For the Earl's Pleasure

by Anne Mallory

  “Yes, they are all at the house. Their eyes judging. I had to get away. I have to tell you—”

  “Not here,” she hissed.

  “What?” Valerian looked frustrated, anger replacing the other more complicated emotions. “What has been ailing you lately? You have taken to turning bright colors and making strange requests.”

  She gave him a look full of affront. She would normally have blustered her way past the comments, even as her cheeks started to heat automatically. But he shouldn’t speak with Thornton there, no matter that he seemed completely oblivious to Thornton’s presence. Thornton would hold anything said over Valerian’s head.

  “Your brother.”

  Valerian’s eyes went blank.

  She pointed to Thornton, who regarded her with cruel eyes, smiling.

  “This is not amusing, Abigail,” Valerian said.

  “I know!”

  “Who knew that this would be so amusing,” Thornton said. “Little Miss Nobody, lost in the clutches of her own madness.”

  “What? Stop talking.”

  “Abigail, have you taken a fall?” Valerian approached her cautiously, reaching out to touch her head.

  “No, of course not! Look.” She waved at Thornton.

  “Tell him that it is his fault. Everything is,” Thornton said.

  “What?”

  A warm hand slid across her brow. “You are sweating.”

  She swatted Valerian’s hand away. “It’s hot out. Now, what is happening? Better to leave and be rid of your brother’s continued presence.” She glared at Thornton. “Little could be more foul.”

  Every muscle in Valerian’s body stiffened. “What did you say?”

  “He’ll make such a shoddy duke,” Thornton said scornfully, looking Valerian over. “Completely ruin the line,”

  “I can’t believe they let you get away with this. You will make a terrible duke. You will ruin the line,” she said to Thornton, with no small amount of viciousness.

  If Valerian could have grown stiffer, he would have. “What?”

  She gave him a look, unwilling to repeat herself or what Thornton had said. She had always found the “ignoring someone” game silly, even when they played it to annoy the governesses.

  “You think it my fault as well.” Valerian’s tone was odd. “And you think I will make a terrible duke.”

  “Valerian, you are trying my patience with this game.” She motioned to Thornton in a gesture that said exactly what she thought of the donkey and any game that included him.

  “I thought you of all people would support me,” he said, anger coloring his tone red.

  She rolled her eyes, annoyed that he was ignoring Thornton’s jabs and taking his anger out on her instead. “Stop playing games.” She motioned sharply toward the path that would take them away from Thornton and the estate and deeper into the areas that only they explored.

  But Valerian just watched her—an expression on his face, closed and remote, that she had never seen before. “Perhaps the boys at school were right.”

  “What?”

  “I have to go.”

  “But—”

  But he had already turned and was striding away, pushing hanging branches from his path.

  Abigail narrowed her eyes, more irritated now than when it had just been Thornton taunting her. What was Valerian’s game? He had been acting oddly lately himself as well, and this was just further confusion.

  “That was lovely. I couldn’t have done better myself.” Thornton sounded pleased and she tried to kill him with a glance.

  It hadn’t been until later that afternoon that she had discovered that while thinking about killing him was an admirable thought, Thornton was already dead—killed in a riding accident while racing Valerian.

  The incident had been blamed on Valerian, but the duke and dowager had realized their heir dilemma immediately and started to hush the gossip.

  Abigail had been scared witless when the spirit of Valerian’s dead brother had continued to follow her around, taunting her, telling her that she had to do things for him—that Valerian would never speak to her again.

  Days had gone by before she had had a chance to speak to Valerian. Completely frightened and scared—seeking her own reassurance from him. But he had changed. Gone cold. His father and grandmother hovering over him, unwilling to let the last surviving Danforth, however poorly tolerated previously, do anything circumspect. After all, it was just a matter of time before Basil succumbed to death, as weak and useless to them as he was. They needed Valerian and he seemed more than willing to suddenly bend to their will as the perfect heir.

  Valerian had briefly and unemotionally listened to her tale of ghosts, of Thornton’s game, called her a few choice words and then called in his grandmother to casually eject her from the house. His parting words, “You are mad. Never speak to me again,” had haunted her more than his spirit ever could.

  A dozen notes returned unopened. Servants firmly keeping her from the grounds. His immediate return to Eton and all holiday visits canceled. Dozens of spirits showing up, approaching her, driving her mad. Needing the reassurance of her best friend and finding cold silence instead. Valerian had abandoned her as surely as he must have felt on that day that she had abandoned him.

  She hoped Thornton was burning below.

  She pressed her hand to her forehead. What a terrible series of events. If only she hadn’t been so young and stupid. If only she hadn’t already started to tiptoe around Valerian anyway. Keeping secrets, her feelings for him changing into something much more than a friend, and her not knowing how to deal with it.

  If only he hadn’t been so raw to turn to his family instead of to try and seek an explanation from her—the bloom of womanhood cursing her in more ways than one and throwing up a barrier between them. The miscommunication and widening social divide separating them.

  She looked up at him standing against the door. “So now you know.”

  “You aren’t Abigail Smart.”

  She gave a strained smile. “I am the same person I have always been.”

  “Are you?”

  Every foul word she had heard in society ran through her head. “Except I’m common.”

  “There is nothing common about you.”

  “Were you not listening?” she demanded.

  His eyes darkened. “I was.”

  He looked beyond angry. She had always known that it was how he would react. Had always been terrified that he would discover her duplicity.

  “I’m sorry.” She looked away.

  “I am as well. If I had known your mother planned to do such foul things to you, I would have run away with you myself.”

  Her head jerked up. “What?”

  Telly bustled in to help her ready for the day, and her mother walked in behind, saving him from answering, though he sent a dark look her mother’s way before walking to the bed to watch.

  It took a good hour to get ready. An hour in which all she wanted to do was to ask him question after question.

  “Abigail, I’ve made us late, and we have a hundred appointments before the Malcolm’s ball tonight,” her mother said. “It can’t be helped though.”

  Her mother touched her shoulder, retreated, then touched her again. “And I’m glad that our talk was the reason for our tardiness,” she whispered, so that Telly couldn’t hear. “Relieved that you finally know. Happy to build a better foundation for us.” She straightened. “The carriage should be ready, I will see you downstairs.”

  Abigail nodded and waited for Telly too to leave, giving her only a minute alone with Valerian.

  He hadn’t been surprised about the deception. Her throat closed on a sudden rush of emotion. That really only left one question.

  “What did you do with the full corruption list, Valerian?” she asked softly.

  He turned away from her. “I burned it. As soon as I saw your name, I burned it.”

  Chapter 20

  “There is going
to be a grand announcement tonight, or so I’m told,” Mrs. Browning said as the carriage rocked toward the Malcolm’s ball. “And Lord Rainewood is expected to put in an appearance finally.”

  Abigail’s sat straighter and Valerian jerked from his seat near the window. “He hasn’t been to any events in nearly two weeks,” she choked out.

  “Well, he will come to this one if he wants to have any say in his betrothal.”

  Abigail swallowed while Valerian swore violently. “That is the announcement then? A betrothal?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Browning said, as if she wasn’t just making the assumption. “I expect you to show the proper courtesy to the dowager duchess when extending your congratulations. I have noticed that she isn’t entirely comfortable with Lord Basil courting you. Nevertheless, we will be polite.”

  Abigail couldn’t resist. “She is barely polite to us.”

  “She is a duchess! You must understand that.” Mrs. Browning shook her head, lips pinched. “You have never had the proper respect for the levels of society. As if you wouldn’t have learned from birth where you fell in the social hierarchy!”

  Abigail smiled wanly and her mother’s laughter was a little too high-pitched.

  “As it is, we would have been told the latest information had we attended the balloon races.” Mrs. Browning gave her a dark look. “All the gossip churned there today.”

  “I take it the races were eventful?”

  “Mr. Campbell ruined Mr. Brockwell’s balloon and there was an altercation with Mr. Penshard because of it.”

  Abigail’s hand went to her mouth. “Poor Mr. Brockwell.”

  “Yes, he was devastated. I would have liked to observe it all first hand. I had to get the news from Lettie. Horrible.”

  “Did you discover anything else?”

  “Mr. Brockwell made a stunning turn around by fixing his balloon. It lifted finally and indeed won the final race. Seems to be the toast of the Young Scientist’s Society because of it. Why anyone is interested in those mechanical matters though, I’ll never know. A good cup of tea and a nice bit of news is a far better way to spend an afternoon. The betrothal gossip, for instance. Far more interesting.”

  Abigail’s stomach churned, and she listened to the rest of the daily gossip with half an ear as they pulled up the packed drive.

  In the interior of the brightly lit, extravagant ballroom, the spirits were even easier to pick out than usual. Abigail swallowed at their sallow tones, their crackling edges, their drawn faces. She passed two ghosts speaking to each other.

  “We are about to lose another one.”

  The second woman patted the first on the arm. “I know, Margaret, I know. But it happens to them all eventually.”

  She wanted to ask of what they were speaking, somehow feeling that they would answer, but Mrs. Browning urged her forward toward Mr. Farnswourth. As she looked over her shoulder, she could see the spirits gazing at her sadly.

  It made her twitch. She had a feeling that the whole night was going to cause that reaction.

  Sure enough, the view of the rest of the room confirmed this notion. Miss Malcolm preened in the center of the room, appearing to indicate to all present that the rumors were true. That there would be a betrothal announcement.

  “I heard that Miss Jones’s second cousin, Lady Tenning, heard from her maid’s friend who is a friend of Lady Marple, who heard it from Mrs. Fortening that her husband saw the document on Sir Walter Malcolm’s desk. It said that the Palmbury heir was to be betrothed to Celeste Malcolm. Lucky girl!”

  All talk concerned the betrothal and Valerian. A few people obviously recalled that one of his last actions before leaving had been to argue with her and they looked to her for a reaction each time his name came up. Abigail tried to keep her smile firmly in place.

  Valerian had strode off upon entering the room, trying to discover what was happening. She caught glimpses of him here and there, but he only reappeared at her side when he grew exceptionally pale. She swallowed to think of it. That he was disappearing with the rest of the spirits. That their physical actions had done this and he might leave before she was ready. Before they found him.

  She was on her twentieth conversation about Lord Rainewood, and about Miss Malcolm’s great fortune, when the general level of the voices rose and gossip rode a wave through the Malcolm’s grand ballroom.

  “Did you hear?”

  “No, what?”

  “Mr. Campbell has been attacked! He was almost taken by villains! A constable saved him just as he was being dragged away.”

  “Oh dear!”

  Abigail waited for the entire story to make its way to her. Mrs. Browning and her mother leaned in as well.

  Lady Orton parted her fan and made a few sweeps before gifting them with the news, her eyes fluttering in satisfaction. “Mr. Campbell was walking down by the docks when he was attacked by ten men. He fought valiantly but fell beneath their combined blows. And then they were trying to drag him off—kidnap him, so it seems! Can you imagine?”

  “No, poor man,” her mother said fretfully. “Have they caught the men responsible?”

  “No, but there is a man hunt, you can be sure. Can you imagine why anyone would want to attack Mr. Campbell?”

  Valerian snorted darkly, suddenly appearing beside her. “There are a thousand reasons, and they are increasing every day.”

  “No, Mr. Campbell is an upstanding citizen,” Mrs. Browning said.

  Abigail thought of the endless debts that Campbell seemed to owe. “What was he doing by the docks?”

  The entire group stopped talking and turned to her. Lady Malcolm sniffed. “I’m sure I do not know. Walking. Minding his own business,” she said, as if she wasn’t gossiping endlessly about the man.

  “It matters little,” Mrs. Browning said. “That they attacked Mr. Campbell anywhere is beyond the pale. They need to be punished. Common folk should not touch their betters.”

  “It is likely they won’t be caught,” another woman said. “The watch are so pitiful these days. Letting scoundrels and rogues run the streets.”

  “But Mr. Campbell is well?” Abigail asked Lady Orton.

  Mrs. Browning nodded sharply in agreement with the question. “He has been quite attentive to Miss Smart.”

  Abigail pressed her lips together but waited for the answer.

  Another lady leaned in. “He is well. Laid low, but accepting visitors should you wish to stop by and see how he is doing.”

  “A fine idea.” Mrs. Browning said.

  “He is convalescing with Lord Basil.” The woman pointed.

  Basil was conversing with a group on the other side of the room—it looked as if they were actively trying to squeeze him of every last drop of information. Basil was smiling charmingly, but she knew he would reveal only what he wished. Slippery one, Basil.

  Abigail excused herself to the retiring area. Halfway there Mr. Stagen appeared next to her, silently, like a tricky spirit in his own right. “Good evening, Miss Smart.”

  “Mr. Stagen.”

  “Have you heard from our erstwhile companion?”

  “Mr. Campbell? No. I have heard that he was attacked and has taken ill though. I do hope he is well.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Campbell. He should be right as rain come a few days’ mend and ready to be fawned over by the ladies of the ton. Do not despair.”

  She looked at him more closely. “If not Mr. Campbell, then to whom are you referring?”

  “Lord Rainewood.”

  She stiffened. “He is your companion, but I do not think he would ever claim to be mine.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  He tapped his fingers against the handle of his cane as they walked. “Interesting the things you remember with age and a bit of hindsight behind you. I seem to recall him always speaking of a girl at home. One of whom he was quite fond. The boys gave him quite a bit of hell for it—especially when girls started to become a different breed to the re
st of us.” He smiled. “Of course, some of us have always considered them so. Raine took a hit for being friends with a girl—even one that none of us had seen.”

  “Interesting, Mr. Stagen,” she said stiffly. “But I hardly see what that has to do with me.”

  “No? I seem to remember he called his friend Abby once when he wasn’t watching his speech. Curious, don’t you think?”

  “Quite curious. Of course, there are many Abby’s in this country, one would think.”

  “But none quite as close to Raine’s notice as you.”

  She thought of the way the women in the group had talked about commoners. “I am far beneath his notice.”

  Stagen merely tipped his head. “And one recalls other things. Like the trick that was attempted at the Crupper’s ball.”

  She remembered quite well. She had narrowly missed being the brunt of a most embarrassing prank. Somehow it had exploded on Valerian instead.

  “Yes, bad luck that Lord Rainewood found himself in the middle of it.” The incident had provoked a somewhat mean smile to her face at the time.

  “Oh, I don’t think luck had anything to do with it. It was a perfect prank, planned for the first lady in white to cross its path. I won’t tell you who was in charge of it, of course, but it should have gone off without a hitch.”

  “Not that it wasn’t quite satisfying to see V-Rainewood dripping in water instead, but what does this have to do with me?”

  “Mmmm. Someone triggered the trap early.”

  She had assumed it had been Gregory, or maybe Phillip under Gregory’s command. “Don’t tell me it was you, Mr. Stagen?”

  “No, not me.”

  The way he was looking at her, and his words, made her swallow. “You are trying to tell me that Lord Rainewood sabotaged the prank and put himself in harm’s way for me?”

  He tilted his head. “Yes.”

  “As he would for any lady, then.”

  “No. Not for anyone else, I should think.”

  He would for his betrothed. He was an honorable man once bound by something. She gave a brittle laugh. “You are mistaken.”

  “No. It has always been about you.” His voice was musing, his eyes piercing.