What a Wicked Earl Wants

by Vicky Dreiling

  “Of course, I hope that I am wrong, but I fear she has pulled the wool over our eyes,” he said.

  Virginia drew her brows together, wondering why he felt it necessary to gather evidence. “If you are so certain that the engagement is false, why are you seeking proof?”

  He sighed. “The last thing I want is to separate her from Justin. She has always said she cares for him, but now I fear she has changed for the worse.” He blinked rapidly and took out a handkerchief. “I am glad my poor brother is not here to witness her fall from grace.”

  Good heavens, he really believed every word he’d spoken. Virginia was tempted to defend Laura, but she reconsidered. Instead, she would warn Laura to be wary of Montclief.

  “I must be on my way,” Montclief said, shoving his bulk out of the chair. “I trust you will keep me posted.”

  Virginia rose as Montclief lumbered out of the drawing room. He didn’t even realize that she’d not agreed to his disgusting plan.

  After the footman closed the door, Virginia slowly lowered herself to the settee. Over the years, she’d dealt with scandalmongers, roués, and scoundrels, but this situation warranted a great deal of thought.

  Until Justin gained his majority, his uncle had power over the boy and subsequently Laura. Montclief’s deceit was clear. But why after four years of ignoring the boy had he suddenly professed concern about him?

  Something odd had happened in Laura’s drawing room. Why had Bellingham, a self-proclaimed lifelong bachelor, gone along with the scheme? Granted, she’d seen him openly gazing at Laura’s body at the ball last night.

  The notorious rake would have to work very hard to win prim-and-proper Laura. But they would make a fiery couple. With a smile, Virginia poured another thimbleful of sherry in her glass and raised it. When the opportunity arose, she would play the matchmaker.

  Well into the evening, Bell sat in his study, looking over the last of the journal entries in the estate books. His estate manager, Wilson, had traveled to London to give him an account of all that had transpired in the last quarter.

  Wilson leaned forward in his chair. “I commissioned workers to replace rotting boards on the bridge. Otherwise, all else is in good working order at the estate.”

  “No complaints from the tenants or servants?”

  “All went relatively well on rent day,” Wilson said. “Mr. Faraday was a bit short but promised to make it up next quarter.”

  “He came up to scratch last quarter,” Bell said. “Forgive the shortage. I don’t want his family to suffer, but make sure he’s not spending all of his coin at the tavern again. If you find that’s the case, inform Mr. Bullock to refuse him on my orders.”

  “Yes, my lord. I will speak to the tavern owner if necessary.”

  Bell massaged his aching neck. He’d been bent over the books for hours. “Is there anything else?”

  “No, my lord.”

  He rose. “Well done, Wilson. I’ve taken care of your hotel accommodations at the Dorset for this evening. Griffith will send you in my carriage.” Tomorrow, Wilson would make the long journey back to Devonshire.

  Wilson stood. “My lord, I appreciate your confidence in my work.” He swallowed. “I am grateful to you. I daresay not many would overlook my prior poor performance.”

  “You have worked hard and exceeded my expectations.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Wilson bowed and left.

  Bell rolled his stiff shoulders and snuffed out all the candles, save the ones in the candle branch. He carried it to the drawing room, poured a brandy, and sat in his favorite chair. The fire was burning low, and the tick-tick of the clock made him feel peaceful.

  He thought about Wilson’s candid words. Five years ago, Bell had left the estate all behind for his estate manager to run. Bell hadn’t allowed himself to think about Thornhill Park while journeying on the Continent, but there was no denying he’d abdicated his responsibilities. Upon his return, he’d found Wilson had allowed repairs and letters to pile up. Many of the tenants were in arrears. Bell had seen the barely concealed terror on Wilson’s face, but he’d not blamed him.

  How could he sack Wilson when the man had done his best with no direction at all?

  Wilson worked harder than necessary and always expressed his gratitude. Ultimately, Bell knew the estate and everyone who worked for him was his responsibility.

  His father had taught him that.

  He tried to push the thought of his father away, but it had shattered his peace. With a long sigh, he collected the candle branch and went upstairs to bed.

  His heart pounded like a thousand hooves on cobblestones. The carriage hurtled on. Every stop to change the horses felt like an eternity. He kept trying to shout for them to hurry, hurry, hurry, but his voice was lost. God in heaven, let them live. Let them live. He would do anything, give up everything, if only they would recover.

  Bile rose up in his throat. He grasped the strap and prayed. Fear raced through him like a wildfire as the carriage careened into the square. As soon as the carriage jangled to a halt, he vaulted out, running, running, running. Oh, God, there was straw at the door.

  He was too late. Too late.

  “No!”

  He reared up in bed, breathing like a racehorse. His heart drummed in his chest. He drew his knees up and laid his head on his forearms. Cold beads of perspiration dampened his temples. He gritted his teeth, trying to will away the dream, but the remnants persisted. The tension in his arms and legs was slow to dissipate.

  He shoved the covers back and got out of bed. The coals were smoldering, and his skin prickled from the cold. He donned a banyan and lit a candle. Then he added coals to the fire. He poured himself a finger of brandy and downed it in one fiery swallow. The burning sensation helped clear his head. He drew back the drapery and saw that it was still dark. He gritted his teeth. Was he condemned to relive that horrific day for the rest of his life?

  After releasing the heavy brocade material, he held the candle up to see the mantel clock. It was a quarter past three. The worst part was he never knew when the nightmare would strike, but tonight he ought to have been prepared.

  One stray thought about his father had brought it on.

  The cause wasn’t always so clear. Most of the time, he couldn’t attribute it to anything, and he never knew when the nightmare would strike. Sometimes weeks and even months would pass. He’d tried to keep a journal of it in hopes of making sense of the nightmare and perhaps taking control, but it hadn’t worked.

  Something hot sizzled inside him. He was frustrated and furious at his inability to control his own mind while sleeping. He hated it, because there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to stop it.

  The chill in the room drove him back to bed. He lay there staring up at the canopy, trying his best to forget the awful events that had altered his life forever. It was bad enough to have lost his family once, but to relive it again and again was pure hell.

  The chill woke Laura. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa in the drawing room. The fire had died down and the candles she’d lit had guttered. She took a candle to the hearth, moved the screen, and lit the taper. Afterward she found a branch of candles and lit those. A quick check of the mantel clock showed it was four o’clock. She found her shawl and hurried out of the dark drawing room.

  She held on to the rail and took the steps with care in the darkness. When she reached the landing, she breathed a sigh of relief. Then she proceeded down the corridor past her own bedchamber to Justin’s room. When she knocked, there was no response. With a sigh, Laura opened the door. The empty bed infuriated her. She’d lied to Montclief to protect Justin, and he didn’t even know how much trouble he’d caused.

  He didn’t care that she’d sat up late worried about him. The only thing he cared about was sowing wild oats with his rakish friends. She’d had quite enough of his rebellion. The minute he came home, he would find his trunks packed. She’d brought him to London so that he could be with his friends, and all
he’d done was abuse the privilege. Well, he’d pay for his actions, and he’d better appreciate it, because the alternative—staying with his uncle—would be far, far worse.

  Laura walked back to her room. Her maid Fran met her at the door. “My lady, did he return?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry to keep you from your bed, Fran. If you can help me undress quickly, we might as well try to rest. Losing sleep will not help matters.”

  But after donning her night rail and climbing into bed, Laura stared up at the canopy. Justin was out there in this enormous city, and there was nothing more she could do except wait for him to return home. If something bad happened to him, she would never forgive herself for bringing him to London.

  Someone shook her arm. With a gasp, Laura sat up in bed to find Fran hovering over her and sunlight streaming through the window.

  “My lady, your son has arrived home,” Fran said. “I thought you would wish to know straightaway.”

  “Yes, of course,” Laura said. “I should dress as quickly as possible.” Afterward, Fran pinned up her hair in a simple style. Laura drew in her breath and reminded herself to stay composed no matter what transpired.

  When Laura walked to Justin’s room, she lifted her hand and heard a guttural sound. She opened the door to find her son heaving over a chamber pot his valet held. “My lady,” Hinton said, “you do not wish to witness this.”

  She swept inside. “I’ve seen worse.” Over the course of four years nursing her ill husband, she’d learned to stay unruffled for his sake. Nothing she’d done had spared him the indignities of his wasting disease, but she believed her calm manner had helped to some degree.

  Justin rolled over on the mattress, putting his back to her, and Hinton took the pot away.

  Laura walked around the other side of the bed. “Justin, you’ve been out all night and are obviously suffering from the effects of drinking spirits.”

  “Go away,” he muttered, and pulled a pillow over his head.

  She yanked the pillow away. “No. You will not hide from me.”

  “Sick,” he said.

  She walked over to the drapes and pulled them open.

  He shielded his eyes. “Stop.”

  “No. You are the one who will stop.” She clenched her hands. “You have no idea the trouble you’ve caused.”

  “I’m sick. Go away,” he said, rolling in the other direction.

  Laura couldn’t reason with him when he was in this condition. She walked over to the china bowl and poured water into it. Then she dipped a cloth into the water, rung it out, and attempted to press it to Justin’s forehead, but he batted it away.

  “Rest now, but when you’re better, we must talk,” she said.

  After he turned his back to her once more, Laura took the cloth over to the stand. She walked out the door, closed it quietly, and leaned against it. Four short years ago, he’d been thirteen and anxious to play backgammon or cards with her. She’d taught him to dance, but now she needed to teach him something far more difficult to learn—to act responsibly. If she failed, Montclief would take him, and Laura could not bear the thought of losing him. She must take charge, and this time she would not be ignored.

  Two hours later, Laura took a deep breath, opened Justin’s door, and directed two footmen bearing empty trunks to proceed into her son’s room. Behind them, Justin’s valet, Hinton, stood stoically until Laura motioned him to enter as well.

  Justin bolted upright with the sheet clutched to his chest. “What are you doing?” he croaked.

  Laura ignored him and dismissed the footmen. She would ring for them later. “Hinton, please pack all of his belongings with the exception of a change of clothing.”

  “No,” Justin shouted.

  “Keep your voice down. I warned you more than once,” Laura said, “but you did not take me seriously. You have continued to rebel, so we are returning to Hampshire as soon as the trunks are packed and loaded on the carriage.”

  Justin shook his head. “I won’t go.”

  Hot anger shot to her temples, but she refused to let him goad her. “You have no choice,” she said. “You have no money, and you cannot pay the lease on the town house.”

  Justin turned his attention to Hinton. “Leave us, please.”

  When Hinton hesitated in the process of setting a stack of folded neckcloths in one of the trunks, Laura nodded. “You are excused for now, Hinton.”

  After the door shut, Justin glared at her. “I’ll stay with George. You may leave without me.”

  She clasped her hands at her waist. “A tidy solution, but you’re liable to find yourself in much hotter suds once your uncle discovers you have run away.”

  He scoffed. “Montclief doesn’t even remember I exist.”

  “Oh, he remembers,” she said. “He called upon me yesterday while you were out. Apparently some of his friends reported having seen you running wild in the streets. He threatened to remove you to his country house.”

  “Why the devil does he care? He hasn’t seen fit to even write to me.”

  “He cares because your behavior reflects upon him.”

  “Too bloody bad,” he muttered.

  “Watch your language,” she said. “If you had used better judgment, your uncle would have left us in peace.” She brought her fist to her chest. “I had to answer for you, and believe me, it was unpleasant.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said.

  “Do not lie to me,” she said, unable to keep the vehemence from her voice this time. “I had another visitor yesterday who returned your flask.”

  He scowled. “What? I don’t have a flask.”

  “You might wish to retract that statement. Lord Bellingham saw you push a flask beneath the staircase at Lady Atherton’s home. He brought it to me yesterday. It contained brandy.” She took a step closer to the bed. “Today, you were sick from imbibing liquor. If you continue with your rowdy ways, you are likely to suffer the consequences. Montclief will not tolerate your behavior and neither will I.”

  Justin’s jaw tightened. “So you paraded the footmen and my valet in here in order to frighten me?”

  She strode around the bed and hovered over him. “No, I did it because we are leaving today.”

  “No,” he said, raising his voice.

  “You have given me no choice,” she said. “I refuse to stand by idly while you ruin your life.” She drew his banyan out from the wardrobe and tossed it to him. “Get dressed.”

  “Laura, I’m sorry,” he said.

  “That’s not good enough,” she said. “You have persisted with this willful, wretched behavior, and I can no longer trust you.”

  “Give me another chance.”

  “I’m sorry, Justin, but you’ve gone too far this time.” She returned to the wardrobe, drew out a stack of folded shirts, and set them in the empty trunk.

  “What if I refuse to go?” he said in a surly tone.

  “Then you will likely find yourself under your uncle’s management. I daresay he will be harsher than I am.”

  He punched the pillow behind him and regarded her with a scowl.

  She returned to the wardrobe and drew out stockings.

  “Stop,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just don’t feel well.”

  She halted. “Whose fault is that?”

  “I swear to you I won’t do it again.”

  “You’ve lied to me more than once. The trust is broken. Hinton will finish packing your trunk. Get dressed. We are leaving today.”

  “No, I won’t go.”

  “I’ll send the footmen to your room in two hours. If you do not cooperate, I will have them force-march you out to the carriage, dressed or not.”

  “Laura, no. Give me a chance, please.”

  “It’s too late, Justin.”

  Laura directed the maids to pack all of her belongings and walked downstairs to the drawing room. She retrieved her lap desk and drew out paper, ink, and pen in order to write a note to Lady A
therton. Laura would miss her friend, but Justin’s welfare came first. Her son would learn a hard lesson today. No doubt he would be humiliated when they returned to Hampshire after such a short time, but she’d given him ample warnings.

  She’d only written the salutation when the door opened. Justin walked inside with a guilty expression. “I know you said that an apology isn’t good enough, but I wish you would give me another chance.”

  “Be seated,” she said, indicating the chair across from her.

  He sat and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I know it’s an excuse, but lots of lads sow wild oats.”

  “Lots of them lose money gambling or get robbed in the streets,” Laura said. “I think your friends are a bad influence, but you are responsible for the bad choices you’ve made. Now you will suffer the consequences.”

  “Give me another chance,” he said, looking at the carpet.

  She released a long sigh. “If something bad were to happen to you, I would never forgive myself.”

  He looked up. “Haven’t you ever made a mistake? Didn’t Grandfather give you another chance?”

  “Yes, but some mistakes can ruin your life,” she said. “And that is the path you’re on.”

  “Please,” he said.

  Prior to their journey to London, Justin had rarely ever misbehaved. He’d always been a sunny boy and eager to please. His reports from school had always been excellent. But she had to remain firm.

  “I know you’re angry, but I swear I won’t do it again,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but it’s for your own good.”

  “What can I do to persuade you?” he said. “I’ll do anything if you’ll give me a second chance.”

  Perhaps she would give him one more chance, but there would be strict conditions. “If you wish to remain in London, you will have to prove you are trustworthy. That means you will stop running wild.”