The Revenge of Lord Eberlin

by Julia London

  “I think he now has what he wants,” Mr. Fish said calmly.

  “The acreage?” Lily thought of what Tobin had said to her weeks ago, that he intended to ruin her. And what he’d said on the drive today—that he would bring her to heel. She suddenly hugged herself against the small, not unpleasant tremor that shot through her. Tobin was a vile, evil man . . . but he also had the sort of bold virility that made parents want to lock their daughters’ doors and daughters want to climb out windows.

  “I think he wants more,” she said, trying to erase the image of his mouth.

  “What more?” Mr. Fish asked.

  “I scarcely know, but—oh!” she said suddenly. “With the events of the day, I have forgotten that our little maid has brought news from Tiber Park.” Lily hurried to the door and opened it, sending the footman outside it for Louis and the chambermaid.

  “Madam, I cannot advise this course of action,” Mr. Fish said disapprovingly.

  Lily ignored him.

  When Louis reappeared he had Agatha in tow, a tiny little thing whose cap was almost too big for her head. She stood at the threshold anxiously rubbing one thumb with the other.

  “Come in, come in,” Lily said, smiling, and took the young woman by the elbow to draw her inside. “I understand you have something you wish to tell us?”

  “No mu’um, not me. It’s my brother, he’s the one.” She looked pleadingly at Louis, clearly distressed.

  “Go on. Tell them,” Louis said and put his hand on Agatha’s back, forcing her to step forward.

  “I fear my brother will lose his position, mu’um,” Agatha said, a little frantically. “He’s just earned it, and he’s two babies to feed.”

  “He won’t lose his position,” Lily assured her. “Whatever news he sends will remain our secret.” She gestured for Agatha to sit, and the maid perched reluctantly on the very edge of the settee.

  Lily smiled kindly in spite of her racing heart. “What position does your brother occupy at Tiber Park?”

  “Footman. That is, he’s learning to be one.”

  “What is his name?” Lily continued pleasantly.

  “Ranulf.” She glanced at Louis; he nodded his encouragement. “He…he was to pour whiskey for the gents that had come for the weekend. So he pours the whiskeys, and he stands back as he ought to have done, and the count, he says to the gent down from London that Lady Ashwood was to sell her cattle, and that he should let it be known the cattle were diseased. And I says to Ranulf, I say, why would he say such a thing? And Ranulf, he says to me, Agatha, don’t you see? So’s she won’t get naught for them. And then, Ranulf says the count gives the gent the name of someone who would say the cattle were ill.”

  Lily heard a grunt from Mr. Fish. She drew a steadying breath but kept smiling. “There, you see? You and Ranulf have done the right thing to tell me, Agatha. Thank you. I’ll not breathe a word of this to the count. No one will speak of it outside this room. And as promised, you and Ranulf will be rewarded for doing such a great service for Ashwood.”

  “Agatha,” Mr. Fish said, “you must do as the countess bids you. Whatever Ranulf tells you, you must keep quite to yourself. Do you understand? You and Ranulf must not say a word of this to anyone.”

  “Aye,” Agatha said, nodding vigorously. “Not a word will pass these lips.”

  Mr. Fish looked dubious, but he gestured to the door. “Meet me in the butler’s pantry and I shall reward you for your courage.”

  “Thank you, Agatha,” Lily said, rising up from the settee.

  As Louis and Agatha went out, Lily looked at Mr. Fish.

  “I had hoped that we might bring in some money with the sale of those cattle,” he started.

  “But I think we cannot rely on any of our plans at present, Mr. Fish. We must rethink things and try to stop him.”

  Mr. Fish sighed. “I agree,” he conceded. “However, I still cannot recommend putting this man, Ranulf, into such a precarious position. As his sister said, he has two children to provide for.”

  “We will take great care,” Lily assured him. “But I cannot see another option available to us. Can you?”

  “I must say that I do, madam,” Mr. Fish said tightly. “As I have previously advised you, I think you might use your position to its fullest advantage.”

  “And how shall I do that?”

  “By building the bridges your cousin damaged,” he said flatly.

  Lily sighed and glanced longingly at the window. How she would like to be out there, in the world, and away from the problems of Ashwood. “I understand you, Mr. Fish . . . but no one is rushing to befriend me, are they? I have tried very hard to atone for Keira’s betrayal, but it is rather difficult after the fiasco of our summer gala.”

  The ladies of the St. Bartholomew’s Charity Society, otherwise known as The Society, had been very helpful in staging the summer gala, the festival held at Ashwood each year to celebrate the summer harvest and benefit the orphanage. The gala had not been held in several years, but with the ladies’ considerable aid, Keira had put it on this summer to great success. Unfortunately, and quite by coincidence, it had been during the gala that Lily had arrived at Ashwood. Everyone, including Lily, had discovered Keira’s fraud that evening. Keira had been forced to announce to the assembled guests that she was not, in fact, the Countess of Ashwood but the cousin of the true and rightful countess, Lily.

  And then she’d introduced Lily.

  Oh, what a long summer it had been.

  “I am aware of the obstacles,” Mr. Fish said. “But if I may, there are three ladies who hold particular sway in our little community. Lady Horncastle, Mrs. Morton, and Mrs. Ogle. Any one of them would be a valuable asset to you.”

  “You know very well that Mrs. Ogle has refused my invitations to dine. Mrs. Morton came to tea with her friend, Miss Babcock, but they have been slow to warm to me. And though Lady Horncastle was kind enough to invite me to tea early on, I think you will agree that it was to have a good look at the latest Countess of Ashwood rather than an effort to extend an olive branch.”

  “I grant you, it is not an easy task,” Mr. Fish said. “There are still many hurt feelings for your cousin’s deception. And frankly, madam, there are some who believe you were somehow complicit in the fraud.”

  Lily sighed. “I know very well you mean Mrs. Ogle.”

  “You mustn’t pay her the slightest mind,” Mrs. Morton had advised Lily at tea. “Her nose is pushed out of joint rather easily. You may trust me; I have known her for nigh on thirty years.”

  Aunt Althea had been particularly adept at bringing the county together in charity for the good of the whole, and Lily wished that she could do the same. She wanted to belong. She wanted to marry, to have a family she might call her own. But it seemed hers would be a slow ascent.

  “Nevertheless, Lady Ashwood, these are the women that might help you to make an advantageous match. I can think of no better way to save Ashwood at present. Might I suggest a soiree of some sort?”

  “A proper soiree will require funds, Mr. Fish.”

  “In my opinion, the gains will justify the expense. It might be just the thing to bring Hadley Green around to you. I ask that you at least consider it.” Mr. Fish glanced at his pocket watch. “I beg your pardon, but I must go and see to the chambermaid.”

  Lily slouched in her seat, feeling exhausted by the day’s events. She could not bear the thought of begging these women to come to her . . . but she had to agree that an evening soiree for society might be just the thing.

  She thought of Tobin and the dreadful feeling that she would be forced to beg someone for a match to save Ashwood from him. No matter how she looked at it, she could see that Mr. Fish was right.

  Yet she could not help thinking of the way Tobin had looked at her on the drive, as if he despised her and wanted her both. And that curious moment when Lily believed she had seen a flash of something vulnerable in his expression, almost as if she’d been seeing the edge of a wound, a g
limpse that she found oddly intriguing. Not that it changed her opinion of him, not in the least. He was a ruthless, angry man who had pushed her into a corner with alarming ease. And Lily was determined to get out of the corner before he forced her into marrying some man she scarcely knew.

  She was still brooding about it when she went up to change for tea. Her fingers trailed down the curved dual mahogany staircase railing, and she could feel the curve of the vine Mr. Scott had carved into the railing. It meandered up to the first floor, with leaves and an occasional flower to adorn it. She wondered idly how long such craftsmanship took. A year? More? Less?

  And she thought of the little stool for the pianoforte in the music room. That curious stool, made to accompany a pianoforte brought all the way from Italy, its color so close to the pianoforte’s that only a keen eye would discern a difference.

  Lily abruptly turned toward the music room. Inside, she lit a small candelabrum and stared down at the stool.

  Was it possible she’d been wrong about all that had happened here?

  The day she’d come back to Ashwood Keira had dragged her in here to show her the stool and had sparked a memory that had been lurking at the edge of Lily’s mind. But a memory of what? Had there been an affair between them? There was no evidence of it, really, nothing but this stool.

  Lily knelt down and turned the stool over and read the inscription: You are the song that plays on in my heart; for A, my love, my life, my heart’s only note. Yours for eternity, JS.

  Lily could remember her aunt sitting here, playing. Had she known the inscription had been there? Had she thought that Mr. Scott had been sadly misguided, or had she welcomed his sentiment? Either was entirely possible—Lily and Keira both had received gifts from gentlemen whom they had not encouraged.

  Still, if Keira’s theory was true, and Lily’s aunt and Mr. Scott had been lovers, the possibilities of what that meant were too disconcerting for Lily to contemplate.

  It upset her now; she righted the stool, blew out the candelabra, and quit the room. She made her way to her suite, questioning everything she thought she knew. Where were the jewels? If Mr. Scott had stolen them, what had become of them? If he hadn’t stolen them, where were they? Why had they never surfaced?

  And when she made her way downstairs for tea, her mind was buzzing with memories and thoughts. When Lily was a girl, Ashwood had been the premiere property in all of West Sussex. The Quality would come from London to take the air here. Wine and ale had flowed freely, and the staff of more than twenty had kept the house and grounds in pristine condition. Now, Lily was lucky to employ a dozen staff, and she fretted over her ability to keep them every day.

  What had happened to all the money? Mr. Fish said it was poor management, but Lily found it difficult to believe that a man as fiercely in control of his surroundings as the earl had been would be a poor steward of his inheritance. Nothing made sense to her anymore. It was terribly frustrating to think that the answers to her questions had died with Aunt Althea and Mr. Scott. There was no one left who could help her make sense of it; the only person who might possibly be able to help her piece it together was Tobin.

  If that was the case, then she would go to her grave wondering.

  At tea, as Lucy recounted her day in the flowing details of a child, Lily continued to brood on her predicament. She watched Lucy swirl her spoon in her teacup as she talked and thought that perhaps she could live an austere life—no new gowns, no beeswax candles. No soiree, certainly. No more charity. No charity! Which meant the orphans at St. Bartholomew would now suffer because of Tobin Scott’s twisted desire to ruin Ashwood. Did the man have no conscience? Was he incapable of understanding how many people he hurt?

  Lily’s mood was as black as the gloomy sky. She had foolishly believed that a title and inheritance might give her freedom, but it was beginning to seem quite the opposite. She felt trapped until a match came along, and no match would come if she had no purse.

  Lily smiled blankly at Lucy’s chatter, her fingers drumming mindlessly against her teacup as Linford served a bit of bread and some kippers. When she saw them, something inside Lily burst. They’d had kippers for lunch, and kippers yesterday as well—and now they’d have kippers in place of salmon?

  “Will you please explain to me, Linford,” she demanded of her butler at the sideboard, “why, at an estate as grand as Ashwood, we must be made to eat kippers at every meal?”

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” Linford said with a crooked bow, “but the fish are being harvested upstream to support Tiber Park. And the hunting is not as good as it has been in years past.”

  “Let me guess.” She angrily tossed her linen napkin aside. “Is Tiber Park hunting our forests?”

  “I cannot say, madam,” Linford said calmly. “Shall I have Mr. Fielding come round on the morrow?”

  “That will not be necessary.” Lily abruptly stood, waving off the footman who hurried to remove her chair. “Please have a carriage brought round.” She turned toward the door.

  “But where are you going?” Lucy asked plaintively.

  “I beg your pardon, darling,” Lily said, pausing briefly to cup Lucy’s face. “But there is a man who needs strangling.” She marched out, calling out to a startled Louis for her cloak.

  FIVE

  Tobin’s butler, Carlson, announced that Bolge was waiting for Tobin in the small study. Tiber Park was so grand that there was a small study, a larger library, private and public dining rooms, two drawing rooms, two salons, and a ballroom. Sometimes Tobin was amazed that he was the master of Tiber Park. He liked to imagine what his father might have thought of him.

  “Tell him I shall join him shortly,” Tobin said to Carlson. “And the others?” he asked, referring to Lord Horncastle, Mr. Sibley, and Captain MacKenzie.

  “The gentlemen Horncastle and Sibley await you in the gaming room,” Carlson said.

  Tobin added the plush red gaming room to his mental inventory of the rooms at his estate.

  “Captain MacKenzie sent word that he has been pleasurably detained in Hadley Green,” Carlson continued. “He asks that he might join you later.”

  At the Grousefeather Tavern, Tobin surmised. “Thank you,” he said and heard Carlson go out.

  Carlson was another product of the piece of Denmark now owned by Tobin. Carlson never called Tobin lord. Tobin wasn’t certain if it was a misunderstanding of the English language—although Carlson spoke it fluently—or if the man refused to do so on principle. Carlson had made it quite plain that he did not approve of how Tobin had obtained his Danish title, but Tobin hardly cared about Carlson’s principles. It was his impeccable service Tobin wanted, and he’d paid Carlson handsomely to put aside any scruples and come to England and serve him as any man of importance ought to be served.

  Tobin straightened his neckcloth. As it was wet outside, he’d planned billiards for his acquaintances before supper. He supposed Bolge and MacKenzie were the closest he had to friends, but in his years of high-stakes trading, one merely had acquaintances whom one could trust better than others.

  Bolge had graduated from ship galleys and now was a wealthy man in his own right, having made a career of helping men like Tobin get what they wanted. As large as he’d ever been, Bolge was standing in the middle of the study wearing a superfine coat of navy wool and gray trousers, his hair combed in the latest style. That was new—Bolge had never been one to court fashion.

  “Good to see you, Bolge,” Tobin said, extending his hand.

  “Always a pleasure, Scotty. Aye, but you look grander each time I see you.”

  Tobin smiled. “Whiskey?”

  “You know me well.”

  Tobin gestured to a footman.

  “I must thank you for your considerable help in this little matter,” Tobin said. Bolge was the one who had made the “offer” to the magistrate. Tobin removed a small vellum from his coat pocket; folded within it was a very generous banknote.

  “It was my pleasure,” Bolge
said, slipping the vellum into his pocket before accepting the whiskey from the footman.

  That was what Tobin admired most about Bolge. He never questioned. He just did. He clapped his hand onto Bolge’s thick shoulder. “Still unsettled on horseback?”

  “Ach, I am a seaman—not a horseman,” Bolge said, then began to complain about his last mount as they made their way to the gaming room.

  They walked down a carpeted corridor, past consoles with fine porcelain, hand-painted Oriental vases Tobin had stumbled across in a Marrakech souk, filled with flowers from the recently refurbished hothouse. They walked past wainscoting that had been gilded, silk wall coverings woven in India, and paintings bought from failing estates around the world.

  In the gaming room, where rich leather met deep red velvet trimmings, Sibley and Horncastle were playing billiards and drinking the Scotch whiskey MacKenzie had shipped here. Tobin had known MacKenzie for quite some time now. They’d met on the high seas, naturally—MacKenzie was a Scotsman with a hazy past who defied God and pure luck to sail any ship in any weather and through any blockade. Tobin considered him a kindred spirit, a fine captain, and as fine a gambler as they came.

  The gentlemen greeted one another. Horncastle, who hailed from Hadley Green, held out a tot of whiskey to Tobin. “You arrived just in time for a toast.”

  Horncastle was a brash young man with no ambitions that Tobin could see other than to drink, gamble, and whore. He was several years younger than Tobin and had grown into an effeminate, aimless man.

  “To a day of good luck and better fortune,” Horncastle said.

  “To luck and fortune!” the men all avowed.

  The four men talked about the prospects for hunting on the morrow in the vast forests around Tiber Park. A footman—Rupert, Richard, Tobin could scarcely remember them all—brought in a platter and set it on a sideboard. He removed the dome to reveal small cuts of ham and cheeses.

  The men were helping themselves to the repast when Carlson appeared and bowed. “Pardon, sir, but you have a visitor.”