Everything But the Earl

by Willa Ramsey

  He stopped, too, and though he was confused, he thought it a good sign that she was stepping up to him again, and calling him Adam. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I will speak with whomever I wish, and it’s none of your concern. Whether it’s for charity, or for teaching gentlemen a lesson—it doesn’t matter. I have schemes to conduct, and I shall conduct them.”

  “You are right, Caro,” he replied, raising his hands to emphasize his mea culpa. “You owe me no explanations, and no changes to the way you go about things. I came here tonight to apologize to you for suggesting otherwise.”

  She looked him up and down. “You understand, then? Why I feel the way I do?”

  “Perhaps a person in my situation can’t entirely understand. But I believe you when you tell me those bastards harmed you, and that they’re getting away with it. And I understand now that it isn’t right to expect you to behave more demurely as a result.” He looked at his feet for a second. He wanted to get the words precisely right. “If you have a need of it, Caro, I offer you my ongoing help with your scheme.”

  The sky was a spectrum of pinks, tinged black around the edges, and the summertime insects had begun to emerge for their evening’s work. He shifted, and the movement of the gravel underneath his feet scraped at the quiet gulf between them. The calls and titters of couples in other parts of the garden had softened, as everyone but they had moved back to the heart of the party, for toasts and cake. They were more and more alone, with every second.

  She unclenched her fists. “I accept your apology. And I am sorry, too. You were trying to help me, and I wouldn’t listen.”

  He stepped toward her. “Caro, I want to ask you again: What other role do I play in your life, beyond this scheme of yours? My interest in getting to know you remains. Indeed, it’s stronger than ever. May I still come see you, as you said at your father’s lecture?”

  She looked into his chest, now; she was so much shorter than he. Not ideal for kissing, but there were ways around this. He took another step closer.

  She looked up at him.

  “If I’m to help you, we’ll need to meet,” he continued.

  He risked another step closer, but watched as her gaze lowered to his chest and her fists clenched again.

  Damn it. He had misread that.

  They were now but a foot apart from one another. Behind her, the soft sherbet of the sky was nearly consumed by blues and blacks. The sprays of individual conversations had disappeared entirely, replaced by the occasional applause of a single crowd—far away from them.

  The outline of her form was increasingly difficult to discern, but Adam had memorized it, before the light had faded: the way she stood like a wrestler with one foot slightly forward, loose and ready to fight, shoulders squared at him, chest heaving. He watched her face, half-wishing she would look up and into his eyes again, and half-hoping that her decision to look straight into him was a sign that she was noticing something about his form—something that she liked half so well as he did hers. He studied her eyes, and waited.

  She stepped forward, the gravel crunching beneath her soft slippers. “Accompany Edie on her visits if you wish, and see me when my parents work on your home. But Adam—we had better stick to my scheme as much as possible. We have a great deal to do.”

  Before he could ask her to clarify this statement, she lifted a hand and placed it against his neck, making a small dome against his skin. A fluttering sensation inside it startled him, but he held very still as her fingertips trailed gently, hotly, down his neck and she pulled her hand away, lightly closed. She turned it over and opened it into a pedestal of sorts, for a grand and shimmering moth—its wings a mosaic of browns and golds. Apparently, the thing had landed on his cravat without his noticing.

  The insect turned this way and that, its antennae whirling as if it were assessing the pair of them and the absurdity with which they stood there staring at it—particularly when there was enough energy coursing between them to light the garden afire, were one of them to but graze a dry branch.

  When it finally flew off, Caro said, “Meet me at my parents’ studio tomorrow morning, and we’ll get started.”

  He turned and watched her walk off, wondering how on Earth he was going to keep performing these Herculean feats of self-control.

  Then she turned back. “Strayeth will be the first.”

  “The first?”

  “To first to receive his lesson.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “PARAMOUR! Paramour, on the premises!” Caro shouted into the entrance hall, her hands cupped around her mouth for effect. “Do be advised!”

  Then she closed the front door behind Adam, and watched as Stinson’s eyes and mouth formed a trio of perfect O’s.

  Adam looked bemused as he handed his hat and cane to the stunned footman.

  “Right this way,” she said with a wave of her arm. They were halfway up the first flight of stairs when she turned back and called out, “We’ll be in the studio, Stinson. Coffee and cakes would be most appreciated, but you had better knock before entering!”

  When they rounded the corner of the first landing, Adam turned to her, a smile playing on his lips. “What was that about, then?”

  “Oh—I’m just having a little fun at Stinson’s expense. The morning of the wager, I discovered that he and a few of the other servants think I’m a trollop, too.”

  “How nice,” he replied through gritted teeth.

  “Mmm. Apparently, when two gentlemen are too foxed to find their way out of our home after a ball, it is my own moral decay that is to blame.”

  She led him up two more flights and into the sun-washed studio, where two of the pupils, Mr. Davies and Mr. Darrin, were bent over their desks on the far-right side of the long room.

  “Your parents are away? On one of their sites?” Adam asked, smoothing at his hair.

  “Yes, at Carlton House. But I thought I could show you drawings of their other residential work. They might give you some ideas for your own home.” She led him to a drawing table near the window.

  “I thought we were here to discuss your scheme,” he whispered.

  “We are,” she whispered back. “This is just a pretext, should anyone question why you are here.”

  “Ah, good.”

  “You see?” she replied, gesturing to herself. “The scheming trollop has a plan for everything.”

  “You do not really believe that,” he replied, sitting on a stool with a quick flick of his coattails.

  He glanced around the cluttered room, taking in the rolls of paper toppling out of giant barrels, stacks of books littering every windowsill, cups full of reed pens in various sizes, and enormous framed maps leaning like dominoes against the walls. As he took it all in, Caro looked him up and down. His breeches were worn tight—in this, he was fashionable—and she could make out the outlines of his muscles beneath them as he raised a leg and perched it on the lowest bar of his stool. His boots were dusty from the walk, and his hands were calloused, dry, and tanned, just as they had been when she shook one on their tour of his home. It had been one more sign that, beyond his dislike of athletic competitions, Adam was not like a normal earl.

  “No, I do not really believe myself a trollop. I just say flippant things about my reputation in order to mock what other, less enlightened persons say behind my back.” She rested her hands on the drawing table, around the corner from where he sat. “Or to my face, in the case of the servants.”

  Mr. Davies cleared his throat from across the room.

  She leaned in and pointed to a drawing of a house they were renovating in Bath. “As you see here, Lord Ryland, we have reconfigured many a home to improve lighting in both the drawing and morning rooms.” She inched closer to the corner of the table—closer to Adam—and lowered her voice. “We ought not to disturb the pupils.”

  He nodded, then reached into a pocket for his spectacles. After putting them on, he lifted one of the drawings and glanced at
several more underneath it. One was a painting, actually—soft watercolors with the initials B.C. in the bottom-right corner. “I’ve noticed that you and Edie always refer to this work as being done by both your parents. Does your mother contribute as a partner might?”

  “You seem to have figured out Mama and Papa’s great secret,” she said, smiling weakly at the work on the table. “Yes; my parents have the same set of skills. They were married just as my father began his pupilage, and my mother was already very accomplished in drawing and painting. She was phenomenal, really, even in those early days—it’s astonishing to look at her work from before she met Papa.”

  He leaned closer, still gazing intently at the drawing. “Do go on.”

  She sighed. “Well, they went to live with Papa’s master, who was a tippling and somewhat negligent fellow. His pupils took on a great deal of the work, and Mama was permitted to be at Papa’s side through the whole of it. So she learned to be an architect, too. When they returned from their travels on the continent and the pupilage ended, they began their own practice. They advertised for patrons using Mama’s drawings of classical antiquities in Rome and elsewhere. Yet still, they decided it would be best if Mama’s role was kept a secret.”

  “So your father is the only one with his full name on the drawings, and the only one who gives lectures,” he replied, looking back at the watercolor.

  She nodded. “We once had a patron—a very large man, and a very rich one—who suffered terribly from gout. So Mama told him about the “moving rooms” she and Papa had seen on their travels, years before. Her idea—it was a revelation, really—was that a contraption that his servants could hoist between the floors of his home would alleviate the discomfort he felt using the stairs. And one would think he’d be at least tolerant of such a suggestion, even if he wasn’t interested. But no! He threw a tantrum fit for a child of three, raving about how he had paid for an architect, not some dilettante.”

  Adam looked downright offended. “Not some woman, is what he surely meant.”

  “You should have seen it, Adam. Spittle flew, jowls shook. His wig went all askew. And I normally laugh at such displays, but this? This I couldn’t bear. It pained me to see Mama abused in that way.”

  She paused and fidgeted, remembering that Adam, too, was a very rich aristo, and a patron. Through gritted teeth, she added, “If you desire Papa’s input exclusively, that could be arranged.”

  He tilted his head back and belly-laughed at her. “Of course not! I’m simply curious about your parent’s marriage, as you once spoke to me of not understanding it. It occurs to me now that even a love match could become quite complicated, if one not only shares a bed with their spouse, but also a trade,” he said, leaning an elbow on the table and setting his head in his hand.

  She didn’t think she could stand another conversation with Adam about love matches, let alone one about marital beds. Things seemed as cordial and easy between them as ever, but they had gone from partners to near-enemies to partners again in the space of a few days, and she was certain she would struggle to maintain her sanity if the nature of their involvement continued to shift about at such a pace. Or if he continued to chip away at her long-held beliefs, like the importance of pursuing one’s endeavors on one’s own.

  “I had not thought of it that way,” she replied finally. “What I do know is that Mama has always been keen on my being allowed to speak, go about, and work as freely as possible.”

  They talked like that—Adam sitting on his stool with one leg up, rubbing his hand along his thigh with considerable force, her standing just around the corner from him, leaning in. Their heads were but a couple of feet from one another, discussing everything from Mrs. Hellkirk’s unusual teachings to the care and upkeep of Hyde Park, pausing only when Mrs. Meary brought in a tray and left it on the far side of their table.

  “Do you suppose she thinks less or better of me now?” Caro asked as they welcomed themselves to the refreshments.

  “Less—most definitely less. Standing a few feet from a gentleman? With two chaperones in the room? A grievous offense, indeed.”

  She picked up a macaroon and broke it in half, leaning her elbows onto the table. “I have…kissed some men, you know.”

  She didn’t know why she said it. She’d told herself that gentlemen’s opinions didn’t matter—that hers was the only one that did—but part of her still wanted Adam, at least, to have a full accounting of why Strayeth and Chumsley thought so ill of her.

  She put half the macaroon into her mouth, and felt the pressure of Adam’s eyes on her. She finished chewing and continued. “This is about more than my wearing colorful gowns on occasion. And it’s about more than dancing and flirting, too.”

  “This is about a handful of ignorant ne’er-do-wells not liking that an architect’s daughter has power over them in society.” His voice was low, in both volume and tone; that it could be so harsh and yet so soothing entranced her. It was like a wash of gravel, capable of scouring some of the roughness from her distress.

  “It is,” she said, nearly in a whisper. “I just wanted you to know that I’m not trying to claim…I would never say that I am…that I am some innocent.”

  “Caro, there’s no need—” Adam began, reaching out and putting his hand in the crook of her elbow, where it rested on the table. He squeezed it, hard. “There’s no need to explain anything. I was wrong to question your speaking to Mr. Perkins—”

  “I mean—” she spoke quickly, cutting him off. “I’m not…I’m not…” She looked at him now, and felt that old burning behind her eyes, that same internal maelstrom—of fear, uncertainty, and even a touch of regret—that she’d endured when she’d overheard the men’s wager. She covered her eyes with her free hand. Adam kept his own clenched to the inside of her elbow.

  He looked away then, as if checking to see that the pupils were minding their own business.

  “Do you regret your actions?” he asked, his voice steady.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “I don’t think so.”

  He exhaled. “You certainly needn’t.”

  She straightened herself and lifted her elbows off the table—forcing Adam’s hand to slip away from her.

  How much did she want him to know? How could she tell a man she admired—more than admired, perhaps—that she had dallied with young men just enough for it to be noticed and speculated about, but not nearly enough to know true pleasure with one?

  And why did she need him to know it?

  “I haven’t…” Her words trailed off. She sighed. She couldn’t say it—and felt ridiculous suddenly for even trying.

  “Would you feel better if we talked about your scheme instead?” he asked, rubbing his hand along his thigh again. They both looked at the end of the room, where the pupils had just stood up, and appeared to be packing up to leave.

  She smiled weakly. “Normally, asking for someone’s help on a scheme would be the most painful thing I did on a given day. But nothing these past several days has been normal, has it? Let us get to it then, and get done with it.”

  He couldn’t watch Caro struggle like this. Not with two of her parents’ pupils mere yards away. And not when she’d insisted that they “keep to their scheme.” If she was going to confess things him to him, things that mattered her, or shed tears about any subject whatsoever, he was going to have to pull her to him and encircle her in everything he had. Or at least, to confess to her that that was very much what he wanted.

  So he changed the subject, to her scheme.

  “Here is what we will do,” she began.

  What followed was the most dangerous, outrageous, and implausible plan he had ever heard.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Before, she had claimed that she wanted to teach Strayeth and Chumsley a lesson. He’d assumed this would involve a conversation or two. Something civilized. Something that sought out common ground between Caro and the two offending gentlemen.

  But this? Th
is was medieval.

  “Are you…quite certain?” he asked, breaking the last macaroon in two pieces and handing one to her. He had learned a valuable lesson at the lecture: he’d learned to do more listening, to set aside his own reactions until he’d heard her piece in full.

  “I am quite certain. It’s perfect, really. Oh—and I plan to limit my social outings over the next few weeks. So that I won’t be seen with Strayeth and Chumsley any more than I need to, just as you advised.”

  “Excellent,” he replied. He smiled at her. One might even say that he beamed at her, so pleased was he that she’d taken his concerns into account, just as he had been moved by hers. They were subtle adaptations, but good ones. “And what is my role in all of this?”

  She was smiling at him, too, and he was glad for it. When she’d finished telling him what she required of him, he added, “I am glad to see you happy, Caro. Not that you aren’t entitled to be angry, of course. I just—it pleases me to be party to improving your mood in some small way.”

  “Look at us—we’ve become so earnest! And to think we started off with bawdy jokes over cucumbers. Tsk, tsk,” she teased.

  He smiled back at her. “With any luck, our conversation will be back in the gutter as soon as this is all over.”

  “Lud, I hope so.” Her eyes stretched open a bit, as if her quick acquiescence to such a suggestion surprised even her.

  His smile stretched, too, though he tried to hide it for propriety’s sake. “May I ask you something?”

  Her eyes darted across his cravat, then back up to his. “Of course.”

  He shifted in his chair—lowering one leg and raising the other. He felt warm all of a sudden, in spite of the steady cross-breeze through the studio.

  Damn propriety to Hell. He had to know. “Earlier, you seemed to want to tell me something of your past. Your experiences with men.”

  She stared back at him.

  “When I inquired if I could join Edie on her visits, I was thrilled when you said yes. And I believe you have forgiven my ignorant words there. So if you feel…” He ran his hands through his hair and began again. “I don’t know what it is you are loath to tell me, Caro. But if you’re hesitant to socialize with me and it is because of something from your past, I want to assure you that I could not care less. And let me be clear: I wish to court you on such visits, if you’ll allow it.”