The Lawrence Browne Affair

by Cat Sebastian

  “Radnor!”

  “In here.” Radnor’s voice was faint, coming from behind the heavy oak door that separated the study from the earl’s bedchamber.

  Georgie moved to stand by the door. “What are you going to do with the telegraph when it’s complete?”

  There was silence from behind the door.

  “Radnor?”

  He heard the ominous sound of water dripping. The last thing this shambles of a house needed was a leak in the roof. He pushed the door open, which he knew to be rude, but manners as he knew them didn’t seem to exist at Penkellis.

  There was no evidence of a leak in Radnor’s bedchamber. Instead Radnor stood by the side of a great old-fashioned tin bathing tub, his hips wrapped in a sodden piece of linen toweling that left nothing to the imagination.

  Georgie made a sound that was mortifyingly like a squeak.

  “Oh God,” Radnor said.

  Georgie didn’t even bother trying to feign composure. The earl was every bit as gorgeously massive unclothed as he was fully dressed, of course, only the sheer fact of his size was harder to ignore without the distraction of clothes. Georgie didn’t know where to look first. There seemed too many options, too much acreage of exposed skin. His eyes traveled up, over narrow hips and ridged belly, over a thickly haired chest and broad shoulders, until he reached the earl’s face.

  “Your lips are blue.” Georgie could almost feel the chill on his own lips. “Did you just take a cold bath?” There was a heap of clean-looking shirts on the clothes press, and he handed one to the earl.

  “The water had gone cold by the time I had finished carrying it up here.” He started to put the shirt over his head.

  “No, stop that. You’re still wet. Dry off first, or you’ll catch a chill.” He started dabbing at Radnor’s chest with a dry length of toweling. Radnor’s nipples were pink and hard, and Georgie wanted to take each of them in his mouth and find out whether the earl preferred having them bit or sucked.

  Radnor took the cloth out of Georgie’s hand and scrubbed roughly at his hair.

  “Next time, have a servant carry up hot water,” Georgie admonished.

  “The girl was busy.”

  Georgie raised an eyebrow and gave Radnor a pointed glance. “This is why most people have more than one housemaid.”

  “Maids are loud. Forever clattering around, opening and closing doors, and yammering their heads off. I’d be in Bedlam by Christmas.”

  “You don’t mind me yammering my head off.” There was a bead of water trickling down the center of Radnor’s hard chest, and before Georgie knew what he was doing, he had brushed it away, tracing its path with his finger.

  Radnor froze, then took a half a step backwards. “Yes, well, if I had a household of servants like you, I’d have other troubles. Wouldn’t get anything done at all.”

  Then Radnor flashed him one of his rare smiles, and Georgie felt simultaneously like he had been given a precious gift and like he had been hit in the head with a shovel.

  And the earl thought he was likely to go to Bedlam. Georgie was halfway there already. As soon as he got out of the bedchamber, he stood with his back to the closed door, trying to catch his breath and collect his thoughts. What the devil had gone wrong in his brain? He had wanted to know whether the patents to Radnor’s inventions were in his own name or Standish’s or someone else entirely—that way he would know exactly how big a swindle he was uncovering, and how much value the information would hold for Brewster. Instead he had been distracted by an eyeful of hard muscle and then was put even more absurdly off course by the prospect of the earl’s getting a chill.

  A chill, for God’s sake. He wanted to smack himself in the face. A man as rugged as Radnor wasn’t going to waste away by taking too cold a bath. And even if he did, what of it? All the lords and ladies in Britain could drop dead and it shouldn’t make the least difference to Georgie. It was an embarrassing error, a raw novice’s mistake, to care about a mark. It was one thing—bad enough, really—to let one of them take him to bed. It was quite another to start worrying about them as if they mattered.

  He didn’t have the luxury of fine feelings, nor the time for compassion. He had lived his whole life on the knife’s edge of survival, and now he had a chance to earn his way back to the only place on earth where he thought he might belong. He was a swindler, born and bred; a creature of back alleys, smoke and mirrors, whispers and lies. He didn’t know any other way to be.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Turner was being devilish slippery. One minute he was holding Lawrence’s hand, and the next he was sliding away whenever Lawrence got too near. Which just went to show that Lawrence would never understand how other people worked. Machines had the decided advantage in predictability, even this bloody machine, which had just suffered its third short circuit of the afternoon.

  “Bugger and fuck,” he muttered. “Shite.”

  No reaction from Turner’s desk, not even a flash of the impertinence Lawrence had come to look forward to.

  There was a coughing sound from the doorway, and Lawrence turned to see Halliday.

  “What do you want?”

  “A friendly visit, Radnor.” The vicar’s voice had that irritatingly soothing register that people used on invalids and children. And fully grown madmen, apparently.

  “Not interested.” Lawrence went back to his work.

  “Perhaps I’ll see the vicar out?” That was Turner, taking any opportunity to put distance between himself and Lawrence. “I have to speak with Mrs. Ferris about tea, anyway. She’s sending up enough scones and muffins for a score of people, and while they’re delicious, I thought that she could perhaps send a basket over to the Kemps instead.”

  Lawrence thought he heard Halliday repeat “scones and muffins” in tones of incredulity, as if it were so very remarkable that such items were present at Penkellis. Just because Lawrence preferred the same foods every day—it was one less thing to think about, and a very sensible practice he was surprised more men didn’t adopt—didn’t mean he was a stranger to the notion of variety. Even if he had forgotten about it during the first weeks of Turner’s employment.

  But as he got used to having Turner around, the habits of ordinary life gradually returned to him. At first he felt like he was remembering details from a book about the customs of a foreign land, vague and unfamiliar. People ate at regular hours, so he had Mrs. Ferris send proper meals for the secretary. People’s living quarters were generally not festooned with cobwebs, so he had Janet tidy up the blue bedchamber. People—at least wealthy people—had baths drawn in their bedchambers, instead of washing at the pump, so Lawrence hauled bathwater up three flights of stairs.

  Turner had gotten slippery immediately afterwards. Lawrence had now endured two days of painstaking efficiency and indifferent cordiality. Gone was the man who had asked appalling personal questions. Now the secretary moved silently about the room, writing things down, putting things away. Every piece of furniture had been turned upside down and inside out, its contents cataloged and labeled in Turner’s neat copperplate hand. He was invisible and efficient, and exactly the sort of secretary Lawrence might have wished for a month ago.

  Lawrence was well and truly sick of it.

  “Excellent idea. Capital,” Halliday agreed, and he and Turner left together. Barnabus trotted alongside, because he was a wretched turncoat and eight years of loyalty meant nothing compared to the fact that Turner kept bits of muffin in his coat pocket.

  To hell with all of them. Lawrence liked being alone. This notion he had gotten into his head about enjoying Turner’s company was nothing more than a delusion. He was mad, and mad people had strange turns of mind. That was all. It would be much more remarkable if he did not have episodes of delusion, all things considered.

  Then why did he feel like he was lying to himself? Surely not. Did Turner’s dispassionate, straightforward argument that Lawrence was not in fact mad really amount to anything but the pretty speech of a
man much accustomed to giving pretty speeches?

  Now that was a thought. Lawrence pushed away the cursed battery and leaned back in his chair. What made him so certain that Turner was skilled in flattery? Perhaps because it had been Isabella’s stock in trade, Lawrence had learned to detect a honeyed tongue.

  Perhaps because Turner, like Isabella, only wanted to get close to Lawrence for a reason.

  Now, as to what that reason might be, Lawrence could only speculate. Isabella had found herself pregnant and in need of a husband. Lawrence hadn’t seen any reason not to oblige her. Oh, he had been very, very young and shockingly naive. But at least he had gotten Simon out of the bargain, for however brief a time.

  Too late, he remembered to tuck that thought away with the rest of his memories of Simon.

  But why was Turner here? What did he need from Lawrence? It was time he gave Turner’s motives serious consideration. Secretaries didn’t have dubious upbringings and they didn’t know how to wrestle men nearly twice their size. And even if they did, a secretary of Turner’s competence didn’t volunteer for a post miles from any civilization.

  After Turner had made that comment about Penkellis being filled with items a person might find worth stealing, Radnor had half expected the secretary to disappear with an assortment of treasures. But he was still here, and so were all the things that might be stolen. At least, he assumed they were. It wasn’t as if he took an inventory of the place. But he had to suppose that Mrs. Ferris would mention any significant theft.

  Wouldn’t she? It wasn’t as if Lawrence had encouraged his servants to speak to him. Quite the contrary.

  It had been a quarter of an hour since Turner left, more than enough time for the man to have finished his business in the kitchen. Lawrence could safely venture forth without worrying about running into him in the corridors and having to watch the man make an excuse to slide away.

  Just to be safe, he took a winding route to the back of the house. His path took him through what had once been the portrait gallery. Strictly speaking, it still was the portrait gallery, even if the portraits were draped in cobwebs and covered in a film of dust and soot. His ancestors appeared to be regarding him from behind a mist.

  How many of these Earls of Radnor had been mad? In pride of place was a portrait of Father and Percy, and it might have looked like the portrait of any other father and son, if you didn’t know that Percy, at the time he sat for the portrait, was making a habit of raping the kitchen maid. Father was too drunk to notice or too proud to care. But they looked quite respectable in the painting, as did all the rest of the earls and countesses and assorted Browne family hangers-on who were captured in oil and canvas.

  Radnor caught his own murky reflection in a clouded window. He didn’t even look respectable. He looked positively disreputable, like a well-fed medieval hermit, only worse. His beard would not have been out of place on a prison ship. He had put on a jacket so as to avoid embarrassing Sally—Mrs. Ferris, he reminded himself—but still managed to look like a castaway.

  Good. Quite right for the outside appearance of a man to reflect his inner character. This way, anyone would know straightaway to keep their distance. That was safer for everybody. Turner had the right idea in staying away. They had been getting closer than any madman deserved, sharing kisses and confidences like a pair of courting lovers.

  The other night when he had visited the kitchens, they had been cold and dark and quiet. Now, poised on the top step, he could hear women laughing and smell meat roasting. If one didn’t know better, one might think this was an ordinary kitchen in an ordinary house. He descended a few more steps and picked up bits of conversation.

  “He hasn’t laid a hand on me or said a single improper word. And more’s the pity.”

  “Janet!”

  “Well, who can blame me? He’s handsome as sin, and even if he weren’t, I don’t think I’d care.”

  Mrs. Ferris laughed, a warm trill of laughter that Lawrence hadn’t heard since he was a child sneaking down these same stairs to steal jam and cakes. “No better than you ought to be.”

  “Bugger ‘ought.’ I’m too bored to be good. I’ve half a mind to crawl into his bed and see what happens.”

  “And what would his lordship think if he knew he was harboring such a jezebel under his roof?” But the cook’s voice was indulgent.

  “Pffft. His lordship would have to leave his precious tower in order to know about it.”

  When Lawrence cleared his throat, the women snapped their gazes to where he stood. “Mrs. Ferris,” he said, interrupting a flurry of curtsies and my lords. “Have there been any attempts at theft at Penkellis?”

  Mrs. Ferris’s expression didn’t falter, but Lawrence saw the maid flick a wary glance in the cook’s direction. “No, my lord,” she said.

  “Where are my mother’s jewels?”

  “I took the liberty of having all the countess’s jewels sent to the bank in Falmouth for safekeeping.”

  He ought to have thought of that himself, but he hadn’t been in any state for practicality after Percy died and the estate passed to Lawrence. “Quite right.” He nodded. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Ferris tucked a strand of hair into her cap. “The Browne silver is locked away in the pantry, but I didn’t bother with the lesser pieces.”

  “Why has nobody stolen the, ah, lesser pieces?” This year’s harvest had been abysmal. It would be a hard winter. Why had nobody thought to nip into Penkellis and help themselves to some of what Mrs. Ferris considered mere lesser silver?

  “I daresay they didn’t want to cross you, my lord,” Mrs. Ferris said, not meeting his gaze.

  “Ha! They have no fond feelings for me, and well you know it.”

  Janet made a noise that could have been a giggle or a gasp.

  “Out with it, Janet,” he commanded. She stared at him in open-mouthed dismay. “We can stand here all day and look at one another. I have nothing better to do in my precious tower,” he said, and watched with satisfaction as the maid flushed with embarrassment.

  “They’re all afraid you’re going to hex them, m’lord.” Her words came out in a high-pitched rush.

  “They’re rustic people,” Mrs. Ferris interjected. “You know how they are.”

  “I know nothing of them at all.” He hadn’t ever thought to learn anything about them. He had thought it better if they forgot about him entirely. But Halliday had told him of salt sprinkled on windowsills, herbs gathered at midnight. “They think I am like my father and brother. That I will harm them.”

  “Certainly not,” Mrs. Ferris protested. She knew all about dangerous lords. She knew altogether too much about lords who took advantage of their servants, and wasn’t that what Lawrence had been contemplating doing to Turner? “You’re nothing like either of them. They were evil, if you don’t mind my saying so, my lord.” She had to know damned well that he didn’t mind, because she didn’t pause for his objection. “And you ought never to have heard anything about village gossip.” She glared at Janet.

  He leveled his gaze at Mrs. Ferris. “How is Jamie?” That was Mrs. Ferris’s son.

  Lawrence’s nephew.

  “Quite well. He’s a midshipman aboard the Lancaster, thanks to your lordship’s—”

  “Enough.” He wouldn’t have her thanking him for trying to make right what Percy had made wrong. But as he climbed the stairs, Mrs. Ferris’s words echoed in his mind. Nothing like either of them. Turner had said much the same thing. And for the first time, Lawrence wondered if they might be right.

  “I’m glad to speak to you alone, Mr. Turner.” The vicar’s voice was stuck on a note of apologetic solicitude. No wonder he didn’t seem to be a particular favorite of Radnor’s. “I hate to put you to the trouble, but I wanted to know how far you’ve gotten in your inquiries.”

  Georgie could have said that it was no trouble at all. He had been longing for an excuse to get away from the earl, and passing the time at the Fiddling Fox with Halliday was as g
ood an escape as any. Georgie didn’t trust himself not to leap on Radnor at the first opportunity. He didn’t trust himself to do what needed to be done instead of worrying about Radnor.

  He also didn’t trust himself not to hurt Radnor along the way, but that was of no importance, he told himself. He had to keep his priorities straight.

  Georgie took a measured sip of his ale. “Lord Radnor is a man of unusual habits,” he said in a voice that made it clear the fault lay with anyone who took issue with the earl’s habits. “He is certainly scatterbrained and inclined to keep odd hours, but no more so than other men of a similarly scientific bent.” Georgie had no idea if this was true but it sounded plausible. Weren’t geniuses infamously eccentric?

  “Oh,” said the vicar, dragging it out to more syllables than strictly necessary, each of them soaked in unwanted concern. “I’ve heard two people say they saw Lord Radnor stealing a sheep.”

  Georgie nearly spit out a mouthful of ale but managed to keep his expression neutral. “I fail to see how Radnor could possibly be going about stealing sheep when he never leaves the grounds of his estate. He hardly ever goes farther than the garden.”

  “And yet, David Prouse swears that he saw the earl lead away a sheep. I heard him tell his cousin.”

  Georgie knew perfectly well that people saw what they wanted to see. He had depended on that very suggestibility many times during his swindles. “And what does Radnor want with your Mr. Prouse’s sheep? Surely if he has a fancy for sheep, he can afford his own.”

  “This sheep . . . oh dear.” Halliday now seemed ready to expire from awkwardness. He was gripping his own glass of ale so fiercely that Georgie feared it might shatter. “Lord Radnor is supposed to have used the sheep for some kind of . . . ensorcellment.” He downed half the glass in one go, which was rather coarser behavior than Georgie might have expected in a vicar. “I gather it was an unusual sheep,” he added, with a shrug of helpless bemusement.