The Revenge of Lord Eberlin

by Julia London

  “Your ladyship, you are a star among some rather dull planets,” Miss Babcock gushed as she admired Lily’s gown.

  “How kind of you,” Lily said. “I am happy to see a friend among so many unfamiliar faces.”

  “Yet there is hardly anyone about, is there?” Miss Babcock asked with a wry smile.

  Lily glanced around. Miss Babcock was right—the room was not as crowded as one might have expected.

  “They are all from Sussex,” Miss Babcock said and linked her arm with Lily’s. “No one of any importance has come down from town.”

  “No?” Lily said curiously, studying the crowd a bit closer.

  “No one, on account of his title and occupation,” Miss Babcock added sagely. “They do not wish to be associated with him.”

  How was it that Daria Babcock seemed to know the things she always seemed to know?

  Miss Babcock was smiling prettily as she eyed the crowd shrewdly. “I heard a footman say there were not more than one hundred people in attendance this evening,” she said idly. “Yet he invited three hundred.”

  Lily didn’t know what to make of that news, but she found it disconcerting. Regardless of how she felt about Tobin, she was appalled by the strictures society placed on men like him. What did he have to do to be deemed acceptable?

  “Well?” Miss Babcock said, playfully nudging Lily with her shoulder. “Did you make the acquaintance of the count’s sister?”

  “I did,” Lily said, and could feel her cheeks warming.

  “She’s quite pretty,” Miss Babcock said. “I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of her daughter,” she added, as if she’d expected the girl to be paraded through the crowd so they all might have a look. “I find it unbearably sad that Miss Scott will never be accepted into proper society.”

  Lily tore her gaze away from the magnificent decorations and the crystal snowflakes overhead. “She is here at this ball, is she not? That would make her accepted to me.”

  “Well, of course she is here,” Miss Babcock said, her fingers fluttering against her dangling earring. “We in Hadley Green have forgiven the Scotts their scandal, for they’ve done so well for themselves and they’ve been quite generous. But in London, well, that’s entirely different.” At Lily’s continued silence, Miss Babcock shrugged. “There is the circumstance of her brother’s title and occupation. And if that were not enough to warrant it, Miss Scott has a bastard child. It hardly speaks well of her.”

  That was precisely the sort of thinking that could drive Lily to madness. Society would condone illicit affairs as long as they were undertaken with discretion, but God forbid a woman should bear a child as a result of it. “Aren’t the decorations magnificent?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Oh, indeed!” Miss Babcock said with great enthusiasm. “I understand that it will actually snow this evening—can you imagine it? At some point, it will fall on the dancers. Is that not divine?”

  “Lady Ashwood! You have come!” Lily recognized Mrs. Morton’s voice and turned to see her hurrying through the crowd, tugging Mr. Morton along behind her.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Morton.”

  “I am so glad to see you,” Mrs. Morton said as she dipped a quick curtsy. “I said to Mrs. Ogle that I was certain you would attend, for you do not seem the sort to be bothered much by propriety, but Mrs. Ogle was convinced that you would not attend without proper escort. And I was right.” She smiled broadly, leaving Lily speechless. “Did you tell her the news, Daria?”

  “What news?” Lily asked, fairly certain she would not like whatever the news was.

  “Oh, but we were thrilled to see Mr. Robert Anders present this evening,” Mrs. Morton said. “Have you made his acquaintance?”

  Lest these women had forgotten, Lily had not made a lot of acquaintances, as everyone had treated her as if she’d had leprosy when she’d first arrived at Ashwood. “I have not.”

  “No? Then surely your cousin made favorable mention of him,” Mrs. Morton said.

  “Madam, you will do us all a great service if you will stop with your nattering before you say something we shall all regret.” Mr. Morton muttered the words in a manner that suggested he’d said them so many times that he could say them and scarcely be aware that he had.

  “My cousin did not mention him,” Lily said pleasantly, but privately she wondered how many things Keira had not thought to tell her.

  “Well!” Mrs. Morton squared her shoulders and her expectations. “I am pleased to tell you that he was quite taken with your cousin—that is, before the, ah . . . the event,” she said carefully, referring to Keira’s fraud. “It happily occurred to me that as he was taken with her, and that he has five thousand pounds a year, that he might very well be taken with you, as well!” She smiled brightly, as if this declaration was in no way ill mannered or even slightly humiliating. She actually seemed to think she was bestowing a kindness on Lily.

  Mr. Morton looked appalled.

  “At least he has come tonight,” Miss Babcock said. “And of all of them here, he is the only one truly worthy of your consideration.”

  Lily hardly knew what to say to such blatant matchmaking. It seemed to be the only thing that interested these women.

  “I thought Eberlin was worthy, in spite of what Lady Horncastle said,” Mrs. Morton said with a roll of her eyes. “Think how lovely it would be to have them both here at Tiber Park! Alas, Eberlin is as good as gone to London.”

  “I have not heard he is to London,” Miss Babcock said.

  “Daria, you were standing just beside me when he said he’d leave at Christmas with his sister and likely would not return for a year or more.”

  “But I thought he meant he’d not return again to London after that.”

  Lily’s heart sank. Why would he leave now, after the breach between them had been bridged?

  “Now then, Mr. Anders—”

  “If you please, Mrs. Morton, I shall make his acquaintance another time,” Lily said. “I really must find a bit of . . . punch.” She hoped there was good Irish whiskey in this house. “If you will excuse me?” She turned away, wanting to make her escape, and almost collided with a gentleman whom she recognized as one of Tobin’s friends. “Pardon me,” she said and stepped to one side.

  So did he, keeping himself directly before her. He smiled charmingly; his clear blue eyes sparkled with it. “Lady Ashwood,” he said, bowing.

  “Allow me!” Mr. Morton said, obviously pleased to have a useful role. “Lady Ashwood, may I present Captain MacKenzie of Scotland?”

  “My lady,” Captain MacKenzie said with a slight burr, and crossed one arm across his chest as he bowed low.

  “Captain.”

  “Might I inquire, have you any space on your dance card for a sea captain?”

  This was hardly a London assembly. “I do not have a dance card.”

  “Splendid! Then I might impose on you for this dance, aye?” he asked, and held out his arm to her.

  Lily blinked.

  “We best take our places, then. It’s difficult to join a proper reel when the dance is in progress.”

  Lily was aware that the little group of acquaintances was staring intently at her, waiting to see if she accepted. Captain MacKenzie seemed amused, judging by the way his eyes shone. It was either him, or the Mortons. She assessed the lesser of two evils and put her hand on Captain McKenzie’s arm. “Thank you.”

  He led her out to the dance floor, where they took their place with another couple for the Scottish reel. “I am right pleased that you accepted my invitation to engage in this dance,” he said as the orchestra began to play. “For it is the only one I know how to do.”

  Lily smiled at that and curtsied, and on the proper beat, she slipped her arm into his and began the dance. He wheeled her about one way, then the other, and they went on that way without conversation, turning and moving about their little square. The last time she’d danced had been in Rome, many months ago. That seemed like another lifetime n
ow.

  When the song came to an end, Lily smiled and curtsied again. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “You are as lovely a dancer as you are a countess,” he said, offering his arm and escorting her off the dance floor. “It’s quite easy to see why my old friend is smitten with you.”

  Lily didn’t know what to say to that.

  “Eberlin,” he said, mistaking her silence for ignorance. “Do you not know it, then? No, of course you donna know it. He’s not the sort to proclaim his feelings with gifts or song, aye?” he said cheerfully. “But I do know it, lass, and in all the years I have known him, I’ve never seen him so beguiled.”

  Lily stopped walking. “What do you mean?”

  McKenzie laughed. “I mean that he is smitten.” He flashed his infectious grin once more.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Ah, lass, donna judge a man by his scowl. Aye, his is a rather fierce one, but he’s no’ as hard as he seems.”

  “Has he expressed his true feelings to you?”

  “No’ precisely. But I’ve known the lad for years now, and I’ve no’ seen him chop down a hedgerow ere now.”

  The captain was confusing her. “Pardon?”

  MacKenzie laughed. “You may trust when a man takes out a mile of hedgerow without benefit of wages or even a wee bit of help that he’s either mad or he’s smitten.”

  Was it true? And if it were, did it not complicate her jumbled feelings even more? She had wanted him to be smitten, had wanted him to want her . . . but at the same time, she realized that nothing could come of it. She had put herself into a deep morass.

  Captain MacKenzie took her silence as doubt, apparently, for he said, “I saw the way he looked at you, and I took great notice in the change in him. I donna mean to belabor this, for I see it makes you uncomfortable. Yet I see he is befuddled by it, and how he convinces himself it is no’ what he thinks—for he thinks himself above it. I tell you this because he has been me good and loyal friend, and I would like to see him happy for once in his bloody life.” Captain MacKenzie bowed low. “Thank you kindly for the dance.”

  With that, he sauntered off.

  Lily stood rooted to her spot as she watched him disappear into the crowd. She didn’t know if there was even a bit of truth to it, or if it was one man’s wishful thinking—but was it not what she’d set out to do? Had she not schemed for him to fall in love with her so that she could save Ashwood? But she’d never dreamed she would fall in love with him. She’d never thought she could possibly even care for him. But she did. Oh, God, she did. And now she didn’t know what to do.

  TWENTY

  “You seem weary,” Charity said.

  Tobin’s sister was standing beside him, leaning up against a Grecian column. She was dressed in pale green muslin that went well with her complexion. She was lovely, even in her apathy. More than one male eye had turned in her direction. Yet Charity seemed oblivious. Or uncaring.

  “I thought you’d be leaping with joy at having shown them all that we’ve survived,” she said, her voice full of tedium.

  He’d expected to feel satisfied by this ball, to feel as if he had gained what he’d sought for years. But no one had come. Oh, half of Hadley Green had come—the half who waited for an opportunity such as this to see how the haut ton lived. But the haut ton had shunned him. No one from London had come down, in spite of the three dozen invitations he’d had Howell deliver there. The Darlingtons, who were only a half mile away, had declined. Even Horncastle’s mother had sent her regrets. The people he had wanted to see him would not look at him.

  That left a tension in his veins, a thickening of his blood, a swelling in his throat.

  “Why do you not dance?” Charity asked.

  He shrugged. “What of you? You’ve got Horncastle practically on his knees begging you to dance. Why do you refuse him?”

  Charity rolled her eyes. “He hardly seems whelped, much less capable of carrying out the figures required for a Scots reel.”

  “He is not the most polished of gentlemen, I agree. But I thought you’d be pleased with the change from London.”

  “It is different,” she conceded. “I wonder why you are leaving this bucolic setting. You have been so determined to be here, and honestly, I thought I’d lost you to the country. I was surprised to hear you say that you’d likely leave by winter’s end.”

  Tobin shrugged. He couldn’t really say why he’d said that to the Mortons. It was as though the thought had entered his head at the same moment it had left his mouth. He’d not thought of when exactly he would return to London before this evening. But then he’d seen Lily, as beautiful as an angel, and he’d not been able to keep his gaze from her. He’d watched her laugh with a toad of a man, dance with MacKenzie, smile charmingly, and speak with animation as a few women had collectively admired her bracelet.

  Tobin had not thought of leaving here until he’d felt the light begin to seep in through the fissures of his mud and he’d felt . . . afraid. And Tobin did not like to feel afraid. He’d never felt like this about another person. He’d never awakened in the middle of the night, desperate to be near her. So he did what he had always done when life was particularly difficult. Rise up. Press on. Keep moving while you have a wind at your back.

  And then again, perhaps it wasn’t Lily at all that had prompted him to say he was leaving. Perhaps it had been this ball. He’d expected his house to have been filled to the rafters, and it had not been. He’d expected to feel entirely himself in his own home, yet he had not. He had foolishly believed that here, in the private fortress he’d built, the spell could not come over him. Yet he could feel it creeping down his spine, spreading in his scalp, making his skin prickle with dreaded anticipation.

  “Come, Tobin,” Charity said, straightening. “You are the host of this lavish ball. You must dance.”

  He eyed the dance floor warily.

  “I will not allow you to step on anyone’s toes.” She held out her hand.

  Tobin reluctantly took it.

  They danced a quadrille—or rather, Charity danced, and he moved woodenly about, trying to remember the figures and feeling entirely conspicuous. Dancing was not something that was taught in the galleys of merchant ships. He’d learned some basic steps out of necessity, and there had been a particularly enthusiastic partner in Malaga, Spain, who had taught him how seductive a dance could be. But he’d never excelled in it.

  It didn’t help that he could see Lily close by, dancing expertly with Lord Horncastle. With every turn he made, his gaze landed on her. She was smiling, clearly enjoying herself, and there was elegance in her step and the way she extended her arms. He’d seen women like her in London: the most sought-after, most attractive women in town. Women who married dukes and earls, who had beautiful children and privileged lives.

  They did not give their virtue to men who traded arms and had purchased their titles.

  When the dance came to its blessed end, Tobin offered to fetch Charity some punch, but she demurred, saying she would rather take the air. Tobin availed himself of a tot of whiskey, and then another, in an attempt to relax. He found himself standing beside Miss Babcock, and after she made several pointed observations of the dancers (so few!) and the music (so loud!), he felt compelled to ask her to dance. He suffered through another quadrille, but this time, it felt as if the dancers were crowding in around him, swirling too close.

  Miss Babcock tried gamely to converse with him, but Tobin could not oblige her and keep his place in the figures. Especially since he kept seeking Lily on the dance floor.

  His thoughts about her were confusing and unsettling. He’d come here to ruin her, but he wanted to wake up in the night and find her there, beside him. Yet judging by the evening’s turnout, he could no longer pretend his purchased title would make him acceptable in the haut ton. He would never be more than the son of a thief, so there was no real future for them. Besides, how could he ever reconcile a future with a woman who had
sent his father to the gallows? He had only to look at Charity to know it was impossible. The past he shared with Lily both drew them together and pushed them apart, and there it came again—another wave of fear over his feelings for her.

  Tobin’s competing thoughts had given him a blinding headache. He needed a hedgerow, something physical to do to ease the tension in his body, which was beginning to constrict so tightly that he couldn’t draw a proper breath. He started for the terrace doors, thinking the brisk air would help him.

  Unfortunately, before he could make his escape, Mrs. Morton and another woman he recognized as being from Hadley Green sailed through the crowd like advancing warships and accosted him.

  “My lord!” Mrs. Morton said. “Do please tell Mrs. Langley that you are going to London. She refuses to believe me.”

  “This is most distressing news,” Mrs. Langley said, whose husband, Tobin realized, the only shoemaker in town, had relied on Tobin’s loans these last two months. “You cannot mean to leave us!”

  The women moved closer; Tobin’s throat began to tighten.

  “We’ve only just gotten you back. Look at all you’ve done since your return to Hadley Green!”

  Others nearby began to turn toward them, to hear what the fuss was about.

  “Madam, I have not—”

  “Surely you find us agreeable,” Mrs. Morton said laughingly, although she looked uncertain. “We certainly find you agreeable.” People standing close by laughed.

  The sound was like daggers into Tobin’s head, almost buckling his knees. He blinked; he felt trapped, his back to the wall as the panic began to rise up in him like bile. He was desperate to find his voice, to quit this room, to find someplace he could at least draw air into his lungs.

  “I do believe we’ve left him speechless,” Mrs. Morton observed. “My dear sir, you are not aware how very much admired you are!”

  He could see the door close by, that portal to privacy, yet he could not make his feet or his tongue move. His greatest fear was suddenly real—he would make a fool of himself before all of Hadley Green. He would crumble in a great heap and drown in their laughter. His lungs felt as if they were collapsing, and he gulped a breath—