“Hello, my pet.” The earl’s small, granite eyes fastened upon her with what seemed like unusual interest.
“Your Lordship.” Jane dipped a quick, near invisible curtsy. She nodded at the package in his hand. “I see you’ve been shopping.”
He returned a smile that seemed almost a smirk. “Indeed I have. It’s the little surprise I mentioned and it’s just for you.”
She had long since become expert at detecting the falseness in his voice. She heard it now. “How nice.”
The smile faded. “I shall expect you in my bedchamber directly after our dinner guests leave.” He twisted on his heel and left, his bony fingers still clutching the mysterious package.
Frozen, she stared after him. Something in his voice ... something in the way he looked at her ... made her stomach clench.
The butler appeared. “Cook wants to know how many will be at dinner tonight.”
“Let’s see ... I believe the family plus seventeen guests.” Arthur entertained often. Not, she suspected, because he liked people all that much; he simply liked to show off the opulence of his mansion, the quantity of his servants and, of course, the priceless Lansdown jewels, which had been in the family for generations. She had never seen the entire collection. Only on special occasions, such as when guests came for dinner, did he select a piece for her to wear.
“Thank you, Griggs.” She hoped the guests would all stay late tonight. Anything to delay receiving her husband’s so-called “surprise.”
Chapter 3
Alone in the dim candlelight of his bedchamber, the Earl of Lansdown picked up one of two silver-rimmed wineglasses and flicked it with his fingertip. He nodded agreeably at the exquisitely clear ping! Nothing but the best for my lovely bride. His lip curled in a sardonic twist. The set of fine wineglasses had belonged to Elizabeth, who had only brought them out on special occasions. If ever there was a special occasion, this was it.
The earl picked up the bottle of Madeira he’d had Griggs bring up from the wine cellar. He poured the wine into the glasses, each to half full, and raised a glass. Swirling its contents, he admired the deep golden color of the Madeira and savored the faint aroma of oak teasing his nostrils.
It was time. She would be here shortly. He reached into the pocket of his brocade dressing gown and pulled out the vial. Removing the cork, he balanced the vial on the rim of one wineglass and with great care tipped it slowly. The drops fell one at a time. One ... two ... three ... four ... finally ten, each one sinking quickly into the golden depths of the wine. What did Felton say? Ten drops? By God, if ten drops were good, then twenty would be twice as good. He allowed ten more drops to fall into the glass, noting with satisfaction that the color of the Madeira appeared unaltered.
After he tipped the twentieth drop into the glass—adding one more for good measure—he slipped the vial back in his pocket and looked around his bedchamber to see if all was in order. Fire burning in the fireplace ... the covers folded back invitingly on his huge, elevated bed ... Ah, the jewelry box. Not even Griggs knew its location. Best return it to its hiding spot now, what with his brother and family arriving tomorrow. Not that James would steal, but he would not put anything past that greedy, conniving wife of his.
As usual, he could not resist opening the lid of the carved wooden box to admire the glittering family jewels. He fingered his special favorite, the blue heart diamond ring—originally one of the French crown jewels. He ran his finger over another favorite, a pearl and amber necklace once owned by a Russian czarina. He had allowed Jane to wear it at dinner. Not that she deserved to wear it, but how else could he display the family treasures? He closed the lid, carried the box to the fireplace, and set the box down. With both hands, he slid up one of the large stones from the hearth. Then he picked up the box and dropped it into the large, empty cavity beneath, replacing the stone. A fine hiding place. He was the only one who knew of it. Someday he would make other arrangements. After all, he would not live forever, but no need to worry now. He heard a discreet knock on his door. “Enter!”
She glided in, holding herself tall, lovely as always. At dinner she had looked strikingly beautiful with her upswept hair intertwined with pearls, the pearl and amber necklace around her swanlike neck and a gown of white satin displaying her magnificent breasts to perfection. Now she had changed into her tartish, red velvet dressing gown, the one he ordered specially made for her. He insisted she wear it whenever she came to his bedchamber. She had not said as much, but he knew she hated it. How she must despise him. His mouth pulled into a cynical smile. He would change her hate to panting desire before the night was over.
“Good evening, m’lord.” Her voice was quiet, courteous, and oozed with innate sensuality.
He loathed the woman, absolutely loathed her. What he loathed the most was how she stood there with her head held high, shoulders squared, the hint of an inscrutable smile playing on her full red lips. Well, she did not fool him. He had to look deep but could always find the gleam of defiance buried in the depths of those turquoise blue eyes. God’s blood! He had tried to tame her, but thus far nothing he did could efface that gleam. It was as if he could not reach her, as if her body might belong to him, but her soul within would remain ever aloof, unmindful of whatever small cruelty he might inflict upon her.
He would take care of that tonight.
He picked up the two glasses and offered one to her. “Come sit by the fire. This is my finest Madeira.”
Glass in hand, she seated herself in a chair by the fireplace. He sat opposite and raised his glass in a toast. “To a pleasant evening.”
“To a pleasant evening.” Her voice held no warmth. Flames from the fireplace danced a golden reflection in her wine as she raised it to her lips. She took a long sip. “It’s very good.”
“It ought to be. It’s from Malvasia. True liquid gold, they say. Gentle and smooth, seductive, mysterious, sensual. It’s the elixir deities suckle from, not the drink mere mortals can bear.” He took his first sip. “Been in my cellar for years.”
“My, my,” she replied without enthusiasm. “What’s the occasion?”
“Drink up, my dear. You will soon find out.” He watched her tilt her head back to take another sip, feeling a stirring within himself as he devoured the tantalizing sight of that slender white neck and the suggestion of those delicious, naked curves beneath her red velvet dressing gown.
Why wait? With one swift gesture, he brought his glass to his lips and gulped its contents. The wine cut a warm, smooth path down his gullet. It tasted delicious despite all those drops of Spanish Fly he had added. Better get her to his bed. He was told on good authority it worked almost instantly, without fail. He laughed to himself. That fool Felton thought he wanted it for his wife. What nonsense. Why waste a drop of his precious aphrodisiac on a woman?
“Come to bed, Jane. Now.”
* * * *
Beneath the covers of the canopied bed, Jane lay waiting for her husband to join her. A sinking feeling overwhelmed her. What was she doing here? How could she live with this detestable man for the rest of her life? In happier times long gone, she had been Miss Jane Hart, the respected, and in all ways content, young lady who loved her life and looked forward to the future. Now she could hardly contain her growing bitterness.
Try to think of the bright side. My sacrifice was worth it. Just to see the lines of anxiety leave Mama’s face. Just to see Granny Harriet content again, fortified by her nightly little nip of gin ...
He headed to the bed.
At least this whole, sad affair would not take long. No doubt the same old scene would repeat itself. He would try desperately—despite her gloomy mood, she almost had to giggle—to “get it up,” as Granny said. Nearly every time he tried, he failed miserably, his precious member remaining limp and flaccid, refusing to cooperate no matter how much he grunted, turned red in the face, cursed, and worked up a sweat. To her surprise, last week he had managed a half-hard effort, but such moments were
rare. The worst of it was that after exhausting himself and giving up, he inevitably blamed her. He would heap abuse upon her head, reminding her that with his first wife he had never had a problem, that if he died without issue, Jane was to blame and he would curse her for eternity.
He warned her not to tell. If she did, both she and her family would find themselves penniless on the streets. He was certainly safe on that score. Pride alone prevented her from breathing a word regarding her husband’s unfortunate performance in the bed chamber.
“Take a look, my dear!”
Arthur strutted toward the bed, completely naked. She raised her head off the pillow. Oh, my Lord. Never had she seen such a sight. Her married friends hinted what a man with a full erection looked like, but even they declared she would really have to see for herself. Just huge, was all she could think.
His lordship placed his hands on his hips and tilted his pelvis forward, thus forcing his engorged member to even greater prominence. “How about this? Have you ever seen the like? It is hard as an oak branch.”
“It is ... quite impressive, m’lord.”
He greeted her remark with delighted laughter. “All the more to pleasure you with, my dear.” He paraded toward the bed and had almost reached it when he suddenly stopped. A peculiar, sort of questioning expression crossed his face.
“Is something wrong?”
“Not a thing.” He took a step toward the bed then stopped again. He threw his head back. “Ahhhhhhhhh!” came a guttural cry from deep down in his throat—a weird, downright frightening sound, one she never heard before. His face distorted. He clutched at his chest. “Ahhhhhhhhh!” Before she could even begin to grasp what was happening, he crashed to the floor.
“M’lord!” She leaped from the bed and knelt beside him. He lay on the floor, face up, eyes staring at the ceiling. Oh, God, was he dead? She placed two fingers at the side of his neck and felt for a pulse. Nothing. She recoiled and slapped her hand over her mouth. She had never seen anybody dead before, but somehow she knew for a certainty that her husband had expired.
She must get help. She grabbed the red velvet robe and slipped it on. She went to the bell pull and was about to give it a tug when she suddenly thought, what was she going to tell everyone? The earl died while about to do that? How undignified! How embarrassed he would be. To save his dignity she had best make up some story. They were sitting, enjoying a glass of wine when suddenly ... She glanced toward the earl.
Dear God in heaven!
It had not shrunk. His member still stood at full mast, still resembling that branch of oak. Her heart sank. How could they conceal it in the casket? She had no idea.
Griggs! She grasped the bell pull and tugged with all her might. Pray God the perfect butler would know what to do.
Chapter 4
Jane spent the next two days after her husband’s death in a daze. Nothing seemed real except for her grateful awareness that never again would she be obliged to perform her odious “wifely duties.” That lovely fact seemed very real, and each time she thought of it, she wanted to shout, “Hurrah!” Naturally, she did nothing of the sort, even though thoughts of all the good things resulting from the earl’s demise kept popping into her head. No longer would she be obliged to endure the earl’s constant belittling criticism. No longer his little cruelties, like selling her horse and forbidding her to go riding. Such a relief! Thank you, God. She kept her feelings to herself, though, and went about her business with a solemn, unsmiling demeanor, doing her best to act the part of the grieving widow.
Now, standing before her mirror in her bedchamber, she examined her pale face and remarked, “Absolutely not my color.” The black bombazine dress trimmed with black crepe gave her a ghostlike, pallid look. “I would look bad no matter what I wore.” She heaved a sigh. “Now, if I can just get through the funeral tomorrow ...”
Mama and Granny sat watching. “It doesn’t matter if black is your color or not,” said Mama. “Now, hurry up. Sir Archibald is coming. Beatrice wants us all to meet in the library.”
Jane rolled her eyes at the thought of having to deal with the earl’s long-time solicitor, a man she considered stuffy and opinionated. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead in an overdramatic way. “Tell him I am overcome with grief and cannot attend. You and Granny go hear what he has to say.”
“Jane, I do not care for your attitude. Don’t think it hasn’t escaped my notice you are not exactly heartbroken over the death of your husband.”
“Why should she be?” Granny sat resting her chin on the top of her cane, her sharp eyes assessing her daughter. “Are you daft, Amelia? The earl was an arrogant, mean-spirited, nasty excuse for a man. Nobody liked him. Everyone is glad he’s dead.”
“That’s not so. Some of the best families in England will be represented at the funeral tomorrow. People are coming from far and wide to pay their respects.”
“Hypocrites, every last one of them,” Granny replied. “Although you won’t think so when you see them all dressed up in their black mourning outfits, weeping and wailing over a pompous ass who had a heart the size of a pea.”
“It is not proper to disparage the dead.” Mama’s voice did not carry much enthusiasm, no doubt because it was hard to argue with the truth. “Oh, Jane.” She heaved a troubled sigh. “Whether you loved the earl or not is beside the point. We haven’t talked about it yet, but have you given a thought to our future? His lordship is not in his grave yet, and already Beatrice has summoned the solicitor. Who would have thought Chatfield Court would ever be hers? But now it will be. No doubt she wants to know how soon she can turn us out. I so loved it here, and now we will have to leave.” Mama’s eyes dampened. “Oh why did the earl have to die? It is so unfair!”
Jane put a comforting arm around her mother’s shoulders. “We are going to be fine. Really, I can hardly blame my dear sister-in-law. Don’t forget, the Eltons moved in here after the first countess died and Beatrice pretty much ran the place. I’m sure she still thinks of Chatfield Court as her own. Now just think, after all these years she’s gotten her wish. Her husband is the new earl. She’s the new Lady Lansdown. I would wager she’s hard pressed to keep from doing a jig on the front lawn.”
“We will have nothing,” Mama wailed.
“That is not true and you know it.” In all the turmoil since Arthur died, Jane took solace in the thought that she and her family would be well provided for. “I will have the dower house, won’t I? Plus some income? As I recall, a widow normally receives a third of the income from her husband’s estate. We’ll have plenty. So what is there to worry about?”
Granny sniffed.
Mama shifted her gaze away, a sure sign something wasn’t right. “There might be a few things to worry about,” she replied in a very small voice.
“Like what?” Jane was perplexed. “I can’t remember the details of the marriage contract, but it’s pretty much standard, isn’t that what you told me?”
Her mother’s long pause caused a flicker of apprehension to course through her veins.
“You will recall, you did not have a dowry. Thus, I had much less bargaining power over what you would receive in your jointure.”
Jane squeezed her eyes shut. The flicker of apprehension was fast becoming a heart-sinking foreboding. “So tell me the worst. Out with it.”
“Well, as for your jointure, you do get a dower house. I haven’t seen it, but it’s on the estate somewhere. Your income ... I did not want to tell you.” Mama shifted her gaze toward the door, as if she would like to make a quick escape. “It won’t exactly be a third of the entire estate. Instead, the earl agreed to grant you the income from his estates in Ireland.”
“How much?”
“At the time of the settlement, the estates yielded six hundred to a thousand pounds a year.”
How disappointing! Much less than she expected. They would have to cut corners, but still, they could manage. “With the dower house we can live quite well on that am
ount. That’s not so bad, is it?”
“Yes, it is,” Mama wailed. “What about Millicent’s dowry?”
“It’s not in the agreement?”
“We were desperate, remember? Lord Lansdown was the only suitor in sight who would take you without a dowry. Plus, I had a problem finding someone to represent us.”
Granny wagged a finger. “I warned you not to hire that sleazy solicitor.”
“She was right, I’m afraid,” Mama continued. “The solicitor I hired left a lot to be desired. I’m afraid he did not do too well by us.”
“I had no idea.”
“You were busy with your wedding plans. Why would you concern yourself? I knew the terms were not all that good, but it never occurred to me the earl would up and die so soon. I still cannot understand. He seemed in perfect health.” Mama threw Jane a puzzled gaze. “He was alone, sitting in front of the fireplace, drinking a glass of wine and suddenly fell off his chair stone dead? It just seems so ... hard to understand.”
Hard to understand, all right. What a nightmare. She would never forget Griggs’ cool and aloof demeanor when he arrived in response to her frantic tugging at the bell pull. What a sight she must have been, kneeling over the body, trembling, fighting hysteria. The butler had not cried out, gasped, or even lifted an eyebrow when she said, “Griggs, come quick! I think his lordship is dead.”
The Last of Lady Lansdown Page 3