An Earl To Remember_The Yorkshire Downs Series_Love, Hearts and Challenges_A Regency Romance Story

by Jasmine Ashford

  As they followed him Evelyn could not help but glance around the place. She could not recall when she had been in a place so beautiful. The floor was pink marble, the ceiling high and vaulting, supported on columns that also looked marble-faced. The place was small enough for the candles to light every inch of it and it glowed like a polished gem.

  They walked down a hall with a high, barrel-vaulted ceiling, the ceiling itself molded and painted white, decorated with tiny designs of leaves. As they walked over red marble floors, Evelyn suddenly realized why the place looked so familiar to her – it reminded her of the churches she had seen on the Continent – extravagantly decorated, exuberant and flamboyant. All pink, white, and gold.

  This man had made his house a shrine, she thought wonderingly. A shrine, probably, to whatever ideal he strove for. She felt a twist in her heart and realized she pitied him. Then she felt it turn cold. There was no idea, she felt, that was worth a single human life.

  “His lordship will see you now,” the retainer said, and bowing, left them in the entrance to a ballroom.

  At least, that was what Evelyn thought it was. She stepped into the space and could not help a breathless gasp. The room was round, the ceiling a complex structure of meeting vaulted arches, floating, white and delicate, over the floor.

  It was the floor that held her gaze. A polished artwork of marble of all different shades, it was decorated in slices, almost like the way one might cut a cake, except that these wedges were each of priceless marble.

  It must have cost a fortune.

  “You may approach,” a voice said. It was a thin voice, accented and grave. Evelyn looked up from the floor to see a short man with close-cropped hair crossing the floor toward them.

  Bronson glanced at her and she walked forward proudly, flanked by the two lords behind her.

  She looked at the man before her. He was short, she realized, with a chiseled face that should have been remarkably handsome except that the eyes were blank.

  Green with blue marbling, they were mesmeric eyes, catlike and entrancing. They were also entirely without feeling. She swallowed and stepped back.

  “Good evening,” he said quietly. “My lady Sumpter. I am surprised to see you here.”

  Evelyn cleared her throat. Then his eyes narrowed.

  “You are not lady Sumpter.”

  Evelyn stepped back. She glanced at Bronson, who stepped forward.

  “Guildford!” the man shouted. Assuming Guildford was the servant, Bronson whirled to face the new arrival in the door.

  The man was quick.

  Before either of them had time to think, his hand was on Evelyn's wrist and she was kneeling, her arm drawn up behind her, a knife that had, seemingly come from nowhere, at her throat.

  “Move, either one of you,” he said viciously, “and the lady – whoever she is, I don't know – loses an ear.”

  Evelyn looked out at the two men pleadingly. Then, deliberately, she turned. The knife glanced along the side of her head as she did so and she almost cried out, but she faced the man, struggling to stand upright.

  “Why did you kill Lucian?”

  He had turned the knife, had been about to attack her. He paused.

  “I didn't kill Lucian,” he said with surprise. “He killed himself.”

  “What?”

  He smiled. “Yes. You didn't know? He betrayed us. To do so is death. He killed himself.”

  “But by your hand.”

  “Evelyn,” Bronson whispered urgently. She made a gesture with the hand behind her back and he stopped.

  She heard someone take a step to the side. Lord Everett.

  The man blinked at her. “I was the instrument, yes. I always am. Facing me is death. But he did not have to do it.”

  Evelyn blinked at him. “What else could he do?”

  “Drink poison,” the man said mildly. “That is the way betrayers usually choose. But not him, it seems.” He shrugged. “It did not take long.”

  Evelyn felt rage building in her. Slowly, she cautioned herself. Slowly. For what she planned to have any chance of working, she would have to distract him longer.

  She could feel the sting and rawness of the wound in her head and smell new blood. It itched in her hair and she fought the urge to touch it.

  “You ruin lives,” she challenged. “And you think it justified?”

  He gave a harsh laugh. “Is it unjustified?”

  “It is unjustifiable.”

  He laughed. “Ends justify the means. Is that not what they all say? Every leader, every commander, every revolutionary leader?” he paused. “What is one life, a dozen lives? A hundred? When we seek to change the fate of thousands?”

  She shook her head. “One life is one life.”

  At that moment she heard what she had been waiting for. A step on her right. She screamed, then, and ducked and rolled.

  While she had held the man's gaze, Bronson had sneaked forward until he was on their right.

  Now, he threw himself at the man, howling his rage.

  Evelyn stared at him. She had known her husband since they were skinny children, playing games on her father's northernmost estate. She had always loved his mild, gentle soul. She had never seen him like this.

  “Murderer,” he shouted. “Attacker! Killer!”

  He was raining blows down on the man, and Evelyn watched, appalled. Then she saw the man steady himself, fist raised.

  “Bronson!” she screamed. “He is armed...”

  The small, silvered knife flashed once, twice, in the brilliant light. Then it plunged down, straight for Bronson's chest.

  It connected but it was too high up.

  Because the assailant was not there any longer.

  Lord Everett, standing on Evelyn's right, had launched himself forward.

  Shouting wordlessly, he drew back his fist and hit the man on the side of the head, over and again.

  Bronson, bleeding but suddenly sobered, went toward him. He kicked the man, who was struggling and spitting curses, in the temple and he fell suddenly silent.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Lord Everett was panting. He was speechless. His arm was running with blood where the silvered knife had caught it, and he held it with his other hand, watching, awestruck, as dark blood pulsed between his fingers.

  Evelyn ran forward on legs that wobbled dangerously.

  “Bronson!” she cried. After assuring herself that the cut on Bronson's chest was not nearly as deep as it should have been, she turned her attention to Lord Everett.

  “Graham?”

  The man was sitting in a pool of his own blood. He was wide-eyed and his sight was glazing. She called him but he did not seem to hear. As she watched, he fell sideways in a heap.

  She bent down beside him, heedless of the stink of blood, coppery and salty, that hung around the man like a miasma. She lifted the knife where it lay and cut off a strip about two inches wide from her gown's hem, grunting as she ripped it.

  “Bronson?”

  Bronson swayed on his feet. He, too, looked ready to faint.

  Evelyn lifted the prone Lord Everett's wrist and began to wind the bandage around it.

  “I need to tighten it somehow,” she said. “Is there a stick in here? A chair leg? Anything.”

  Bronson shook himself. He glanced around. He noticed an alcove and drew it back. Then he staggered in. He came back two minutes later with a fire iron.

  “Perfect,” Evelyn said without further thought. She looped the ends of the bandage around it and wound. The tourniquet tightened on Lord Everett's arm. When the cloth was soaked with blood, but no more dripped from it to join the dark tide on the marble, Evelyn bit her lip, satisfied.

  “Press the knot?” she asked Bronson.

  Understanding her cryptic request, Bronson knelt down beside her and calmly placed his thumb on the knot. Evelyn tied it off. Then Bronson crumpled forward onto the marble.

  Evelyn looked down. Three men lay on the floor, blood f
anning out over the brown-veined marble, already starting to set. She was fairly sure all three would survive. However, she had no idea what to do.

  Feeling weak herself, the blood from her head starting to dry and tug her hair, she staggered to the end of the room and walked into the corridor.

  Where she was met by Jarvis, running in, wild-eyed.

  “My lord! My lord! Oh!” he stared at her. “Lady Evelyn. Thank Heavens you're safe. We have to go. Now.”

  Evelyn stared at him fixedly. She swayed. She could see he was speaking, but her mind was too tired to work out what he had said.

  “Jarvis,” she said quietly.

  He looked at her and shook his head. “My lady. You look...”

  She interrupted him, exhausted. “Don't mind me, Jarvis. I'm well. Just go into the hall and get them out. Then mayhap you can tell me why we need to run.”

  Jarvis stared at her, and then walked briskly up the corridor down which she had run only seconds before. “Show me where they are.”

  They carried Bronson out first. Jarvis, a big man, strained and grunted to lift him off the floor. Once on his feet he revived, swaying, and insisted he could walk. He leaned on Evelyn and the two of them walked out together, heading through the silent, still lit house, to the drive. Jarvis followed, carrying Lord Everett in his arms.

  The coach was at the foot of the steps. Jarvis had thought to come back and leave it there. Loading Lord Everett into the coach was tricky with only him to do it, but he managed. The man sat, propped up and deathly pale, in a seat.

  “Now Bronson,” Evelyn insisted.

  Her husband gave her a blurry gaze. “I can walk. I'm well. Don't concern yourselves...” he slurred, swaying even as Evelyn gently guided him toward the door.

  Jarvis gripped his arm and he stepped in, slipping and sliding, and took a seat.

  “Now you, my lady,” he said urgently. “Take my hand.”

  Evelyn glanced about. Her own vision was blurry. She was weary. She could barely think, hear or see.

  “Why are we hurrying?” she asked wearily. “What is...?”

  “They're almost here!”

  Jarvis shoved her up the steps and into the carriage. He slammed the door but not before she heard the whoops and cries, the feet and shouting men.

  She screamed as Jarvis threw himself up the rail to the driving seat, and then started the coach.

  As they tore out of the drive, the mob howling behind them, Evelyn sent up a prayer of thanks. For saving their lives. For sending Jarvis at that moment. For their current state of being. For the fact that they had stopped to change horses.

  The horses tore up the drive, down the road, passing through the avenue of trees and onto the main road. They fast outpaced marching men, even irate ones, on foot, and by the time they reached the main road to London again they were all alone there.

  Evelyn looked around the carriage. They had slowed to a walk, saving the horses. She would order a stop in the closest town where they could change horses, spend the night, and find a physician.

  Lord Everett was white in a way she had never seen a human being go pale. He was propped against the carriage but lurched each time they moved, completely numb. Bronson was hunched on the seat beside her. He was hissing breaths through his teeth and she guessed he was in immense pain. She thought of embracing him but thought the better of it. Any distraction, any touch, would hurt worse.

  She leaned back on her seat and closed her eyes, summoning her last reserves. She opened the carriage window.

  “To St. Alban's.” she shouted.

  “Yes, Madam.”

  By the time they reached St. Alban's, she was completely asleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  A SURPRISING EVENT

  A SURPRISING EVENT

  Evelyn stood in the hall at Brokeridge Manor. She looked at the man who stood beside her.

  Bronson, tall and handsome, was dressed in his most formal attire – a black velvet jacket and velvet knee-breeches, with white silk hose. She felt her heart beat faster.

  On her left, Graham, Lord Everett, stood. He was still pale, and even more gaunt than when she met him, but he was well-dressed in a pale caramel-brown velvet suit and hose, mustard hair brushed and glowing. He looked like a man renewed.

  Bronson smiled at Jarvis. He had returned to Brokeridge Manor for one last task. Evelyn had told Bronson of his part in their rescue and together they had granted him retirement with a plot of land big enough for farming and a lovely cottage. He now occupied it with the cook from next door – apparently he had loved her for years and never asked for her hand, unable to support her. Evelyn smiled.

  “It is good to have you back, Mr. Jarvis.”

  He beamed. “I am pleased to be back. Now, my ladies and lords, are we ready?”

  They all smiled at him.

  “Yes,” Bronson agreed. “All in order.”

  “Good.”

  Together, they all followed him down to the coach.

  They were traveling to Emilia's wedding.

  She had sent them word from Yorkshire, where she was apparently safe, in hiding with a man who had risked his life for her many times. She was engaged to him.

  “And we shall be neighbors,” Evelyn was saying with a smile. “I would not have guessed Whitehill Place was so close to us.”

  “Only when they are in the neighborhood, mind you,” Bronson winked at her as he helped her into the open coach beside him. “They might choose to spend most of the year in Yorkshire.”

  Evelyn nodded. “They might do,” she agreed mildly.

  “Well, then,” Lord Everett smiled as he climbed up into the carriage and together they took off along the road, the sun warm and beating down on them as they drove. Lord Everett was still pale and seemed to become tired often, but Evelyn hoped that would improve over time. “I shall have to invite you all to my home in the wild north whenever you would care to stay there.”

  Evelyn smiled. “Thank you, Graham.”

  Since his valiant attempt to save Bronson's life, Lord Everett had risen in status in the town. Bronson and Evelyn had helped to pay some of his debts and his family had accepted him back, inviting him to the north more often again.

  “It is nothing,” he said with a pale grin.

  Evelyn turned to Bronson, who was shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. “Almost there. About ten minutes,” he said and patted Evelyn's hand. She smiled and twined her fingers through his own.

  In the three months since the fight, his wound had healed well, leaving a wicked mass of scarring between his sternum and his throat that was hidden, for now, under his high-collared shirt. Evelyn had come to love the purple mass of tissue, the signature of his senseless courage.

  The carriage glided smoothly along a long paved drive and Evelyn felt excitement growing rapidly inside her. She had not seen her cousin for three months! She could not wait to see her again, see how she had changed.

  When they arrived, Jarvis opened the door and Bronson helped Evelyn out. She smiled at him.

  “Off you go,” he smiled. “You can't keep the bride waiting, now can you?”

  Evelyn gave him a radiant grin and hurried up the wide, shallow stone steps of the mansion. It was an impressive mansion. Pale sandstone and substantial, with soaring gables and a wide front door, the place was at least the size of Brokeridge manor, if not even more extensive.

  Evelyn, considering Emilia as the duchess of Everly one day, bit back a smile. She could not think of any more appropriate conclusion.

  She announced herself to the butler and was shown upstairs at once.

  “Lady Brokeridge...” he began to announce her but he was cut off by a high, piercing cry. Two cries.

  “Evelyn!”

  “Emilia!”

  The two women ran to each other. They embraced.

  Evelyn stood back, looking at her cousin. Emilia was radiant. Her long golden hair was brushed and glossy, arranged in an elaborate style and wreat
hed with blossoms. She was wearing a white tulle gown with ample skirts falling from a high waist, delicate and dainty. She had silky puff sleeves over her long, pale arms and her delicate face was split with a happy smile.

  She was also crying. Evelyn, feeling tears run down her own face, smiled at her.

  “Oh, cousin. My dear Emilia. You look so very, very, lovely.”

  “And you, my dearest cousin. You look quite astounding. And I am so, so happy.”

  The two women embraced again and sat down on the bed. All they had to do was put the veil on and then go down to the hallway and the chapel, but it felt like years since they had seen each other and they wanted to talk at once.

  They talked. About Bronson. About Oscar. About Bronson again. About the house. About the wedding. About happiness.

  The maid came and found them still talking, and timidly set the veil on the shining curls.

  Then, still brushing away tears, Evelyn gathered her own green silk skirts into her hand and followed the new, radiant, smiling bride downstairs.

  EPILOGUE

  It was late. The sky was pale violet, the last rays of the sun kissing the sky above the distant hills.

  Evelyn sat on the terrace at Whitehill Place, watching the sun sink and the dusk breathe its darkness across the fields. She turned to Bronson, who sat at the table opposite her.

  “My dear?”

  “Mm?”

  “I wonder if we should leave soon.”

  It was ten of the clock in the evening, summer dusk. The wedding guests had mostly departed twenty minutes or so ago, wanting to head to London before night fell. Some of them were still here, staying in the guest quarters which Emilia and Oscar had set aside for their use.

  “Don't go,” Oscar protested. Evelyn looked across at him. A handsome man with an even face, pale hair and deep blue eyes, she had been struck by him the moment she saw him. As the evening wore on and they talked, she found she liked him even more.

  Evelyn smiled. “We really shouldn't stay. I can't think to impose on you...” her voice trailed off as she was interrupted by her friend.