A Clandestine Courtship

by Allison Lane

  James nodded in satisfaction. A rake and a dreamer. Neither would pay attention to his moods. And the entertainment they provided would allow him to mask any unseemly emotions this confrontation with the past might raise.

  “Is it true that you know Napoleon?” asked Edwin when James paused to allow their mounts to catch up.

  “We have met, but I can hardly claim to know the man. I was in France during the Peace of Amiens ten years ago,” he added, seeing the question trembling on Harry’s lips.

  Paris had been his first stop after leaving England – and the beginning of a Grand Tour few of his friends had managed. The remnants of the French aristocracy had welcomed the English flocking across the Channel, suppressing their doubts and hiding their woes behind determined celebration. The gaiety had pulled him out of his own pain and turned his eyes to the future.

  France had offered delightful diversions, though even a cursory examination had convinced him that the peace could not last; Napoleon had been using it to consolidate his power, resupply his army, and enflame the populace into supporting new campaigns. But the memories could still make James smile. From there, he had traveled to Austria, Italy, Egypt, and finally to India, where he had acquired a fortune that made his inheritance seem paltry.

  “How were the Parisian ladies?” asked Harry slyly.

  “Sophisticated, but just as willing as that serving girl you ogled in the taproom last night.”

  “I do enjoy a lusty wench, and she was certainly lusty.” Harry let out an exaggerated sigh, then burst into laughter at Edwin’s flushed face.

  Though Edwin never openly criticized other men’s liaisons, he was a bit of a prude who blushed like a schoolgirl when embarrassed. It was not a reaction he could hide, for he was cursed with the pale, transparent complexion common among redheads, so he provided endless entertainment for his fellows.

  “We are nearly there,” said James unnecessarily, to protect Edwin’s feelings. The lad was good-natured about his affliction, but James disliked jokes at anyone’s expense. He had been the victim of teasing too often to ignore the pain that usually accompanied it. His brother had been a master at using subtle barbs to undermine an opponent’s nerve or tarnish his reputation.

  “Did you visit Rome in your travels?” asked Edwin.

  “No, but I was in Naples for several months.” He saw the question on Harry’s lips, licked his own in appreciation, then described the Roman sites he had visited. Even Harry asked thoughtful questions, immersing them in antiquity and diverting his mind from his last day at the Court.

  His description of the catacombs enthralled his companions as they passed the gates to Northfield Manor. His visits to Avellino and Benevento – where he had admired the Roman theater and the exquisite artistry of Trajan’s Arch – carried them beyond a dozen tenant farms.

  But his reprieve couldn’t last forever. They rounded a corner and crossed a bridge. Ridgeway dust now swirled around his horse’s hooves and billowed behind the baggage carriage wheels.

  Memories swept over him, making his hands tremble. Panic clawed at his chest, worse than he had expected, gripping him with an airless tension that would not dissipate. Evil eyes bored into his back.

  He cursed under his breath, for his reaction made no sense. It was the people he had fled, not the place. And the people were gone. What evil could remain now?

  The park gates stood open, offering an unlikely welcome, but the house was hidden behind its hill. Secretive. Furtive. Like so many of its masters. That had certainly been true of John. What would James find here?

  He shivered.

  Harry was again waxing poetic over the tavern wench, but James no longer cared. Memories of his brother lodged a lump in his throat. This was why he had procrastinated. He could not face Ridgeway without also coming to terms with his feelings for John Underwood, ninth Earl of Ridgeway, and his elder brother by ten minutes.

  Their relationship had always defied description. He had wanted to believe that their shared blood was more than an accident of birth and that family meant something. Twins were supposed to be closer than normal brothers, able to read each other’s thoughts, willing to support each other against any threat. So he had made excuses, offered forgiveness, and ignored even blatant treachery for more than twenty years. When that failed, he had left, repudiating both blood and family.

  Fool!

  His unswerving trust had blinded him until it was too late. Now he was faced with cleaning up the wreckage John had left behind and with trying to understand what had gone wrong. The first step was to figure out why John had died.

  What had he done to incite murder?

  James closed his eyes in a futile attempt to quell a mounting headache. The question had too many answers. He had accepted John’s venality ten years earlier. Their shared blood tied him to a man he could never respect, tarnishing his own image and drawing suspicion onto his head that would never fully dissipate.

  But despite that, he could not allow John’s killer to escape. So how was he to discover which vice had triggered the final attack? And how many new transgressions would he uncover at the Court? They would be legion – which was another reason he had postponed this visit; he had not been ready to face the worst.

  John had never visited his other estates, so his orders there had merely inflicted general hardship as he milked the properties of every shilling. But his motives at Ridgeway would have gone far beyond his quest for wealth.

  James shivered. He had already found evidence in London that John had used the power of his position to avenge perceived slights. Had he expended his fury at his twin by striking out at anyone James had cared for? It wasn’t an idle fear, for John had threatened to do just that.

  Edwin was retaliating against Harry’s sexual braggadocio with a discourse on Roman viaducts that had Harry gnashing his teeth, but James hardly heard it. Traversing this road, seeing these hills, and hearing the stream boil over a rocky fall recalled every horror of his last visit.

  He forced the memories away by scrupulously examining every tree and shrub in his path, but the battle to forget only increased his feeling of doom. He dreaded this return, dreaded facing the breadth of John’s anger and the ashes of his revenge, dreaded meeting tenants who would blame James for calling disaster onto their heads.

  But he had no choice. He was now the earl, responsible for the welfare of Ridgeway and all its people. He could evade his duty no longer.

  Rounding the hill, he led the way to the house.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mary turned her horse along the shortcut through Ridgeway’s woods. She needed to visit one of the tenants, but first she must recover the poise her encounter with Mrs. Bridwell had shattered.

  Her reaction had been stupid, she admitted as Acorn picked his way across a stream. The vicar’s wife never failed to find fault with her, and today had been no exception. She should not have let the spiteful words destroy her composure, for they meant nothing.

  But they had caught her at a bad time. Between preparing for Justin’s arrival and fretting over her future, she was exhausted. Instead of turning the criticism aside with her usual bland comment, she had bolted, loath to reveal the tears pooling in her eyes.

  She had overreacted. Today’s complaint was an old one – her habit of riding about the countryside unescorted. And the transgression was irrelevant anyway, for the woman only used it as a bridge to censure her other behavior and deride her low birth: A lady would travel by carriage with a footman in attendance; a lady would not dream of supervising estate workers, inspecting repairs, meeting with bankers, or issuing orders to the steward; and – horrors! – a lady would never foster doubts about her virtue.

  Obviously the woman had never been to London.

  Mary grinned and relaxed.

  She had not visited London, either, seldom traveling beyond the market town of Ridgefield. But anyone who read the city papers would know that virtue was loosely interpreted in aristocratic circles.
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  Mrs. Bridwell’s opinion was annoying, but nothing would change it, and though Mary was her favorite target, she rarely had a good word for anyone. Perhaps she was envious that Mary had wed into the aristocracy. Or maybe she was naturally catty – she certainly lapped up the rumors, even those proven to be false. Or her pique might arise from guilt. Mary still carried out parish duties Mrs. Bridwell ignored. Everyone knew it, looking askance at the woman. They also knew that Mary’s unladylike habits had been dictated by necessity.

  Not that she considered running the estate and raising Frederick’s siblings to be hardships. As a vicar’s daughter, she was accustomed to work and felt uncomfortable with nothing to do. Nor was she used to taking servants along on every errand. Besides, the estate could ill afford to hire a groom whose sole job would be to ride with her all day.

  She shrugged. Let Mrs. Bridwell condemn her. Riding alone was a minor offense.

  Rounding a corner, she nearly colliding with a frowning gentleman who was riding the other way.

  John Underwood!

  Panicked, she jerked her horse from the path. Acorn sideswiped a holly bush and recoiled, nearly unseating her. Fighting both the horse and her pounding heart, she doused her fear with a cold bucket of reality.

  John was dead. He had been dead for six months. It was James’s forbidding expression that had momentarily confused her.

  “Welcome home, my lord.” Somehow she kept her voice calm through the boil of new emotions.

  * * * *

  James escaped the house, seeking the sanctuary of the woods where he could think. Memories were clouding his judgment, making it impossible to tell whether the frigid atmosphere arose from his own fears or from staff antipathy. He had to decide quickly, for the answer would determine what changes were necessary.

  His usual approach was not working. As with his other estates, he had arrived without warning. John’s servants ranged from good to bad to venal. Appearing unexpectedly prevented them from assuming a false facade, letting him better judge their competence and attitudes. It also kept anyone from hiding evidence of malfeasance, allowing him to quickly separate the wheat from the chaff.

  But not at Ridgeway. By the time he’d reached the Court, he had been in no condition to judge anything. Memories, voices, pain, and disillusionment had swirled through his head. Guilt had overwhelmed his senses, making him short-tempered. So it was hardly surprising that the servants had appeared sullen. Even the clearer head of morning improved nothing. They seemed to hate him deeply, passionately, and irrevocably, but that made no sense. He knew none of them.

  John had turned off the entire staff after gaining the title – hardly surprising, for many of the old servants had carried tales of his childhood misdeeds to the earl. The new staff had been smaller – another way to increase John’s revenues – and poorly paid. He doubted any of them had seen service before Ridgeway. Yet none of that explained their hostility.

  He hated repeating John’s actions by turning everyone off, but he must have servants he could trust and who would perform their duties with at least a modicum of competence. These had been doing a very bad job, starting with the housekeeper.

  The manor was filthy. Cleaning had been sporadic at best, and a cursory glance through the accounts showed wholesale pilfering. The butler’s accounts were also short. The lower servants were surly, and the sight of the stables nearly made him weep. They had once been the glory of the estate. Now he cringed at consigning his cattle to such deplorable conditions.

  Yet he was hesitant about making changes. More was going on than service or lack of it. The servants’ faces also reflected fear. Already they were whispering about ghosts, so prudence demanded he move slowly. Was the poor performance aimed at John, and the hatred at John’s likeness?

  His own ghosts tormented him, driving his friends’ chatter into the background. He had expected the pain and guilt that still haunted him ten years after his last meeting with John. But he had not expected to feel his father’s presence so clearly.

  The eighth earl had been capricious – kind and supportive one day, furiously vindictive the next. He had also been weak and lazy, paying little heed to justice or honor. When someone complained about a twin’s behavior, he had found it easier to punish the nearest son than to figure out which one was at fault. So James had paid for many a prank he had not played. John had been a master at staying out of sight.

  But he wasn’t ready to deal with the past. His immediate problem was the staff, which required a clear mind. According to his valet, many of the servants suspected him of either killing John or arranging for his death. Some also blamed him for his father’s death.

  That was what had sent him on this lone ride. He had never connected their last argument with the fit that had killed him. The idea added a new layer of guilt to his usual burden. Could it be true?

  He had rarely protested those unjust charges, having learned that argument merely increased his punishment. But that final accusation had been too base. He had sworn on his honor as a gentleman that it was false. He had even named the people who could prove he had been in Ridgefield at the time. Clearly, the culprit was John.

  But his father had not believed him. The earl had favored John ever since the boy had nearly succumbed to a fever at age three. John’s convulsions had terrified everyone in the household and had left the earl loath to punish him for years afterward lest he bring on a new attack. The earl’s fondest dream had been that his heir would be worthy of the title. Since he did not want that dream shattered, James made an easy scapegoat who could keep his illusions intact.

  James shivered, then realized that the pounding was not in his head. A horse was approaching. He pulled back to a trot as a lady swept around the corner, nearly colliding with him.

  His breath caught.

  Mary Layton. More beautiful than ever. He had forgotten how sunlight made her blonde hair sparkle and how those bottomless blue eyes could drown him. She had always been shapely, but maturity had improved her. Not even her unfashionable riding habit could disguise that glorious bosom.

  His gut clenched with lust.

  He was opening his mouth to greet her when she recoiled in shock. Emotions flitted across her face too fast for him to identify, but she finally settled on icy disdain.

  “Welcome home, my lord.”

  Years of practice hid his pain. He had never believed that she loved John, but he could find no other explanation for her iciness. No one had ever cared for both brothers, so her former friendship must have been a ploy to hide her liaisons. But his purpose was to mend fences wherever possible.

  “So you still live here, Miss Layton.”

  “Lady Northrup.”

  His brows rose. Why had she accepted the baron? The man was old enough to be her father and the most boring lord in Shropshire – unless John’s attentions had left her with child. Northrup might have wed her to avert scandal. He had never seemed magnanimous, but stranger things had happened.

  “Congratulations,” he offered, to stop his useless speculation.

  “Thank you,” she said dryly. “I take it you have not kept up with local news.”

  “Hardly. Everyone knows why I left. Who would have dared keep me informed?”

  “You overestimate the local gossips. Or underestimate them. A dozen theories were proposed to explain your unexpected departure.”

  “Such as?”

  “One claimed you fled retribution for killing your father – and offered several suggestions for how and why you did so. Another vowed you had lost a fight with John over the future of the estate. A third swore you were avoiding arrest for ravishing Meg Price and poisoning Cotter’s horse. A fourth insisted that you fled your creditors. There were others, and many people believe more than one.”

  He could feel the blood drain from his face. “Which do you prefer?”

  “The estate story. Father was saddened when John refused to accept the reforms you had been urging. I doubt you gave up the
fight easily. And he must have been upset that your father did not cut you out of his will. John would have begrudged you even a pennypiece.” The color returned to her face as she relaxed.

  “You might say that. He threw me out.” It was not a scene he wished to remember. Nor did he want to dwell on the ease with which she referred to John. “So tell me the local news. What has happened in the years I was away?”

  “Besides John’s murder?”

  He nodded.

  “We have a new vicar – Mr. Bridwell. He was installed eight years ago, following my father’s death. The blacksmith retired about the same time, moving to Birmingham to live with his daughter. The new smith is not as talented, but he does an adequate job. Old Barnes died six years ago. His son now runs the inn. The men swear his ale is better than anything his father served, thanks to his wife, whose father runs the Golden Sparrow in Bartles Corner.”

  “Any improvement must be welcome. Barnes served the worst ale in the shire.”

  “So they say. Tate died ten months ago.”

  “The miller?”

  She nodded. “No one has yet replaced him, for John died before he had a chance to see to it.” She straightened. “I haven’t time to chat just now. If you wish to hear the latest gossip, join us for dinner Friday. Everyone will be there. We are celebrating Justin’s return from India.”

  “I have two London friends with me.”

  “They will also be welcome. Amelia and Caroline are ready to make their bows and could use some London acquaintances.” She launched into praise for their accomplishments.

  But he was hardly listening. Now that she was relaxed, the memories surged. He had been infatuated with her that last summer, though their flirtation had not been serious. At three-and-twenty he had not been ready to settle down. But her laughing face had stayed with him for years, invading his dreams – not surprising, for comely women often did so. Yet he had never been able to explain why his groin tightened every time he thought of her. Ten years later, it still reacted.