Once Ruined, Twice Shy

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  There was a knock at the front door. Ah! Stapleton at last. From habit, Conall snapped open his pocket watch and marked the time. Twelve minutes late. Allowing him a full twelve minutes of brooding time. He really must find something to occupy these empty moments of waiting on others, some task that could be easily taken up and just as easily put down, like a woman’s needlework. Whittling. Perhaps he should take up whittling. With whalebone, like the sailors did, or wood. He was smiling at the idea as he opened the study door himself, not waiting for the footman to announce Stapleton.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” said the broker as he entered. “That downpour yesterday has left the roads in a pitiful state. My progress was slower than I intended.”

  “I must talk to my steward and see if we can’t compel the folk who live by the highway to fill in the potholes as they’re supposed to. Either that, or think about establishing some turnpike roads locally.”

  Conall stepped back, closed the door, and ushered Stapleton into a seat in front of his desk. He took his place behind it and gazed at the man expectantly.

  Stapleton’s handsome face broke into a grin. “Good news, sir.”

  Conall raised an eyebrow, thinking that Stapleton made an excellent spy. Everyone trusted such a good-looking, well-set-up fellow, and his open countenance. Little did they suspect that expression concealed a stiletto-sharp intellect, and an uncanny ability to work out what other men were thinking. It made him a formidable opponent at the gaming tables.

  “Yes?” His gaze flicked back to the clock. He needed to get on, and Stapleton was already late. He also needed this ‘good news’ to dispel his earlier gloom.

  Instead of answering, Stapleton fished a folded paper out of his pocket and pushed it across the desk. Opening it, Conall saw—to his pleasure—it contained an IOU for ten guineas. “To whom are Ebbworth’s vowels owed this time?”

  “Lord Austin.”

  “Ah. Excellent. Austin was happy to sell this debt to you?”

  “Very happy, sir. As you know, there are many gentlemen out there who think our quarry a liar and a cheat, even if they can’t prove it. None of them would object to seeing him end up in a debtor’s prison.”

  “But they enjoy it when they manage to fleece him—am I correct?”

  “Indeed.” Stapleton leaned forward, his blue eyes twinkling in the sunlight. “It shouldn’t be long now, sir. He’s been distracted of late, playing badly, investing foolishly.”

  “Distracted by that mistress of his?”

  The twinkle vanished. “I regret I can’t tell what’s distracting him, sir. I know nothing of the mistress—no one ever sees her. She might be no more than an idle boast.”

  Conall sucked in a breath. He couldn’t imagine a golden Adonis like Ebbworth being for long without a woman. His hand went to his eyepatch, making sure it was in place. But as he always sat with his back to the light now, no one on the other side of his desk would be able to see the livid red and white scars. Not that it would matter to a man like Stapleton, but it mattered to him. The accident had shattered his pride. He had built himself up again painfully, piece by jagged piece.

  He cleared his throat. “I would not want the wretched sap who now clings to him to be destitute after his fall. See what you can arrange for her, will you? Anonymously, of course.”

  “I will do my best, sir. Now, I bring with me the current cost of shares in Lancashire blankets, Midlands hosiery, and iron ore production. In all of which Mr Ebbworth has an interest.”

  Conall scanned the notebook which was handed to him. Grim news for the country, and much of it resulting from the end of hostilities with Napoleon. England had been pumping all its resources into the war—now it needed other uses for its iron and coal, most particularly in the creation of industrial machinery. Which regrettably meant loss of employment for the workers who had previously performed their tasks by hand.

  He chewed on a finger. “I think we’ll let Ebbworth keep his stakes in those industries. They need all the financial support they can get, so the workers can be paid a decent wage. We’ll concentrate on breaking him through his gambling habit.”

  Stapleton tapped his fingers excitedly on the gold-tooled leather of the desk. “I expected you to say that. But one might take advantage of the temporary collapse in the value of shares in the Butterley company.”

  Conall raked his memory. “Ah, yes. The potential riot up in Derbyshire. It has made investors edgy, has it?”

  “Indeed. They’re selling off shares like penny loaves on a market stall. Should the company collapse—”

  “I’ve no wish to contribute to the collapse of the company. I say we do the opposite. Purchase Ebbworth’s shares at a rock bottom price, then do what we can to ensure the Butterley company stays afloat. He’ll kick himself for selling when he did. And will return to the gambling tables with the money from the sale so he can increase his capital. I need you to take him on again, Stapleton. But don’t accept any vowels from him. Insist on having your winnings in cash or kind.”

  The broker steepled his fingers together and stared steadily at Conall. “In your attempt to bankrupt one man, you’ve poured a great deal of your own money into tottering companies. I fear you will be ruined before your victim.”

  Conall rose, and Stapleton followed suit. “I trust you to ensure we never overstep the mark. And don’t forget, when we take Ebbworth for all he has, our coffers will be refilled. Let me reassure you that I’m governing my estate with clockwork precision, and despite the bad harvests and poor weather of late, we are still in surplus, and likely to remain so until things improve. Spyle Court is a long way from ruination.”

  “Very good, my lord. I shall see myself out.”

  “Report back if you manage to tempt Ebbworth to a game. And help yourself to whatever stake you need to secure his interest.”

  “I appreciate your trust.” Stapleton dipped his head in salute, then disappeared off into the hall.

  Conall picked up the paper with Ebbworth’s ten guinea promise to Lord Austin—which was now a promise to himself. He pulled out a drawer of his desk and removed a small walnut box which he undid with the tiny key suspended from his watch chain.

  The box was stuffed with an assortment of small pieces of paper, each written in the same hand, guaranteed by the same signature. Frederick Ebbworth. He placed the latest IOU on top, then locked and replaced the box, a thin smile curving his lips.

  “Not long now, Ebbworth,” he murmured, his jaw tight. “Before summer’s end, I shall crush you under my heel as befits the snake you are. There will be no mercy. And Josephine will be avenged at last.”

  Chapter 3

  Hestia spurred her mount into a gallop, fuelled by anger. This was the stupidest thing she had ever done, even more foolish than eloping with Frederick in the first place.

  She’d used every means at her disposal to persuade him to marry her, as they’d planned— short of weeping and wailing, for she was too proud for that. There were no manuals to teach a fallen woman how to secure her man and lure him into marriage. How could such a thing be achieved when the woman had already given all she had to give?

  She was forced to trust Frederick would keep his word—that they would be wed as soon as Methuen’s hold over him had been broken. If she could then keep her husband away from the gaming tables, they would have enough to live on, and could raise the family for which she was so desperate.

  As the speed of her passage threatened the security of her bonnet, she tugged on the reins. It would do no good to fall off at such a pace—she would like as not break her neck. She’d been practising falling off her horse in the fields and hills around Bath, and had mastered a slow slide that allowed her to almost reach the ground, before tumbling over. Generally, she aimed to pitch herself into a bush, if one could be found. They provided the safest landings.

  She’d developed a lot of bruises, which might be a problem. If Methuen called a doctor for her, they would query the presence of so ma
ny bruises sustained before the ultimate fall. Would anyone believe it if she claimed she was only now learning to ride, having been unable to as a child for some reason? A reason she would need to invent, piling one untruth upon another. Lying went against the grain and she suspected the more lies one told, the more embroiled in wickedness one became.

  The fury surged in her again. This wasn’t right, but now there was no time to think of an alternative. She had almost reached the spot on the drive of Spyle Court where Methuen should be walking.

  She prayed there’d be no one there, that Frederick was mistaken in saying their quarry was a man of meticulous regularity. She’d wheel the horse around and head back to the Red Lion, her conscience unsullied.

  But there was a gentleman striding down the drive, swinging his cane. At this distance, she could just make out the dark hair and the eyepatch. The earl himself.

  Her heart was granite in her chest, and beads of perspiration broke out on her brow. This was it—no turning back now. There were rhododendron shrubs on either side of the road with thick, glossy leaves which looked as if they would break her fall. She performed the manoeuvre she’d been practising all week—pulling her steed to a violent stop, making it shy, then sliding off it into a bush.

  She uttered a shriek. Rhododendrons were not so soft a landing as she’d surmised. Beneath the foliage was a network of hard, springy branches that gouged at her flesh. She’d twisted her back as she fell, a hot, tearing pain that made her groan. A curse upon Frederick Ebbworth and his perilous schemes!

  Through the mist of pain and alarm, she heard a man’s shout and the sound of running feet. She tried to shift, and more pain lanced through her, eliciting a yelp. God, but this scheme had better work. She recalled what Frederick had told her—that Methuen was vile, a poor excuse for a gentleman, and deserved all that was coming to him. She need feel no guilt in deceiving him. Swallowing hard, she screwed up her courage and readied herself to be pleasant to the detestable fellow.

  There wasn’t much else she could do. She was helpless, on her back and ensnared by rhododendron branches, like a fish in a net.

  “Devil take it. Not again!” The man bent over her.

  He didn’t sound detestable. He sounded horrified and concerned. Frederick had insisted she meet Methuen as the result of a riding accident—it would make him easier to manipulate, her lover had said, though he’d not been prepared to vouchsafe the reason.

  “Madam, are you hurt?” The voice was deep, given a hard edge by anxiety. “Don’t try to move. Just answer if you can.”

  “I hurt everywhere. But my back is worst. I twisted it badly.”

  “I’ll send to the house for a litter and have you taken up there. Unless you need to be conveyed elsewhere. Is there no one with you?”

  The plan was going wrong already. He was supposed to put her up in front of him on the horse and hold her, the theory being, so Frederick said, that having once touched her luscious body, Methuen would be keen to do so again. Or better still, he must carry her to the house in his arms, so she could nuzzle trustingly against him, and melt his reserve.

  “I… I am sure I could manage if you were to help me. Can you lift me out?”

  It was hard to tell, when his body was between her and the bright sky, what manner of man she was dealing with, but the shoulders looked broad enough. He should be able to lift her out at the very least, no matter how she was conveyed thereafter.

  “I could, but I don’t want to risk further injury to you. The litter is by far the best solution.”

  A branch of rhododendron sprang free and swiped past her cheek. “Ouch!”

  “Perhaps I’d better cut a few of these away. Less damage to you and your clothing.”

  He moved out of the light, and she gazed up at a buzzard wheeling lazily above them. A sense of unreality descended on her—the tranquil countryside, so peaceful compared to Bath, the burning pain in her back, her harsh bed of twigs and branches, the frantic beating of her heart. Surely, she was in a dream. No, a nightmare.

  When a long blade flashed before her eyes, she pulled away in panic.

  His voice soothed her. “Be still. I’m only going to hack back a few of these branches so we can lift you out cleanly.”

  Oh, heaven! They should have opted for Frederick to station himself nearby so he could watch proceedings, and intervene if it all went horribly wrong. Now someone was going to be working around her with a sharp knife. The urge to scream was barely resisted.

  But when her rescuer set about methodically sawing at the shrubbery that held her, he was deft and careful, barely touching her. There was a rapidity to his breathing suggestive of panic, but his hand was steady.

  The pricking agonies in her flesh eased until she was merely uncomfortable—aside from her excruciatingly painful back.

  “I’ll go and fetch that litter.”

  “You’re leaving me alone?” She suddenly realised how vulnerable she would be, left dangling in a bush, injured and unprotected. She definitely should have arranged for Frederick to be nearby.

  “How am I to fetch help if I don’t go in search of it? I shall run up to the house. I promise you—I won’t be more than a few moments. I’ll order the litter and come back instantly.”

  “But I’m helpless. What about poachers? Rioters? Unfriendly veterans? Gipsies?”

  The man let out a snort. “On the Spyle estate? Not a bit of it. You are quite safe here—no one ventures onto my property without me knowing. Aside from yourself. Whatever were you doing careering up the road like that?”

  Now was not the time to respond to his enquiries. She needed a clear head, not a brain fogged by physical suffering, or she’d make a mistake, perjure herself, and betray the whole scheme before it got underway.

  She shifted slightly, then groaned a couple of times. “May we talk later, sir? I’m feeling distinctly unwell. If you must leave me, please be quick about it.”

  “You may keep my knife so you can fend off enemies—if it’ll make you feel any better.”

  When his firm fingers pressed hers around the hilt of the knife, it didn’t make her feel any better at all. Two minutes ago, she’d never laid eyes on the man. Now, she didn’t want him to go.

  “Take Sheba—it’ll be quicker. She will carry anyone.” Sheba, the mare she and Frederick had hired, had quickly become a faithful co-conspirator. The horse was good-natured and never sought revenge. Despite Hestia sliding off her back time and time again, Sheba just stood about patiently waiting for her accident-prone rider to remount.

  “I’m not overly keen on riding. I’ve seen too many accidents in my time. But under the circumstances—”

  Hestia shielded her eyes and twisted her head, watching as the man she assumed to be Methuen swiftly removed her saddle and threw himself onto Sheba’s bare back. Moments later, the pounding of hoofbeats on the metalling of the drive signalled his departure.

  Peace descended again. The buzzard still wheeled overhead, but had been noticed by a corvid of some description, and was now being mobbed. She watched the bird of prey’s effortless evasions and wished she’d been able to evade Frederick’s scheme so adroitly.

  Was there still time to renege? She’d been cut free. She could crawl onto the road and stagger back to the inn. Surely, Frederick’s resolve would crumble when he found she was genuinely injured. But now he had Sheba, Methuen could be back in a few minutes. How could she possibly explain herself to him?

  Goodness, was she committing a felony? No, surely not. Falling off a horse on someone’s land was no crime. It was only what she might do once taken into Methuen’s household that could constitute a crime.

  Hopefully, she’d be able to find a better way once ensconced, something that wouldn’t goad her conscience. It was vital she remember Methuen was the monster relentlessly trying to ruin Frederick because they’d quarrelled over a woman.

  A shadow came between her and the sun. The earl was back already.

  “Are you alright
? I hope I wasn’t too long. My men will be along in a minute. I told them to help themselves to the top of the old breakfast table—far quicker than removing a door. I’ve ordered blankets too, so you’ll be comfortable. Give me the knife back, so I can protect you from any footpads or highwaymen who might be haunting my driveway.”

  She detected a smile in his voice, even though he was breathless from his ride. He must have sped along like the very devil to be back with her so soon.

  Hestia bit her lip. On first acquaintance, Conall Methuen, Earl of Corsbury, didn’t seem like a monster at all. Had Frederick lied? Had she made a terrible mistake? And if so, how on earth was she going to extract herself from this intolerable situation?

  Chapter 4

  Conall’s face was grim as two footmen gently lifted the young woman onto the litter. Josephine had ridden down this self-same drive after their final quarrel. It was to be the last time he ever saw her.

  When the news of her death after a riding accident had reached him a few hours later, he had, at first, been unable to take it in. She’d made that ride from Spyle Court to Thatcham Hall any number of times during their courtship, and had never had any difficulties. It must be a mistake; it had to be some other unfortunate lady whose mount had thrown her at a field gate, causing her to break her neck.

  Then, as further confirmation had come through, the temptation to throw himself off the roof of Spyle Court and follow Josephine into oblivion had been overwhelming. Only duty stayed his hand. He had an estate to run and his mother to care for, as well as numerous tenant farmers who depended on him to lend them equipment, mill their grain and give employment to their daughters and sons. He could never have abandoned his people, not even to escape the agony of heartbreak.