Mad About the Earl

by Christina Brooke

  Joshua and two footmen he’d never seen before carried two massive trunks upstairs and disappeared toward his bedchamber. Griffin went after them.

  In his bedchamber, he found Dearlove standing in the midst of a sea of trunks and boxes, directing proceedings.

  “What is all this?” Griffin snapped, though he knew very well what it was.

  Dearlove permitted himself a smile. “Some items you left behind, my lord.”

  If Dearlove included himself in that statement, Griffin couldn’t tell. He detected no reproach in his valet’s expression, then wondered at himself for caring. Did he actually feel guilty for not bringing the man with him?

  “Most of your commissions in London have been fulfilled, my lord. Knowing your immediate needs, I ventured to bring with me a few things more suited to country wear.”

  “You mean this isn’t the full extent of it?” Griffin was horrified and a little awed at his own unwitting extravagance.

  “Oh, no, my lord. The rest is in your rooms at Montford House.”

  He gazed about him. Hell. “When do you suppose I’m going to wear any of this?”

  “If you will permit the impertinence, my lord, that is my concern.” He spread his hands. “The advantage to having a valet is that Your Lordship is not obliged to think about clothing at all.”

  Griffin fingered his chin. He didn’t give his garments more than a passing thought now. But however that might be, Dearlove was here. He might as well make use of him.

  “I’m to be married today, Dearlove,” he announced, and took a moment to enjoy the shock that passed over Dearlove’s usually impassive features.

  “Then we shall choose something special for the occasion, my lord. But first, a shave, perhaps? And a haircut. Joshua!” Dearlove addressed Griffin’s sole manservant. “Bring hot water and towels. Quickly, now!”

  As Griffin allowed himself to be primped and prodded, he mulled over the night before. Rosamund had seduced him quite effortlessly. He’d been putty in her hands, and now she must pay the price.

  Oh, he knew things had gone too far for him to weasel out of a wedding now. On some level, he suspected he’d wanted to trap her just as much as she’d clearly set out to trap him with that shattering night of passion.

  Finally, he would have Rosamund. Hot blood raced through his body at the thought.

  But it was selfish of him to want her at the expense of her ultimate happiness. He was a bastard for letting her make the commitment before she knew the difficulties she was likely to face in becoming his wife.

  If only he knew for certain whether there was a threat or not.

  He was no closer to tracing the source of the rumor about new evidence in the murder of Simon Allbright. If old Sir William Drake, the justice of the peace, assured him no such evidence had been brought to his attention, he supposed he’d have to be content with that. He was not to be hauled off in irons just yet.

  But the fact remained that in his neighbors’ eyes, he was a murderer. It seemed there were those who had an interest in keeping that belief alive and fresh in people’s minds.

  Rosamund had said nothing else mattered to her, that she would marry him no matter what. Ought he to tell her the truth before the wedding? It might spoil the day—how could it not? But she should be given the choice. Few women would wish to marry a man who stood accused of murder by his neighbors, a man who could do nothing to prove his innocence.

  The thought that even now she might carry the beginnings of their child in her womb made great cold waves of panic surge through him. If he knew Rosamund, she would prefer marriage to a murderer to the scandal of bearing a child out of wedlock.

  Or perhaps she would choose a third option—a quick marriage to another man. Griffin’s stomach lurched sickeningly at the thought. Lauderdale would take her in a heartbeat. So would a legion of other men, he didn’t doubt.

  Hell and the Devil confound it! He’d craved a simple life, and now look where he stood: his thoughts circling around like sharks around a dilemma that could have no good outcome whichever path he chose.

  He didn’t think he could live with himself if Rosamund despised him. He’d come to care far too much for her good opinion, it seemed. She would discover the truth of the situation soon enough if she lived at Pendon Place.

  Yes, he ought to tell her. For her sake and his, he would tell her before they took their vows.

  He sat to offer Dearlove his jaw for scraping with a sinking, horrible feeling of dread.

  * * *

  Rosamund could scarcely tell Jacqueline the true reason she’d changed her mind about riding that morning.

  She was glad to know the pain of her first time would not be repeated. There’d been one, searing moment when panic nearly overwhelmed her. She’d wanted to throw Griffin off and yell at him not to come near her again.

  It had been over quickly, however, and Jane had assured her the activity could be sublime if a lady’s husband proved to be a considerate lover. She thought Griffin immensely considerate. What he’d done to her with his hands and mouth still sent twinges of pleasure through her body.

  Rosamund suggested to Jacqueline that they walk down to the cliffs instead of riding and Jacqueline agreed willingly enough. The breeze whipped the skirts of their habits around them as they climbed to the top. Jacqueline had found a large branch and used it as a walking stick.

  Now Rosamund said, “Tell me about the murder of Mr. Allbright.”

  The girl paled beneath her tan. “Who mentioned that to you?”

  “I overheard some men talking,” said Rosamund. “In fact, in the course of breakfast, I heard it mentioned three times. The subject is on everyone’s lips, it seems.”

  This was what Griffin had tried to tell her last night.

  “He didn’t do it,” said Jacqueline vehemently.

  “Of course he didn’t,” agreed Rosamund. “Tell me.”

  Jacqueline stared out to sea. Her lips firmed and she turned her face to Rosamund, the wind whipping her hair from its pins and casting it about her face.

  Pulling a strand from the corner of her mouth, Jacqueline said, “Come on.”

  They moved down the slope and took a path cut into the hill that was sheltered from the wind.

  “Mr. Allbright was my music master,” said Jacqueline, squinting against the wind. “An unnecessary extravagance. You can imagine my aptitude for the pianoforte.” She rolled her eyes. “I can’t guess why my grandfather hired him, except to subject me and the teacher to weekly misery. Allbright was some sort of cousin to our friend Tony Maddox. You will meet Tony. He lives at Trenoweth Hall. Over that way.” She waved a hand to the east.

  “Anyway, one day after Grandfather died, Griffin and Mr. Allbright had a row and Griffin dismissed Allbright, who then put it about the village that Griffin had threatened to kill him if he saw him in these parts ever again. We thought that was the end of him, but Allbright returned.”

  The girl’s eyes grew hollow. “And then Allbright’s lifeless body was discovered at the foot of the cliff.”

  Rosamund gasped. “How awful for you both!”

  “Oh, it was … awful, yes. But the worst was when they took Griffin for questioning. No one believed him innocent—no one except for me and Tony and the vicar, that is—but there wasn’t any evidence he’d done it, so the matter was allowed to rest.”

  “But the people around here won’t let it rest, is that it?” said Rosamund.

  Miserably, Jacqueline nodded. “Griffin sent me away to spare me the unpleasantness, but he doesn’t understand! I want to stand by him. I don’t care what they say—I know he didn’t do it!”

  Rosamund put her arm about her. “Your sentiments do you credit. But you cannot blame Griffin for wishing to protect you.” She gave Jacqueline’s shoulder a squeeze. “Shall we go back and take a glass of lemonade? Or perhaps some tea?”

  And then she must get ready for her wedding.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Griffin stro
de through the village toward the inn where Rosamund stayed, ignoring the whispers that followed him like wind rustling the trees. He needed to talk to Rosamund before she took that final step.

  He entered the vestibule and glanced toward the stair that led up to her rooms. On a sudden and admittedly craven impulse, he changed his course and ducked into the taproom.

  If any occasion called for a drink, it was this one.

  The taproom was empty, save for a shaggy old mongrel that lay by the empty hearth. That suited Griffin very well.

  The barmaid, who’d been dusting with her back to the door, turned to face him. Her mouth dropped open. The dust cloth fell from her hands.

  “Bessie, a tankard of your best ale, if you please,” he said. The inn served only one kind of ale, of course, and the girl stared at him, confused.

  He shook his head. “No, on second thought, I’ll have a nip of that brandy you keep hidden behind the bar.”

  Despite the early hour, he felt in need of a strong stimulant. Not that he meant to make a habit of imbibing before noon, but if a man couldn’t break with tradition on his wedding day, when could he?

  Bessie’s dark eyes were round with curiosity, but he was damned if he’d explain why he was rigged out like some dashed park saunterer. They’d all hear of his marriage soon enough. That was, if Rosamund still wanted to wed him after what he had to say.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t Master Griffin.”

  Griffin froze, the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end. That hoarse, hateful voice had stopped haunting his nightmares years ago. Yet hearing it now brought the past rushing back.

  Crane.

  He pretended he hadn’t heard the remark, but of course, his tormentor wasn’t discouraged by his seeming indifference.

  “Ain’t you fine today, my lord?” Crane rested one elbow on the bar beside him, swinging an expensive gold watch on a chain that hung from the vulgarly bright waistcoat he wore. He was a big man, perhaps fifteen years older than Griffin. Crane had held the position of steward at Pendon Place until the old earl’s death. But steward had been only one of his functions.

  “Too ’igh and mighty for the likes of me now, ain’t you?” said Crane.

  He leaned in to murmur in Griffin’s ear, “But I remembers a day when you was no more than a worm beneath my heel.”

  Griffin’s jaw hardened and his fist clenched at his side, but he knew a deliberate goad when he heard it. “Get away from me.”

  An avid light struck in the man’s green eyes. He licked his lips and turned to the barmaid, saying loudly, “See that lovely scar the earl has there, Bessie love? That’s my work, that is. I’m dead proud of that. Some men would have bungled it and got the eyeball itself, but not Barnabas Crane. The old gentleman would have sacked me if I’d gone and blinded his grandson, now, wouldn’t he? Didn’t mind me bloodying his back for him, though.”

  Blistering hot rage surged through Griffin like lava from a volcano. His hand shot out. He bunched Crane’s shirt in his fist and hauled him up so they were eye to eye.

  The frightened barmaid gave a cry of alarm. “Oh! Oh, please, me lord! Don’t kill him!”

  Griffin bared his teeth in a snarl. “You’re not fit to lick the shit off my boots, Crane. You never were.”

  A smug look descended on Crane’s features. The bastard thought Griffin couldn’t afford to hurt him because he was still under suspicion over Allbright’s murder. Crane took his shots in this public spot because he had no fear of serious reprisals. He knew Griffin didn’t want to give fodder for any more speculation over the ungovernable violence of his beastly temper.

  Crane tut-tutted. “Are you threatening me, Master Griffin? Like you threatened Allbright?”

  Griffin tightened his grip. “Why do you ask?” he said. “Do you have any plans for getting thrown off a cliff that I should know about? In that case, I’ll order champagne.”

  Crane couldn’t have been comfortable with his collar tightening around his reddening neck, but the sneer on his face didn’t slip. “You and that fool of a justice have sewn up that little business nicely, haven’t you? All neat and tidy. But we know what you did, Master Griffin. Everyone hereabouts knows the truth.”

  Crane angled his head. “I wonder if that yaller-headed ladybird of yours has heard of it yet? I’d wager she hasn’t.… But she will.”

  At the mention of Rosamund, a haze of red swam over his vision. With a roar, Griffin hauled back his fist, but it was caught from behind in a strong, restraining hold.

  He pivoted, ready to pummel the newcomer for his interference, but then he saw who held him in an iron grip.

  “Well, now, what do we have here, eh?” The vicar’s hearty tones rang out in the quiet of the taproom as he hung on to Griffin’s elbow with both hands. “Tregarth! I say, old fellow, let him go. You’ll soil your gloves touching that.”

  Moments passed before Griffin grew calm enough to speak. With a short laugh, he said, “You’re right. Hardly worth wrinkling my coat for.” Griffin released Crane and stepped back.

  “Go, now, Mr. Crane,” said the vicar. “We don’t want trouble in this fine establishment, now, do we?”

  But Crane had achieved what he’d come for: He’d provoked Griffin to violence. With a wink at Bessie and a cocky smirk, he took himself off.

  Griffin turned to the barmaid, who cowered behind the bar, holding an empty wine bottle like a club. She flinched when he stepped toward her.

  “The brandy, if you please, Bessie,” he said gently.

  The girl set down her weapon and fumbled for the bottle of cognac stowed underneath the gleaming bar. She opened it and sloshed it into a glass.

  Her hands shook, he noticed. Silently, he cursed Crane for forcing the quarrel and himself for rising to the bait.

  He took the brandy with thanks and a handsome tip that did much to banish the fear from the barmaid’s eyes.

  Then he turned to address the vicar. “You’re early.”

  Oliphant shrugged. “Parish business across the street. I happened to see Crane follow you in and thought there might be trouble. Ah!” Oliphant rubbed his hands together, eyeing Griffin’s drink. “Dutch courage, eh? Capital idea.”

  The good vicar never passed up an opportunity to drink at someone else’s expense, no matter what time of day. With a grin, Griffin turned to order a second brandy for his friend. They took their beverages to a corner table, well away from the bar and Bessie’s ears.

  “Well, well,” said Oliphant, eyeing him. “You do scrub up nicely. Can it be the change that love hast wrought?”

  Griffin hunched his shoulders. He’d complained bitterly to his valet that London ways simply wouldn’t do here in Cornwall, but Dearlove had insisted on dressing him like some town beau on the strut.

  He jerked his head toward the bar. “My thanks for the intervention.”

  “I’ve no cause to love the fellow,” said Oliphant. “He lures all the younger men into that smuggling racket of his. Likely get them all hanged. That’s if anyone hereabouts had the nerve to stand up to Crane and his gang.” He hesitated. “You know, Tregarth, you could do something—”

  “You’d best drink up,” interrupted Griffin. “It won’t do your standing any good to be seen with me.”

  “None at all,” agreed the vicar, accepting the change of subject with equanimity. “But I have the excuse that I am about to marry you to your lovely heiress. What’s she like?”

  Griffin sipped his drink and hissed through his teeth as he felt the kick. The alcoholic warmth spread to his limbs, relaxing them a little. He needed that.

  Yes, brandy had been an inspired idea. His nerves still jangled after that encounter with Crane. Besides, he had yet to see Rosamund, which was why he’d bought the bloody drink in the first place.

  “Lady Rosamund?” He swirled his brandy, warming it with his hand. “She is without doubt the most exquisitely beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

  Oliphant laughed at his gloomy ton
e. “That’s a bad thing?”

  “It is if you look like me,” he replied. “As for her character, she’s good-natured, softhearted, but she’s no fool. She has wit and intelligence and a little guile thrown in for good measure.”

  She’d wrapped him around her little finger from the start, hadn’t she? And that had less to do with her spectacular face and form and more to do with her unique courage in standing up to him. She’d laughed at his ill-tempered rudeness, set her own price for complying with his wishes, then coaxed him to please her as if she were an experienced trainer breaking in a wild colt.

  “She sounds like a paragon,” said Oliphant.

  “All sweetness and light, that’s my lady.” But he’d discovered a deliciously naughty side to his bright angel that he wasn’t about to share with Oliphant. Rosamund’s intimate, throaty laughter rang in his memory, heated his blood.

  The vicar lowered his gaze, then looked up at him from beneath his brows. “Have you told her?”

  Absorbed in Rosamund, for a moment, Griffin didn’t take Oliphant’s meaning. Then he held up his glass. “Why do you think I need the Dutch courage?”

  An uncharacteristic flash of annoyance crossed the vicar’s features. “If only you’d let me—”

  “No.” Griffin fixed him with a compelling stare. “No, my friend. Leave it be. Believe me, you would do far more harm than good.”

  * * *

  “My dear, you are like a cat on hot bricks,” said Tibby. “Stop fussing and fidgeting, or I shall make you read something to improve your mind.”

  Rosamund halted her pacing. “Mary Wollstonecraft? I’ve already read her. Cecily made me. Didn’t she tell you?”

  “Oh, not Mary Wollstonecraft,” said Tibby, picking up a tract from the table by her side and holding it out. “Hannah More.”

  She said it in such accents of horror that Rosamund was obliged to laugh. “As if I could read such stuff. And at this of all moments!”

  Tibby put down her tract. “You sent a message to Lord Tregarth, but that doesn’t mean he’ll drop everything and come running. Why, he could be from home all day, just as he was yesterday.”