Adrian came clumsily to his feet and staggered toward the sideboard to pour a double whiskey. Anything to dull the pain.
Twenty-two
MR. PEARLE WAS up to his elbows in pastries, methodically testing the quality of the product—a task he considered his most important as proprietor of the bakery. As he fastidiously dabbed the evidence of the “testing” from his lips with a linen napkin, he spied Lady Albright walking briskly down the street toward his establishment. Good heavens, she was coming to his shop! Ah, what a banner day!
He was at the door to swing it open just as she reached for the knob.
Nervously touching the folds of his neckcloth, he bowed and said, “Lady Albright! What a pleasure you should call! Is there something I might do for you?”
Lady Albright smiled graciously. “Good morning, Mr. Pearle. Lovely day, isn’t it?” she asked as she swept past him and into the bakery. She glanced quickly around the small room, then turned a very charming, dimpled smile to him.
“An absolutely glorious day, madam. I had not heard you were in Kealing. Shall I take it that you have come for some buns? I’ve a delicious assortment—”
“Actually, Mr. Pearle, I’ve come on a matter of some delicacy,”
“Ooh, I see,” he said, and leaned forward, his mind suddenly rifling through the possibilities. “I am certain I can be of assistance. I am quite renowned for my … tact.” He beamed at her and adjusted his neckcloth once more. “Shall we talk in my office?” She nodded, and he showed her up some rickety steps to a little alcove, made sure she was seated in the most comfortable chair, then gingerly lowered himself onto a wooden chair that groaned in protest beneath his weight.
Lady Albright smiled again; Mr. Pearle noticed she was twisting her gloves in her hand. “I confess, sir, I hardly know where to begin.”
“Might I suggest—being accustomed to this sort of thing, you understand,” he hastily reminded her, “that you begin at the beginning. Always a fine place to start, in my opinion.” Eagerly, he shifted forward, oblivious to the ominous creaking of the chair.
“An excellent suggestion. Weil. You will recall that I married a few months ago, and that my husband and I took up residence at Longbridge.”
“Yes, yes, of course. After the unfortunate falling out … well, that is none of my concern, mind you, but I was aware that the earl was in need of a … residence he might call his own,” Mr. Pearle informed her, pleased to tactfully demonstrate that he was aware of her circumstance.
She blushed a bit. “Yes, well, we reside at Longbridge, the seat of the Albright—”
“Inherited from his maternal grandfather in 1829,” Mr. Pearle eagerly recited.
Lady Albright blinked. “I believe that is correct,” she responded cautiously. “It is the seat of the Albrights, but my husband had visited there only a handful of times since his grandfather passed away, and—”
“Unfortunate, that,” he said, and fingering his neckcloth, smiled sympathetically.
“Umm, yes … Well, sir, as you may have surmised, Lord Albright and his grandfather were not very close—”
“I would say estranged. Of course, it wasn’t the earl’s fault, you know, because his grandfather was estranged from his daughter, your husband’s mother,” he quickly interjected. Naturally, the details were as firmly etched in his mind as they were in Journal 6 of his Pearles of Wisdom.
Lady Albright, however, was apparently not aware of that small fact, judging by the rounding of her lovely eyes. “Yes. Well,” she murmured. “Ah, the ah, items left by the late earl—personal items, you understand—are not looked upon with great … sentiment by my husband,” she said.
“Naturally they would not be!” Mr. Pearle nodded his vigorous agreement. “Particularly the guns, I hear. How terribly trying that incident must have been for you.”
Lady Albright studied him warily for a moment. “Umm … there are many articles, and I thought to seek your advice on what to do with them. I should think …” She paused, and Mr. Pearle leaned forward a bit more, balancing himself by clasping his hands on his knees. “I should think that there is someone—a family member, perhaps—that would cherish the articles.”
Ah, but she was a clever young woman! “How very astute of you, Lady Albright. And how very kind.”
Lady Albright startled him by suddenly leaning forward, so that her face was just inches from his. “Might you help me, Mr. Pearle? I haven’t the foggiest notion of how I might find such a family member, what with the unfortunate circumstances my husband and his father find themselves in today,” she said earnestly.
Mr. Pearle could not help his sad sigh. The Spence family was as tragic as any he had ever known. “They are indeed most unfortunate,” he moaned, and shook his head.
“But I know … well, I have heard that there was another daughter. If that is true, then I should be honor-bound to make every effort to find her, shouldn’t I?”
Goodness, but Lady Albright had always been a little firestorm of energy, hadn’t she?
He was hardly surprised that she should come all this way to inquire after a distant relative. Caroline was the beauty of the Dashell family, but what this one lacked in comely appearance she made up for in spirit. And he, of course, would be more than happy to help the young countess bestow sentimental property on the descendants. Which was, naturally, why she had come to him in the first place—he could always be counted on to help. He abruptly slapped his knees and shoved to his feet. “Well! I am quite certain I have kept some record of the family.” He walked to a bookcase, and legs braced wide apart, he tapped one finger against a thick lip as he scanned the dozen or more leatherbound volumes there. At last he picked one from the middle and, holding it reverently, brought it back to the little chair, sitting heavily on the rickety thing, mindless of the groan of the wood.
Mr. Pearle wet one finger and began flipping through the pages. “Let me see, let me see,” he murmured to himself. “That would have been around 1800, I should think.” He paused, scanning the dozens of entries on each page until he found what he was looking for. “Aha!” he exclaimed, and lifted a beaming grin to Lady Albright as he tapped rapidly on a page. “I was right—1802, it was?” 1802? Had it been that long ago? Goodness, time had escaped him! He quickly resumed his study of the book.
“It was 1802?” Lady Albright echoed, confused.
“That was the year, 1802,” he muttered, his attention on the book. But there it was, plain as day on the page. “Oh my, it is as I recalled.” With that, he shut the book with a resounding thud and looked at Lady Albright.
“Is … is there something … I mean, might you possibly know where I could find her?” she asked delicately.
“Such a sad story,” Mr. Pearle sighed, and indeed it was. “Lady Evelyn Kealing was so terribly young at the time—a mere sixteen, I believe, and her sister Allison, perhaps eighteen, not more.”
Lady Albright’s fine brows sank into a confused frown. “A sad story, Mr. Pearle?” she asked anxiously.
“Well,” he said with a dismissive flip of his hand, “the estrangement and all. But of course, what would one expect? You have a sister, Lady Albright. I am sure you can well imagine how terribly divisive it might have been had your sister abruptly married your intended.”
Lady Albright’s mouth fell open. She shut it. Then she opened it again, and said slowly, “I … I don’t understand.”
Young dear, of course she didn’t! Sordid events such as those that plagued the Spence family did not happen in good families. “Let me endeavor to explain, if I may,” he said charitably. “The betrothal had not been formally announced—that was all set for the spring assembly, you see, when it was customary for the families to announce them. Lord Kealing had been courting Lady Allison for a year, if I recall correctly.” He leaned forward, peering intently at the countess, and lowered his voice. “Everyone was expecting the announcement. Can you imagine the astonishment when he announced for Lady Evelyn and not Lady A
llison?” He leaned back, shaking his head. “My goodness, what calamity that caused between the sisters! And old Lord Albright, he was positively beside himself, he was. He sent one daughter to Kealing Park, the other to London, and then worked very diligently to sweep the entire thing under the rug.”
A rush of air escaped Lady Albright With wide eyes she glanced at the bookcase with the dozen identical volumes, then at Mr. Pearle again. “But … but Lady Allison? What happened to her?”
“Off to London, I’m afraid. Lord Albright packed her off so as not to invite gossip after the wedding was concluded. A wedding that occurred in a fortnight,” he added, and frowned disapprovingly. Although the reasons were not actually recorded in his Pearles of Wisdom—he had his standards, after all—it was quite apparent why there had been such a rush. But far be it from him to spread vicious gossip. No, indeed. He smiled reassuringly. “The entire affair is completely forgotten now. Which is why my notes are so terribly valuable, you see. I was just explaining to Mrs. Ras worthy not two days ago that it is my notes that separate me from Mr. Farnsworth of Newhall. My clients know they can count on me to keep a precise record of events—”
“Is she in London now?” Lady Albright interrupted. Startled from his little speech, Mr. Pearle slowly shook his head. “Poor girl never cared for London, I am told. I suppose that’s why she came back, in spite of her sister’s perfidy.”
The young dear’s eyes widened even more. “She is here?” she asked in astonishment.
Mr. Pearle nodded. “Near Fairlington, not more than three miles from here,” he added matter-of-factly, and once again mentally patted himself on the back for keeping such succinct and meticulous notes.
Much to his great surprise and annoyance, Julian found himself in Kealing. That crofter must have been nipping his ale a bit early today, because Julian was quite certain he had taken the road the man had directed him to. But Kealing? Hell, he couldn’t be any farther from his destination if he tried! Trotting down the main thoroughfare, he pondered how it was possible he could have gotten so far off track. A dry goods establishment caught his attention; he swung down and pushed the hat from his forehead. Two hours from London! He could not make it before evening fell, and he hardly relished the thought of being on the turnpike when darkness came—who knew what sort of ruffians waited for lone riders?
There was always Longbridge. Julian sighed and dusted the grime of the road from his cloak. He hardly relished the thought of that place any more than the turnpike, but at least it would be safer. And it would be a quick ride into London if he left very early on the morrow. Of course, he could retain a room here, but Lord knew who he might bump into in Kealing—the least odious being Lord Benedict, which immediately set him against the idea—and besides, there was not a blasted thing to do in this little village.
Longbridge, then.
That decided, he walked purposefully toward the little shop, intent on purchasing some sugar for his damned horse, and reminding himself for the hundredth time to thank his sister Eugenie the next time he saw her for ruining his roan. He was reaching for the handle of the shop when his eye caught a movement inside, and he started.
Bloody hell, it was Lady Albright. He could see her plainly through the window, speaking with a man he assumed was the proprietor. Julian stepped back and quickly looked up and down the thoroughfare for any sign of Adrian’s coach. Seeing none, he shifted his gaze to her again, fumbling for his spectacles just to make doubly sure. As she came to the door, he stepped aside, out of sight. Not entirely certain why he would avoid her, he nonetheless stood in the shadows of a nearby doorway and watched her walk in the opposite direction with her reticule bouncing pertly on her arm until she reached the Kealing Inn and disappeared inside.
Impossible, he thought, that Adrian would have sent her here without escort. A smile slowly curved his lips. If Adrian was at the inn, that meant Longbridge was deserted. He could get a good night’s sleep there after all, pen a short note to Adrian bemoaning the fact that he had missed him, and avail himself of the very fine whiskey his friend kept. Perfect. Whistling, Julian entered the dry goods store to charm the proprietor’s wife out of a pound of sugar.
———
Exhausted and emotionally spent, Lilliana disregarded Polly’s admonition to eat and retired to the rooms she had rented at Kealing Inn. Wearily, she sat down at the small writing table and stared at the paper in front of her. The last two days had been an incredible journey into Adrian’s past, a journey that still had her reeling. The pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place, but there was one last piece of information she needed before she returned to Longbridge. She picked up the pen and dipped it in the inkwell, then quickly dashed off a note.
When the ink had dried, she folded the paper carefully and wrote on the outside, The Lord Benedict Spence, Kealing Park.
She stood then, and pressing her hands to the small of her back, sighed deeply. What Adrian had endured as a child, she could not begin to fathom. The lies, the abuse … it was little wonder he was as guarded and controlled as he was. Her insight had been well honed in the last few days—and the ache for him, so recently dulled by her own hurt, was sharply focused and wearing her down. Lilliana thought of her own mother and the many times they had collided. There had been times in her life that she had wished for a different mother, one who would view life exactly as she did, and would not put so much store in the notion of propriety.
She glanced at the ceiling, blinking back the glimmer of tears. Now, knowing what she did about Adrian’s family, she could not thank God enough for her mother’s love. For her kind, gentle father, and for Caroline and Tom, the two people in the world she knew would never hurt her. How empty her life might have been without her family, devoid of love and affection—gifts she had taken so terribly for granted.
She dearly wanted Adrian to know what it was to be cherished.
But she had one last task.
———
Lilliana was waiting for Benedict in the common room of the inn when he arrived, practically bounding into the dark interior. She immediately sent Polly to their rooms, frowning at that woman’s snort of disapproval as she marched away. Benedict’s eyes shone when he found her, and he strode eagerly to the little table at which she was seated. “I came the moment I received your note,” he said breathlessly, and reached for the hand she had not offered, drawing it quickly to his lips.
“Thank you for coming,” she said quietly, and withdrawing her hand from his, motioned to a chair across from her.
Benedict sat, his eyes searching her expression. “Are you all right? Has something happened? Honestly, Lillie, but you look so terribly pale. Can I get you something to drink, a wine perhaps?”
“I am quite well, Benedict,” she said on a weary sigh.
“Is Adrian here?” he whispered.
She shook her head.
His brown eyes were suddenly gleaming—oddly enough, his expression was almost one of triumph. He glanced surreptitiously around them, then leaned across the table. “There is an irreparable rift between you, isn’t there? Don’t be surprised—it has been so very obvious. My dearest, there must be something I can do to help you,” he murmured. “How you managed to stay as long as you did … just tell me what you would have me do.”
Lilliana looked at the man sitting across from her, the man she would have married, in all probability, if Adrian hadn’t appeared from out of the blue. She had been so sheltered, so inexperienced, she had never really seen him. She had never noticed the strange glint in his eye, the way he held his mouth so prim and taut. There was nothing he did, nothing he ever did, that outwardly suggested what he was doing, but Lilliana knew in her gut he had seen the break between them and had pried the pieces apart. He wanted to push them asunder and destroy any chance for happiness she and Adrian might have had. How naive she had been not to see that Benedict wanted his revenge for her marriage to Adrian.
She suddenly felt as if a huge weight was c
rushing down on her, bending her shoulders and back. It was little wonder her mother had fretted about her so—her naivete was staggering.
“Lillie? Dear me, you look quite ill—please let me get you some wine, will you?”
“No,” she muttered, shaking her head.
“Tell me how I can help you!” he insisted, and reached across the table, covering her hand with his own. Lilliana looked down at his hand and felt revulsion rumble through her. “You know I would do anything for you, including harboring you from my very own brother, if that is what you need,” he whispered.
He would certainly relish that, wouldn’t he? She withdrew her hand from his. “There is one thing you can do for me, Benedict.” He nodded quickly. “I want to go to Kealing Park—”
“Yes, yes of course. Where are your things? It will be much safer there for you—”
“There is a portrait there I must see.”
That clearly startled him. He glanced covertly to his right, where the innkeeper was busy cleaning a table. “A portrait?”
“It is in the family gallery—a portrait I often admired when I was a child.”
Benedict laughed tautly. “Lilliana! You are thinking of a portrait from your childhood at a time like this? You are so sweet, my dear, so very sweet,” he murmured, and reached for her hand again, but Lilliana moved it before he could touch her.
“It is important that I see it, Benedict. It means something, I am quite certain.”
“Means something? Means what?” he asked sharply, then quickly checked himself as he shot another anxious glance at the innkeeper. “Forgive me, but it hardly seems the thing to do just now, what with your marriage in a shambles.…”
He certainly presumed to know a lot, but she refrained from saying so. “Please, I must see it. What harm is there in it?”
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