Sweet Surrender

by Cheryl Holt

  Jackson supposed they’d hatched some plan on how to handle him. Beatrice would be determined to control him while Susan probably hoped she could seduce him. Neither woman would get what she wanted, and he was curious how long it would take them to realize that fact.

  "We heard you were dying," Beatrice said.

  "I figured you had spies reporting to you."

  "We were extremely worried. We came right away."

  He rolled his eyes with disgust. Beatrice was possessed of many traits, but none of them involved maternal tendencies. She’d never worried about Jackson a single second of her life.

  "I’ve been reviewing the books on all the estates," he told her.

  "Of course, you have."

  "I haven’t decided what your situation is to be."

  "What is there to decide? I mostly live in town, and I travel among our various homes as it suits me. I require no changes."

  "No, you’ll have one home and an allowance."

  Her fury was palpable, but she swallowed it down. She was in new territory and couldn’t antagonize him. Not when he was designated to provide for her and she was desperate for him to be generous.

  "I should like to make a case as to my needs. Susan would like to, as well."

  "You can both plead with me—I suspect I’d enjoy it—but it won’t help."

  "Susan is correct," she seethed. "You’re being deliberately cruel."

  "I didn’t choose to come back or to have these responsibilities thrust on me. I shall carry them out as quickly and meticulously as I can, then I’ll leave."

  "And in the process, you’ll have me banished to some godforsaken desert. Why not lock me in a convent, so I can scrub floors for a bunch of unappreciative nuns?"

  "Don’t tempt me."

  She pushed herself to her feet, and she moved slowly, as if her joints ached.

  The years had not been kind to her. Her hair was gray and thinning, her rotund torso drooping with age and obesity. There were frown lines around her eyes and mouth, and it occurred to him that he’d never seen her smile.

  "I don’t have to stay and be humiliated by you," she said.

  "No, you don’t."

  "I’ll speak with you at supper—if you can see fit to dine like a civilized person."

  "That’s me: uncivilized, barbaric Jackson Scott. Who can predict what I might do?"

  "Certainly not me." She whipped away to storm out.

  "You can’t go just yet," he told her.

  "How will you stop me? Will you wrestle me to the ground?"

  "No. There is another matter we must address."

  "What is it?" she snapped.

  "It involves Percival and Edward."

  Suddenly, he was at a loss. From the moment he’d entered the room, their conversation had been acrimonious. He probably could have started them off on a better note, but they’d never gotten on, and now that he was with her again, his feelings were colder and more distant than ever.

  Still, it was so difficult to mention Michael. It was such a tricky, distressing dilemma. Stable families were torn asunder by much less. When he and Beatrice had such a dismal connection, how could they deal with the problem in a rational fashion?

  "A woman arrived from Cornwall," he forced out.

  "How nice," she sarcastically retorted.

  "She has a boy with her."

  "Yes, I know. She claims he is Edward’s son, that Edward married some common…girl a decade ago."

  "How did you learn of it? Your spies again?"

  "Yes. Nothing happens in this house that isn’t revealed to me first. You might think about that as you preen and command and boss me around. You have all the power, and I have none, but I can undermine you constantly. Wouldn’t it be more pleasant if we at least attempted cordiality?"

  "We were never cordial, Beatrice. At this late date, there’s no reason to pretend any differently."

  "I suppose not. But what about this woman? Don’t tell me she’s still here. If I’d thought she was on the premises, I wouldn’t have brought Susan and Percival."

  "She’s still here."

  "I swear, you never had any sense. Why let them tarry? Why permit them to disseminate their lies? It’s obvious she’s a swindler seeking a payout. If we slip her a bit of cash, she’ll be on her merry way."

  "I’m not convinced she’s engaged in a deceit. She’s extremely credible, and the child…well…" He swallowed twice, irked by his inability to explain. "I’ve sent a clerk to Cornwall to make inquiries. I meant to travel to London to discuss the subject with you when he returned."

  "Honestly, Jackson, you made inquiries?"

  "Yes. What else could I do? Once you see Michael, you’ll be as disturbed as I was when he—"

  She cut him off. "I am such a smart individual. How could you have sprung from my loins but have no brains?"

  "Thank you for the insult. Now let’s continue with the topic at hand."

  "There is no topic at hand. Give the little shrew ten pounds for her trouble, then toss her out. Inform her that we intend to never hear from her again and—should she keep spreading gossip—we’ll have her prosecuted and jailed."

  "It won’t be that easy."

  "Won’t it? Would you like me to deal with her? I’m happy to, but I warn you that I’ll treat her a tad more harshly than you would." She smirked with disdain. "I’m told you’re fond of both of them."

  "You haven’t met the boy—or the woman. You won’t be able to scare her."

  "I expect her to be gone in the next hour. If I stumble on her or the boy loitering in the halls, I shall summon the law and have them dragged away in chains."

  She strolled out and pulled the door shut with a determined click.

  DC

  "Are you Percival?"

  "Yes. Who are you?"

  Percival had been sitting on the stairs on the rear verandah, glumly staring out across the park when a boy had boldly approached.

  He looked to be Percival’s same age, but he exuded confidence and was very certain in his stride and posture. Percival was practically sick with envy.

  What would it be like to be such a marvelous fellow? He couldn’t imagine.

  He’d never seen the boy before. There were many children at the estate, but he wasn’t permitted to play with any of them. His grandmother felt it was improper, but even though he was counseled to keep his distance, he occasionally thought it might be pleasant to have some friends.

  A few times, he’d bravely ventured into the woods, hoping to join in with a group of ruffians from the village. Yet even though Percival was the earl, they’d teased him and called him names.

  He had no idea how to assert himself or fight back, so when he visited Milton Abbey, he stayed in the house.

  "I’m Michael Scott," the boy proudly proclaimed.

  Percival frowned. "I don’t have any kin named Michael Scott."

  "Didn’t Uncle Jack tell you about me?"

  "No. What is there to tell?"

  "I am your older brother."

  "My brother? I don’t have a brother."

  "Your father was Edward, wasn’t he? He married my mother, then he married your mother. My mother was very pretty and very kind. Is yours pretty and kind?"

  As Percival struggled to make sense of Michael’s comments, Mr. Greeves marched over. Greeves was Percival’s valet and minder and companion. He’d been standing on the verandah, and on his hearing Michael’s announcement, he shook a fist in Michael’s face.

  "You scalawag! We don’t need you bothering the earl. Be gone—at once—or I’ll take a stick to you."

  "What is your name, sir?" Michael sharply said, and Percival was stunned to discover that Michael’s pointed tone stopped Greeves in his tracks.

  "He’s Mr. Greeves," Percival explained. "He watches over me."

  "We don’t have to obey him, do we? You’re the earl for now, and I’ll be earl very soon. Tell him to be silent, or I will have to tell him."

  "I’m not
allowed to boss adults," Percival said. "Grandmother doesn’t like it."

  "We’re going, Mr. Greeves." Michael sounded as if he was issuing a command.

  "You most certainly are not!" Greeves huffed.

  "Percival and I must become friends," Michael said. He clasped Percival’s hand and pulled him to his feet. "Let’s head to the woods. I’ve been building a secret fort."

  Percival hadn’t a clue how to refuse. "I suppose I could," he haltingly agreed. "Just for awhile. I have to be back for tea."

  "Tea, pah!" Michael spat. "Tea is for girls."

  He started off at a fast pace, and Percival hurried to keep up.

  "Percival!" Greeves shouted. "Don’t you dare run off with him!"

  Michael whipped around. "He’s the earl, Mr. Greeves, and so am I. Don’t think to order us about."

  "You little knacker," Greeves fumed, "I’ll show you orders."

  "I won’t let anything happen to him," Michael vowed. "He will always be safe with me."

  He started off again, at an even speedier clip, and Percival raced behind.

  "How can you be my brother?" Percival was worried and confused and being wildly reckless for taking off when Mr. Greeves had specifically demanded he not.

  "This is what I’ve been told about it."

  Michael narrated a fantastical tale about Percival’s father, about his having a different wife and a different family, of which Percival had never been apprised.

  Did his grandmother know? Did his mother?

  A thrill shot through him. Michael insisted that—after the discussions were finished—Percival wouldn’t have to be the earl. Michael seemed to recognize that Percival was terrified of the burden that had been placed on him.

  The news that he might be free of the heavy yoke, that he could simply be a child instead of an earl, was so dangerously welcome and brought him such relief, that he felt like a traitor just from listening to it.

  They left the park and moved into the trees, and Percival was dismayed to find a group of boys waiting for Michael. They were the same ones who liked to taunt Percival, yet Michael strutted right up to them.

  "This is my brother," Michael said, and they all snickered.

  "We know Percival," their leader, Freddie, sneered.

  He was older than the rest, tall and dense, with a mulish face and big ears.

  "Perhaps I should go back to the house," Percival muttered.

  "You can’t leave," Michael replied. "You have to see my fort. You have to tell me your opinion."

  "We won’t play with him," Freddie complained. "He’s stupid and fat, and we hate him."

  They snickered again, and Michael scowled at Freddie.

  "What did you say?"

  "He’s a stupid fatty," Freddie answered, "and a trembling momma’s boy. We hate him."

  To Percival’s stunned surprise, Michael—who was a full head shorter and much slighter in size—marched over to Freddie and hit him so hard that Freddie fell to the ground. He curled into a ball and wailed like a baby.

  Michael leaned over and grabbed Freddie by his shirt. He yanked Freddie up until they were nose to nose.

  "Percival is my brother," he seethed. "If you insult him, you insult me and my father. I’ll make you pay every time."

  "I…I…" Freddie was too astonished to speak.

  "Apologize," Michael decreed. When Freddie was silent, Michael repeated very firmly and very scarily, "Apologize—or I’ll hit you again!"

  "I’m…I’m…sorry," Freddie mumbled.

  He didn’t sound sorry, but Percival wasn’t about to quibble.

  Michael glanced at Percival.

  "Are you satisfied?" he asked.

  "Yes," Percival said. "I’m very satisfied."

  Michael nodded and pushed Freddie down. Then he stood and came to Percival’s side.

  "You won’t have any more trouble with him," Michael confidently stated.

  "I’m…sure I won’t," Percival stammered.

  "Let’s keep on to my fort. I’m dying for you to see it."

  Michael drew Percival away from where Freddie was still huddled in the dirt.

  Percival was amazed and shocked and very, very happy. With an unusual bit of glee, he tagged along, delighted to follow wherever Michael led him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Susan gazed into the mirror, checking her hair, her gown, and deemed herself flawless.

  She’d always been a beauty, and even though she was twenty-nine, and a mother and widow, she still looked amazing.

  Jackson had once thought so. He’d loved her and pined away to an insane degree. It had happened when they’d all been little more than children, but surely, some of that passion had to remain.

  In their earlier meeting, he’d been curt and rude, but she had to believe it was all an act. Deep down, he must still be smitten, so he’d built walls to protect himself. She simply had to figure out how to breach the barriers he’d erected, then she’d garner what she needed from him.

  She had no idea why Edward had left her in such a financial quandary. No idea that she’d admit to anyway.

  Edward had never recovered from what he viewed as their betrayal of Jackson. When he’d acceded to Beatrice’s pressure to wed Susan, he’d presumed Jackson would get over Susan, that he would forgive Edward’s treachery, but he hadn’t.

  Until his death, Edward had felt guilty and hadn’t moved beyond his idiotic remorse. It had colored every aspect of their lives, so there had been no chance for them to be happy.

  And, of course, there had been the horrid rumors about Percival. She hadn’t been able to counter them, and with Percival not resembling Edward in even the slightest way, it had been easy for Edward to assume the worst. He’d never accused Susan to her face, for which she’d been exceedingly grateful.

  It was a secret she would take to her grave, but she herself wasn’t certain Edward had sired Percival. There had been that incident—with her father’s flirtatious groom right before the wedding—when she’d drunk more wine than she should have.

  She’d blocked out most of that encounter, was very good at pretending it had never transpired. But if Edward had ever dared question her, she wasn’t positive she could have lied with any confidence.

  She leaned to the mirror and tugged on her bodice, exposing a bit more bosom. Then she whipped away, unnerved by her memories.

  It was foolish to mull the past. There was no scandal hidden from her husband. Edward had ignored her in his will, but she’d been the perfect wife. The perfect wife. No one could say differently.

  Edward was the one who had been miserable. He was the one who had stayed away for months without a word of explanation, who had constantly fretted over his brother and their estrangement. Edward was the one who had bowed to Beatrice’s demands about the marriage. If anyone was to blame for the debacle, it was Edward. Not Susan.

  He’d proposed, while being fully aware of how it would hurt Jackson.

  As to Susan, she’d yearned to be a countess. What female wouldn’t want to wed an earl? Who could fault her for making such a rational decision?

  Edward had dangled the title, and she’d greedily latched on. She wasn’t sorry. She was a countess, her son an earl, and she no longer had the bother of a husband. The entire world would be fabulous if only she had money to pay the bills.

  The notion of Jackson being in charge was galling, and she was furious that Edward had put her in such fiscal jeopardy.

  Well, she’d captivated Jackson once, and she could do it again. He was thirty and still a bachelor. Wasn’t it time he settled down? Who would be a better wife for him than Susan?

  She’d known him since they were children, and she was mother to his ward and nephew. A union between them was the ideal solution for all concerned.

  She left her room and headed downstairs. Her maid had been out spying, had reported to Susan that Jackson was in the library. Alone. The house was in the quiet phase of late afternoon, with the servants’ daily chor
es mostly completed and their having tea prior to beginning the preparations for supper.

  She’d have a chance to speak to Jackson without interruption, and he’d remember why he’d previously been so mad for her.

  As she reached the foyer, the front door suddenly opened, and Duncan Dane waltzed in. They’d hated each other for years, and they both bristled with distaste.

  Even as a boy, he’d been rude and condescending. He simply didn’t like her and never had. On her end, there were definite reasons for her hatred. He was astute and sneaky, and he seemed to have guessed that she had secrets she could never reveal.

  He was the only person who had ever overtly commented to Susan about Percival’s red hair and plain features. He was the only person who had ever mentioned the rampant gossip, but he never alluded to it when Edward was present.

  He always waited until he and Susan were by themselves, as if he enjoyed tormenting her and was on the verge of blackmail. He was just the low sort of fellow who would swindle a female, and if he’d threatened to whisper venom to Edward, Susan wasn’t certain how she’d have reacted. Luckily, matters had never progressed that far.

  "Darling Susan," he sarcastically oozed, "I had heard you were here. How lovely to bump into you."

  "Well, I hadn’t heard that you were here. If I’d been informed there were vermin lurking in the halls, I’d have called in the rat catchers before I arrived."

  "Still your charming self, I see."

  "Still your obnoxious self, I see."

  He assessed her, studying her expensive gown, her best sapphire jewelry. It was obvious she wasn’t coming down for tea and cakes.

  He smirked. "Let me guess: You and Beatrice have hatched some plan that involves your seducing Jackson."

  How had he figured out her scheme? Was the blasted oaf a mind reader?

  "I have no idea what you’re talking about," she haughtily insisted.

  "Don’t you?"

  "No."

  "It will never work. He loathes you, and after his first go around with you and his mother, he’s smart enough to know better."

  She should have denied his allegations, but he was so smug, and she was anxious to put him in his place.