The Revenge of Lord Eberlin

by Julia London

  Donnelly’s expression had darkened even more as he’d walked up the steps to stand before Tobin. “I understand that you believe you’ve somehow been harmed by the Lady Ashwood. She refuses to tell me precisely what misery you have inflicted on her, but it is obvious that you’ve caused her distress. So hear this, sir: if you cause her harm, you will have me to deal with.”

  “You are quite determined to vex me, I think.”

  Undeterred, Donnelly moved closer. “I am a powerful man,” he said evenly. “I could ruin you with a word.”

  “Then say it,” Tobin snapped. “Say your bloody word, Donnelly. I have nothing to fear from you.”

  Donnelly smiled coldly. “Are you certain of that?”

  “Take your leave,” Tobin had snapped, and he’d turned and walked into his very grand house, his fist clenching. For once, it was not a spell that made him tense. This time, he kept his fist clenched to keep from hitting Donnelly square in the face.

  Today, as Tobin and his stablemaster rode up the path to Kitridge Lodge—an old Norman castle that had been converted into a hunting lodge for the Darlington family—he saw a small carriage in the drive drawn by a single horse. Behind it was the larger Ashwood coach. And standing next to the coach were Lady Ashwood, Miss Taft, and Donnelly.

  Tobin slowed his horse as he joined those gathered on the lawn. Lily was wearing a wide-brimmed bonnet, so he could see only the lower half of her face. Donnelly noticed him, of course, and leaned into Lily to say something before walking away.

  “Good morning, ladies,” Tobin said as he dismounted.

  As usual, Lucy greeted him sunnily. “I am going to Ireland!” she announced grandly, as if this news was just this moment known to her.

  “So you are,” Tobin said. He reached into his saddlebag. “I have a gift for you, if Lady Ashwood will allow me.”

  “For me?” Lucy asked, clearly thrilled.

  “For you,” Tobin said, and held out a mink muff. “I understand it can be quite cold and damp on those Irish moors.”

  Lucy gasped with delight. “Thank you!” She touched her cheek to the muff. “It’s so very soft! See what he has given me, Lady Aswhood!” She whirled around to Lily to show her. “May I accept it?”

  “It is only a small token,” Tobin said before she could refuse. “With winter coming, she will need it.”

  Lily stared at the muff, her bottom lip between her teeth. “That’s a very thoughtful gift.” She looked up at him. “Thank you.”

  Lucy stuffed her hands into it and whirled about to Tobin. “Thank you! I am to have my own carriage. See?” She pointed excitedly to the little carriage.

  “Quite grand,” Tobin said.

  “And then I shall sail on a boat,” she continued. “Have you ever been on a boat?”

  “Many times.”

  “May I put my muff in the carriage?” Lucy asked.

  “All right. But do stay out of the way of the men,” Lily said. She reached out to touch Lucy’s head, but Lucy skipped away before she could reach her.

  Lily lowered her hand and looked away from Tobin.

  “Do you refuse to speak to me now?” he asked quietly.

  “Should I not?” Lily said lightly, and wiped a gloved finger beneath her eye. “Have you done something untoward?”

  Tobin frowned. He dipped his head a little to see under the brim of her hat, but Lily turned away again. He moved closer and dipped again. “Are those tears?”

  “Hush,” Lily whispered, and when Tobin touched her arm, she batted it away. “I don’t want Lucy to see me. The poor girl feels responsible as it is, and I don’t wish to upset her.”

  “Responsible?” Tobin said, confused. “For what?”

  Lily sighed and cast her gaze to the heavens as if he tried her patience. “Does it matter?”

  “I cannot begin to fathom what an eight- or nine-year-old girl might feel responsible for,” Tobin said.

  Lily swung around and pinned him with a look.

  Baffled, Tobin looked her up and down. “What?”

  “Can you not fathom even one thing?” she asked irritably. “For you seem to think that I should have felt some responsibility at that age.”

  “That is different,” he said gruffly, but he felt stung, called out.

  She clucked her tongue and turned away just as Lucy bounded into their midst again.

  “Pappa said he is almost ready,” she said. “He said I am to call him Pappa now and that it will take us a week to reach Ballynaheath if the weather does not turn.” She glanced at Tobin. “That is where I shall live. It’s a castle in Ireland.”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling. “You have told me. At least four times now, if my count is accurate.”

  Donnelly appeared behind Lucy, his gaze cold. “If you have come for your horse, it is over there,” he said, pointing away from them.

  “I know where the stable is,” Tobin said.

  “Then if you will excuse us,” Donnelly said, and put a protective arm around Lily’s shoulder to lead her toward the carriage with Lucy skipping ahead of them.

  Tobin did not walk on to the stables—he followed them.

  Lucy was floating with excitement, and while Tobin kept a respectable distance, he watched as Lily sank down before Lucy. “You will do as Lord Donnelly asks you at all times, will you not, Lucy? And you will mind your manners as well?”

  “Yes, I remember everything you told me,” Lucy agreed, her head bobbing in agreement.

  Lily grasped the girl’s arms. “And promise you will write to me, Lucy. Lady Donnelly writes a letter a week, and you may send one along with hers so that I will have all your news.”

  “One letter every week,” Lucy said solemnly.

  Lily wrapped her arms around so tightly around Lucy that Tobin feared she was squeezing the breath from her. When the girl squirmed, Lily reluctantly let her go. “Godspeed, my darling,” she said, and kissed her cheek.

  “Farewell, countess!” Lucy said brightly.

  Lucy was, Tobin realized, too young to understand Lily’s loss, and too excited to notice her sadness.

  Lily stood up. “Have a care for her,” she told Donnelly.

  “With my own life,” Donnelly assured her, and hugged Lily. “Come home, lass,” he said, and Tobin felt his heart quicken. “You need not stay here if you do not desire it, aye? You will always have a home in Ireland.”

  “Aye.” She smiled sadly at Donnelly, but her smile brightened when she turned to Lucy. “Safe journey!”

  “Good-bye, Count Eberlin! Good-bye, Lady Ashwood!” Lucy called as she bounded to the carriage. “Good-bye, Louis!” she said with a jaunty wave to the footman who sat next to the coachman.

  “Good-bye, lass! Godspeed!” Louis called after her.

  Donnelly swung up on one of the horses and looked down at Tobin. “We will return,” he said. “All of us.”

  Tobin didn’t know if Donnelly meant the king’s army or Lily’s family, but either hardly mattered to him. He shrugged.

  Donnelly looked down at Lily and with a wink, he made a tchk sound that started the horses forward, the carriage following behind. Tobin moved to stand beside Lily as the carriage pulled away, and Lucy leaned out the window and waved furiously at them before disappearing inside once more.

  Tobin glanced at Lily. As he suspected, tears were trickling down her face, and he felt another tiny leap of his heart.

  The footman hopped off the Ashwood coach and opened the door. “My lady,” he said. With her head down, the brim of her hat covering her eyes, Lily started for the coach. But as she walked past, Tobin reached out and touched his fingers to hers. She paused for a slender moment, and he felt her fingers brush against his. And with that, he felt a tiny little crack form in the black ooze inside him, and an even tinier bit of light shine through.

  Tobin thought of what he should say, to ease her loss, to comfort her. But before he could think of the appropriate words, the door of the lodge was flung open and a beautiful woma
n stepped outside. “Lily, do come in for tea!” she called out. She glanced at Tobin, then at Lily again.

  Lily hesitated.

  Another man appeared at Tobin’s side. “My lord, your horse is ready,” he said.

  “The tea is freshly brewed and Mrs. Noakes has made biscuits. Please come in, Lady Ashwood.”

  Lily seemed to hesitate before stepping forward, but she walked to the lodge without sparing him a glance. He watched her go inside with the woman, and the door close behind them.

  Then he glanced around, and realized that everyone else had gone about their day, and he was utterly alone.

  EIGHTEEN

  Preparations for the First Winter’s Night Ball kept the staff of Tiber Park in a state of chaotic activity for the next several days. Tobin had made it clear that work must be completed on the new courtyard, and that renovations to the common areas of the house must be finished as well. Dozens of men had been put to work, and the grounds were beginning to look immaculate and the house pristine.

  To prepare the ballroom, Tobin had engaged the services of a gentleman from London who dressed theater stages for a living. Mr. Kissler had brought a crew of men and materials down from London to create a winter garden, a scene that would rival any decoration Carlton House had ever seen. Tobin had never seen the ballroom of Carlton House, or even knew what sort of decorations it had had, other than what he’d read in the Morning Times. But he’d heard of the Prince of Wales’s penchant for scenery, and he was determined to have a ballroom every bit as grand as that at Carlton House.

  Mr. Kissler completely transformed the ballroom. Soft white down covered the ceiling to look like clouds, and from those clouds hung dozens upon dozens of crystal stars that twinkled in the light from the three candelabras. Small pine trees had been arranged in huge clay pots, their limbs decorated with snow and crystal icicles. On the balcony, where the orchestra would sit, mountains had been made of wooden frames and cloth, which would hide the musicians but not impede their music. To Tobin’s guests, it would seem as if the waltz was being played from the French Alps.

  On the night of the ball, ice sculptures would grace either end of the ballroom, and a large circular fountain of libations would flow all night. A temporary dining room had been erected in the courtyard, where a full-course meal would be served at midnight. It would be one of the most splendid evenings the residents of Hadley Green had ever experienced.

  Tobin was also preparing for the arrival of Charity and Catherine. Charity hadn’t wanted to come, but he had implored her. He certainly understood her misgivings; she held no fond memories of Hadley Green either and, unlike him, she had no desire for revenge. Frankly, Tobin didn’t know what she desired any longer. She kept her wishes to herself and said only that she wanted to be left alone with her daughter, rambling about his Mayfair town home and avoiding society.

  Normally Tobin would do whatever his sister wished, but this time he needed her. He needed a familiar face, fearing what could happen if a spell descended on him. He would need his sister to help him unknot his body and his mind if they became taut.

  “But what of Catherine?” Charity had asked when Tobin had told her he wanted her at Tiber Park.

  “You cannot keep the child tucked away as if she were some precious Oriental flower,” he’d said gently. “She needs society.”

  “She does not need Hadley Green society,” Charity had sniffed.

  Tobin had not been able to argue with her feelings, but he’d nevertheless prevailed, and Charity was due to arrive the following morning.

  His sister’s arrival would leave only one thing undone, Tobin thought that afternoon as he neared the end of his hedgerow. There was one thing that weighed heavily on his mind, and bloody hell if he hadn’t been cursed with troubling thoughts—inexplicably tender thoughts—about Lily Boudine.

  He could even point to the day he’d first had them. It was the day she’d come riding into the forest with that absurdly flintless gun, as if she were the sheriff. It was the moment she had been standing on the steps of Ashwood, gripping her riding crop as if her life had depended on it, determined to pick up the gauntlet. He had greatly admired her pluck and cunning for doing precisely the opposite of what he’d expected.

  The feeling he’d experienced that day had been nothing more than a noticeable tic—but it had rooted.

  Tobin swung his ax and felt the resistance of the stubborn hedgerow reverberate through his body.

  When she’d come to dine, he’d had every intention of seducing her. But he’d felt that abominable tic in him again when she’d left him standing there, reeling from the strength of her ethereal kiss and the uncomfortable knowledge that he wanted to see her again.

  He’d had stronger, more tender thoughts of her when he’d seen her frolicking on the riverbank with Lucy, and he’d certainly felt something the day he’d found her at the cottage, where, in the haze of his formidable physical desire for a beautiful woman, he’d seen a glimpse of the girl Lily had once been, the incorrigible, spirited lass who had vexed him. He’d softened that day.

  But when Tobin had gone to Ashwood, and had seen her in her sickbed, he’d felt the thing that frightened him the most. He’d felt concern. Alarm. She’d looked so small and forlorn, without anyone she loved to care for her. He’d almost felt the black mud in him begin to dry.

  Such incomprehensible feelings were insupportable. He swung the ax again. Had this secret illness addled his brain? Had he not been beguiled by other beautiful women without developing such bothersome feelings? Yes, he had . . . but with Lily, there was a familiarity he’d not accounted for.

  That familiarity and the bloody tender feelings had been eating away at him the day he’d gone to London with Bolge. He’d taken his sister to Bond Street to be measured for new gowns, and as he’d waited, he’d seen the blasted gold gown in the dress shop window. Like a green young lad with his first infatuation, he’d made an impetuous purchase, all because he’d remembered her swanning about in her aunt’s gowns as a girl, acting the queen. She would tilt up her chin, and with her aunt’s priceless ruby coronet on her head, she’d walk with her hand held out, as if she’d expected a knight to rush up and take it as he dropped to his knees and swore his fealty. “Do bring tea, young man,” she’d say to him, and Tobin could remember rolling his eyes and turning his back to her so that he might finish the book he was reading.

  Then, fifteen years later, he’d walked into a Bond Street dress shop and touched the shimmering gold brocade in the window, and he’d seen Lily, regal and beautiful, a winter queen in her own right, wearing that gown.

  After she’d refused it and sent it back to him, he’d tossed it into the guest room, annoyed with himself for having succumbed to the creaky feelings of tenderness.

  But then . . . then he’d felt a troublesome surge of tenderness again when he’d watched Lily say a tearful farewell to Lucy Taft. He hadn’t wanted to empathize with her—God no, not after the way she and Donnelly had treated him at Ashwood. But he’d not been able to help himself. The expression on her face had been his undoing, and when she’d touched her fingers to his, he’d lost himself.

  He wanted to see her in the gown. He wanted to touch her fingers once more, to feel her lips beneath his, taste her skin, smell her hair—

  God, what was wrong with him?

  Tobin chopped the last of the hedgerow and threw down his ax. He glanced at Mr. Greenhaven and said, “All done. Now find me another.” And with that he stalked up to the house, wishing he could turn his flesh inside out and scratch the prickly sensation.

  He took the stairs two at a time up to the first floor. He did not glance at the footman and the maid who stood to one side as he passed. He did not pause to ask someone to draw him a bath. He walked to the newly furnished suite of rooms he had designated for Charity and Catherine, and opened the wardrobe.

  There was the gown, hanging alone.

  Tobin looked down at his hand and remembered the feel of Lily’
s fingers touching his. When, exactly, had he lost sight of his reason for being here? When had his rage dissipated into the desire to be part of something more . . . uplifting? He still felt the rage, but its sharp edges had been dulled.

  So it was not a great surprise to Tobin when he found himself on the road to Ashwood later that afternoon, the gown folded and attached to the rump of his horse. He rapped loudly at the door and stood with one foot on the threshold when Linford informed him that Lady Ashwood was behind closed doors with her estate agent.

  “I’ll wait,” Tobin said and strode into the foyer before Linford could turn him away. He sat on one of two chairs, the bundle of the gown on his lap.

  Linford looked pained by Tobin’s obstinacy. “I cannot say how long she might be, my lord.”

  “That is quite all right.” A moment passed before Linford, either too tired or too old to argue, lumbered away, leaving Tobin to sit in the foyer as if he were some youthful suitor who did not know these sorts of battles were won in the darkened stairwells at balls or behind the decorative greenery at supper parties. But he continued to sit, for he knew that if he stood, he likely would walk out the door and not come back. He would sink back into the blackness and allow it to cover his head.

  He had no idea how much time had passed when he heard a door close and the sound of a man’s footfall. He stood slowly, his bundle under one arm.

  Mr. Fish appeared in the foyer with one of the footmen. He looked startled when he saw Tobin there and exchanged a look with the footman. He then glanced down the corridor from whence he’d just come before turning back to Tobin. “Is the countess expecting you?” he asked crisply.

  Tobin resisted the urge to fidget with his neckcloth. “No.”

  Mr. Fish looked him up and down, obviously debating what his response should be. It was plain how determined the man was to despise him, so Tobin was not surprised when Mr. Fish strode across the foyer and glared up at Tobin. “You are a vile man,” he said low. “You prey on an innocent and unprotected woman.”