The Revenge of Lord Eberlin

by Julia London

  But then, she had never run across the likes of Tobin Scott before.

  Tobin Scott. She remembered a fair-haired, serious boy who had not been quick to smile, but when he had, it had been warm and easy. Nothing that she could recall indicated that boy would have grown into this man. Tobin Scott despised her. Perhaps even wished her dead. He hated her so much that he’d come back here to see her and Ashwood destroyed.

  That was where Lily differed from him—she would never have come back here if she’d not been forced to.

  She abruptly stood and walked to the windows. She folded her arms tightly across her against the chill she could feel through the panes and watched the trees in the park behind the mansion dance in the wind. She could see Mr. Bevers, her gamekeeper, at the lake, struggling to cast his line for fish. She could feel his struggle; she felt as if she was struggling every day, trying to cast her line, to find where or what she was supposed to be in this new life of hers.

  When she thought of all that had happened in the last year, it made her head ache. This—what, adventure? . . . punishment? . . . dream?—had all begun several months ago, as Lily had been preparing for a long-awaited trip to Italy. She’d been in Ireland, at the home of the Hannigans, on whose charity Lily had lived since she was eight years old. She’d arranged to be the paid companion of Mrs. Canavan, who’d been traveling to Italy in the company of her very handsome son, Conor Canavan. Lily had had precious little else on her mind than a prolonged flirtation with Conor and perhaps some Italian gentlemen, and seeing the art and architecture of Italy.

  Then the bloody letter had come to Ireland, announcing that she was the only surviving heir of Lord and Lady Ashwood, and as such, she’d inherited the estate of Ashwood, as well as the title of countess.

  Lily had been stunned. Astounded! To think that she, of all people, was a countess! She wasn’t even blood kin to the old earl. Eighteen years ago, when she’d been all of five years old, her parents had died of a fever and someone had shipped her—an unwanted orphan—to one of her mother’s sisters, Althea Kent, the Countess of Ashwood. Aunt Althea had legally adopted Lily at some point, but Lily had been at Ashwood only three years before she’d been shipped off to Ireland and her aunt Lenore, all because she’d had the misfortune to see Joseph Scott riding away from Ashwood late one rainy night.

  “Would that I’d gone to bed that night as I ought to have done,” she muttered morosely. She turned from the window and walked to the settee, sitting heavily, her head resting against the back, one arm draped across her middle. She stared up at the cherubs painted on the ceiling. They were looking at her, their fat little arms outstretched, their little sausages of fingers pointing at her.

  Lily had such wretched memories of what had followed after that rainy night—the accusations, the trial. The hanging. She’d been sent away from her beloved aunt Althea, who had drowned accidentally in the lake shortly thereafter.

  To find out fifteen years later that this estate, and all the awful memories of that summer, were now hers had been almost more than Lily could absorb. So she had begged her cousin Keira—bold, unpredictable Keira, who was more of a sister than a cousin—to come to Ashwood and tend to whatever needed tending, while Lily went to Italy as she’d planned and tried to prepare herself to return to a place of dark memories.

  It had seemed so easy! But Ashwood had been a distant clap of thunder in her mind, slowly moving closer until she’d no longer been able to ignore the storm.

  Her journey back to England and Ashwood had been quite hard. They’d sailed through weather so foul that Lily had been certain she would die. Omens, surely, for when she’d arrived, she’d walked into disaster. She’d discovered that Keira had not merely tended to Ashwood’s affairs as Lily had asked but had actually become her. Lily and Keira resembled each other enough that when Keira had come to Ashwood, everyone had believed her to be Lily, and Keira had not taken steps to correct their misunderstanding. The foolish girl had assumed Lily’s identity, had signed her name, had been feted around Hadley Green! As if that hadn’t been enough, Keira, who had a good heart beneath all her impetuosity, had taken in the orphan Lucy Taft and tucked her firmly under her wing.

  A maelstrom of scandal had followed, for when Lily had arrived, those who had known her as a child had been able to see that they’d made a mistake and had realized they’d been duped. Because of Tobin Scott, authorities had been summoned and Keira had had to flee.

  Lily had been left alone to deal with the consequences. She’d walked the halls of Ashwood to see for herself the disrepair, trying to piece together memories as she’d gone. The mansion had once seemed like a palace to her: the fine woodworking of the moldings and wainscoting, the soaring, painted ceilings, the deep windows and brocade draperies, fine English furnishings, Aubusson rugs, Sevres china. Every corridor of the three-story home had been a different adventure, every one of them uniquely furnished with paintings and hothouse flowers and thick carpets.

  It was no longer a place of opulence; one had only to look closely to see the ravages of time. The salon, for example, painted green with gold trim, boasted a ceiling with an elaborate scene from heaven. But there was a crack in the wall above one of the deep windows, and the spots where the carpet had been worn down were covered with small tables. Her writing table was propped up with a book beneath one leg.

  Yet in every room, fragments of memory came floating back like little snowflakes, landing softly in her, waking sights and smells and sighs that had been buried for many years. Her aunt, whispering to Mr. Scott, the two of them chuckling together. She remembered Aunt Althea’s smile for Mr. Scott, the way she would touch his arm, her fingers touching his. Little things an eight-year-old girl would have never paid much heed but a grown woman saw differently.

  And in those early, confusing days after her return to Ashwood, as Lily had tried to sort through her memories and the reality of her new station in life, she’d met the mysterious Count Eberlin.

  She’d felt trepidation and anger when Linford had presented her with Eberlin’s calling card. He’d been completely wretched to Keira with the one hundred acres and the mill, and it was he who had summoned the authorities when he’d guessed that Keira was not who she’d claimed to be. Lily could recall thinking tempestuously that afternoon that she would demand to know why he seemed so determined to harm Ashwood and her cousin.

  She had expected an older man. Someone small in stature, rotund, with an ugly countenance—in short, someone like the old earl of Ashwood. She’d been completely taken aback by the tall, proud man who’d stridden into the salon. He was handsome, quite strikingly so. He had piercing brown eyes the color of molasses, and wavy, honey-colored hair, with streaks of wheat. Solidly built, with square shoulders and a strong jaw, he was impeccably dressed and carried an aura of power about him, as if he could scoop Ashwood and take it if he so desired.

  There also had been something vaguely familiar about him, something that Lily hadn’t quite been able to grasp as he’d come forward to greet her. His voice had been quiet and smooth, and he’d spoken with a slight accent that had sounded neither English nor European. When she’d inquired as to the nature of his call, he’d looked at her intently, and Lily had been able to feel the heat of his recrimination down to the tips of her toes. “I thought it was time,” he’d said.

  “Time?” She’d wondered if he was mad. “Time for what?”

  One of his dark brows had risen. “Is it not obvious?”

  She’d thought he was toying with her. “On the contrary, my lord, there is nothing obvious about your call or the ill will you hold for Ashwood.” She’d meant to put the man on notice that he spoke to a countess.

  But Eberlin had disregarded her regal bearing. He’d disregarded protocol and propriety, too, and had moved closer, studying her face so intently that Lily’s pulse had fluttered.

  “You are as beautiful as I knew you would be,” he’d said, shocking her again. Lily’s pulse had quickly gone from flutt
ering to racing. She’d been able to feel the raw power of seduction in him as his gaze had lingered on her décolletage, on her mouth. “Perhaps even more so.”

  Men had flirted with Lily all her adult life, but she’d never felt so . . . exposed, or quite so vulnerable. “I beg your pardon,” she’d said stiffly.

  Something had flickered in his eyes, but they’d quickly shuttered. “Do you truly not know who I am?”

  A tiny spasm of trepidation had slithered through her.

  “Perhaps this will stir your memory. My name is Tobin. Do you recall me now?”

  Lily had seen it then, that vaguely familiar thing. It was the face of the boy who had been her companion. She’d not seen him since the day of his father’s trial, when he’d stared daggers at her as she’d testified about what she’d seen. “Tobin,” she’d whispered as her brain accepted that the boy was now this handsome, strangely alluring man. “I can scarcely believe it is you.”

  “Surprised, are you?” His gaze had turned hard and cold.

  “Yes,” she’d answered honestly. “I never knew . . . I never knew where you’d gone. And your name, Eberlin—”

  “A title that derives from an estate I own in Denmark.”

  “Denmark? But how—”

  “I have returned to Hadley Green and Tiber Park with but one goal in mind,” he’d said, interrupting her. “Would you like to know what that is?” With a cold smile, Tobin had carelessly, boldly, caressed her cheek with his knuckle, tracing a line to her mouth. “To destroy Ashwood.” He’d said it low, almost as if he were speaking to a lover.

  Lily had gasped and jerked away from his hand.

  “I’ll not rest until I have.” With that, he’d walked out of her salon, leaving Lily to stand there, her heart beating with the strength of a thousand wings.

  Every time she thought of that afternoon, she felt a strange flutter. He clearly held her responsible in some part for his father’s demise, but she was not going to accept that from him. She had her own demons—she did not intend to adopt his as well.

  Nor did she intend to let him win.

  THREE

  Benedict Sibley was in fine spirits, having convinced himself that his mastery of the law had helped earn Count Eberlin a favorable ruling. However, Benedict Sibley was a middling solicitor and a fool: the judge had been bought, just like everything else in Tobin’s life. The victory was expected.

  But Tobin was denied the small victory of seeing Lily Boudine’s face when the ruling was delivered; she was not in attendance.

  Mr. Goodwin, Ashwood’s solicitor and a formidable opponent, had known he’d lost before the magistrate had even been seated. Still, he’d given a good fight, and when the inevitable had come, and the one hundred acres had been ruled as belonging to Tiber Park, Mr. Goodwin had sought at the very least to shame Tobin. He’d accused him of preying on an innocent woman and stealing the land from beneath her feet.

  Tobin was beyond shame and had been for many years.

  It was Sibley’s idea that they have a celebratory pint of ale at the Grousefeather, and Tobin obliged him. As they walked out of the common rooms where the hearing had been held, Tobin spotted the Ashwood coach, with its showy plumes and crest. He imagined Mr. Fish and Mr. Goodwin giving Lily the news, of how she would blink her big green eyes and her bottom lip would quiver. Good.

  At the Grousefeather, Tobin nursed his pint along, saying little as Sibley talked about his lofty ambitions. A full-bosomed serving girl caught Tobin’s eye; she smiled at him and walked by their table with an exaggerated swing of her wide hips. Tobin supposed she’d had her fair share of gentlemen abovestairs; however, he would not be among them. He’d give Hadley Green nothing untoward to say of him. They would see that they could not destroy the Scotts, that he’d come back stronger than ever.

  When Sibley turned his attention to two gentlemen who had overheard his bragging, Tobin left the tavern. He was untying his horse’s lead when he happened to see Mr. and Mrs. Morton. They saw him, too—then turned the other way and pretended they had not.

  Tobin yanked the rein free.

  He’d dined at their home, for God’s sake. Once word had circulated that Count Eberlin was at Tiber Park, the invitations had begun to flow. It had seemed that everyone had wanted to get a look at him, to put themselves in his circle of acquaintances, and the Mortons—an influential family—had been among the first. He’d accepted their invitation, for he remembered they’d been in Hadley Green at the time of his father’s demise.

  Tobin hadn’t known that his father had been all but forgotten until he’d arrived at the Mortons’ home in a brand-new barouche coach just delivered from London, expecting to see a house that, in his memory, was quite grand. He’d been disappointed to find it much smaller than that. He’d been shown into the house by a hired butler and invited to sit on furnishings he’d found quite pedestrian.

  He remained standing.

  The company was likewise pedestrian. There were no sea captains, no mercenaries, no wealthy traders. Just country folk who believed their pastoral lives were somehow interesting.

  At some point during the main course, a guest had asked Tobin about his title. He’d said that it was a Danish title. The look on the guest’s face—Freestone or Firestone, something like that—had been quite puzzled. “I suppose it is inherited from your mother?”

  Tobin had chuckled. “If I had inherited even a few farthings, I doubt I would have risked running the naval blockade. No, sir, I bought the title and the estate from a displaced Danish count. That is the only manner in which Tobin Scott could ever possess a title.” He’d chuckled again and drunk his wine.

  The room had grown so quiet that he’d heard someone’s belly rumble. There was quite a lot of nervous shifting and looking about. Mr. Morton had peered closely at him. “Might I inquire, my lord . . . who was your father?”

  “Joseph Scott, the wood-carver,” Tobin had said casually, as if it was common knowledge, as if they ought to have known—which, to his thinking, they should have.

  Tobin didn’t know precisely what he’d expected, but as he looked around the dinner table, he was a bit nonplussed. Could they not see how he’d persevered? Did they not hold at least a bit of respect for his having pulled himself up and out of the abyss?

  Apparently not. The dinner had grown increasingly uncomfortable. The people around him had made stilted conversation. He’d understood then that not one of them understood that he was, in fact, the oldest son of that condemned wood-carver.

  Tobin had found that rather curious. He had a personal portrait of his father, done when his father had been a young man, and he thought that the resemblance between them was quite marked. Had the residents of Hadley Green completely forgotten Joseph Scott? Was he nothing but a footnote in the history of this village, the man who had carved a magnificent staircase at Ashwood that had cost him his life?

  Tobin did not seek to hide his identity. If anyone cared to look, they’d find his given name was on any legal document having to do with Tiber Park. If anyone had asked him if he was, in fact, the son of Joseph Scott, as had Mr. Greenhaven, the man he’d employed to be his groundskeeper, he would have told them that he was.

  From that point in that interminable supper, Tobin had been counting the moments until he might leave, but in the course of the meal he’d had one of his spells.

  These bloody spells—he’d never had one until that moment on the road to Hadley Green, but now they seemed to come on him with alarming regularity. That worried him greatly, particularly as they seemed to occur when there were people about and he was away from the comfort of his private estate. He feared some sort of fatal malady. Or worse, something so debilitating, so emasculating, that he would be nothing but a shell of a man, capable of lifting nothing heavier than a goblet . . . not unlike the men seated around that dinner table that night.

  Tobin hadn’t mentioned the spells to anyone, not even to Charity, for fear that he would be perceived as weak. Or
sickly—if that were the case, he’d just as soon be dead. But the spells came over him without warning, triggered by things that seemed so innocuous that he couldn’t help believing he’d been invaded by some demonic fever.

  That evening, at the Mortons’ dinner table, he’d felt a growing discomfort. Someone made a jest that had prompted several people to laugh, and that was it. The sound of adults laughing made Tobin suddenly flush, and his neckcloth felt as if it were tightening around his throat. His chest had tightened painfully; his hands had trembled so badly that he’d dropped his spoon into his soup bowl with a clatter.

  It had horrified him. He’d had to excuse himself for a few moments, walking almost blindly outside onto the walk, gripping his fists so tightly against whatever invisible thing had him by the throat that his fingers still ached the next morning. He’d recovered within a few moments, thankfully, and explained it away by saying he’d swallowed wrong. But he’d spent the rest of the evening in mortal fear that it would happen again.

  The Mortons had blamed his attack on the tepid soup, apparently believing he was the sort to lose his composure over an unsatisfactory meal. They’d exclaimed over him, threatened to dismiss the cook and, for all Tobin knew, spiked the poor woman’s head on the fence. They believed they’d all but poisoned Lord Eberlin, or poor Tobin Scott, the improbable new owner of the newly grand Tiber Park.

  The son of a condemned thief.

  Seeing the Mortons turn from him now—even after he’d extended the invitation to the winter ball he would host at Tiber Park—redoubled Tobin’s determination for revenge.

  He’d extended the invitation to the ball to all of Hadley Green’s meager bon ton. He intended to give them a fireworks display the likes of which they’d never seen, wanted them to see the palace he was making of Tiber Park; wanted them to know who was the son of Joseph Scott.