Tempting the Earl

by Rachael Miles

  The four of them struggled against the doors. Just when Olivia feared that Calista had locked them, the doors gave way. Running from the building, Harrison, with Penn beside him, fell coughing on the ground. Olivia bent over her knees, feeling as if her lungs were tearing apart with every cough.

  The man who called her Elise began to rouse the workers who lived behind the press. Within minutes the yard was full, people carried buckets of water into the pressroom to make sure the fire—if any remained—did not spread.

  Some women, seeing Harrison was bleeding, took him across the street and began to minister to his wound. Seeing he was cared for, Olivia began to search for the man who called her Elise. But he was nowhere to be found. By the time she returned to where Harrison had been, he too was gone.

  “His valet took him away.” Penn came and stood by her side. “He was stabbed. But not too badly, Miss Livvy. It will heal. He’ll be just as he was in no time.”

  Just as he was. No, now that he knew exactly what sort of woman she was, he would be something else. The slender hope she’d clung to that they might someday reconcile faded and disappeared.

  Broken, she called a hackney and took it to Lady Wilmot’s. When she arrived, dirty and weeping, Lady Wilmot opened her arms and led her into the house.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  At first, Harrison remained in London, waiting for his wound to heal and for Olivia to inquire after his health. A letter, a visit, either would have told him she might still care. But he could still hear her voice, so confident, declare I mean nothing to him, and he means nothing to me. At the time, he’d thought it was simply a ploy to divide the madwoman’s attention, but as the days passed with no communication, he began to see it as the truth it was.

  He returned to the estate, and each day he sat at her desk and waited for the dozen crises he would have to manage. He did nothing else—truth be told, he had no energy to devote to anything else, not even Parliament. Managing the estate was his penance for not knowing how to keep her.

  “You asked me to come, my lord.”

  He rose and embraced the old man, leading him to a comfortable chair. “Yes, Herder, thank you. I wanted to know about the trees.”

  “The trees?”

  “What happened to them?” Harrison wanted some bitter thought to balance his longing. “I thought the estate did well enough without selling them.”

  “Oh, no, sir! I would have thought Miss Livvy would have told you.” Herder lowered himself carefully. “Bad storm, five, six years ago. We woke up to find most of the trees broken, and those that weren’t yet broken were bowed to the earth. We worked through the night, lighting pots to save those we could, trimming the most damaged ones. She never slept, not for three days. Far more would have been lost if she hadn’t acted. Then she planted new ones, giving each one enough distance from the other to grow and thrive as well as give the best views. Even had that man Repton out here to survey the estate and make recommendations, but in the end, she and I set out with a map and decided how best to create the impression of the former landscape given that we lost so much.”

  Herder’s words brought an old memory to the surface. Olivia had indeed written of the storm and of the estate’s losses, but Harrison simply hadn’t connected it to his beloved trees. And of course, he hadn’t remained at the estate long enough after his marriage to indicate how much the trees meant to him.

  Each time he questioned Olivia’s motives, she always seemed to have acted conscientiously, though never predictably. Harrison knew his affair with Olivia was over, but still he waited every day, hoping that she would write or that Aldine would discover where she had gone, but neither ever happened.

  “Molly, the new housekeeper, has asked that you come to the kitchen, sir.” Otley nodded at Herder from the door. Overwhelmed with the details of the estate—or perhaps simply too sad to bear anything for long—Harrison had asked Otley to help with the new staff. Between the estate-manager and Molly and Otley the estate was almost as well run as when Olivia had done it on her own.

  “Can you manage it, Otley?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. Molly asks that you come to the kitchen or reconsider your alterations to Dr. Martinbrook’s bathing schedule.”

  For the fiftieth time that week, Harrison asked himself how Olivia had managed the household and its humours. “I only wish to be fair, Otley. All the scholars choose a night to bathe for the week. Martinbrook, however, bathes any time he wishes simply by application to the housekeeper. And while all the other scholars bathe in the servants’ quarters, Martinbrook bathes in the dower house. It’s deferential treatment, and I see no reason to continue it. Last week, he bathed every day, and twice on Thursday.”

  “I understand, sir. Will you be coming belowstairs?”

  “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

  “I wouldn’t presume to speculate, sir.”

  That meant yes. He knew it, and so did Otley, but they played their roles. Harrison pulled himself reluctantly from his chair. “Thank you for the information, Herder. I appreciate your perspective.”

  The old man nodded his agreement, and Harrison left with Otley.

  “Might I ask, your lordship, if any of the household have complained of deferential treatment?”

  “No.”

  “Have any of the staff complained that drawing Martinbrook’s bath every day was too onerous?”

  “No.” Harrison was starting to feel ill at ease. He had only looked at the household register and noticed that a scholar appeared to be taking advantage of the estate. It was only a bath, or rather only eight baths, but curbing Martinbrook’s access had allowed him to make a point: He was watching.

  * * *

  At the top of the servants’ stairs, he started to notice hints of an unusual earthy smell, more like the stables than the kitchens, but certainly some foods took on a peculiar scent as they were cooked.

  “Do you smell that, Otley?”

  “What do you mean by that, sir?”

  “That smell. It’s somewhat like manure, but more . . .”

  “Rotten, sir.”

  “That would be one way to describe it.”

  They opened the door at the base of the stairs, and the smell overwhelmed them.

  Harrison covered his nose. “My God! What is that?”

  Molly came from the nearest doorway, a handful of posies under her nose.

  “Martinbrook, your lordship. It seems on his most recent expedition, he found an entrance to a burial mound.”

  “From the ninth century,” a voice piped from the back doorway. “A very nice one, still largely intact.”

  “The entrance, however, required him to crawl on his belly through the home of a large badger,” Molly continued.

  “A collection of badger tunnels called a sett,” Martinbrook called out. “A badger sett. Some are used for hundreds of years. Notoriously clean animals, discard their refuse in latrines.”

  “By latrine, he means . . .” Harrison found himself almost overcome by the stench.

  “Yes, sir,” Molly continued. “At the end of the entrance, he discovered that the mound was in fact a cave, home to dozens of small bats.”

  “Plecotus austriacus, Lark says. Unusual creatures, but lovely,” Martinbrook interjected.

  “On the way out of the mound, he came across the lair of a red fox.”

  “Poor thing,” Martinbrook said. “Woke it right up.”

  “Let me see. You are telling me that in a single afternoon, he crawled through badger refuse, bat guano, and fox urine. Is this typical?”

  “Yes, your lordship.” Molly waved her posies for emphasis.

  “I keep telling them that I lost my sense of smell in the war,” Martinbrook interjected. “Great gift, allows me to investigate places no other naturalist would.”

  “He has no sense of smell,” Harrison repeated, feeling baffled.

  “No, your lordship.”

  Harrison retreated in defeat. “Mol
ly, please allow Martinbrook to bathe as frequently as necessary.”

  Molly followed him out. “You must remember, Miss Livvy didn’t run the household on a whim. Every decision was related to a particular circumstance she wanted to avoid. Have you never wondered why we have all the rules about not kindling fires in the library?”

  Molly turned on her heel, calling for all the maids to help bathe Martinbrook.

  Harrison returned to his office, once more chastened. He picked up his father’s journal, rubbing the soft vellum with a tender hand. Now that Olivia was gone, perhaps it was time to discover what Sir Roderick had thought it essential he should know. Perhaps he could even discover why his father had thought Olivia was his perfect wife. He had a feeling he already knew, now that it was too late to make any difference.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The cottage was large enough for her and her maid Joan, along with Mr. and Mrs. Pier. The three came days after Olivia had left the abbey, claiming that maintaining the house for another mistress would be unpalatable. She didn’t believe them, but she was grateful.

  The novel she’d finished before Harrison had come home—The Revenging Maiden—was more of a success than her first. Now, she had enough income to pay the three servants the same wage they had received at the manor. The rest came from the village each day and returned to their families each evening. She missed—as she’d expected—the regular interruptions of the scholars. Harrison had relented on dismissing them, so Lark had remained at the abbey, among his books and colleagues.

  Bentley had been pressing her for a third novel, but she couldn’t imagine what she might write. She seemed to have left her fight at the abbey. Each day, though she stared at the page, she found she had less to say, not more.

  Her hand brushed across the newest letter from Joe. Before she’d left London, he and Mr. James had thanked her for her patriotism, and confirmed for what seemed like the fiftieth time that there would always be a place for her in the ranks of the Home Office. The letter, now a week old, asked if she had decided whether she would investigate the dead man’s list, as Mr. James’s office was now calling it. If that didn’t appeal to her, Mentor wrote, they had a position abroad ideally suited to her talents. She had told herself that today she would decide whether to take the job or not. But in truth, it could wait. She could always decide tomorrow. Or perhaps the next day.

  Harrison had agreed to let her go. She’d received the settlement with his signature within days of leaving the abbey. She had returned it to him, at the last minute slipping into the envelope the tiger’s-eye he had once stolen from her. She could have kept it, but she had enough to remember him by already, and she found she wanted him to have something of her. It was a foolish notion—that he might wish someday to have a remembrance of a murderess—but she indulged it.

  Pier had insisted that they decorate the mantels and doorways with evergreen boughs, hoping it would improve her spirits. She’d pretended that it had, but, even so, each morning she found it difficult to rise at her usual time, and more than once in the past weeks she’d found herself remaining in her room, in bed, until long after light.

  Pier said nothing, simply brought her a tray when she rang for it and brushed Olivia’s hair as she sat listlessly at the dressing table until Joan brought her walking dress. Everyone spoke cheerfully when she was about, but more than once she’d noticed them looking at each other in concern. And she didn’t even have the spirit to object.

  She had thought that she had mourned his loss as fully as she needed to, after his first long absence. And she had. If he hadn’t come back, she could have lived her life without this aching pit of longing in her belly. But he had come back, and she now was lost once more in her desire for him, aching after the scent of his skin and the strength of his embrace. When he’d held her, she’d memorized each caress, but the memories, inescapable, had turned to wormwood, bitter and corrosive.

  She was fragile and even a little broken, but she would not always be this way. She would once more find her way, and one day, she would find some pleasure in living. But not today, and perhaps not tomorrow either.

  A knock at the door roused her from her listlessness.

  “Yes, come in.” Olivia sat in her chair, a book unread open on her table.

  Mrs. Pier stood at the threshold, folding a letter into her pocket, then looked at Olivia with barely concealed pity. Pier’s pity should have roused Olivia’s ire, but she’d used up all her anger. All that was left was resignation and longing. She loved him, heart and soul. But he didn’t love her.

  “Wassailers sing through the village tomorrow night, Miss Livvy. We’ll need to provide some refreshments, especially for those who’ve come a long way. I’ve asked the cook to prepare some of Mr. Stanley’s recipes, but she cannot decipher them.”

  “I suppose one has to have the proper hat to do that.”

  “Why, I believe that was humor, Miss Livvy, or an attempt at it!” Pier beamed. “Joan is airing your green silk. You’ll need to greet the guests.”

  Olivia stared out the window. “Must I, Pier?”

  “Oh, yes, miss. It wouldn’t do not to greet them.”

  “As you wish, Mildred.” She picked up her book, but didn’t read it.

  * * *

  Harrison sat at the shared table in the scholars’ lodge, a half-empty bottle of port at his side. He had moved his belongings into one of the spare rooms in the lodge. Olivia’s ghost haunted the main house. Yesterday, he’d seen the flash of her dress out of the corner of his eye. He’d rushed after her and grabbed it, only to discover one of the maids wearing a dress Olivia had left behind. The abject fear on her face was enough to give him pause, but even so, he’d told her never to wear that dress in his sight again.

  Before him sat a fat packet with his copies of the settlement papers. There was no real reason to look at them. He knew she had signed because his solicitor had told him so. But he needed to see her signature himself to know there was no future for them.

  “Might I help, sir?” Otley hovered at his elbow. Otley had become his adviser, a role he knew the old man had often played for Olivia, but somehow he didn’t mind. It connected him to her.

  The thin old man untied the string around the packet and withdrew the contents. On the top stood a small box. Otley set the papers and the box in front of him; all Harrison had to do was reach out. But somehow he couldn’t even lift his arm.

  The other scholars gathered around.

  “The box is addressed to you, sir, in Miss Livvy’s hand.” Otley held out the small package.

  “Open it.” Harrison refused the package.

  “You should do it yourself, son.”

  “Open it, or I’ll throw the lot of you out on your ears,” he growled.

  “Oh, dear, I believe he’s serious.” Lark fidgeted anxiously.

  Otley very carefully unwrapped the thick brown paper that covered the small box.

  Partlet whispered, “Do you think it’s her wedding ring?”

  “Ssh. Don’t need to remind him that he’s lost her,” Lark chided.

  Otley held out the box, but Harrison brushed it away. Nathan took it and lifted the lid.

  “It appears to be a rock.” Quinn leaned over, his large belly brushing the desk.

  Martinbrook leaned in. “Ah, it’s a quartz, one of the metamorphic rocks. Pretty, but it carries no antiquarian interest. It’s most likely imported—from the Cape Colony, India, Australia, or perhaps even the American states.”

  “So, it’s a rock.” Quinn antagonized, genially.

  The scholars crowded around to examine it.

  “It’s a very interesting pattern.” Lark examined it through his magnifying glass.

  “A pattern?” Harrison felt hope rise, then just as quickly diminish.

  “Yes, it’s commonly called a tiger’s-eye. Miss Livvy had me find her one like this once.”

  Harrison held out his hand, and Martinbrook put the stone in his palm.


  “It’s hers, a memento of her father.” Harrison turned the stone over between his fingers, welcoming the familiar comfort. “I carried it with me to the wars.”

  “Well, then, that’s excellent news, your lordship.” Otley nodded diplomatically.

  “I don’t see how.” Harrison turned the crystal into the light, distracting himself from his sense of bone-deep hopelessness.

  “Because Miss Livvy is an orphan, sir.” Partlet brushed a tear from his monocle.

  “It is her only memory of her father, something she has loved, and she has sent it to you.” Quinn fingered his cravat. “It’s a gesture, sir.”

  “Yes, of course.” Nathan nodded. “It’s like a leitmotif in a musical composition, a melody that comes up and recedes, then comes up again. Here, it’s something you have both treasured. This is very good news.”

  “How can that be?” Harrison turned to the scholars.

  “Perhaps I can explain, sir.” Smithson twisted his thick mustache. “For Miss Olivia, this rock is like the cornerstone of a building. A gift from her father, but also associated with you. It’s central to her sense of the world and her place in it.”

  “Yes, sir, it’s an invitation, even if she doesn’t realize it,” Otley explained.

  “But what can I do? I tried to find her, but she’s just disappeared.”

  The scholars shifted nervously.

  Harrison searched their faces, finding a mixture of apprehension and guilt. “What do you know?” he growled, all his frustration and sorrow captured in a single sentence.

  Lark was so startled he dropped his magnifying glass, and Partlet removed and replaced his monocle without cleaning it on his shirt.

  “We send her updates on our research every Wednesday,” Nathan explained.

  “Yes, Quinn slips the lot into your parliamentary packet to avoid the postage,” Martinbrook said, rubbing one dirty hand on his belly.