, if it’s about the invitations, I have almost finished writing your regrets. I also saw to flowers for Lady Margaret before leaving London this forenoon.”

  The earl interrupted him. “You knew I brought a young woman back with me.”

  A slow flush crept up the secretary’s cheeks. “Yes, m’lord, I was aware of this.”

  Not for the first time the earl wondered how a man as naive as Trowbridge managed the rough, often raucous life of a soldier. He knew him to be a man of action who chafed under the restraints of desk and chair.

  “Miss Angella is in immediate need of a complete wardrobe from the inside out. I would have you go to London to get her fitted out in all that is fashionable. You well know, since of course you handle the bills brought me, which modistes on Bond Street with whom I prefer to deal.

  “The girl needs footwear, as well, so see to her foot size when you get her other measurements from Mrs. Karry. Oh, and, Trowbridge. She needs them straightaway, so be sure to bring as much as possible back with you on the morrow. Have the rest delivered to my house in London and see that they’re sent on.”

  Pacing the floor, he clasped his hands behind his back. Glancing up, he witnessed the speculation in the eyes of the secretary. “You’ll enjoy the trip. Yes, and let the modiste know I am not above offering incentives for work completed speedily and well.”

  “Ahem. Do you wish me to bring back a bauble or two for the...lady?” The implication made the earl frown.

  “Miss Angella Denning is the orphaned daughter of the former vicar of Little Cambrage, not some lightskirt, Trowbridge.”

  The secretary flushed. “My apologies, m’lord. I had no notion.”

  Stilling the man’s stuttered apology with a raised hand, the earl commanded. “Enough. ’Tis enough you know it now. Please acquaint the staff with the situation.”

  “I’ll leave tonight, m’lord.” Trowbridge leaned forward eagerly.

  “And give the highwaymen or the footpads an opportunity to waylay you? I don’t think so. First light is soon enough.” He clapped a hand on the smaller man’s shoulders. “Besides, I have another mission for you to do for me this day yet. About Miss Denning...” He explained tersely, well knowing this was the sort of task the former soldier relished.

  “I’ll leave straightaway. I wouldn’t think it would take long to find the truth of the matter.”

  “Good. As soon as you return, let me know what you discover, but for the moment I’d as soon no one knew where the girl is. No need to submit her to any more village tittle-tattle than necessary.” He laughed at his presumption. “Of course, we tooled directly through the village, so I imagine the village tabbies are already spreading falsehoods. You may have to dig for the truth, Trowbridge.”

  “I quite understand, m’lord.” With a precise about-face, Trowbridge hastily exited the room. As the door closed, the earl’s gaze narrowed in thought. Soon he’d know the truth about the young woman under his roof. Was she an opportunist seeking his favor or, in truth, the destitute daughter of the vicar? Did it matter?

  In good conscience he could not throw her out, though mayhap he could offer a job as she was so insistent—if she was who she claimed, that is. He thought of her seeming innocence, her intelligence, her sensitivity.

  A London season? No, he turned violently from the thought. He’d not have the chit’s head turned by all the false glitter. But, of course, she was in mourning and that was excuse enough to keep her out of circulation for the time being.

  The girl needed a companion. Against all convention, he shied from adding to his household. He returned to Lucashire for peace and quiet and had no intention of disturbing it further. The girl was here on his leave. She’d abide by his mandates or find herself another protector.

  Another protector? Why did he feel so strongly he must protect her? Most like he needed protection from her scathing judgment. The chit was too quick-witted by half. He growled at the thought of her harsh judgments not only of his society, but also of his lifestyle.

  Even if the opinion of his peers paralleled hers, he was much too much of a gentleman to make a cake of himself by parading her out-of-fashion attitudes before the critical ton.

  He could see Angella spouting her opinions in the drawing rooms of London to the dismay of the hostesses. The thought brought a faint smile to his lips. Would be interesting, that. But, no. The girl had little tact and less polish.

  If his personage awed her not, he shuddered to think what she might say to a member of the royal family. Would she go so far as to ring a peal over the head of the Duke of York? One of his mistresses sold military commissions. It led to his stepping down from his post for a time. No, better keep the chit under wraps here at the hall.

  He chuckled to himself. Did she truly ex
pect to be put to work? He’d seen her dainty hands. They weren’t used to physical labor. Probably some fustian to engender his sympathies. Then again, if she wanted gainful employment... Baser thoughts sparked his eyes.

  Thoughts of her genuine fright when she talked about the vicar quelled his speculations in that direction. Not that he’d force her into an untenable position. He’d not do something as sordid as that. He frowned. Then, what made his idea any less reprehensible than what the vicar sought? At least the man offered marriage.

  His own reawakened conscience smote him. Stuff and nonsense. His mother would be disappointed in his thoughts and his present lifestyle. His gentle mother taught him so differently. He bowed his head. No. He hadn’t returned to Lucashire to be reminded of his lady mother, though he sensed she would have liked the feisty young woman he’d brought with him.

  Striding toward the window, he stared out over his vast estate. The lawns stretched toward the parklands, grass, trees and hedges perfectly trimmed and kept. How different from his life.

  He thought to escape the feeling of being out of control by leaving London. Angella herself left him feeling even more helpless. He wondered if she’d like the clothes he ordered. What nonsense! Of course she would. He needed to take care not to turn her head or he’d have another rapacious woman hanging out his pocket.

  One woman was not so different from another after all. Mayhap he should have Trowbridge bring back as he put it, “A bauble or two.” That would add sparkle to the chit’s eyes. A ruby—no, emeralds—to set off her wondrous green eyes.

  Depending on whether or not his secretary’s findings confirmed her story, he’d let her stay—on his terms. Actually he rather liked the idea of crossing swords with the chit. A smile of anticipation crossed his face as he sauntered into his bedchamber to dress for dinner.

  Chapter 4

  That first night, they declared war over the silliest of things—wine. The core problem was her deep-seated sense of right and wrong.

  As the liveried servant leaned over to fill her goblet, Angella smiled sweetly and covered it with her hand. “Thank you, no.”

  The servant glanced toward the earl for direction. He looked at Angella. “May I ask what is the problem?”

  “There is no problem,” said Angella in some surprise. “’Tis simply that, as a Christian, I do not indulge in alcoholic beverages of any kind.”

  “It’s not as though you are going to become bosky over one glass of wine with dinner. It is expected. Are you saying someone cannot be a Christian and have a bit of wine now and again?” Actually the earl wasn’t certain why her action irritated him so much.

  Her lips turned up. “Of course not. Though, I believe it best in this age of drunkenness and overindulgence to set a good example for others. I simply choose not to befuddle my thinking in any manner or do anything which might shame my Lord.”

  “Is that what you’re accusing me of doing?” The earl half rose, his own guilt adding to his fury. “This is ridiculous. I expect you to act like a lady and accept my generosity.”

  Angella’s eyes narrowed in a way he was beginning to recognize as the first sign of trouble. “How kind of you, I’m sure,” she said with exaggerated politeness. “However, I believe I was quite polite in my refusal, so why make an issue of it? I doubt you’d kick up such a fuss with any other guest in your house.”

  “Other guests are invited.”

  Angella paled. “I don’t drink and that’s that.” Her chin lifted defiantly.

  “I say wine is part of dinner and, as long as you reside under my roof, I expect you to humor my wishes.” His smile was meant to defuse the situation. “You’ve lived in the country all your life, I realize. As quick-witted as you appear to be, there is no reason you cannot learn the basics expected of those in polite society.”

  “I beg to differ, m’lord. You insult my lady mother. Even you must acknowledge she would know what to teach me.”

  “How well did you learn the lessons?” muttered the earl.

  Lifting her head with a dignity that elicited the earl’s admiration, Angella said, “Now you insult me, m’lord. Your own manners are to let.”

  For a long moment they glared at each other. The earl dropped his gaze first. Botheration, the chit bearded him in his own household. The last thing he needed was some unfledged chit pointing out his faults. Why did her presence make him feel so guilty?

  Through narrowed eyes, Angella stared at him. Gracefully she lay down her napkin and pushed herself to her feet. She grimaced as though in pain, but she obviously ignored any discomfort.

  Once standing, she continued to be deadly polite. “Then, m’lord, you will excuse me if I no longer accept your hospitality.” She marched toward the startled footman, hesitating at the door.

  “Go on and pout in your room if you wish, but don’t expect dinner to be brought up to you. I don’t pander to childishness.” He heard the door close after her. The footman kept his expression neutral, but the earl sensed his disapproval. What did he care about the servants? That was a lie and he knew it.

  Nevertheless, the earl continued eating, ignoring the silence Angella left in her wake. It irritated him that he felt very alone without the prickly presence of the pastor’s daughter.

  Some minutes later Mrs. Karry hesitantly entered the room. Agitated, she fingered the jangling keys at her side. “M’lord, might I have a word?”

  “What is it?” He was not used to having his dinner interrupted and it quite overset his digestion, not to mention his enjoyment. With a sigh, he set aside his thick prime cut of beef, which he usually ate with such relish.

  “’Tis Miss Angella, m’lord. She be leaving.”

  “What is she doing? Having you pack for her?” The housekeeper had told him about providing the girl with a few of his sister’s things she’d found in a trunk in one of the attics.

  “No, m’lord. She insists on putting on her own things.” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “The wee thing thanked me ever so nice. Then jest walked out the door.” The earl hated seeing how Angella’s stubbornness about broke the faithful retainer’s heart.

  His patience snapped. “Well, if that’s what she wants, then let her go.”

  Teach her a lesson, he thought. She’d be back straightaway when she realized how cold and dark and scary it was outside.

  Mrs. Karry gasped. “But, m’lord, it is cold and dark. Think it may even be raining some.” The good woman shuddered and the earl wondered at her depth of concern for the chit on such short acquaintance. “What if she is accosted by some dreadful highwayman?”

  A laconic smile touched his lips. “Precisely, madam.” He glanced at the gold chased watch hanging from his gray vest. “How long do you think she will last out there before she swallows her accursed pride and returns?”

  The housekeeper eyed him with some trepidation. “I fear, m’lord, you will find she is of a rather determined stamp.” Pursing her lips, she added under her breath, “Like someone else I might mention.”

  She left him feeling vaguely uneasy over his actions. “I vow,” he grumbled, “if she is to live under my protection, she’s going to have to accept my authority.” After eating a bite or two more, he shoved away his plate and motioned for the flunky waiting for his summons. His appetite fled and he demanded his port.

  Though usually abstemious, he deliberately spent much time slowly sipping his drink, expecting that any moment someone would inform him the girl had returned, wet mayhap, but cowed and submissive. He waited in vain.

  Finally in a fit of temper, he left the dining room for the library. The book room brought back the look of awe on Angella’s face when he showed it to her and the radiant light in her eyes when he offered to let her read any book of her choice.

  Out of countenance as much with himself as with Angella, he
hunkered down in a wingback chair before the roaring hearth. “She’ll be back,” he told himself, but his protestations became weaker, his guilt heavier and his concern greater as the clock ticktocked away the minutes.

  * * *

  After leaving the grand dining hall, Angella made her way to her room, her head high. Tears threatened to fall, but she forced them back. Phooey on the man anyway. He had no right to force her to do something she did not think right—none at all. She hadn’t been obnoxious about it. He was as high-handed in his own way as the vicar.

  Obviously this was not going to work out. “Well, Lord, it’s just You and me again.”

  Mrs. Karry had found her throwing on her old clothes and pulling on her tattered shoes. At Mrs. Karry’s cry, she’d tersely explained. “I cannot stay in a place where my values are not respected.”

  After trying to persuade the girl to stay, Mrs. Karry threw up her hands. Rummaging in the closet, she came back with a worn gray wool cape. Mrs. Karry insisted she at least take the old cape. “’Tis no good to anyone else. You might as well take it.”

  Eyeing the worn cape, Angella thought how nice it would feel against the cold. “You sure no one would mind? I won’t be taking what isn’t mine.”

  “Please, let me do this for you. It is a gift.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Karry, you are the kindest person I have met since my parents died. If you will, pray for me.”

  After giving the dismayed housekeeper a warm hug, Angella slipped down to the kitchen. There, Angella took up the kitten she found snuggling in a box fixed up by the cook.

  “She’s a bit of a thing,” said the robust woman, gently petting the kitten on the head. “Taking her with you, are you? ’Tis nasty out there.”