Seducing the Earl

by Andersen, Maggi

  “I don’t know how you intend to find that out from servants. They might gossip among themselves but remain loyal to their masters. If they know what’s good for them,” Maria said with a chuckle. She turned back to the mirror to consider the hat, spangled-blue velvet adorned with plumes of feathers, now settled atop her dark curls. “It’s unlike you to be so nosey.”

  “I’m about to marry the man. Shouldn’t I be at least a little curious?”

  “I would never pry into Harry’s past. I’m sure I’d discover he’d been with other women. I hope he has. I wouldn’t want us both to be virgins.”

  Sibella’s lips twitched. “I shouldn’t think you need worry about Harry. The way he looks at you, I’m sure he’ll know exactly how to go about it.”

  Maria laughed.

  “But what I wish to learn about Lord Coombe is more important.”

  “More important than the bedchamber?”

  Sibella coughed, a lump blocking her throat. “Don’t be frivolous, Maria.”

  Maria’s eyes widened. “Wasn’t that why you wanted to marry Strathairn? Because he looked at you in the same way?”

  “In the past perhaps,” Sibella said crossly as Strathairn’s smoky blue-gray eyes appeared in her mind. “I’d rather we didn’t speak of him.”

  Maria bit her lip, shamefaced. “I’m sorry, Sib. Of course, I’ll come. And I’ll distract Lord Coombe for you, which shan’t be easy.”

  “Bless you, my sweet.” Sibella hugged her and eyed the blue affair perched on Maria’s head. “I’m not sure about the hat, though.”

  “No, I agree. It’s a little ordinary. Blue suits everyone, and everyone wears it. Unlike orange or olive green. And yellow, which is even more unusual.” Maria returned the hat to the tissue paper and replaced it in its round box. “I’ll have it sent back.”

  Early the next morning, Lord Coombe’s shiny black carriage arrived with a groom beside the coachman and two fair young footmen riding behind. Just before luncheon, they reached the first tumbledown black and white cottages of Chiddingston.

  Maria gazed out the window. “You can see the spires of Lamplugh Abbey from here.”

  Lord Coombe nodded, pleased. “The duke is my neighbor, as I have said.”

  They drove on through green fields dotted with wide spreading oaks and black and white cows, for another half hour. Then the carriage turned into a narrow lane.

  Arrowtree Manor’s gardens were as neat as a new pin with clipped box hedges and raked gravel walks. “You’ll be impressed with the house’s decoration,” Lord Coombe said, with a proud smile.

  A black and white half-timbered house, the casement windows had fine latticework. Coombe stepped aside as Sibella and Maria entered the handsomely paneled hall. He escorted them through the house pointing out the decorative touches: symbols of Tudor rose, thistle and fleurs-de-lis featured in the oak woodwork and the stained-glass windows. The theme continued in tapestries and the embroideries which adorned the walls.

  “How very fine those embroideries are,” Maria said. “Who made them?”

  “Lady Coombe.” Her name hung in the air as Lord Coombe hurried them past the oak staircase and along a passage to the dining room.

  Seated at the table, a footman served them a light luncheon of cold meats, cheeses, breads, and nuts before they embarked on a tour of the house. Then Coombe led them out into the gardens.

  Sibella looked about at the ordered grounds, so very unlike Brandreth Park with its banks of roses, flowering trees, arbors, and hot houses. “I look forward to working in the gardens.”

  “There are several gardeners in my employ,” Coombe said flatly.

  After returning to the house, they partook of tea, seated on a green-velvet sofa in the drawing room.

  Lord Coombe stirred sugar into his cup. “What do you think of my home, Lady Sibella?”

  Sibella took a welcome sip of tea, her mouth dry. Mary Jane’s presence was everywhere she looked. “The house is beautiful, isn’t it, Maria?”

  “Exquisite,” Maria said.

  Aware of how little time remained, Sibella finished her tea and stood. “I wish to be excused.”

  Coombe jumped up and pulled the bell. “A footman will direct you.”

  She slipped from the room as Maria asked, “What year was the house built, my lord?”

  An older footman escorted her. “What is your name?” she asked him, as they climbed the staircase.

  “Havers, my lady.”

  “Were you in service when Lady Coombe was alive, Havers?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “You enjoy your work here?”

  “I do, thank you, my lady. It’s quieter these days. His lordship seldom entertains and is away a lot.”

  She nodded sympathetically. “I expect business does take him away often. It would have been livelier before your mistress died, I imagine.”

  Havers’ face suffused with color. “When Lady Coombe enjoyed good health, yes.”

  They reached the top of the stairs. “So difficult when one is constantly ill. I imagine a certain amount of upheaval would occur.”

  Havers glanced down at the hall below before speaking. “There was some unpleasantness. But not now, I’m glad to say. Positions such as this are difficult to find, my lady.”

  She thought Havers apologetic as he bowed and left her. When Sibella emerged from the water closet, the corridor was empty. Taking her chance, she darted down the servants’ stairs.

  She emerged into the kitchen. “Oh dear, I’m afraid I’m lost.” The cook, scullery maid and, a middle-aged lady in a black gown all gaped and dipped in curtsies.

  The black-gowned woman came forward. “I’m Mrs. Elphick, the housekeeper, my lady. May I show you the way?”

  “I’d be grateful, thank you.”

  She followed the housekeeper back upstairs to the drawing room. “Lady Coombe must have been house proud.”

  “Oh she was, my lady.”

  “Her early death was tragic.”

  “Poor soul. A maid found her lying at the bottom of the stairs when she went to do the fires.”

  “How shocking for Lord Coombe.”

  “He was so distraught he instructed Lady Coombe’s pet dog to be shot.” She shook her head. “But he was persuaded to give the animal to the coachman.”

  With a sharp intake of breath, Sibella clutched the banister. “How very sad!”

  “Couldn’t stand the sound of its whining, said the dog reminded him of her and fair broke his heart,” Mrs. Elphick said. “His lordship left for the West Indies straight after the funeral. He was gone for months. We don’t know why her ladyship chose to leave her chamber during the night.” The housekeeper’s face lengthened in distress. “Lady Coombe was ill and took laudanum to sleep, which may have muddled her mind.”

  They approached the door to the drawing room. “Thank you for showing me the way, Mrs. Elphick.”

  “My pleasure, my lady.”

  The door opened, and Lord Coombe’s face appeared. He looked annoyed. “There you are. Your sister has gone to find you.”

  “Has she? I’m afraid I got lost. Mrs. Elphick kindly assisted me.”

  “We must be on our way. Fresh horses stand waiting. Even so, we won’t arrive back at Brandreth Park until after dark. My footmen will need to be armed.”

  “My goodness. I do apologize.”

  The trip home seemed interminable. Maria made an attempt at bright chatter and Sibella tried to contribute, discussing everything from the opera to politics. Then Maria, bored or exhausted, slept against her shoulder as the carriage negotiated the appalling roads.

  Lord Coombe fell silent, but she sensed he watched her. What would he think if he knew she had been asking questions of his staff? He appeared genuinely distressed by his wife’s passing. But the incident with the dog worried her, even if the result of deep sorrow, it seemed unnecessarily cruel. Might he still mourn the wife he had loved? It would account for his serious demeanor. If so, her
future as his wife appeared even more challenging. She licked her lips nervously.

  Lord Coombe nodded to her. “I hope you enjoyed the day.”

  “Yes, we did, and the house is perfectly lovely. Thank you for showing it to Maria and me.”

  He had been attentive and considerate, and she really had no right to be so ungrateful. She had an overwhelming urge to confess her concerns to her mother. She’d been unaccountably emotional of late and a dose of common sense was sorely needed.

  When the carriage finally reached home in the early evening, after a tedious, but thankfully uneventful trip, they found the house in uproar. Her mother rushed to hug her and Maria in the entry, a letter clutched in her hand. “We must return to London on the morrow. Your sister Aida has begun her lying in.” Her lips twitched in vexation. “And from the sound of this missive from her husband, Lord Peter is the one having the baby.”

  Chapter Twelve

  After a false sighting of Forney led them to a dead end, Strathairn suspected Parnham had withdrawn his support for the investigation. He was soon proved right, for Parnham stated it bluntly and would not be swayed.

  Strathairn stamped away from Horse Guards, grinding his teeth. This was tied in some way to his dead partner, of that he remained convinced. He needed to prove it for Nesbit’s wife’s sake. If he could, It might be possible to convince the War Office to pay some sort of remuneration and possibly gift Nesbit with a decoration for bravery. But not even a little luck had gone their way, and he didn’t have the smallest clue as to who killed his partner or Dawes in so ruthless and efficient a manner. Disheartened, he resumed his search for Vaughn.

  Strathairn visited the morgue, coming away relieved not to find the young man. As night fell, he went to Covent Garden. The stalls had shut, and the market closed and only a few prostitutes roamed the shadowy square.

  He ventured into the brothels in the surrounding alleys and questioned the game girls. No one remembered him. And a good-looking young lord would be remembered. At Haymarket Theatre, King’s Theatre, and the Royal in Drury Lane, the actresses and opera dancers could tell him nothing. London teemed with people; it was easy to get lost among them if one chose. He only hoped Vaughn hadn’t chosen to.

  Strathairn sought out the Black Legs at the gaming houses in Jermyn Street, Bury Street, and Cleveland Row, but it, too, proved unproductive. Vaughn was known in several places, but no one could say where he’d gone.

  Strathairn visited White’s Club on St. James’s Street. The current arbitrator of fashion since Brummel departed London, William Arden, Second Baron Alvanley, hailed him from his position by the bow window, the seat of privilege.

  “You haven’t set eyes on Lord Vaughn of the Brandreth clan recently, have you, Alvanley?”

  “That young whippersnapper? Not of late.”

  Alvanley was an inveterate gambler who frequented Watier’s. Not a bad sort, he’d supported Brummel and sent him money after he’d fled to the Continent to escape his debtors. If he hadn’t seen Vaughn, then it was unlikely he was around. “You haven’t lost Underbank Hall, I trust?”

  “Not yet.” Alvanley gestured to the window with a laugh.

  Strathairn grinned and clapped Alvanley on the back. “Send me word if you hear from the youngest Winborne?”

  Alvanley nodded, his attention already caught by an offer to take a bet.

  Strathairn moved on through the club where laughter and conversation rose from every corner. He located Edward in the card room.

  Edward threw down his cards and rose from the table with a worried frown. “Sibella said you were looking for Vaughn.”

  “Haven’t found him yet. Vaughn might be holed up with a woman somewhere,” Strathairn said, trying to ease his mind.

  “Yes, he’ll appear before long. I just wish Sibella didn’t take these things to heart.”

  “She worries about her mother,” Strathairn said as a fresh wave of frustration tightened his shoulders. “If we don’t find him soon, the dowager marchioness will discover him missing.”

  “Dear God, let’s pray that doesn’t happen,” Edward said gloomily.

  Strathairn feared what sort of condition Vaughn would be in. If he was found. There was nothing more he could do in London; all avenues had been explored. He left Edward to continue the search.

  With Parham disinterested in furthering the investigation, and Sibella prevented from riding in Hyde Park, Strathairn had a fervent desire to escape London for a few days. He wanted to bury his woes while watching his latest racehorse perform at Doncaster. He had run out of ideas and his mood had grown too low to bear.

  The next day, Strathairn left Irvine in charge of what amounted to the cleaning up of a defunct operation. With a portmanteau packed, he headed north to Linden Hall. His thoroughbred was to make its debut run in the St. Leger. He would return to London in time for Sibella’s ball, where he hoped Vaughn would finally appear.

  It had rained earlier but was now a fine crisp autumn day, the trees bordering the race course gleamed green, gold, and bronze in the sunlight. A lengthy line of punters trudged along the busy road to the racecourse, the road choked with riders and carriages.

  The St. Leger course provided a broad straight gallop for the horses. Strathairn entered the racetrack grounds, keen to see how his horse Ulysses faired, though he doubted the gelding was suited to the distance.

  Strathairn fought his way through the crowd and placed a bet on the next race, then he skirted the mob where all manner of betting was taking place from cockfighting to cards. He climbed the steps into the grandstand to wait for Ulysses to be led out onto the track. When the big horse appeared, he rose to his feet along with the well-dressed patrons around him. At the flap of the starter’s flag, the five horses sprinted. Ulysses got off to a good start. Strathairn followed the progress of his big chocolate brown horse, holding his breath as excitement kicked in and the crowd’s roar rose to an ear-deafening crescendo. Ulysses was well placed, tucked in behind the two leaders. The mighty horse, Antonio, led the way, and he was sure it would win. A lot of jostling took place among the competitors before Antonio galloped home in first place.

  He turned away, pleased that Ulysses had run a good race. Next year the horse would have a better chance. He made his way down the stairs, planning to bet on the next race. Someone slapped him on the back and he swung around. “Vaughn!”

  Vaughn grinned. “When I heard you had a horse running, I thought I might find you here.”

  Annoyance fought with an overwhelming sense of relief. “You’ve been gone from London quite a while. Care to tell me where you’ve been?”

  “Making a tour of race tracks.” The youngest of the Brandreth males was unkempt and pasty-faced. Either he hadn’t slept or he had been drinking too much. Startled but greatly relieved, Strathairn grabbed Vaughn’s arm as if he was about to disappear in a puff of smoke. “Your family is worried about you.”

  Vaughn cocked a brow. “Are they? I am only doing what Chaloner wants of me, to stand on my own two feet.”

  Strathairn eyed Vaughn’s crumpled cravat, from which a stale unwashed smell arose. “You don’t appear to be making a great success of it. Lady Sibella is frantic. She asked me to find you before your mother learned you’d gone missing.”

  “I intend to stay away from home until I win back the money I owe.” Vaughn’s green eyes shifted away and his mouth formed a mulish caste.

  “An admirable goal.” Strathairn raised a brow and hid his pity for the younger man behind a brusque stare.

  Vaughn shrugged. “I can see you don’t agree. If you’ll excuse me…”

  “Don’t run off.” He slung an arm around Vaughn’s shoulders. “I need to speak to my groom about Ulysses. I’d appreciate your company.”

  Vaughn nodded and walked with him past the horses being led onto the track. The thoroughbreds tossed their heads, their glossy coats gleaming in the sunlight. “Love to own one of those beauties,” Vaughn said.

  After St
rathairn saw his horse depart for home, he remained with Vaughn as they waited for the next race to start. The splendid favorite was a very short price.

  “He looks a safe bet. I’ll wager a monkey on him. I won at billiards last night,” Vaughn said.

  “Five hundred is a lot, Vaughn. Are you sure? There’s no such thing as a sure thing,” he said. Gambling seemed an unpalatable way to deal with feelings. It fixed nothing in the end.

  “It can’t lose.” Vaughn firmed his lips.

  “You think not?” In response, Strathairn raised an eyebrow, and he fell silent.

  Strathairn was glad the favorite failed to win. Vaughn may learn something from it although he already appeared to be a hardened gambler. As they walked away from the track, he found out Vaughn had nowhere to stay.

  “Come home with me,” he said, wanting to make sure the young man didn’t disappear again. “I’ll be glad of the company.” It would give him time to talk some sense into Vaughn.

  Despite readily agreeing, Strathairn could get little out of Vaughn on the way home. He remained tight-lipped about where he’d been or the state of his finances. He gave up asking when the young man scowled and slumped on the squabs, looking profoundly miserable.

  At Linden Hall, they visited the stables and then rode out to watch a groom put a horse through his paces over the moor. The handsome black stallion performed impressively, covering the ground with easy grace.

  Vaughn rested his arms on the fence rail. “I was impressed with Ulysses, but he’s even better,” he said, enthusiasm warming his voice.

  “You’re looking at a champion in the making.” Strathairn ran his hand over the horse’s smooth neck. “Indigo is the best I’ve ever had. He’s the progeny of Sabre who won the Two Thousand Guineas at Newmarket.”

  “Good lord! I’d love to see him race!”

  “Would you?” He studied Vaughn. Here at the hall, he seemed a different person. The debauched gambler had suddenly turned into an excited young man, his eyes bright with interest as he admired the stud’s blood cattle.