Brenda Joyce

by The Rival

  “Actually, I did not, and I was about to suggest that we return home so I could make my appointment with you, Father,” Lionel said. “Why doesn’t Garrick join us?”

  “That is an excellent idea,” Stanhope said, but his gaze was narrowed as it slid over Garrick again.

  Garrick managed to recover from his surprise, but he remained perturbed. And Stanhope did not have to speak his thoughts aloud, Garrick knew precisely what they were. He himself looked like hell. He was aware that his eyes were bloodshot, his hair pulled back carelessly and, of course, unpowdered, and he had thrown on his clothes that morning quite haphazardly, choosing all somber colors. Lionel, on the other hand, was far more than handsome, he looked every bit a macaroni in his turquoise frock coat, darker blue waistcoat, silvery gray breeches, and white stockings. Garrick could sleep in the shirt he’d worn all day or wear the same clothes from hunting to supper, but not Lionel. He had been fastidious about his appearance. He had always looked superb—just as he did now.

  “Come with us.” Lionel laid his palm on Garrick’s shoulder, causing Garrick to flinch ever so slightly. Their gazes met.

  The earl stared, waiting.

  Lionel’s hand slipped away. “Well?”

  Garrick turned toward his father, who was watching them closely. Too closely. “I do not wish to intrude.”

  “You are not intruding,” the earl said quickly. “I would like you to join us. I would only ask that you powder your hair and change your clothes. I have many friends at my club who wish to meet you, Garrick.”

  Curtly Garrick nodded, inwardly surprised. Why did his father wish to introduce him around now, if he truly believed this man to be Lionel? It made little sense.

  The earl also smiled, an expression that seemed curiously hard and, at the same time, satisfied. “Very well. I will meet the two of you back at the house.” He wheeled his mount and cantered away.

  They watched him go.

  “I am surprised he wants me to come along,” Garrick muttered. “Now that you are here.”

  Lionel shrugged. “He has not yet proclaimed me publicly to be his long-lost firstborn son.”

  Garrick studied him. “And is that what you expect him to do?”

  Lionel stared back. “I am not lying about who I am; I am his firstborn son, yes, that is eventually what I expect.”

  Garrick made no reply, trying to see into his soul through his eyes. But it was impossible; his blue eyes were opaque. If this man were a fraud and a greedy fortune hunter, he was a superb actor.

  “And will that bother you?” Lionel asked casually.

  “Why would that bother me? I do not give a damn about the earldom, I never have. I prefer Barbados to this cold, wet land.”

  Lionel seemed pleased, but he looked away so quickly that Garrick wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it.

  “And if you eventually become convinced of my sincerity, then will we regain what we once had?” Lionel asked abruptly. “I know you still doubt me—just a bit.”

  “Even if you are truly my brother, I do not know if we could ever recapture what we once shared,” Garrick said as bluntly. “There has been too much disappointment, and too much sorrow.” He stared. “We buried you years ago, Lionel, and it was not easy. And there has not been a resurrection since Jesus Christ.”

  They entered the library. It was a large, high-ceilinged room, wood paneled and lined with books, with a huge blue-and-gold Persian rug and numerous chairs, sofas, and tables. Two massive crystal chandeliers hung from the gilded ceiling, which was painted a dusky blue. Garrick stood behind his father and Lionel. As they paused upon the threshold, heads turned their way. The quiet conversation in the library faded, until absolute silence reigned.

  “Come this way,” the earl said, smiling, and he led them to an arrangement containing an empty sofa and two club chairs, with the two dozen or so gentlemen in the room pretending to read their journals, dailies, and weeklies when in fact every single eye was surreptitiously cast their way, every ear intensely attuned to them. The earl sat upon the couch; Lionel chose to sit on the same sofa beside him. Garrick dropped into a facing chair, stiff with tension. He was sure that his face registered just how uncomfortable he was. He declined the pinch of snuff his father was offering them.

  Immediately a gentleman in a huge peruke and an emerald green frock coat came up to them, bowing. “Stanhope, so good to see you,” he said, smiling.

  The earl stood. “Harding, how are you?” He turned toward Lionel. “You remember my sons, do you not?”

  A brief moment of silence fell. Garrick knew that everyone was wondering, as he was, if the earl had just publicly stated that Lionel was the long-lost Stanhope heir.

  Harding bowed then as Lionel rose to his feet. “My lord, this is a real pleasure.” He was clearly trying not to gawk at Lionel.

  “As it is for me,” Lionel said, smiling broadly.

  Garrick nodded at Harding. He was dismayed—and he was angry. It was far too soon to throw caution to the winds and accept this man as Lionel. And Stanhope knew it. What was his father doing?

  “I am having a small supper party, Tuesday next,” Harding was saying to Stanhope. “I have just penned the invitations. The baroness and I would be delighted if you and your sons could attend.”

  “I must check my calendar,” the earl replied.

  A pair of gentlemen now approached them. Bows were made all around. Again, Garrick watched the earl introducing Lionel to Lords Cantor and Talbot. He realized that the earl was careful not to use any titles—and he had not introduced Garrick by his title, either, which was extremely unusual. But then, if Lionel were genuine, he was now the viscount of Caedmon Crag.

  “There is a match race next Sunday at Newmarket,” Talbot said to the earl and Lionel. “I have taken three boxes. It should be a dashing good time. Perhaps you and your sons might like to join my party?”

  “Father, that sounds like an event not to be missed,” Lionel said with enthusiasm.

  The earl smiled at him. “You were always fond of horse racing.”

  Lionel grinned. “A habit one cannot break.”

  “We shall be there, then,” the earl told Lord Talbot.

  Garrick stared at Lionel grimly. “Do you remember the time we raced our new hunters from the Hall to the village and back again?”

  Lionel turned toward Garrick. His smile remained in place. “I’m not sure,” he said easily enough.

  “It was a summer day. Father had gone hunting with guests. We were under strict orders not to leave the grounds. But we eluded the groom. Do you not remember? I pretended to take a fall, and the poor chap left you with me while he went back to the Hall for help.” Garrick attempted a smile. “You won. By a length.”

  Lionel now laughed, nodding. “I do remember, in fact. I believe it was one of the best instances of riding I have ever done.”

  Garrick stared. “How old were we?”

  Lionel seemed to stiffen. The earl and the two gentlemen now regarded them, the latter pair quite interested, the earl sitting up so stiff and so straight, he could have been a statue. What are you up to, Garrick?” Stanhope demanded.

  “I cannot remember how old we were,” Garrick said, standing slowly. He topped Lionel by a head. That fact satisfied him, oddly enough. “Can you?”

  Lionel did smile. “You know, this is odd. I cannot remember either, but I would hazard to guess that it must have been a year or so before I ran away.” The ton had, of course, needed an explanation for Lionel’s disappearance and return, and the earl had confirmed Lionel’s own story. By now it was common knowledge—and the cause of extreme tongue-wagging.

  “An intelligent guess,” Garrick now said. “After all, had I been less than twelve, I would not have been given my own hunter, now would I.”

  “Garrick, is there a point to this display?” the earl demanded, eyes flashing.

  Garrick looked only at Lionel. “There was no race. There was no race to the village and back, and nev
er did I pretend to fall from my horse and hurt myself so I could elude an attending groom.”

  Lionel no longer smiled. “We raced many times on horseback.”

  “But never all the way to the village and back.”

  Lionel stared, his expression somewhat pinched. Garrick was well aware that everyone was staring at them, not just the two gentlemen and the earl. “It sounded familiar,” Lionel finally said. “I cannot remember every damn detail of our childhood, Garrick!” His smile was placating.

  But Garrick did not smile in return. On the one hand, he did not like himself for setting this man up—because this man might be his brother, whom he still loved. But this man might also be a well-studied fraud.

  The earl stepped between them, his face flushed. He faced Lionel, his expression rigid. “No one expects you to recall every single detail of your childhood, and certainly not I.”

  Lionel did relax.

  The earl stared coldly at Garrick. “What do you think you are doing? Do you think this kind of public display is seemly?”

  Gatrick’s jaw tightened. “Do you truly think, after all of these years, that I give a damn what your friends think?” he said, low.

  “You are no more intelligent than a foolish child!” the earl snapped.

  “Father, please.” Lionel laid a restraining hand upon the earl. “You must forgive Garrick. Surely you can forgive him for harboring doubts if I can. Besides, he has a lot to lose if I am who I say I am. His anger and doubt are understandable. It is human. And he will come around in time.” Lionel smiled. “Because I am telling the truth.” How calm and clear his voice was. How confident.

  Garrick jerked. He became aware of the whispers in the background. And he was certain he heard his name, Caedmon, juxtaposed with Lionel. Although Lionel had spoken casually, in one fell swoop he had made it clear to everyone in the room that Garrick’s reason for attempting to discredit Lionel was his fear of losing the Stanhope inheritance. Had the blow been purposeful, or was he imagining something happening here?

  “We will finish this discussion at home,” the earl said so only Garrick could hear.

  “Thank you, but no,” Garrick replied coolly. “Believe it or not, Father, I am only trying to protect our family.” Then he saw Arlen Grey detaching himself from a group of men seated across the room.

  His heart lurched. Images of Olivia in the throes of passion flooded his mind, chasing away his cognizance of everything else; he forgot his father, Lionel, the other lords, and the current dispute. As he watched Arlen approaching, he was aware of how much he missed her. And he was aware of how much he wanted to protect her from her own husband.

  He felt no guilt now. A deep and sheer dislike of her husband filled him as Arlen sauntered toward them.

  “My lords,” Arlen said with a smile. He bowed to the earl and Lionel and only faced Garrick cursorily. “This is a surprise and a pleasure. So how are you faring in London, De Vere?” he asked Lionel.

  “Very well. Never better, in fact,” Lionel said with a laugh. “And you? You remain in town? Did I not just hear that your beautiful wife has just returned to the country? Sussex, isn’t it?”

  Arlen’s smile remained in place, but Garrick’s pulse quickened. Arlen said, “My wife returned to Ashburnham four days ago. She prefers the country. I, of course, prefer town.”

  “So does my brother,” Lionel said, not even glancing at Garrick. “Prefer the country, that is. He has also just returned to town. Three days ago, in fact.”

  Garrick stiffened, his mind grasping what was about to come—yet how did Lionel know? How could he know about what had transpired at the Hall three days ago?

  “Oh, really?” Arlen stared, no longer smiling, his eyes almost black.

  “I decided to visit the estate,” Garrick said flatly.

  “I see,” Arlen said.

  “Isn’t Ashburnham rather close to Stanhope Hall?” Lionel asked.

  Arlen stared at Lionel before regarding Garrick. “Yes. My home is but a few hours’ drive from Stanhope Hall. How coincidental it is,” he said. “My wife leaves for Sussex on the same day that you are in Surrey.”

  “Life is filled with the oddest coincidences,” Garrick said dryly. “Far odder, in fact, than my happening to be at the Hall a few days ago.”

  A silence fell. Garrick knew what everyone was thinking. Thanks to Lionel.

  Lionel broke the tension. “I am sure Garrick was not even aware that Lady Ashburn was in residence.” He laughed.

  Before Garrick could lie, Arlen spoke. His gaze did not waver. “Just as you happened to be at St. Bartholomew’s,” he said coolly.

  “I enjoy the occasional fair.” Garrick smiled, not pleasantly, and waited for him to ask if he had seen Olivia while in the country. He would, of course, deny it. But the facts were there, overly ripe and waiting to be discovered and devoured. For himself, he did not care. For Olivia, he despaired.

  “And the countess also enjoys such mundane events.” Arlen was flushed, and he turned to Lionel, inquiring stiffly as to whether he wished to join him for some gaming later that evening. As Lionel agreed, Garrick stepped over to the earl.

  “I am leaving.”

  “Fine,” the earl said, but his gaze was piercing. “Watch your step, Garrick.”

  Garrick turned away, surprised by the warning. He could feel Arlen’s cold eyes upon his back.

  “Garrick!”

  He stiffened, and Lionel hurried after him, pausing beside him. “Join us,” Lionel said, smiling, as if the recent five minutes of dialogue, filled with innuendos and insinuations, had not just occurred. “Tonight after supper at the St. James. Perhaps you will have better luck tonight.” He slapped his shoulder lightly.

  “I do not think so,” Garrick said, moving so Lionel’s hand fell away. “I cannot win at the tables when I am up against you. You are a far shrewder player than I.”

  “Surely you are not harboring a grudge about last night?” Lionel exclaimed. Their gazes locked.

  “I hardly care about a few hundred pounds lost last night,” Garrick said evenly. But it was hard to control his temper. So very hard.

  “You are angry,” Lionel said with surprise. “But you are not angry about last night!”

  “I am not angry about last night. I am not angry at all,” Garrick lied coldly. He was not about to let Lionel know that his insinuations had infuriated him because they were accurate and, as such, very dangerous.

  Lionel’s easy expression vanished. “Perhaps we should stop playing games,” he said.

  Garrick had been about to turn away, but now he froze, fully alert. “And have we been playing games?”

  “I think you are playing games,” Lionel said. “Why don’t you admit the truth?”

  “What truth must I admit?”

  “The truth is, you refuse to accept my return from the missing because you will lose everything—because my return means that you are no longer the Stanhope heir.” Lionel’s eyes were hard.

  And their gazes clashed.

  “That is why you are against me,” Lionel said.

  Garrick stared, taken aback. Then he turned and walked away.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Arlen strode into the foyer of Houghton Place as if he owned it. His temples throbbed with explosive force; he had just left Almack’s. The marquis, he knew, was not at home. Earlier that day he had seen him in the company of several gentlemen at a popular dining establishment. The marquis had been well into his cups. When he did return home, he would nap heavily for several hours.

  The butler was striding into the wide, high-ceilinged room. “My lord,” he said, bowing.

  “Is my sister at home?” Arlen snapped, aware that he was forgetting his manners but helpless to prevent it.

  “The marchioness is not, but she is expected at any moment, for she has several guests coming to tea, my lord,” the butler droned.

  “I will await her in the library,” Arlen said, already walking away. “The moment sh
e arrives, tell her I am here and that it is most urgent!”

  In the library, Arlen left both heavy rosewood doors open, knowing no one would dare walk in on him other than his sister. This house, in fact, was practically his own. Arlen felt very possessive about it, just as he was very possessive about Elizabeth. He was five years older than she, and their father had died when Elizabeth was ten, Arlen just fifteen. Their mother had already been buried for many years, and Arlen had not just taken over the reins of the earldom, in spite of a scheming elderly cousin. He had become his sister’s guardian, finally arranging her marriage to the elderly, obese marquis of Houghton, a marriage that had satisfied him immensely. For Houghton doted on Elizabeth, yet was harmless.

  Arlen poured himself a snifter of brandy, a drink he ordinarily eschewed until after supper. He had just downed half when Elizabeth appeared on the threshold.

  For just one instant he took in her pale pink gown, her high bosom, her narrow waist, and her flawless beauty. Then he finished the drink.

  “What could be so urgent that you insist upon seeing me in the middle of the afternoon?” she asked, coming forward. Her expression was haughty. “Arlen, I do not jump at your beck and call. Even as we speak, my guests are arriving. You cannot appear here as you will.”

  Arlen stared at her, then turned and stalked to a window that overlooked the street. He saw two coaches and a landau parked at the curb. One coach, a large, open phaeton, he did not recognize. But his senses were alert and he faced his sister. “Usually you are happy to see me, Elizabeth,” he said slowly.

  She folded her arms, eyeing him. The gesture pushed her small bosom into prominence. “What is on your mind?”

  He was affronted and more wary than before. He stepped to her. “With whom are you having tea?” he asked.

  Her expression did not change. “You are not my jailer, Arlen. Several friends. Why?”

  He knew she was deceiving him now, and all of his suspicions about Garrick De Vere fell by the wayside. He grabbed her arm, and she cried out. “Whose phaeton is that?” he demanded.