The Earl of Sunderland

by Aubrey Wynne

“I’ve done enough work this morning. My head hurts from all the thinking.” Sammy snuggled back against his sister’s chest. She kissed him on top of the head, and gave him a squeeze.

  “Fine. Shall we get some breakfast now?” He nodded and ran from the room before she could blink. Looking at his list, she giggled.

  THOR

  RUG FOR THOR

  MY TOEE THEEUTER

  ALL MY MARBELS

  MY WRLEEGIG

  MY PONEE AND CART

  MY DOMINOZ

  Samuel dashed back into the room. “Can you put my table ninepins on there for me, please? That one was too hard. It made my brain swell.” And he was gone again.

  “Whoa, slow down,” her father said from the hall. He poked his head inside the door. “What are you laughing at?”

  “Your son and my brother. I fear he is growing into a manipulative young man. He’s already learned how to charm the staff and is working on me.”

  “He gets that from his mother. I don’t have a charming bone in my body,” he said in his own defense. “She’d be demmed proud of him, wouldn’t she?”

  Grace smiled in agreement. “Exceedingly proud.”

  The sun glinted off the steel spokes of the carriage wheels, a fine breeze stirring the leaves. The driver, four in hand, clicked to the shining chestnut horses and they nickered in anticipation. It would be a three-day journey by coach. She watched Papa sit his massive bay gelding, straight and tall and handsome. Many men his age had gone to fat or lost their hair. Not Lord Boldon. He was as fit as most men half his age. If she married, would she find a man who compared to her father? Highly doubtful.

  “Samuel! Step lively, boy! We have new lands to discover!” he shouted out to his son. “Grace, if you give another instruction, we will leave you behind. The place will not fall to the ground without you.”

  “Look who’s so eager to be away.” She laughed as the coachman waited for her, his blue uniform matching the red and blue Boldon crest on the door. She settled onto the cushioned velvet seat. “Sammy, I have fresh biscuits with strawberry jam from Mrs. Woolley in case you get hungry. Are you riding with me or with Papa?”

  “Papa, can I ride on the big horse?”

  “Certainly.” Sammy placed his small hand on his father’s sturdy forearm. “On the count of three: one, two thr-eee!” The boy jumped with all his strength while Lord Boldon pulled him up. He grabbed his father’s coat with his free hand and easily swung up behind him.

  “Hail, Caesar!” cried Sammy.

  “What?” his father asked “Caesar?”

  “Mr. Chenwick yelled it one day. I forgot why he was so excited, but you know how he gets about his history. I remember that part, though.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s a start. Any other little tidbits you remember from your lessons? Entertain me, Samuel. I pay the man enough.”

  “Well, he was talking to Mrs. Woolley yesterday with a silly smile on his face. All of a sudden, she put her hands on her hips, made a huffing noise, and marched out of the room. Poor Mr. Chenwick looked very confused then decided we would read poetry.”

  “Which poet did he choose?”

  “The Roman, Virgil. He said, ‘A woman is an ever pickle and changeable thing.’ And then he shook his head and told me never to fall in love.”

  Lord Boldon let out a belly laugh that Mrs. Woolley, obviously the pickle in the statement, might have heard in the kitchen.

  Chapter 6

  “Selfishness must always be forgiven you know, because there is no hope of a cure.”

  Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

  London

  Late June 1815

  Carson’s refuge was an unassuming brick front on Bedford Place, the outskirts of respectable London. A modest and discreet location lined with residences that housed expensive mistresses. A well-bred woman would never be seen in this neighborhood, and an aristocratic husband would never be noticed. Kit eyed the gold “W” above the entrance before sharply rapping a large brass knocker. A butler, in impeccable dress, opened the door.

  “May I help you, sir?” Kit handed him the card he’d received from Lord Coventry. “Yes, my lord. They are expecting you. Follow me, please.”

  Handing off his hat, Kit followed the man down a darkened hall to a large comfortable room. Polished oak woodwork brightened the décor of dark leather furniture and deep brown and russet wallpaper and rugs. Cold meats, cheeses, and breads were arranged on a side table, next to a selection of Madeira, claret, scotch, brandy, and the finest ale. Several men stood near the window, a few more near the fireplace, and the rest scattered on chairs or sofas. They all turned at once.

  Lord Coventry came forward. “Ah, my lord, so good of you to come. Gentlemen, this is Carson’s brother, the new Earl of Sunderland.”

  Bows and murmurs of welcome, and then Weston appeared in front of him, arms wide. They gripped each other, foregoing social protocol. “By Christ, it’s good to see you, Kit. You look old, my friend.”

  “You’re no Johnny Raw yourself.” He thumped his childhood companion on the back. “It’s been too long, Edward.” The rest of the earls introduced themselves and eventually all found a seat.

  “We have gathered this evening to honor Sunderland in our own way. Carson was a good man, a bang-up cove.” Lord Coventry raised his glass.

  “Aye, he was.”

  “Here, here!”

  “None better.”

  Kit heard the responses and grinned. Carson had made his mark with these men. And as the evening went on, each shared a memory. Some tales were adventurous, others sentimental, and one downright comical.

  Kit learned a few things about his brother that night. That in itself made it worth the trip. He also made lasting friendships with some interesting fellows.

  Lord Coventry began a tale that involved Carson, a bet, a pedestrian curricle, and three Beau Monde females on Piccadilly Street. “The bacon-brained oaf thought—what the devil was his name? Since he couldn’t outrace your brother on a horse, he’d try a different mode of transportation. There was Sunderland, perched on this ridiculously small seat, gripping the handbar white-knuckled, and pushing off with both feet. They’re both tottering this way and that, neck and neck, kicking at the ground with their heels to push forward. Neither kept an eye to what lay ahead as they approached Hatchard’s bookstore.”

  “I tried to warn them, but they were both so preoccupied with who was in the lead and keeping their balance,” offered Weston, shaking his head in mock despair. “They never saw what hit them.”

  “But Lady Jersey did. That scream will forever be in my nightmares.” Coventry covered both ears with his hands. “Good god, that woman has a voice that could shatter glass.”

  “Poor Lady Sefton, carrying her bandbox one minute, on her backside the next. And the other fool, clipping the bandbox with one wheel, flattened her new hat.” Weston wrapped his arms around his middle, laughing and attempting to catch his breath. “I swear Lady Jersey turned a perfect shade of purple.”

  “My brother ran over one of Almack’s patronesses?” A chuckle began low in Kit’s belly, and soon he joined the others in their raucous mirth.

  “He bent the frame getting off the bloody thing, then slipped in the mud. When he attempted to sit up,” Coventry finished with a flourish, “Lady Cowper said in the calmest voice, ‘Why Lord Sunderland, how very gallant of you. I was hesitant to dirty my new slippers.’ Then she used his waistcoast to step across the puddle and continued across the street.”

  With a straight face, Weston added, “Of course, we acted as if we’d never met the dimwit.”

  Kit’s stomach ached. He gulped air and reached for his scotch. Yes, he had come to the right place. Carson would have considered this a fitting send off. This brotherhood preferred to celebrate his life rather than mourn his death. He looked down at the black breeches and waistcoat he would be wearing for the next few months. It seemed such a color day after day was more a penance than a memorial, but he di
d not make the rules.

  “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure, but I must go home to my wife,” said Lord Sussex. “I will say it was an odd experience, having to knock at this establishment’s door rather than use my key.”

  “You have keys?” Kit was intrigued. “To come and go as you please?”

  “When you become a member of the Wicked Earls’ Club, you are given a key. This is a place you can indulge your vices without worry of discovery. It may be monetary, sexual, or just indulgent,” explained Coventry. “It may not be unscrupulous, criminal, or physically harmful to anyone in my employ or under my protection. And all of my members are under my protection.”

  “So why did you give it up?” Kit asked Sussex. “You don’t seem the type to drop this type of membership on a whim.”

  “Unfortunately, marriage is the one vice that is not permitted inside these walls. Once you’re a tenant for life, the membership is revoked.” The earl shrugged. “This was a special evening. Besides, my Tabbie is more than worth it. These rakes don’t keep my bed warm at night the way she does.” Groans of protest followed his statement, but all the men smiled.

  Crystal sifters of cognac appeared on the table. Kit swirled the amber liquid in his glass then sipped. “By god, this is the best stuff I’ve ever had. Where’d you get it?”

  “My secret,” replied Conventry.

  “One of many,” agreed Weston.

  At the end of the evening, Weston and Kit flagged a hackney cab and went back to Kit’s townhouse. They sipped more port, played some billiards, and Edward told him the latest news of his family.

  “What about you? What are your immediate plans?” Weston sat near the table, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his hands cupping the back of his dark head. He watched as Kit took aim and sent a ball spiraling into a corner pocket. “And what will Lady Eliza do now?”

  “Interesting you should ask.” He set his stick down, took a sip of his drink, and leaned on the table. “She’s carrying Carson’s child.”

  Edward gave the expected cough and sputter. He waited for the interrogation.

  “When did she tell you? Is she sure?” Weston paused. “No, she doesn’t need the money. I’m sure between her father and the marriage contract—”

  “She doesn’t have an ounce of guile in her. My mother has become very attached to her.” He sighed. “It just puts me…stranded, so to speak.”

  “You are the earl unless she has a boy. So, you claim the title for at least seven or eight months?” Weston gave a whistle. “Ain’t that a lark.”

  “I’m conflicted, to tell you the truth. After Waterloo, I swore I was done with war. Yet, a week at home and I miss the army—my regiment, my men. If she had a boy, I could go back to my old life.”

  “Then let’s toast to a boy.” Edward held up his glass.

  “My mother takes solace from Lady Eliza. My father has taken this hard and looks like hell. I’m worried about him. He’s not quite right, but I can’t put my finger on it. I’m afraid I may have to assume guardianship of the child.”

  “It’s to be expected, Kit. Not only did he lose a son but his heir. Funny how life can change in the snap of a finger.”

  Both men were quiet, lost in their thoughts. Kit wondered again about the relationship between his brother and his wife.

  “Did he come to love her?”

  Weston shook his head. “It was odd. At first, he claimed he was imprisoned, leg-shackled, lost his freedom. Yet he gave up his mistress, went home most nights, and never spoke ill against her. After awhile, when he mentioned her name, I could hear a note of tenderness.”

  “She insisted on remaining with us after the church service. Lady Eliza appears to be meek and fragile, but there’s a stubbornness in her that impressed me.” He also respected her loyalty. “I believe she loved Carson.”

  “He said the same. I think it frightened him, having another person depend on him. Love him like that without demanding anything in return. He had his demons, but I think she was the reason he wanted to change.” Edward shrugged. “At the very least, he had come to care for her.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “His last night, he told me being married pleased him, and he was certain they would be blessed with a healthy child soon.”

  “All men want heirs.”

  “Men only wanting an heir say just that. They lament and bemoan the lack of a son, not utter the words ‘blessed’ and ‘child’.” Weston raised his eyebrows in challenge.

  “Good point.” Kit picked up the billiard cue again. “I hope you’re right. It would ease my soul to know he was happy at the end.”

  “I can say with absolute confidence that he was content. That’s as close to happiness as most people get, especially a man like Carson. But that comment makes more sense now. I almost asked him what he meant but then the gaming began…”

  “Is it true he was foxed?”

  Weston nodded. “He really did try to stop. Hadn’t had a drink in weeks before that night. You know Carson, once he got started, he couldn’t quit. But I’ve seen him drunker than a wheelbarrow and ride a horse better than me. It was just bloody rotten luck the beast stumbled.”

  For all of us, thought Kit. The clack of ivory against ivory echoed in the room as Kit cleared the table and held out his hand.

  Weston groaned as he gave up the guinea. “It’s good to know some things remain constant. Don’t think you’ve ever lost at billiards. Next time, it’s a game of hazard.”

  “If you don’t mind a wait. It’ll be some time before I can go to any clubs or gaming-hells.” Kit wasn’t big on either, but he did enjoy good company. Like tonight.

  “I’m recommending you as a member of the Earls’ Club. Polite society will never know if you sneak out on occasion and lose a few piles to your old friend, Edward.” He put a hand on Kit’s shoulder. “Consider us your regiment. We recognize past and present members by the pin. If you’re ever in a spot, look for one of these.” He touched the “W” on his cravat.

  “I appreciate that. Believe it or not, I’m happy to be home but frustrated.” He gave a slight growl. “I’m a military man, a man of action. Sitting out and waiting for an outcome is about the worst weapon I can face.”

  “Not to be selfish, Uncle Christopher, but I hope it’s a girl. I don’t want to wait twenty years to have a drink with the next Earl of Sunderland.”

  “Hmph. Get used to calling me Sunderland first. Then we’ll worry about infants.”

  Kit went to bed, his eyes tired but his mind spinning. He hated indecisiveness, didn’t hesitate when faced with choices. Yet, he didn’t know his own mind when it came to this possible inheritance. He had never believed in fate or destiny but it was definitely giving him a basting now.

  Chapter 7

  “It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.”

  Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

  Early July, 1815

  Near Falsbury Castle

  Sammy moved his finger across the dusty slats of the window, forming the vague image of a bird. It had been a long trip, a few of the roads bone rattling, though much of the bouncing could be attributed to her brother. Grace watched his young, smooth face as he concentrated, his tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth. When he finished, he turned to her with a bright smile. “I did better with the wings this time, didn’t I? They still don’t look like the sketch in the book.”

  Grace studied the half dozen birds adorning the walls of the coach. The wings had begun as triangles, but the most recent attempts looked more like an oval that had been hacked repeatedly with an ax. “Practice makes perfect. But in my humble opinion, I do believe they could almost take flight.”

  He peered into her face, holding her gaze. “You aren’t just saying that because you’re my sister?”
>
  “Heavens no. I swear”—she held up her hand—“it is the finest depiction of a bird I have ever seen grace this carriage. I can’t imagine what you’ll accomplish by the time you are seven.”

  “I’ve been practicing,” he agreed smugly. “I’ll show you my dogs next. I’m still working on the tails though. They’re either too long or too short.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” called the driver to the four chestnut horses. The jingle and clink of rein and bridle was followed by Samuel hanging out the door.

  “Sit down right now! It hasn’t even stopped yet.” She pulled the cord and peered through the window slits.

  “I want to know what’s happening. I don’t see any houses, so something must be wrong.” His eyes widened. “Maybe we’re being set upon by thieves. And Thor is tied up on top. Oh no!” He slapped his forehead and sank dramatically into the dusty velvet.

  “I think three days is all you can handle for one journey. It’s broad daylight, you goose. No one robs a coach in the morning. They would at least wait until afternoon.” But she was curious as to why they had stopped.

  Opening the door again, her brother jumped out. “But it’s almost afternoon!”

  Papa let out a cheery hallo to someone, and then the low murmur of male voices mixed with the snort of horses and stomp of hooves. She brushed off her blue print skirt, tied her matching bonnet on her head, and stepped out into the bright daylight. Her feet sank into the summer grass and the scent of lavender hung lightly in the air. They had just emerged from a patch of woods, and the brightness caused her eyes to water. As she blinked, a shape formed. A tall, dark figure. She blinked again to clear her vision and drew in a breath. Gracious!

  The man rode a huge black beast that pranced and threw its head as the pair approached their party. He wore buckskins stretched across muscled thighs, and his boots were dull from travel. Her eyes moved up to the strong hands that held the reins with ease. He had foregone gloves, and pushed up his sleeves, revealing the powerful forearms beneath. With a slight tug and a click of his tongue, the horse obediently settled down and dropped its head.