When to Engage an Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Cat’s brows were raised again—and then she looked down at William. “Well, you don’t have to worry. Alex declined.”

  Jane stared at Cat. She must have misheard. “Declined? Declined what?”

  “He said he was very sorry, but he couldn’t be William’s godfather.”

  “Oh.” Perhaps Alex thought Lord Haywood, as the duke’s cousin, should have that honor.

  “Because he’s not coming to the christening.”

  “What?!” Jane knew she was gaping, but what Cat had just said was shocking. Alex and the duke were very close friends. Alex loved children. Only some very serious issue would keep him away from the christening.

  A different sort of panic grabbed her by the throat. “His family . . . they’re all right, aren’t they?” Though surely Imogen would have told her if there was a problem.

  “His family is fine.”

  “And the earl? You aren’t hiding something from me, are you? Oh, God, he’s ill, isn’t he?” Anxiety made her voice shrill.

  Cat put a steadying hand on her shoulder. “If he’s ill, it’s with lovesickness. Imogen said Diana and the girls think he’s pining for you—and I’d say you’re pining for him.”

  “No—”

  Cat held her hand up to stop her. “Jane, you are my friend, and Alex is Marcus’s friend. We want to see you both happy.” Her brow wrinkled with concern. “I know it’s none of my affair, but can you at least write to him?”

  “Ah . . .” Write to Alex? What would she say?

  “Clearly, you can’t marry him if you don’t wish to, but it would be nice if you and he could find a way that you could both be at William’s christening.” Cat made a face. “Does that sound selfish? But I’m thinking of more than just that one occasion. Marcus and I want you both in our lives. It would be so much more comfortable if you could work out your differences now.”

  That was true. “Very well. I’ll write him today.”

  Cat grinned. “Excellent. I’ll stop by on our way home from the vicarage. If the letter is ready, Marcus will send it by messenger immediately.”

  “All right.” A deadline would force her to attend to the matter at once. There was no point in putting it off. It would just hang over her, or she’d revise and rewrite and rewrite again until the day of the christening arrived.

  But what am I going to say?

  Should I tell him the truth? Tell him everything? But if I do that . . .

  Oh, I don’t know what I want.

  But she knew she hated the thought she might be the cause of Alex’s unhappiness. And the fact was, much as she’d denied it, she wasn’t happy either.

  Perhaps I don’t want my independence more than I want Alex. Perhaps my love for him is stronger than my fear of change.

  She watched Cat make her way down the walk and across the street, and then she closed the door, leaning her forehead against it briefly.

  Courage. Twenty years from now I don’t want to have Cordelia Boltwood’s regrets.

  She straightened and headed to the study for a pen and paper.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Evans Hall

  Alex rode up to the stables as the sun sank low in the sky. His tenants might be wondering why the lord of the manor kept showing up to help rebuild stone fences and mend thatched roofs, but he needed the physical exercise. He hoped he’d worn himself out enough to sleep tonight without the aid of half a bottle of brandy.

  “Milord, I’ve been on the watch for ye,” his head groom said, coming up to him the moment Horatio put a hoof in the stable yard. “I was about to send someone to find ye.”

  Anxiety cramped Alex’s gut. “What’s amiss, O’Reilly?” he asked as he swung out of the saddle.

  O’Reilly shrugged and handed him a letter. “Maybe nothing, but a man in the Duke of Hart’s livery delivered this about half an hour ago. They sent him down from the house with it so I could give it to ye straightaway.”

  “Ah.” Anxiety moved from his gut to his chest. Why was Marcus writing to him? Had something happened to the baby?

  He took a deep breath. Likely he only wished to urge him to reconsider his decision about the christening.

  He’d been very sorry to decline the invitation, especially the honor of being William’s godfather, but much as he wished otherwise, he found he just couldn’t bear to see Jane. Perhaps someday he’d be able to meet her and act as if she were merely a friend of his friend’s wife, but not yet. The wound was still too raw.

  Raw? Hell, three months after the fact, it was still a gaping, jagged gash. He had to force himself to get out of bed in the morning.

  She said she loved me. She—

  No. He slammed the door shut on those thoughts as he did every time they tried to force their way in. He wished he could lock and bolt that door forever, but no matter how many hours he rode poor Horatio, how hard he worked his body, or how many glasses of brandy he downed, the memories still teased and taunted him.

  The fact was she didn’t love him enough.

  He turned the letter over in his hands. As he’d expected, the direction was written in Marcus’s bold scrawl.

  Why had Marcus sent this by messenger?

  The christening was still almost a week away. There was no urgency. Nate was going to be there, so they didn’t need Alex as godfather. Regular post would have worked perfectly well.

  Horatio nudged his shoulder, understandably annoyed at being ignored. And O’Reilly was still standing in front of him, patiently waiting for him to come out of his reverie.

  “Thank you, O’Reilly. Will you take charge of Horatio for me?”

  “Of course, milord.” O’Reilly’s brow furrowed as he took Horatio’s bridle. “Ye’ve been riding him hard again.” He couldn’t quite keep a note of criticism out of his voice.

  O’Reilly would take issue with the Prince Regent himself if he thought he wasn’t treating a horse properly.

  “But not too hard, I think,” Alex said.

  O’Reilly’s brow arched up. Clearly, he didn’t agree. Then he glanced at the letter in Alex’s hands. “If ye’ll be wanting a horse again today, milord, it will have to be Primrose. Horatio needs his rest.”

  Alex nodded. He’d learned long ago not to argue with O’Reilly about such things, but this time the man’s stubbornness wasn’t a problem. “It’s almost night. I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

  O’Reilly looked at the letter again. “Best read that afore ye make up yer mind. The fellow who brought it thought it so important, he was going to try to hunt ye down himself.” He snorted. “As if he could find ye in all these fields. He’d only take himself off when I swore on my mother’s grave that I’d keep a watch out and hand it to ye the moment I saw ye.”

  With one last dark look at the letter, O’Reilly took Horatio off to the stables.

  Alex watched him until he disappeared into the stable’s shadows and then looked back at the paper in his hand. I’m delaying.

  Yes, he was. He was afraid to discover what was inside.

  Best get it over with.

  He walked over to a more private location under a nearby oak and broke the seal. Another sheet fluttered to the ground. Hmm. He picked up the errant paper as he scanned the cover letter. I don’t know what this says, Marcus had written, but whatever it is, I’m sure you need to read it.

  His heart attempted to leap into his throat and strangle him. Dear Lord!

  That might have been a prayer.

  No. He crumpled the paper in his fist. Reading this would be like rubbing salt in his wound.

  I should throw the bloody thing on the fire. I—

  I’m not a coward, am I?

  It had been three months since he’d left Loves Castle and he still felt as if someone had cut his heart out with a blunt knife. Whatever the letter said could not make things worse.

  He smoothed out the paper. As he expected, it was from Jane.

  Dear Lord Evans it began�
��but then she’d crossed out “Lord Evans” and scribbled “Alex” over it. Cat tells me you are not coming to William’s christening. I hope you will reconsider. I—There was a blot and several more cross-outs. Was that “wish” Jane had written? He couldn’t be certain. I regret what I said at the castle. I—we—More crossing out. I can’t write it in a letter. Perhaps we can talk if you come, though I understand if you don’t want to see me.

  There was another blot here as if Jane had been startled and shaken her quill.

  Cat’s at the door to get this. Please excuse its sloppiness. It’s my tenth attempt.

  Yr Obedient Servant,

  Miss Jane Wilkinson

  Ha! Jane was no one’s obedient anything, but especially not servant.

  He sighed and looked out over the lawn. What was the point of talking? She didn’t want to be a countess and he was an earl. No matter how much he loved her, he couldn’t cast away his title and run off to live in Loves Bridge. He had responsibilities to his people and his land. Not to mention that Waldo, his distant cousin and heir, would be furious. An unmarried Oxford don in his sixties, he would not be at all happy to leave his books, and he certainly would not wish to have anything to do with getting an heir of his own.

  No, there was no point in talking, but Jane was right. He shouldn’t stay away from the christening. That was cowardly of him. And selfish. He would write Marcus tonight, before he changed his mind.

  He glanced at the letter one more time before stuffing it in his pocket—and saw he’d overlooked some words at the very bottom of the page. They were blurred as if she’d written them in haste and folded the paper before the ink was dry. What did they say?

  He squinted, trying to make them out—

  I miss you.

  Zeus!

  Had he read that correctly?

  The light was beginning to fail. He held the sheet closer, turned so he got the last of the sun.

  Yes. He’d read it correctly.

  He closed his eyes as the words sunk in. She misses me. Jane misses me.

  She regretted something, something she couldn’t put in a letter. Their union, perhaps? She should regret it—it was not the sort of thing a well-bred spinster should have done.

  No, she’d written she regretted something she’d said.

  She wanted to talk. The christening was not for another week.

  What did she want to say that she couldn’t put in a letter?

  He needed to know the answer now, not in a week.

  He turned and strode toward the stables. “O’Reilly,” he called, “I’ll be needing Primrose after all.”

  Later, just outside Loves Bridge

  Alex reined Primrose in when they reached a fork in the road near Loves Bridge. She was a good horse, but she wasn’t Horatio. It had taken far longer than he’d planned to make the relatively short journey from Evans Hall. The sun had set and even twilight was fading.

  At least there was a full moon.

  Blast it, he should have waited until morning to set off. What had he been thinking?

  He hadn’t been thinking. He’d had a vague notion of stopping at the Spinster House, talking to Jane, and then . . . what?

  Well, yes, he’d hoped their discussion would end in a marriage offer accepted and a romp in Jane’s bed.

  Idiot.

  Even if he’d ridden Horatio, it would have been hard to make it to Loves Bridge and back in the same day, and yet he hadn’t taken time to pack a bag. And if things didn’t go well with Jane, he couldn’t stay at the inn without everyone in the village knowing he was there. How was he going to explain that without sullying Jane’s reputation?

  Perhaps he could sneak off to the castle. He could pretend he’d had a sudden urge to talk to Marcus about . . . nothing.

  Right.

  He frowned at the road that ran off to the left and would take him past the inn and by the village green. He hadn’t given this harebrained dash any thought at all. Someone was bound to see him—he’d swear the Boltwoods had spyglasses trained on all the public areas—and then word would spread. Everyone would start speculating—if they weren’t already—about the nature of his connection to Jane.

  Primrose, an extremely, er, cautious horse, shied then, bringing his attention back to her. Something had moved in the shadows.

  “Shh, Primrose,” he said soothingly, patting her neck. “It was only a rabbit or a fox or—”

  A tricolored cat.

  “Merrow.” Poppy walked calmly into the moonlight, twitching her tail impatiently as if she’d been waiting for him.

  “Good evening, Poppy. What are you doing out and about?”

  And what am I doing talking to a cat again?

  She gave him a very direct look and then headed down the right side of the fork.

  “Lovely to see you, too. Have a good evening,” he called after her, as he urged Primrose forward, along the road to the left. He should turn back, but he couldn’t come this far without seeing Jane.

  Perhaps he’d be lucky and no one would notice him. Or they wouldn’t recognize him in the dim light.

  Right. They wouldn’t wonder at all at a man riding up to the Spinster House at night. Of course—

  “Merrow!”

  Poppy darted in front of them, almost under Primrose’s hoofs, setting the horse to dancing.

  Even a placid, plodding steed could be hard to handle when spooked. It took Alex some effort to get Primrose back under control.

  “What were you thinking?” he yelled at Poppy.

  She’s a cat. She doesn’t think.

  But Poppy looked as if she had a definite plan. She walked back toward the road he hadn’t taken.

  Alex tested his theory by having Primrose take a few steps farther along his current path.

  Poppy’s ears went back and she hissed, making Primrose shy again.

  Clearly, the cat wanted him to take the other road. Hmm. It might connect to the lane that ran past Randolph’s office. Then he could take the path through the woods to reach the Spinster House. It would be better than riding through the center of Loves Bridge—if Poppy would even let him choose that route.

  “Very well, Poppy. Since you insist.” He started Primrose down the cat’s preferred path, noticing as he did so that Poppy stationed herself behind him in case he changed his mind.

  He was a bit concerned a short time later when he turned off the lane and up the narrow, rocky path through the woods, but Primrose, while slow, was surefooted, and there was enough moonlight filtering through the trees that they could see where they were going. When they reached the gate to the churchyard, he dismounted and looked around. There was no one in sight, thank God. He led the horse out of the woods and along the walk between the headstones.

  He’d never been one to worry much about the supernatural, but if any of the “guests” here objected to his presence, he—and perhaps more importantly, Primrose—didn’t feel it. At least the dead weren’t going to gossip about him. It felt quite peaceful, actually, the moon lighting his way, the sky so clear he thought he could see every star God created.

  He passed Isabelle Dorring’s headstone. Was her soul finally at rest now that her curse was over?

  If there had ever been a curse, that is.

  He led Primrose down the hill and across the road toward the Spinster House—and his spirits fell. The place was completely dark. Was Jane not there?

  “Merrow.”

  But Poppy was. The cat stepped out of the shadows by an old lean-to near the garden gate, causing Primrose and—yes, he’d admit it—Alex to jump.

  “Take a shortcut, did you?”

  Poppy stared at him, and then headed for the garden.

  Alex took a moment to look inside the shabby lean-to. There was a single stall, but the place was dark and cramped and Primrose didn’t appear eager to stay there. He’d do better to let her roam the garden. He’d just—

  Good God! Poppy had suddenly started caterwauling, the noise loud enough
to wake the dead. Was she trying to get Isabelle to return? She’d more likely have the vicar running over to see if someone was being murdered.

  Perhaps that’s her plan—to have Mr. Hutting discover me here.

  He’d admit he wasn’t totally opposed to that outcome.

  He sighed and urged Primrose out of the building and through the garden gate. He didn’t want Jane to be forced into marriage. That would be painful for both of them.

  I’ll have to try to muzzle the cat.

  But Poppy had sharp claws—he’d seen the evidence of that on Nate’s boots. He’d rather not have his blood splattered over the plants. He’d need something to throw over her....

  He wrestled out of his coat as he hurried toward the Spinster House’s back door where Poppy was performing.

  * * *

  Full night had fallen only fifteen or twenty minutes earlier, but Jane had donned her nightgown, brushed and braided her hair, and climbed into bed long before the light faded.

  She lay stiff as a board under the coverlet, her eyes wide open. She was afraid it was going to be a long night with little sleep.

  She’d tried reading, but she couldn’t focus on the words. She couldn’t focus on anything.

  Has Alex got my letter yet? Has he read it?

  He probably won’t read it at all.

  But what if he does? What will he think? Will I hear from him? Maybe I won’t. Maybe he’ll just write to the duke. Maybe—

  “Meerroooww !”

  She bolted out of bed. What the hell was that? It sounded as if someone was being murdered in the garden.

  She tried to open the window, but it was stuck fast. She pressed her nose against the glass, craning this way and that—there! Poppy was sitting by the back door.

  As she watched, the cat let out another bloodcurdling yowl.

  “All right, all right. I’ll let you in,” she muttered as she lit a candle in the fire and hurried downstairs. Poppy was going to wake the vicar if she kept this up—or more likely the Boltwood sisters, who seemed able to hear a pin drop anywhere in the village at any time of day or night.

  She’d admit, though, that she was happy Poppy was back. The Spinster House had felt very lonely without her.