Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick

by Deb Marlowe

  She had promised him nothing. She hadn’t even asked for anything beyond a few days. And he sure as hell had not offered her anything more.

  The kitchens were a riot of activity. He nearly gave his cook an apoplexy by showing his face there. But he merely nodded to the frantic staff and passed through to the back of the house.

  The dog raced around the grassy patch, barking frantically. He darted in and out, growling intermittently at…a form bent over on the ground.

  Wretched sobs filled the air. Small shrieks rang out each time the pup dashed close. Rob was bent over the figure—a little girl?—his back to Braedon.

  The entire world contracted in an instant. Braedon’s vision went utterly white. Nothing existed, save the few feet between the little trio on the lawn and him—and the multitude of instances that he’d found Connor in just such a situation. Mice trapped only to be tortured to death. Birds with broken wings. The rabbit that had screamed and screamed as his brother skinned it alive. The game warden’s adolescent daughter who had thought to tease the heir to the manor and had suffered horribly for it.

  The roar exploded out of him. He felt the pop of a vessel bursting in his eye. ‘No!’ Braedon launched himself forwards. He reached them in an instant and ruthlessly pushed the boy aside. He only stopped himself from throwing him again by bending over the sobbing girl. ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ he shouted. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Nothing,’ the boy answered. He’d rolled easily to the side. He climbed to his feet, wiping dirt from his face. ‘I’m all right. It’s Pearl that’s hurt.’

  The girl looked up at him, shocked into silence, perhaps. She was younger than Rob, six years old at the most. Tears and grass streaked her face. Braedon snatched her into his arms and confronted the boy.

  ‘She’s just a girl—and smaller than you by half!’ Braedon snarled at him in disgust. The dog was still barking with excitement and jumping at his feet. ‘I swear by all that is holy—if you have harmed her—’

  ‘What?’ Rob looked stunned. ‘I didn’t do nothing!’

  ‘I saw you…’ Braedon stuttered to a stop. He’d only seen him bent over the girl.

  Understanding slowly dawned in the boy’s eyes. Understanding, and hurt. ‘Pearl’s the baker’s girl. I wouldn’t hurt her.’ A basket lay on its side nearby. He picked it up. ‘She fell because she was afraid of Fitz. Then she was afraid again, too scared to stand up. But he was just playing, chasing her skirts. He didn’t mean nothing.’ He glanced at the dog, still circling Braedon’s legs, and flushed. ‘Fitz! Come!’ he ordered. He reached out and grabbed his collar as the pup raced past.

  Braedon hitched the girl up on to his hip and looked into her face. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘I’m sorry about your bread.’ She sniffed.

  ‘Damn the bread!’ he nearly shouted. Calming his tone, he asked, ‘Did you fall? Or did he hurt you?’ He nodded toward Rob.

  ‘No, I fell, sir. I’m right sorry.’ She glanced at the pup and shuddered. ‘I don’t like little dogs. Especially them that tug and jump.’

  Braedon deflated. All the terror and indignation fled his system, leaving him feeling sick. He set the girl down. Rob handed her the basket. ‘Go on, then,’ Braedon told her. ‘I’m sure Cook is expecting you.’

  She managed a little curtsy and ran off.

  Rob glared, the perfect image of anger and injury. ‘You thought I hurt her? That I would bother a little girl?’

  ‘I…I’m sorry.’ Braedon’s hand was shaking. ‘I apologise. I suppose I must have…jumped to an unwarranted conclusion.’

  The boy merely stared at him with reproach before turning and running towards the house. The dog yelped and followed at his heels.

  Braedon staggered over to lean on a rough bench near the garden.

  Just as he’d thought. The highest highs. And now he’d landed neck-deep in the worst of the lows.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chloe breathed deeply, glad for at least a small taste of fresh air and green growing things. She breathed again and tried not to think of all that needed to be done at Marland House. She did love a phaeton, after all. And the pretty morning bid for a fair afternoon and evening.

  At this hour the park lay quiet and largely deserted. The very elegant Earl of Conover drove a fine vehicle, pulled by a magnificent team of matched greys. The conversation was easy and light. They spoke of the lecture and of some of the more exotic artefacts they had seen. Everything was perfectly lovely, in short. And yet, she could not summon the same excitement that she’d felt when out riding with Braedon.

  She shivered. It felt both odd and exhilarating to use his given name, after all of these months.

  She smiled over at the earl. ‘This has been a lovely break for me, my lord. But I cannot help but wonder if you had a particular reason for inviting me.’ The earl had shown up at Marland House this morning, asking for her. He had been gracious, flattering and at last insistent that she come out for a drive with him. She’d agreed, after a little urging, hoping that he meant to share further information regarding Skanda’s Spear.

  ‘Indeed, I did have a particular topic I’d like to discuss.’ The carriage path they followed entered a short wooded section. He slowed his team to a walk as they entered the glade. ‘I was hoping we could continue the conversation we began the other night.’

  ‘I was hoping you would say so,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ve been thinking over what you said, that Skanda’s Spear has known so many woman owners.’ She cocked her head at him. ‘I can’t seem to fathom a reason why it might be so, but I got the impression that you might know something further.’

  ‘I have postulated something, in any case. But in order for it to make sense, I’d like to share a little of the Spear’s history.’

  ‘Please,’ she nodded for him to continue.

  Casually, he flicked his whip, chasing an insect from about his horses’ ears. ‘There are many stories told of Skanda in the East. Too many to go into today, unfortunately. But the thing you need to know is that many of the tales concern his rivalry with his brother.’

  She stilled. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Indeed. They seem to have argued quite incessantly over which of them was held highest in their parents’ esteem. One issue in particular begins when the brothers quarrelled over which would be allowed to marry first. It is said that a contest was devised—the brothers would race around the universe to determine the winner. Skanda set off immediately and made the physical trip, but his brother merely stepped a circle around their parents, stating, in essence, that they were the universe. The outcome varies in different tales, but most say that Skanda fell into a fury that still rages to this day.’

  A chill swept over Chloe that had nothing to do with the shade. ‘Not a sporting chap, then, Skanda.’

  The earl chuckled. ‘No. I believe, though, that that story is likely the basis for the reputed curse that has come to be associated with the Spear.’

  ‘Are you familiar with the specifics of the curse?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been able to find nothing.’ She could guess, at least, in which direction it lay and just the hint sent a sickening twist through her stomach.

  The boyish, lighthearted Conover had gone. He was all solemnity as he pulled the phaeton to a halt. Without being asked, his groom climbed down and began to walk ahead of the carriage. ‘The Spear is said to completely isolate its keepers,’ the earl intoned, once his servant had moved beyond earshot. ‘A man who owns it will voluntarily cut all the earthly ties that bind him.’

  ‘A superstition,’ she whispered.

  ‘Perhaps. It has been recorded, though, by those that pay attention to that sort of thing, that men who have been known to possess the spear have lived cloistered and withdrawn.’

  She caught the emphasis in his ton
e. ‘Men who have possessed it?’

  He nodded. ‘The curse appears to be ineffective against females.’

  Her mind raced. ‘There is no nabob, is there?’ Her voice grew louder. ‘It’s been you all along? You’ve had the Spear?’

  ‘No, no,’ he soothed. ‘Much of the rumour swirling around Town is true. The Spear only recently arrived here, brought from the East by a man who has lived there for many years. Mr Buckhurst has seen many things there that might defy our imaginations. He says he met an ancient bhikkhu on a trip into the mountains. The old man appointed him courier to the Spear, and told him he was meant to be the one to find the weapon’s true owner—so that it may go to its final resting place.’

  An image of Braedon’s grand new wing—the one that she had helped to build—flashed in her mind. She liked the sound of this less and less. ‘It sounds a heavy responsibility. How will this mysterious nabob know the true owner? It would seem his long absence would only make his mission more difficult.’

  The earl shook out his reins and urged his team forwards again. Glancing askance at her, he spoke quietly. ‘Buckhurst is a shrewd man. He has been watching events unfold very carefully. He feels the weight of his responsibility most keenly.’ Conover paused. ‘Those men, Miss Hardwick? The ones who lived apart with the Spear? It was not an isolation of contentment. From all accounts, they lived—and died—quite miserably.’

  She stared, horrified.

  ‘You have met him, you know.’

  ‘Of course I have not.’ She frowned in indignation. ‘But I wish I had. Don’t you think that I would have had a hundred questions…?’ She stopped. Disjointed pieces began to come together to form a whole. ‘Oh, good heavens—the man! The man asleep in the antechamber after the lecture?’ She recalled his dismissal of the weapon—and his pointed questions about Lord Marland.

  She gasped and gripped Conover’s arm. ‘He’s going to give the thing to the marquess! We have to stop him!’

  The earl’s lips thinned. ‘He meant to,’ he acknowledged with a nod. ‘It would seem that certain facts indicated that the spear might be destined for Lord Marland, including the new wing he’s built to house his collection.’

  ‘No,’ she breathed.

  ‘But Buckhurst hesitates.’

  Chloe seized on the chance. ‘Yes. He should. Such a burden is the last thing that Braedon should have to bear.’ Frantic, she began to mentally shift through all of the men so passionately interested in obtaining the Spear. A life of isolation and misery? Whom would she condemn? It would indeed be a terrible choice. ‘There must be someone else.’

  The phaeton eased out of the shaded grove. Warm sunlight washed over them as the earl spoke softly. ‘You, Miss Hardwick. Buckhurst is giving the Spear to you. He strongly suspects that the Spear is meant for Marland, but he wishes for you to make the final decision.’

  Stunned. She could only blink, so dumb was she struck. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t… He cannot ask such a thing of me!’

  ‘I agree,’ he said flatly. ‘But he does. He has.’ He paused the phaeton long enough for his groom to remount his seat in the back, then drove on.

  Chloe’s head was swimming. She didn’t want the thing. But with terror and outrage and frustration she suddenly understood why Braedon did. Her fists clenched. She wanted to shout out her feelings of betrayal and anger. Even so long ago, at Denning, she had suspected that he knew more about the Spear than he would admit. She was sure now. Somehow he had discovered the true nature of the weapon.

  Even if she dismissed the curse as primitive superstition, it didn’t negate his betrayal—not in Chloe’s eyes. Still the thing remained a symbol of his detachment, of the emotional distance he laboured to keep between him and the rest of the world.

  From her.

  ‘Miss Hardwick?’

  With a start, she realised that they had left the park. The earl had pulled to a stop in front of a linen draper’s at the corner of Green Street.

  ‘I apologise for the necessity of this deception,’ he said, climbing down. ‘But we must be careful.’ He crossed to the pavement and reached up for her hand. ‘Look under the bench as you climb down, he instructed. ‘There is a roll of fabric strapped there.’

  Startled, she allowed him to assist her and looked where he bid.

  ‘Do you see?’

  ‘Yes.’ It looked to be a length of brocade in rich blues and greens.

  He thrust his chin towards the shop and gestured for her to precede him. ‘In the back corner, to the right,’ he said under his breath. ‘The same fabric sits there. If you will, admire it and arrange to purchase a length. You will hold it in your lap as we drive you home, afterwards.’

  The shopkeeper opened the door to usher them in. Smiling, she acted as casually as she could. She browsed but a minute before following the earl’s instructions. It was quickly done. When they were underway again, she spoke up.

  ‘The spear is rolled into the brocade under the bench?’ she asked.

  ‘Very good, Miss Hardwick.’ He shot her a look of grim approval. ‘We’ll make the switch when you climb down at Marland House.’ They drove in silence for a few moments, before he said quietly, ‘I am sorry about all of this.’

  She was, too.

  ‘Perhaps you should just keep the Spear yourself. Believe me, I understand the temptation, and you would avoid the risk of anyone getting hurt.’

  Anyone except Braedon. A horrifying image of his brother, stealing away that which he cared for the most, invaded her mind. It would be the ultimate betrayal. He would never forgive her. She was doomed to hurt him, either way.

  Her heart stilled for a moment. He would be devastated—if he found out.

  It was as if Conover read her mind. ‘I promise you, I shall never tell a soul you have it.’ He shook his head. ‘You must realise I’d rather my part in this did not get out, either.’

  Her gaze drifted back towards his groom.

  The earl saw and understood. ‘Joseph is not a risk. Your secret would be safe,’ he insisted. ‘He’s been with me a very long time.’ He snorted. ‘The keeping of secrets is one of his foremost skills.’

  Chloe didn’t know what to do. She would never willingly betray Braedon. But she’d worked so hard to draw him out and gain his trust. She desperately wanted him to see that letting someone close could lead to more than just pain. And yet, blithely giving him the Spear felt like a betrayal to her own beliefs, and a deplorable validation of his efforts to keep everyone at bay. Did she dare just hand him such a powerful symbol of his most erroneous tendencies? The last thing she wanted to give him was unspoken permission to distance himself from her.

  ‘Here we go,’ Conover said as they stopped in front of Marland House. He kept his face turned forwards, as if watching his horses, and spoke low through his teeth. ‘Hand me your bolt of fabric.’ A footman was descending the steps, ready to help her from the vehicle. ‘Let him assist you down. I’ll make the switch as you climb out.’

  The footman reached them. ‘Let me help you down from there, Miss.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, James,’ she said. She did as the earl suggested, even improvising an attempt at a distraction. She pretended that her foot was caught in her skirts and fell heavily into the poor man’s arms.

  ‘Oh, dear, I am sorry.’ She smiled sheepishly and turned back to Conover.

  The earl was grinning as he handed over the brocade.

  ‘Oh, and James?’ she said, taking it up again. ‘Would you run this straight up to my room for me? I’ve the perfect use for it in the dining room tonight.’

  The footman took it and set off.

  Conover nodded in approval.

  ‘I do hope we will see you at the ball this evening, my lord?’

  ‘I would not miss it. In fact, if it is not already claimed
, I wonder if you would save the first dance for me?’

  She flushed. ‘No, I’m not engaged for the first dance. Thank you, I would be happy to stand up with you.’

  He gave a short bow from the waist. ‘I look forward to it. Good day, Miss Hardwick.’ He lifted his reins and drove on.

  ‘Good day,’ she called. Trying to keep her tread light, she stepped inside. It was not easy, with her heart so heavy. She went straight to her room. Locking the door, she unrolled the brocade and stared down at the instrument of so much upheaval.

  It was in two pieces, as if the craftsman who had made it had known the thing would need to be occasionally tucked and hidden away. When she attached the long bottom shaft into the highly decorated handhold, the Spear stood as high as her shoulder. Otherwise, it was exactly as Conover had described it, and quite a close resemblance to the illustration she’d found in Braedon’s library.

  The workmanship was lovely. The piece was undoubtedly worth more than she could imagine. Yet Buckhurst had done her no favours, giving it into to her hand.

  Now she was fated to betray someone. It only remained to be seen if it would be Braedon, or herself.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The enormity of everything Mairi and Chloe had accomplished only struck Braedon as he trailed after his sister and her husband, just before the start of the ball. Mairi wished Ashton to be first to see everything. The pair of them had encountered him drinking alone and dragged him along. Now his sister was having a high time showing off the results of so much hard work. She nearly glowed with the pleasure of explaining the significance of each separate stage of the surprise.

  They left the masculine extravagance of the smoking room—complete with hookah pipes and every sort of cigar, cheroot and cigarillo a man might wish for—to examine the splendours of the dining room.

  ‘The entire midnight supper has been based on the traditional food of the Greek Isles,’ Mairi effused. She took her husband’s arm. ‘I know how much you loved them when you toured there. We will have lamb and every sort of fish, and I questioned the cooks of all of our friends until I found one who thought he knew of those grape leaves you adored. Oh,’ she fretted, ‘I do hope they turn out—’