by Shana Galen
Silent tears would run down Ewan’s cheeks as he had to face, once again, the reality that his father would never love him. The earl would never sit him on his knee as he did Henrietta. His father would never put his arm around his shoulders as he did William and Michael and Francis.
Francis, who was not even his son, but who everyone knew the earl wished had been his son. What Pembroke wouldn’t have given to trade Ewan for Francis.
Ewan didn’t have any more tears left, didn’t have any more hope. All he had was pain and fury, and that he tamped down before he rapped the knocker forcefully. The past was over. Ewan was no longer that boy. He was a man now, and he did not need his father or the man’s love.
A man Ewan didn’t recognize opened the door. He was dressed as a butler and in his late forties or early fifties with thinning brown hair and small brown eyes. He looked up at Ewan with some concern. “May I help you?”
“The earl. Now.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Ewan shoved the paper with his father’s summons at the man. The butler looked at it, then back at Ewan. His brows rose. “Oh, I see. Oh.” He looked from the paper to Ewan and back again.
Ewan wanted this meeting over, wanted the memory of the cowed little boy banished once again to the far recesses of his mind. “Move aside or I’ll move you.”
The butler’s small eyes widened. “If you will wait here”—he opened the door to admit Ewan into the house—“I will tell his lordship you are here.”
Ewan stepped into the house. “Where is he?”
“No, no!” The butler actually pointed a finger at Ewan. “Wait here.”
Ewan waited the five seconds it took to perceive where the butler was headed, and then he overtook him and barged into the library without knocking. He no longer stood on the outside, waiting to be allowed in.
His father looked up from his desk. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Good day, my lord,” Ewan said with mock courtesy. The room was much the same as Ewan remembered it. The earl’s desk was French in style and overly ornate. His father kept it polished and free of clutter. Books lined the shelves on one wall. There were not as many in the earl’s collection as that of the Duke of Ridlington, but it was a fortune in books nonetheless. Soft Turkey rugs in shades of blue and green covered the floor and matching curtains had been swathed back from the narrow windows that afforded a view of the barren garden. Wherever the flowers in the boxes out front had come from, it had not been the earl’s garden, which appeared to be suffering the effects of the cold spring.
“My lord!” The butler raced into the library. “I do apologize. This man refused to wait.”
The earl raised a hand. “Never mind, Simms. Ewan never did have any manners. Leave us.”
“Yes, my lord.” The butler gave Ewan a disgusted look and closed the door behind him.
Only then did Ewan notice Francis seated in the chair near the fire. Francis rose and smoothed his perfectly fitted coat. He wore the latest fashion, his burgundy waistcoat making a stark contrast to his gray trousers and coat. His riding boots were highly polished and his cravat stiffly starched. Ewan had no difficulty understanding why Lady Lorraine was in love with the man. Beside him, Ewan felt like an uncouth oaf. His hand itched to touch his bare neck, but he forced it to remain at his side.
“Cousin,” he said, his tone barely civil.
“Don’t remind me,” Francis drawled. Ewan clenched a fist. He wanted nothing more than to break that perfect nose of Francis’s and ruin his white cravat with the flow of blood. Francis stepped back, and the earl rose.
“Ewan, Francis and I called you here for a reason,” the earl said, rising from his pretty desk.
Francis and I? Ewan cut a look at his cousin, who was still keeping his distance. Ewan should have suspected his cousin had something to do with this. Like his father, Francis had more failings than one could count. Chief among these was the propensity to look for the easiest path to make his fortune. That was undoubtedly why his cousin courted Lady Lorraine—or rather her dowry—at present. But what other mischief had his prodigal cousin found?
Ewan folded his arms across his chest and waited for the explanation. He supposed his father would have liked to speak of the weather or the price of corn before coming to his true purpose, but Ewan had little patience for such niceties.
“I suppose there is no way to cushion this news,” the earl began, “so I will put it bluntly. We are ruined.”
Ewan merely raised a brow.
The earl sank back into his chair, looking older than Ewan could remember him. His once-blond hair was now mostly white, and he had deep lines furrowed in his brow and at his mouth. “A bad investment,” the earl continued. “Diamonds in Brazil, you see.”
Ewan didn’t see. He had a few investments of his own—he had always been good with numbers. His investments were generally on a smaller scale—a share in Langley’s, another in Gentleman Jackson’s, a few others.
Francis joined his father behind the desk, standing at his right hand. Ewan gritted his teeth at the picture they made. It should have been him at his father’s right hand, but his father had struck him with that hand far more than he had ever welcomed him.
“He doesn’t understand, my lord,” Francis said with a sneer. “We shall have to explain it in very simple terms. Are you listening, Ewan? You must use your brain box for a moment, little as it is.”
Ewan liked to imagine the arc the blood would make when his fist plowed into Francis’s face.
“Just tell him,” the earl said, his voice impatient.
“I suppose I must take full responsibility,” Francis began. The earl laid a hand on Francis’s arm. Ewan’s jaw ached from the tension.
“It is not your fault. You mustn’t blame yourself.”
Francis nodded, as though these words had been repeated time and again. “A man came to me several years ago looking for investors to finance a mine in South America. They’d found diamonds nearby and had good reason to believe they would find more if they only excavated in the right place.”
“Francis brought the man to me,” the earl said. “And we went over everything very carefully—the surveyors’ reports, the schemes for the building of the mine. I even had the diamonds the man brought with him as proof examined. All seemed quite legitimate.”
“But it wasn’t,” Ewan said.
“At first the delays seemed reasonable.” The earl rubbed the back of his neck. “Illness, a contagious disease, warfare among the natives. But finally I grew suspicious and sent a man to investigate.” The earl’s voice faltered.
“The findings were what you might expect,” Francis said. “There was no mine. No diamonds had ever been found in that area. It was, in fact, rather boggy and unsuited to the deposit of such gems. Your father had been swindled.”
“I was not the only one. Over twenty other men from all over the Continent and the United States were also taken in.”
Ewan stared at his father, unblinking. He failed to see how the fact that other men were duped made his father’s blunder any less disturbing. “How much did you lose?” Ewan asked finally when neither of the other men seemed inclined to elaborate.
The earl sighed. “I used your sister’s dowry to finance the mine, and when de los Santos—that was his name—asked for more, because of the delays, you see, I mortgaged the estate in Yorkshire.”
Ewan almost laughed. “So all of this is to tell me I will no longer receive an allowance.” The Yorkshire estate had been their mother’s and was the only property the earl owned that was not entailed. He’d used the rents from it to pay a small allowance to Michael and Ewan and to buy Ewan’s commission and grant Michael the living of a curacy.
“No,” Francis snapped. “That is not the reason for this meeting. Your father and I wish for you to find this Miguel de los Santo
s and recover the earl’s money.”
Ewan did laugh then. “And how would I find the man? I’m no investigator.”
“But you have friends who might help. Lord Jasper is renowned for his tracking ability.”
“Jasper is a bounty hunter. He’s paid for his work, and you have just admitted you are ruined. I may be a dolt, but even I know it is wise to diversify investments.”
“Oh, shut up!” Francis hissed.
The earl raised his hand. “I have not told your brothers about this yet or informed your sister she has no dowry. William is at Pembroke Manor, and Henrietta has gone with him. Michael is, of course, serving his parishioners. I would appreciate it if we kept this between us for the moment.”
“Fine.”
“I would also appreciate it if you would consider looking into the matter of Mr. de los Santos for us.”
Ewan almost shook his head and then thought better of it. It was folly, he knew, to attempt to win his father’s affections by aiding him in resolving this crisis, but if he did not help, then Michael and Henrietta would suffer. He had never been close to them, but they had never been cruel. And though Ewan would not involve Lord Jasper in this matter—there was no point as this de los Santos had undoubtedly already spent the money he’d swindled—Ewan might be able to find some way to help his father recover. After all, what he lacked in reading ability, he made up for in mathematics.
And who was he fooling? He was still that sad little boy who only wanted his father to be proud of him.
“I will consider it,” Ewan said. “Give me all the documents related to the investment.”
“Why?” Francis asked. “It’s not as though you can read them.”
Ewan looked at his father. Either the earl wanted his help or not.
The earl nodded. “I will have them sent to you at your lodgings.”
“Actually,” Ewan said, “I have new lodgings.”
“Oh?”
“Send them to me at the residence of the Duke of Ridlington.” And without taking his leave, he strode out the door.
Behind him he heard Francis swear. “What the devil do you mean by this, Ewan? You’d better bloody well stay away from Lady Lorraine! I’ll damn well—”
Ewan closed the library door and made his way to the front door. He heard the library door open behind him and turned, expecting Francis. He was disappointed, as he would have loved to blacken his cousin’s eyes. It was the earl.
“What is this about Ridlington?” the earl asked. “Are you trying to interfere in Francis’s suit with Lady Lorraine?”
Ewan rubbed the bridge of his nose. Francis. Always goddamn Francis. Finally he looked his father in the eye. “I may be a lackwit, but I am your son. What did I do to make you hate me so much?”
“Do not be ridiculous.” The earl looked away, nose in the air. “I don’t hate you.”
“You don’t care enough to hate me.” He had been ridiculed as much as he would tolerate today. Ewan turned his back on his father, opened the door, and strode outside. He could still hear Francis’s irate voice on the walk. The visit had not been a complete loss after all.
* * *
Carlton House was hot and stuffy. The Regent never did understand the value of moderation, and his guest list, like his taste in everything else, ran to excess. Lorrie would have been the first to admit that excess could be quite impressive. The Regent had certainly aimed to impress tonight.
After entering through the portico of massive Corinthian columns, one passed an army of footmen lining the path to the foyer. Unlike most London residences, one did not enter Carlton House on the ground floor. The foyer was located on the main floor, and from there one was led—or pushed, depending on the size of the crowd—into a two-story entrance hall lit from the top by gleaming gold chandeliers so heavily embellished one feared they might collapse under the weight of their beauty. The chandeliers shone down on more columns—these constructed of yellow marble. Lorrie thought the columns in the entrance hall were Ionic, but they might have been Doric. She could never remember the difference and could only identify Corinthian columns because they had the ornamentation at the top.
Entering in this manner allowed the visitor to be appropriately awed by the main staircase, which sloped gently on either side and was quite wide enough to allow three people to pass undisturbed. Lorrie knew from past visits the throne room, music room, drawing room, and dining rooms were on this floor. Each was more impressive than the last, her favorite being the golden drawing room. Never had she seen so much gilded paneling, molding, or ornamentation. Even the columns in the drawing room—Corinthian again—were gold. All of the furnishings were draped in deep crimson, and the combination of the gold and crimson gave the room the feel of cheap opulence—rather the way a brothel might look, Lorrie surmised, never having been to a brothel.
The ball tonight was to be held in the conservatory, which was in the west end of the property. Lorrie lifted the train of her ball gown and descended the staircase as gracefully as possible, trailing her father and mother and one step behind her brother, who she really thought should have taken her arm. Mr. Mostyn followed, hands clasped behind his back, looking neither up nor down, nor left or right. If he was impressed by the show of marble, crystal, and gilded glory, he did not show it.
After the heat of the house itself, Lorrie was relieved to step into the cool night air before entering the Gothic conservatory. It had been constructed of cast iron and from the outside reminded her of an old church—all spires and soaring peaks. Inside one could not help but marvel at the walls of translucent colored glass, which threw a rainbow of color on the black and white marble floors.
The room was as long as it had been rumored to be. Lorrie had seen pictures of the structure, since it had been the site of a much-discussed fete five years before where over two thousand people had dined at a table with a stream of water running its length. The room was much grander than the cartoons made it seem, with more of the ornate gilded columns so prevalent throughout the house, and lovely gold and scarlet chandeliers hanging in the archways between the columns.
The throng of people gaping at all the golden splendor made navigation through the crowds nearly impossible. She’d been at the ball almost three-quarters of an hour, and she still hadn’t spotted Francis. She knew he would be here. He’d sent her a note several days ago asking her to meet with him at the ball. If only he’d been more specific about where he wanted to meet her.
To make matters worse, everywhere she turned, she met with the Viking’s cold gaze. They hadn’t had a chance to speak since the opera the night before, and though she’d been grateful for his assistance then, she wished he would find someone else to follow now. He was wearing another dratted cravat—this one as simple as the other but no less enticing—and she felt as though she were a lion tamer pulling a beast about on an invisible leash.
She had firmly refused to feel any sort of heat or tingles when she looked at him. Those were all reserved for Francis, whom she was determined to kiss tonight. Consequently, she had avoided looking too directly at the Viking. While that plan seemed to have worked quite well, she could not prevent him from looking at her. She could feel his gaze on her body, and her body took delight in vexing her with its response.
She did not know why he insisted on watching her so closely. Any number of ladies stopped to ogle him openly, their smiles beneath their fluttering fans full of invitation. He might have had his pick. She would have been flattered at his single-minded attention to her if she thought it was out of real interest and not simply a matter of duty.
Finally, she could bear the heat of the Viking’s gaze and the crush of bodies no more, and she stepped out of the conservatory, which had been situated on the manicured lawns of a park dotted with large trees. Hundreds of sconces lined the building and the adjacent lawn, leading out toward a path flanked by numerous
topiaries some said the prince had commissioned for this ball in particular. She had not been outside long enough to lift her face to the cool breeze before a long shadow overtook her own.
Lorrie turned. “Mr. Mostyn, why am I not surprised to see you?”
The Viking leaned back against a spiky column and crossed his arms, apparently content to stand there as long as she did. She hadn’t anticipated the effect the sight of his powerful body cased in the glow of fire from the sconces would have on her resolutions. Her traitorous gaze could not cease its perusal of him, and her chest felt tight and itchy with something uncomfortable—something she could not quite define.
His face was in shadows, which only made the hard planes and rigid lines of it more foreboding. His light blue eyes appeared even more ethereal, like those of a wolf intent on its prey. Was she the prey? And if she were, did she mind?
Dressed in an ebony coat and a dark waistcoat threaded with silver, Ewan Mostyn looked very much the Norse version of the Byronic hero. She had a momentary flash of the grim look on his face when he’d carried her through the rain, and she remembered the heat of him when he’d held her. She shivered, telling herself it was from the cold night and not the desire to step into Ewan Mostyn’s arms again.
This lie required she ignore the fact that she was perspiring slightly, dampness having formed at her temples the longer she looked at him.
“I know my father asked you to keep me safe, but you needn’t follow me every single moment.” She sounded like a shrew, even to her ears. “I might point out that my very own mother, my most devoted chaperone, does not keep me this close at hand.”
“She should.”
Lorrie would have argued if she didn’t agree. Her mother had always been a lazy chaperone, which was how Lorrie had met Francis in the first place. The Duchess of Ridlington was too interested in her own affairs to pay much attention to those of her daughter. As that fact would not serve her purpose at all, she chose to ignore it.
“As you can see, I am perfectly well and safe here. I want a breath of fresh air before the dancing begins.” What she did not add was that she could not seem to catch her breath when he was near. Oh, where was Francis? Lorrie wanted to see him, to remember that it was he she loved and only him she wanted.