Everything But the Earl

by Willa Ramsey

  Perhaps she was not so entirely opposed to marriage. Perhaps she might consider it one day? Just a little? Potentially? Under the right circumstances?

  No—absolutely not. The memory of Papa signing his own name to Mama’s drawings made her cringe. The image of him accepting praise for them at a reception at the Royal Academy of Arts—while Mama stood calmly by—made her livid.

  Her inheritance would protect her freedom; she needn’t marry to support herself.

  She smoothed at her gloves and collected herself. “Marriage is a risky undertaking for a woman, my lord. She is beholden to her husband’s wishes. His work, his finances. Let’s just say I’ve seen what a marriage can be like where there is…an imbalance of sorts.”

  He slowed, not taking his eyes off her. “That’s…I am sorry, Miss Crispin. I hope for all our sakes that we see more happy marriages than not in our lifetimes. More balanced marriages, if you like.”

  She looked over and met his eyes briefly, though she couldn’t measure any of the angles on his face at that moment.

  They walked quietly for several minutes. “Look, there’s our squirrel again,” he said with a nod toward an archway on the near-side of St. Paul’s. “Last chance to put a coin on him reaching the top, ribbons and all.”

  She didn’t lift her head when she replied, “Forgive me, Lord Ryland. But I’m not in the mood for any wagering today.”

  Ryland’s spirits sank a bit. “Truly? But you must represent your sex, Miss Crispin! The ladies are depending on you.”

  She’d been looking at the ground for some time. Something about their discussion had quieted, even saddened her.

  And she did not want to be courted, it seemed, by him or anyone else.

  So Adam was feeling saddened, too.

  He wanted to cheer her. And he itched to understand her cynicism about love and marriage. Why had she reacted so strangely when he’d brought up her parents?

  “Miss Crispin, are you quite well?” he inquired after a moment.

  She turned toward him, pushing a stray hair behind her ear. “Oh yes, quite. I just don’t wish to risk any coin on my knowledge of rodents and flimsy headwear today. Another time, perhaps.”

  “As you wish, then. The ladies forfeit this particular bout. And the gentlemen take it.”

  Walking quietly, he had the opportunity to look at her more closely. He could tell that her long hair was a challenge for her. It hadn’t decided if it wanted to be straight or curly, and some of the brown locks were near-ringlets while others fell to her shoulder with only a hint of a turn. She had tied a thin bandeau around the whole affair, giving her a resemblance to one of those Greek goddesses of yore: the kind with absurd amounts of power and a refreshing lack of timidity. They hadn’t had time for perfection, either.

  “Hold on a moment,” she said, stopping abruptly and putting her hand out. This time she did make contact with his sleeve, and a surge of heat jumped from his arm to his torso with an intensity that shocked him. “What did you say, a moment ago?”

  “Uh…” he began. “I believe I said, ‘As you wish.’”

  “No, before that.” She was distracted now, and her hand dropped from his arm. He had to stop himself from dipping and leaning into it, as if he could chase it down and restore it to its place, his body moving instinctively to get more of that strange heat.

  “Before that, I asked if you were well.”

  “You said something about other ladies depending on me. Mrs. Hellkirk told me that once, though I hadn’t thought of it for some time.”

  “The lady radical herself? Heaven help me.”

  “Did you know that I was one of her first pupils?”

  He shook his head.

  “And she told me, many times, that I was more fortunate than my classmates, and I took this to mean that I should support them in their ambitions, their accomplishments,” she continued. “But that wasn’t all.”

  “What did she mean, then?”

  “She meant that I have a…a special duty of sorts. Oh, Lord Ryland. Thank you! You have inspired something in me, and have therefore done me a great service. And look—here is Edie, at last! Hullo, dearest! I am here! Did you think me lost forever?”

  She trotted off toward his sister, as best she could with the bushel of persimmons, so there was no opportunity for him to find out more about the mysterious epiphany that had restored her spirits.

  When he reached them, he heard Edie inquiring about the pressing tone of her letter.

  “What is the matter, Caro?”

  “Nothing is the matter, dearest.”

  “Then why did you summon me here? You said you required comfort.”

  “I just meant that I wanted to see you, is all. You know that your company is my greatest comfort.”

  Edie crossed her arms at her.

  “I’m sorry that I alarmed you, my love,” Caro continued. “But now, your brother has entertained me so extensively that I’m afraid I am due back at home already. I must be off.”

  Edie turned and glared at him. “Will you at least walk me to our carriage, then?” she beseeched her friend, who responded by placing a hand gently on her shoulder.

  Ah. Gentle touches were just Miss Crispin’s way with people—not a sign of a particular interest in someone. He was…well, silly to have let it jolt him so.

  ‘Silly’ in the newer, more foolish sense.

  “Now, let’s be off!” Miss Crispin said, a new bounce in her step. “I’ve got a new scheme to conduct.”

  Chapter Six

  Hurrying home, Caro was so absorbed in her thoughts that she ran straight into the hitch of a carriage that had stopped for repairs on Regent Street.

  “Oof!” she grunted as she doubled over. Then she pressed her bonnet to her head and righted herself, scurrying on.

  Mrs. Hellkirk and Lord Ryland had been right: Other women were depending on her. She had to do something; she had to come up with a scheme.

  A cunning, nefarious, diabolical scheme.

  How many other women had Strayeth and Chumsley slandered? Were they spreading rumors that very moment, about some unsuspecting governess? Some young shopkeeper? She had seen them regale society crowds with tales of their more innocent shenanigans—of schoolyard pranks and athletic blunders. Who knew what they were revealing to their paid female companions, or at White’s, their private men’s club? Who knew what lies they told, what exaggerations?

  She shivered: Had Strayeth and Chumsley recorded their wager in the betting book at White’s?

  Weaving through the crowds on the sidewalk, she ducked under the yoke of a milkmaid, causing her to bobble before regaining her balance.

  “Begging your pardon, Miss!” she shouted back.

  “’Ey!” the woman yelled, tossing out a few choice oaths.

  If the wager was in the book at White’s, it would be gossiped about. And if it was gossiped about, people would be watching Strayeth and Chumsley more closely—to see which ladies they gave their attentions to. It would make it far more likely that someone in society would discover that she was the lady in question.

  And that would be a disaster.

  She slung her sack of produce over her shoulder and picked up her pace. She reminded herself that women far and wide were depending on her to put a stop to Strayeth and Chumsley’s awful behavior. Because if anyone could teach those two a lesson, it was she. She had fewer checks on her behavior—on account of her parents being so distracted—and the two gentlemen wouldn’t expect any sort of resistance from her; they believed that she fancied them.

  Ha! She would take a pin—nay, a lancet—to their swollen sense of significance.

  She just had to keep her role in the wager a secret.

  She kept her head down as she hopped onto the far sidewalk; she didn’t stop for anything, not even a basket of wiggling puppies that reminded her of dear Toby. Having a new scheme had always put more bounce in her stride, sharpened her every idea. She enjoyed rolling a problem around in
her mind and then finding, one by one, the tools to crack it open. But today, a dozen fuzzier thoughts pushed their way through her mind, competing for attention.

  For example: How did one teach a gentleman a lesson he wouldn’t forget? And how did one make the case that wagering about such things was wrong? These sorts of problems weren’t at all like feeding orphans, or stopping those awful dog fights.

  She took a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her brow. In the heat of the afternoon sun, she regretted having refused Lord Ryland’s offer of a ride in his carriage. At the time, she’d thought it unwise to remain in the company of that gentleman.

  Goodness, what an unusual man he had turned out to be! Everything about Edie’s brother had been a surprise, from his stronger-than-expected chin to his gentler-than-expected manners. And the effect he’d had on her insides? She already knew the thrill of a hand brushed lightly along her side, the rush of heat to her cheeks following a glance from a handsome gentleman. Indeed, her enthusiasm for such pleasures was what led to her current predicament in the first place.

  But she had never felt her innards go all gelatinous until she had traded barbs in her portrait gallery with Lord Ryland. And it had happened again when he offered her a genuine apology, listened respectfully to her concerns about marriage, asked her to wager on a squirrel…

  She squeezed her eyes shut tight, pushing away all thoughts of him. She couldn’t allow herself to become distracted by superficial pleasures; she had scheming to do.

  She stopped and waited as three men strained to move an enormous ox from the center of an intersection, where it was determined to continue cooling itself in a long shadow. As the ox lolled and rolled and its handlers tugged and struggled, she noticed a boy of perhaps eight or nine standing next to her. “Excuse me, young sir,” she asked. “But what is the most ridiculous wager you’ve ever heard, and what was the outcome?”

  The lad simply shrugged, as if this was the most normal question he had ever heard. He wore a cap with an over-large brim, and kept his eyes on the tussle in the street.

  “There was some fellows carrying on one time,” he began, chopping various letters from his words. “One saying that his piglets was pink with black spots, his friend saying no, they was black with pink spots. In the end, they put some coin on it.”

  “And how did they determine who won?”

  “Couldn’t say about the wager, Miss. But I know one of ’em shot the other in the knee the next day, so he came out on top, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Quite,” she replied, looking ahead again.

  She wasn’t interested in shooting anyone in the knee. This was not about revenge; she only wanted to take the hurt Strayeth and Chumsley had caused her and turn it into something good. She had to stop these two men, at least, from feigning respect for women in society’s drawing rooms only to slander them—and therefore damage them—in other company.

  She reached the house and opened the door for herself. Stinson started to approach but she hurried past him, calling out, “Don’t worry! I left all my paramours at the curb today.”

  “Yes, Miss,” he replied with a sheepish nod.

  Still carrying her bags, she scurried through the ballroom and out through the French windows. The sun was low in the sky, leaving the garden in cool shadows. She’d intended to remove her half-boots and stockings and walk barefoot in the low grass, as it always left her feeling newer, somehow.

  But today she stopped at the edge of the terrace and looked around, wondering if someone might see her and judge her poorly for it.

  Is it whoreish to walk barefoot in the garden?

  When the absurdity of that question dawned, she plopped down on the spot and immediately unlaced her half-boots.

  So: How to begin her new scheme?

  First things first: she needed to confirm that Strayeth and Chumsley had recorded their wager in the betting book at White’s, and find out precisely what it said. She needed to know how likely it was that her part in the wager would be revealed.

  Her stomach curdled at the thought of Mama and Papa hearing of it.

  Then another unpleasant detail occurred to her: What did those bastards intend to accept as proof of her having succumbed to their charms? She shuddered and forced herself to her feet.

  When she found out what was written at White’s, she would know.

  She never asked others for help with her schemes, but in this case she would have to. She couldn’t go into White’s—no women were allowed—so her first step would be finding a man to go for her.

  She stood up and stepped onto the grass, sighing deeply, savoring the tickling, scouring sensation of the coarse blades. Every part of her rebelled against asking another person—man or woman—for help. Time and time again, when she was just a girl, Mama would lean forward and look her straight in the eye, holding her gaze and her hands as she told her: You can do this, Caroline. This is your endeavor, and you needn’t anyone’s help.

  But to get into White’s? To the betting book? She had no other choice: she needed a helpmate.

  And she already had a strong candidate in mind. A strong and tall one.

  Adam’s hands rested atop his cane, wobbling with the rocking of the carriage. Edie hadn’t spoken since they’d left her friend behind at St. Paul’s, and he wondered if she was displeased with him.

  “I asked Miss Crispin if she wanted to ride with us,” he said, nudging aside one of the bushels of persimmons at his elbow. “It was her choice to walk.”

  “You’ll find that Caro refuses offers of all kinds,” she replied, looking out the window with her usual dour expression. “She likes to do things on her own, and in her own way. She hasn’t even a lady’s maid.”

  He looked out the window, too, where the shadows of horses and men had grown long—the shadows of giants, now—in the late afternoon sun. “Your friend has a stubborn streak. It took some time to figure out how to trick her into following me out of there.”

  “And now you can’t stop talking about her.”

  He jerked his head around and found her staring back at him.

  “You’ve got me there, I suppose. I’ve been wondering what was bothering her,” he admitted. “She was much like you’d described her: Outspoken. Energetic. Willfully independent. But she also grew quiet at times, as if she were suspicious of me and needed to be ready to attack at any moment.”

  “Indeed. There’s something she’s not saying, but I hadn’t enough time to coax it from her.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I am inclined to like her. Despite her being out of sorts.”

  Edie smiled now, as if she were lit from within by a slow burn that only coincided with certain rare moons. “I’m glad. She’s wonderful. Stubborn to her bones, but wonderful.”

  They arrived at the house, its stately front façade evincing signs of the construction that had begun some weeks earlier.

  “You know, Adam,” she said as she accepted his hand and stepped down from the carriage, “I’ve just noticed: The bricks are falling out in places. Just there. And there.” She pointed to the places in question.

  “This morning, you didn’t care if the entire house crumbled to the ground and we camped in the rubble like soldiers. Why the change of heart?”

  “I didn’t see it before. Now I think it’s terrible, and I’m very embarrassed about it.”

  “Edie…”

  “Humiliated.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Mortified!”

  “The theater is that way...”

  She sighed. “Fine. You’re right: I don’t care a whit what people think of the house. I’m just trying to convince you to hire Mr. and Mrs. Crispin.”

  He ignored her and continued up the front steps.

  “Caro would come around here a great deal, you know, if her parents were to work for us,” she added in a sing-song voice that got right under his skin.

  He stepped into the house and stopped before a marble bus
t of Father, which somehow managed to convey his imposing athleticism despite having no arms. Or legs. Or torso.

  “The Crispins are too busy,” he answered finally, mimicking her grating tone. “And there’s no sense in teasing me about Miss Crispin, Edie. Your friend isn’t interested in marriage.”

  “She told you that? How interesting…”

  He removed his hat, noting a slight tremor in his hand. He turned and looked at the stony likeness of Father. There was a similar one at Ardythe, and three different portraits throughout the home.

  “Perhaps it isn’t my place, but you should understand—”

  “You do your friend a disservice,” he said, interrupting Edie a little more gruffly than he’d intended. He turned away from the bust. “She knows her mind, and she does not want to marry.”

  Just then Brandt hurried into the room, muttering his apologies. Adam handed him his hat and cane, and Edie remained silent while the butler lingered close.

  “Caro may never open her mind to marriage,” she whispered when Brandt finally stepped away, still fussing with their things. “But do not dismiss the opportunity to work with her parents because you think they are too busy. I have known them a long time, and if my own dear brother were to write to them today, asking for a meeting on the subject of much-needed repairs, I know they would see us.”

  He straightened his cuffs, thinking: The work did need to be done. He had promised Edie he would begin fulfilling his duties. And he was certain that Mr. Crispin—or both he and his wife, or whomever he was meant to hire—would do an excellent job. Who was he to decline such an opportunity?

  “Fine. I’ll write the letter. But, even if they do meet with us, it’s likely just a courtesy. Let’s not get ourselves in a dither just yet.”

  “You’re a wonder, brother. Thank you. Now, where are you going? We’ve just got home.”

  He had snapped his fingers for his hat and cane again, and was heading toward the door. “Royal Academy,” he said curtly before stepping out.

  “Ah, yes. You and your pretty landscapes. Wait—on foot?”