Tempting the Earl

by Rachael Miles

  “But this all feels so . . . as if the world were the most amusing spot in the whole of the galaxy, and we are merely . . . I can’t think of the word, but something very, very small.” Quinn gestured wildly toward the sky.

  “Ants! We are ants.” Lark lifted his magnifying glass, and Partlet pointed, laughing at Lark’s one enormous eye.

  The men fell into laughter once more.

  “I believe that is a reaction you must record in your data,” Harrison suggested from the doorway. “That some persons are afflicted with humor—even laughter.”

  “Oh, MacHus, come in, come in! You must participate in our experiment. We need another subject!”

  “Why are you in the dower house? Has Lady Walgrave thrown you all out?”

  “Sometimes we wish to replicate an experiment we find in the books. But Miss Livvy won’t let us conduct experiments in the lodge.”

  “So you’ve taken over the dower house?” Harrison queried.

  “Oh, no, Miss Livvy said that we might use it occupationally as our needs demand.”

  The scholars began to disperse, but Harrison remained behind. “Where does the money for these experiments come from, Smithson?”

  “The materials are quite expensive, but my monthly stipend from the residency covered most of it,” Smithson carefully explained. “For supplies that go beyond our allowance, we apply to the parson and to Miss Livvy.”

  “Do those expenses often receive approval?”

  “Oh, yes. I don’t know anyone who has ever been turned away.” Smithson stopped to consider. “Except perhaps that man who wanted to purchase a drift of pigs.”

  “Pigs?” Harrison was baffled, a feeling he seemed to be experiencing with greater and greater frequency. “What does a research library have to do with pigs?”

  “It wasn’t exactly clear, so Miss Livvy didn’t support it.”

  “Does the money for supplies come from Sir Roderick’s endowment?”

  “I believe it comes from her ladyship’s allowance,” Smithson speculated.

  “Why do you believe that?”

  “She said something once about not needing her allowance as long as she was living on the estate, and she also mentioned being concerned about the support of the scholars if she were to leave.”

  “Has she discussed leaving with the scholars?”

  “Oh, no, but every year around this time, she grows sad and restless.”

  Around this time. Harrison tried to imagine what happened in the winter to make her melancholy. But he couldn’t identify a cause. Of course he didn’t know her well. Indeed, he’d never attempted to know her. Increasingly he saw the mistake in that.

  “Don’t you feel uncomfortable taking a woman’s pin money?”

  Smithson looked at his feet. “I never saw it that way. Miss Livvy manages the estate better than any ten men. I always assumed that if she needed the money for something, she would use it for that. It would be the practical thing to do, and she’s a very practical woman.”

  * * *

  Harrison walked back to the abbey alone, considering everything he’d learned about his estate and his not-wife thus far. Though he was increasingly comfortable with the details of managing the estate, he was not equally satisfied with his knowledge of Olivia. The glimpses he’d seen revealed a woman far more interesting than he’d imagined, and he wanted to know her better. But she had still not told him if she would remain his devoted not-wife until after the special session. Perhaps what the situation needed was the same sort of concentrated attention that made his work with the Home Office so successful.

  Yes, he thought with satisfaction, getting to know Olivia better was exactly what was in order.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Olivia heard Harrison’s step in the corridor outside her study. It was strange how quickly she’d learned the determined sound of his walk. She’d been drafting her next essay for the World, a continuation of an earlier essay on corruption in shipping. She slipped the draft under a piece of drawing paper on which she’d begun a sketch of Bertie with his fox pup—a decoy in case she was interrupted.

  Harrison of course entered without announcing himself. “What do you think of An Honest Gentleman?” He dropped a copy of the World, turned open to her most recent article, onto the desk.

  “Good afternoon, your lordship. I trust you had a pleasant morning.” She stared at him, hoping to divert his attention to the social niceties and away from the World.

  “Forgive me. In our years apart, I’ve grown used to my own company, and you must civilize me.” But he looked unabashed. “Let me try again. Good afternoon, Olivia. What do you think of An Honest Gentleman?”

  “Would you believe me if I said I don’t read him?” She picked up her pencil as if returning to her sketch.

  “Everyone reads him—you simply don’t wish to acknowledge reading the World.”

  “Perhaps. But you clearly dislike his work, and I’m not in the mood to be lectured. So, away, Harrison.” She waved her hand. “Go learn your estate, and leave me to my drawing.”

  He paused. “Actually, I think he’s smart. His articles are knowledgeable without being pedantic or dull. But some of the information he provides is incendiary—like throwing a lit match on dry hay. He must have informants on half a dozen parliamentary committees.”

  “But his efforts make no difference. Parliament continues to resist reform.”

  “I would say instead that his efforts do influence Parliament, simply not in the way he wants. The more convincing An Honest Gentleman is, the more the Tories fear reform, and the more they retrench.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that good arguments in favor of reform lead to bad laws suppressing it?” She hoped that had not been the Home Office’s purpose all along. She preferred to believe she was helping unmask a spy in the government. But she typically only knew the outcome of her missions when, as at the Baron Ecsed’s, they ended in tragedy.

  “Exactly.” Harrison pulled a chair out to sit facing her.

  “That’s a somewhat blinkered view.”

  “But one justified by years of arguing before the very men An Honest Gentleman wishes to convince.”

  “An Honest Gentleman, if he is arguing from his convictions, might be disturbed to find you right.” Olivia focused on giving the fox pup Kit a delicate snout.

  “Let me see.” He whisked the drawing out of her hand, picking up her essay as well.

  She felt her stomach drop and prayed he would not notice the second sheet of paper.

  “You have a nice precise hand. Bertie’s smile hints at melancholy.” He lowered the drawing to his lap. “You have an attentive and perceptive eye.”

  “Why, thank you.” She willed Harrison to put the sheet down.

  “Working with the scholars, I’ve learned that collaboration can sometimes have unexpected results. As a result, I’d like you to help me uncover An Honest Gentleman’s origins. What he’s like. Where he’s from. Perhaps even where he lives.”

  “But doesn’t it go against the whole purpose of a free press to hold a writer’s words against him in such a fundamental way?” She watched as he flexed the paper and her draft separated from the bottom of her drawing. She swallowed her dismay.

  “Not if we intend no harm to him. I simply wish to meet a man who has such original ideas and such a clear way of expressing them.”

  She held out her hand for the portrait, and miraculously he handed it to her without noticing the letter below. If she agreed to be his partner in researching An Honest Gentleman, then perhaps she could keep him from looking her way. She could make sure the evidence never pointed to her or Mentor.

  “What do you think?” Harrison watched her face with interest.

  She raised her hand. “I will help you, not because I believe this could or should be done, but because it should be done respectfully and carefully.”

  “Agreed!” Harrison’s eyes lit a more brilliant blue, and she felt like she
could stand there staring into them forever. “I have the periodicals in my room. Would you like me to retrieve them to work here? Or would you prefer to work in my drawing room?”

  “Let’s work here. We might find having a lock on the door convenient.”

  “I always find a lock on a door convenient.” Harrison made the words sound like an invitation.

  Olivia looked away unable to meet his eyes. “I was supposed to meet with Mrs. Pier this morning, but the parson came to discuss the new scholar applications. I put her off until now. Might we meet later this afternoon?”

  “Certainly. I will be waiting.”

  * * *

  Olivia walked with Harrison to the servants’ staircase, then taking leave of him walked toward Mrs. Pier’s office. But once she was certain she was not followed, she changed course for the village churchyard. She made sure to keep away from the library windows until she was out of sight. At the churchyard she waited by a large monument. Mentor, who rarely left London, had sent a letter requesting a meeting. She’d escaped the abbey from the servants’ quarters, walking briskly through the kitchen garden, and from there across the estate to the village.

  Mentor stepped from the shadow of a nearby tree.

  “We must talk quickly. I cannot be sure that I wasn’t followed.”

  “I came about the threatening letters the World has received.”

  Her stomach turned, but she tried to act unconcerned. “It must be serious for you to come all this way in that disguise. You make an untidy beggar.”

  Mentor held out his cap. “Yet I’ve made a pretty penny. You should put something in—in case we are watched.”

  She opened her reticule. “How much have you made this way?”

  “Almost a shilling.” Mentor shook the hat to make the coins bounce. “About the threats, you were right to be concerned.”

  She felt apprehension crawl like a spider up her spine. “How bad?”

  “One is a rumor. Our investigations into your father may have stirred up old hostilities. But it’s unclear how easily those will lead to you. The other is more substantive: Your old employer may have discovered that you are alive.”

  She stiffened. “Calista? How?”

  “She’s been free to roam the country for the last year. A local magistrate overturned her house arrest, finding it too strict for such a gentle lady.”

  The information turned Olivia’s insides cold. “He didn’t see what she did.”

  “No. Only the Home Office had that pleasure. Given that she swore to kill you, we would prefer if you remained near your husband for the future.”

  “Not husband.” She raised one eyebrow archly. “How could any girl graduate from Mrs. Flint’s school without learning how to protect herself?”

  “You know the danger—he does not. He might need your protection.”

  “And the Home Office would prefer if he remained unaware of that danger, correct?”

  “Not necessarily. He already knows you were a governess, so you could let him know that a former employer wants you dead. He could know that when you discovered the crimes Calista and her husband were committing, you went to the magistrates. Any of that would be believeable enough that it wouldn’t lead him to your other secrets. At this point, however, you should continue to conceal your spying with the Home Office, as An Honest Gentleman, and before that your training with Mrs. Flint.”

  “You make it sound so clear-cut, but those are very slippery lines. It’s like a skein of yarn: You pull one string and the whole unravels.” Olivia watched Mentor’s face carefully. “But if you wish me to keep my role as AHG secret, why did you tell him to investigate An Honest Gentleman?”

  “What?” Mentor’s eyebrows shot up. “He was told to let that go.”

  “Getting you to admit that Harrison works for the Home Office should have been harder. If I need to trust more, perhaps you should trust a little less, old friend.”

  “Ahh, clever girl. You have always been one of our best. What does he know?”

  “I’m not certain. Could Harrison be so intent on finding An Honest Gentleman because he is the spy we seek?” Olivia couldn’t help feeling slightly sick at the mere suggestion that Harrison was a traitor.

  “No, he’s already been excluded. Mr. James warned him off investigating An Honest Gentleman for just the reason you mention—his interest can easily put him under suspicion.” Mentor paused, thinking. “Find out what he knows, Livvy, and if he’s making headway, distract him. Seduce him—whatever it takes to divert his attention. That shouldn’t be too hard. He is your husband, after all.”

  “But he isn’t. That’s the point.” She raised her hands in frustration. “It’s a void marriage, never valid.”

  “Would he seduce you, given the situation, if doing so would help ensure the safety of England and all Englishmen?”

  “It’s dishonest, and I don’t want to lie to him.”

  “Olivia, you have been lying to him since the day you first entertained Sir Roderick’s proposal. And you know the stakes. We need to find who in the government is using the newspapers to undermine the state. We’ve already investigated three of the men who brought you information, and none of them is our man.”

  “But over the last year, I’ve received letters from dozens of correspondents. Investigating all of them will take months.”

  “Yes, and if Harrison interferes, he could make identifying the real criminal impossible. If you don’t want to seduce him, find some way to keep him occupied. I’ll try to think of something as well. As for Calista, if she knows you are alive and where to find you, it might take both of you to thwart her.”

  Mentor gave her an overly elaborate bow and then disappeared back into the trees.

  Olivia walked home slowly, thinking. If Calista was free, she might not attack Olivia directly, at least not at first. The abbey, its servants, the scholars, even Harrison—none were safe. And if Harrison revealed her as An Honest Gentleman, it could overturn all her work for the last year.

  But it was the seduction that gave her pause. Mentor was right. It would provide the perfect distraction. And, more to the point, she wanted to seduce him. She wanted to let her hand run down the side of his face, to kiss his lips, to press her body into his until there was no distance between them. Since she’d decided to end their non-marriage, she’d felt a chill in her bones that no amount of fire or blankets could take away. And once he’d returned to the abbey, she’d felt his warmth like a beacon. More like a moth to a flame, ready to consume me. But he’d already abandoned her once, and he would do it again. She could hear her father’s voice, “But did wanting him justify the lie of seducing him? Keep your heart close, my girl. Never tell a lie when a half-truth will do.”

  She was torn between desire and love. Could she love him and seduce him and still walk away somewhat whole? Because to tell him she loved him would require her to tell him everything. But no one could know her secrets and still want her to stay. No, “‘if it were done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.’” Olivia quoted Macbeth to herself, and hoped the end of their story would be less bloody.

  * * *

  Olivia had searched for him in the obvious places: in his turret rooms, the music room, the library. Up- and downstairs. Then she searched the less obvious places: his father’s room, her study (which was unlikely since she kept it locked), the conservatory.

  Finally she found Harrison in the billiards room, his back to the door, playing a solitary game. His waistcoat was discarded across the back of a chair and he had rolled up his shirt sleeves. She watched for a moment. His back was strong, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow. His arms, strongly muscled, pushed the cue with precision and skill, as he hit ball after ball into the corners he wanted. As he rounded the table, he saw her, giving her a slow smile and an equally slow assessing gaze.

  She was ruddy from her search. Her bosom rose and fell with exertion . . . and anticipation.

  “As I remember, you owe me a g
ame.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. When I was here last, we had each won one game out of three, but we never finished the set.”

  She flushed, recalling how he’d circled the table and caught her, kissing her, until they had both discarded their cues. Pushing the remaining balls to the side, he’d taken her passionately on the green of the table.

  “Ah, I see you remember, as well as I, the last game we played here.” Harrison grinned. “Would you like a rematch?”

  Olivia swallowed before she answered. “Of which game?”

  “Perhaps we should play to decide? But we will need a wager.”

  “What do you have in mind?” She chose her cue, then held it in front of her for examination, caressing the end slowly.

  It was Harrison’s turn to swallow before speaking. “If I win, I . . .” His voice tapered off as he watched her hand stroke the cue up, then down.

  She leaned forward. “Lacking imagination, my lord?” It was her job to make him want her, to make him think only of her, because when men lost themselves in their lovers, they also lost control of their secrets. She was to distract him, even if it broke her heart.

  Harrison coughed and looked away. “I think you are trying to ensure you win.”

  “I certainly intend to.” She met his eyes and paused provocatively. “Because the stakes are my body, if I lose.”

  He regarded her suspiciously, but with undeniable interest. “And if you win?”

  She set the cue against the wall and stepped close to him, the space between their bodies a mere inch, close enough that she could see the pulse in his neck increase. She lifted her eyes to see his filled with desire. “I’m sure you can forfeit something equally pleasurable.” She ran a slow finger down his cheek and rested it on his lips. “But of course if we play, you will have to promise to keep all my secrets—or at least those I tell you.” She let her hand trail down the middle of his chest, down his belly, until she let it rest boldly on his sex, waiting until she felt it stir.

  “What secrets, Olivia?” He put his hand on her breast. “Two can play this game.”