The Reluctant Earl

by C. J. Chase

  Her stomach knotted around her dinner. Memories of that horrible day engulfed her mind. The summer heat. The smothering helplessness. The poker she’d used to save herself from his assault. She shoved the images away, determined not to let him see her agitation. “My life seems to have taken a sudden turn for the worse again.” In more ways than one.

  His chuckle gusted wine-soaked breath across her face. “You are frowning mightily at your meal, Miss Vance. Does the fish displease you?”

  “Truly, sir, I am not so ungrateful as to scorn any fare this winter, no matter how humble.”

  “Huzzah, Miss Vance!” From across the table, the dowager’s exclamation pierced all other conversation and brought it to a halt. “In my day young people showed the proper respect for what was provided.”

  Awkward silence hung over the guests for several interminable moments while all attention focused on Leah. In no one’s imagination was she a young person anymore. She stifled a sigh, waiting until the polite hum of tedious conversation resumed.

  Truly, despite the quality and quantity of the fare, Leah much preferred the company when she ate her usual meal alone, without her disapproving employer, the leering Reginald Fleming or Lord Chambelston.

  Infuriating. Irritating. Intriguing.

  “Tell me, Miss Vance, how do you amuse yourself when you have a few minutes of your own?” The soft rumble of his masculine baritone snared Leah’s awareness and drew her gaze.

  “I’m much too serious to concern myself with entertainment, my lord.”

  “But surely you must have some...interests.” Lord Chambelston’s fine blue coat stretched across broad shoulders that alluded to his previous livelihood. The gilt buttons winked in the candlelight with a gleam that rivaled the sardonic glint in his eyes. “Do you sketch?”

  “Badly.”

  “Perhaps then you embroider?”

  “Dreadfully.”

  “Surely doing something poorly doesn’t negate the enjoyment of the activity. I like to sing, but others tell me I should save my musical endeavors for those occasions when no one else is near enough to hear.”

  “A pity you aren’t musical.” Viscount Killiane leaned forward in his chair. “Miss Vance is an accomplished pianist.”

  “Unfortunately we tended to use the space on frigates for water and gunpowder, not large musical instruments, so I can’t make the same claim.” Chambelston tilted his head and studied Leah until heat crept into her cheeks. “I hope I have an opportunity to hear you sometime.”

  Lady Sotherton tapped Killiane’s arm. “Miss Vance will be entertaining us after dinner.”

  Oh, would she? Leah’s fingers tightened around the handle of her fork.

  Lord Chambelston edged closer until she detected the subtle spice of his scent over the aromas of her dinner. “Don’t let Elizabeth’s presumption spoil the things you enjoy.” His whisper stirred the hair by her cheek, and delicious warmth radiated from the shoulder that brushed hers.

  Leah lifted her chin. “How do you know I enjoy the piano?”

  “Because unlike sketching or stitching, you apparently do it well.”

  * * *

  Julian sat with Killiane and his brother-in-law, and forced himself to listen to their deadly dull political discussion. Not an easy task when his attention kept drifting to his niece and the merriment she shared with Fleming and his friend. Befuddlement had replaced Warren’s taciturn reserve as he anchored his stare on Lady Teresa. Under his untidy dark locks, his ears glowed redder every time she chanced to glance his direction.

  Over where she embroidered with the dowager, Elizabeth had also noticed the young man’s interest and aimed fierce frowns his direction. From the other corner of the room Miss Vance accompanied the dowager’s companion—Miss Godwin, wasn’t it?—on the piano on a suitably slow and proper air.

  “Chambelston?” Killiane called Julian’s attention back to their debate about taxes and appropriations. “What do you think?”

  “Ah...I’m not sure this is the right time.”

  Another burst of laughter reverberated from Teresa’s group. Elizabeth’s lips narrowed to a concerned slit. She tucked her work away and rose from her chair with a swish of impatient skirts. “Teresa, why don’t you and Miss Vance play the piece I heard you practicing earlier.”

  “But Mother, I’ve only recently begun...” The mirth seeped from Teresa’s eyes and lips, and color rushed to her cheeks. “Yes, Mother.”

  She shuffled to the piano and exchanged nods with Miss Godwin, who ambled to a seat beside the dowager. Miss Vance slid over to make room and offered Teresa a taut smile of encouragement.

  A few whispers passed between the women, one even eliciting a giggle from Teresa. Then they launched into the piece together. Even Julian’s musically ignorant ears appreciated the difficulty of the work.

  And recognized Teresa’s difficulty with it. Each mistake brought another wince to her lips, another shadow to her eyes. Miss Vance adjusted her playing to the younger woman’s skill. After one particularly egregious blunder, Fleming rose from his chair and approached the piano. He tapped Teresa on the shoulder and the music stopped.

  “Excuse me, cousin. Mr. Warren had a question about a local site. Perhaps you could assist him while I take over for you here? I practiced this piece in the not too distant past. So complex. Took me weeks of work.”

  Relief eased over Teresa’s face as she relinquished her place to him. Fleming inched closer to Miss Vance, who stared at the music, tension stiffening across her shawl-clad shoulders. With a curt nod, she began again. Fleming played with enthusiasm, if not exactly accuracy. He reached for a lower note on the keyboard, crowding close enough his arm brushed hers.

  Miss Vance’s fingers stumbled, the flub obvious enough to interrupt even Sotherton’s lengthy discourse about the duties on spirits. She leaped from the seat, her face flushed with her agitation as she looked to Elizabeth. “As Mr. Fleming said, a difficult piece. I fear I’ve developed a headache, my lady. With your permission, I shall retire.”

  Elizabeth deigned to glance her way and even offered a nod. “Good night, Miss Vance.”

  Head bowed, Miss Vance scurried from the salon. But for her obvious distress, Julian might have feared she intended another examination of his belongings. No, her agitation seemed genuine, and he doubted he’d encounter her in his chamber this night. A pity, that—on both counts.

  Despite her dishonest activities, he liked her. After nearly two years of pursuit by women whose only goal was to trap him—or any other man endowed with similar income and position—in matrimony, he’d developed an unexpected respect for those who’d made contingency plans.

  He studied Fleming, who continued to entertain at the piano. What had happened between him and Miss Vance that caused her distress?

  “Lord Chambelston?” The butler stepped into the room with a silver tray. “A message arrived for you.”

  Julian snatched the note, frowning as he recognized his housekeeper’s handwriting. He broke the seal and perused her entreaty. Maman needed him. Now.

  Once he’d been responsible for the lives of nigh a thousand men under his command. Why did he find it so difficult to balance the conflicting obligations of finding justice for his father with providing comfort for his mother?

  He’d have to get his instructions to Miss Vance tonight. Perhaps Teresa would deliver a message later. She seemed wont to believe a budding romance existed between her uncle and governess.

  “Bad news, Chambelston?” Elizabeth’s brows arched above her icy blue eyes.

  “I must leave at first light tomorrow.”

  “I hardly consider that bad news.”

  No, she’d be delighted to see him go. The sting of her rejection jabbed at his heart. “Then perhaps you will find the rest worthy of your disappointment. I’m afraid my business here is not yet concluded so I’ll be returning as soon as possible.”

  Chapter Four

  Julian paused on the sagging stoop
of a modest house. Behind him the sounds of London—lumbering carts, barking dogs, bellowing men—echoed down narrow streets and between close-set buildings. A year ago his brother had asked him to visit here, but Julian had resisted. Today, he had no choice.

  He knocked.

  He wished he could do more—needed to do more—to answer the questions about his father’s death, but he could hardly infiltrate the insurgent group himself. Not when his father had assisted the more rational members in their grievances. Unfortunately Julian knew—and trusted—few others capable of completing such an assignment.

  For the first time since his father’s death, he realized how very alone he was.

  The door swung open to reveal an unremarkable man of middling years.

  “Lawrence Harrison?”

  The man’s unexpectedly keen eyes narrowed, then the crow’s feet at the corners deepened with his smile. “My lord, how good of you to call. Won’t you come in?”

  “Thank you.” Julian stepped over the threshold and removed his hat. Inside the house the hubbub of countless children dwarfed the noises of London.

  “Mr. DeChambelle!” One of the whirling forms paused long enough to attach himself to Julian’s leg. The boy shoved a scrap of brown paper with a crudely inked star into Julian’s hand. “See what I drew?”

  “The children have been enacting the story of the wise men for Twelfth Night. Sorry, lad. This is Mr. DeChambelle’s brother, Lord Chambelston.” Harrison peeled the child away and gestured to the oldest boy. “Andrew, take them to your mother.”

  Julian passed the childish picture to Harrison while Andrew herded the hoard into the next room.

  “I was sorry to hear about your father.” Harrison tucked the paper in the pages of a chair-side Bible.

  “Thank you. He will be much missed.”

  “I never met him, but your brother always spoke highly of him. How is Kit?”

  “Well, the last we heard.”

  A fleeting smile touched Harrison’s face. “He wrote us some months back to inform us he’d resumed his university studies.”

  As many younger sons, Kit had been destined for service in the church, but dropped out of his classes at Oxford to...join the war effort. “A great irony, that he will become a clergyman after all.”

  “But this time because he feels God calling him and not simply because it’s expected of him.” Harrison hesitated, his gaze searching Julian’s face. “I presume you didn’t seek me out to discuss your brother.”

  “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  Harrison grabbed his coat and hat from a peg and led Julian out the door. A year ago Harrison had had the thinning hair and thickening middle common to a man of his years. But in this winter of want he slung his frayed coat over a much leaner frame. Julian’s mind skipped back to the mass of children in the other room. Had Harrison forgone a few meals to see his children fed? To what lengths would a man go to protect those he loved?

  And could the same be said for a woman?

  His feet, and pulse, stuttered. Why did thoughts of Miss Vance creep unbidden into his mind again and again? Because he wanted to believe something altruistic—not selfish or malicious—motivated her actions?

  Even now she should be planning how to accomplish his instructions. That is, if she were simply a naive governess sucked into a bad situation and not a traitor to her king and country.

  The two men walked in silence along the road until they reached the river’s edge. The stink of the Thames, only partially subdued by the winter wind, tickled Julian’s senses with reminders of his past. Ships moored along her shore. The same gusts that whipped his cloak also tossed the ships’ rigging and moaned amongst their furrowed sails. He lingered. Watched. Remembered.

  Two decades ago when his thirteen-year-old self—a gangly youth all knees and elbows and anxiety—had boarded his first ship, he’d never guessed he would someday miss that life. The months of endless watches. The hours of boredom. The minutes of thrilling terror.

  The camaraderie.

  “My lord?” Harrison interrupted his reverie.

  Julian drew himself back to the present, to the problems that seemed so incredibly complex compared to the simplicity of youth. “I’m seeking someone to work for me. I’ll pay you, and well.”

  “Jobs that pay well at such a time as this are usually dangerous or illegal.”

  “Not illegal.”

  “How dangerous?”

  “I’m not certain.” Though someone had credited one murder to the radicals already. “And it requires travel.”

  “Dangerous and requires travel.” Harrison’s brown brow arched over amused blue eyes. “Sounds as if you’re conscripting me for the navy.”

  “Not that much travel. Only as far as Northamptonshire. I don’t know what you did for our government during the war—”

  “And you never shall, my lord.”

  “And that is precisely why I wish to hire you. I believe you have some...special talents I lack.” Julian’s brother had shared precious few details of what he’d done during the war, only that he’d worked as a spy. With Lawrence Harrison. Imagining the oh-so-mundane Harrison in dangerous, clandestine work almost lifted Julian’s lips into a smile. The man was perfect for the part—unremarkable in every way. “You know what happened at Spa Fields?”

  “The riot?”

  “I recently learned the incident may not have formed spontaneously.”

  Harrison blew a low whistle through his teeth. “You think there is a conspiracy to foment unrest? That is a serious charge.”

  “Aye, treason,” Julian agreed quietly. A half-respectable tavern perched along the street. Julian waved at its facade. “I have a long day yet ahead of me. Let’s continue this discussion over a meal. I’ll pay, of course.”

  Harrison followed Julian into a dim interior that smelled of grease and hard labor. But the fire radiated warmth and the harsh wind didn’t buffet them with cold. The day was yet young enough the taproom held few people. Once they’d settled themselves in a quiet corner, Julian retrieved the anonymous note from his pocket and slid it across the table.

  Harrison pulled off his gloves and examined the page. His brows drew together as he perused the words. “When did you receive this?”

  “The morning of my father’s funeral.”

  “Have you enemies? It could be a deception.”

  A serving girl brought them bowls of watery stew. “I considered that. But I had to inquire further, so I traveled to Northamptonshire.” Julian fished through the broth for an elusive vegetable or cut of beef.

  “I thought Lady Sotherton was estranged from the rest of her family. Have you reconciled?” Despite the meal’s poor quality, Harrison gulped his food hungrily all the same.

  “Sadly, no. I spoke with her husband—the Home Office undersecretary—and he claims my father did indeed have a relationship with some of the petitioners.”

  “So we can’t rule out the allegations of murder without more information.” Harrison set down his spoon and examined the note again, his lips pursed with concentration. “The parchment is of high quality and the phrasing suggests the writer studied rhetoric. The lines are fine, implying a new or freshly sharpened quill. But some of the letters fluctuate, suggesting your anonymous author is a person of means and education who tried to disguise his handwriting.”

  “I see I was right about your special talents.”

  “So what else happened in Northamptonshire?”

  “I discovered a member of my brother-in-law’s staff searching my room.” Julian hesitated, his thoughts harkening to those moments in his bedchamber when he’d first encountered Miss Vance. “She claims she receives remuneration for her activities.”

  “Selling government information gleaned from Sotherton? Did you inform your brother-in-law?”

  “Not yet. I came to see you instead.”

  “If she is telling the truth about her compensation, that indicates planning. And funding.”

>   “And collaboration with either a hostile power or revolutionaries within our own country. If what I surmise is true, there will be further unrest.”

  “The current hardships add impetus to their cause. Men with hungry bellies are easily led. Such as I.” Harrison eyed his empty bowl as he refolded the note and returned it to Julian.

  “My original objective was to determine the letter’s veracity—and if true, bring my father’s killers to justice. But it seems I chanced upon something greater than my poor troubles.”

  “Tell me about the informant.”

  Julian hesitated, strangely reluctant to reveal her identity. “My niece’s governess, Miss Vance.”

  “The governess?” Harrison’s widening eyes revealed his first surprise of the day. “Been with the family for long?”

  “Eight years.”

  “So she could have begun her enterprise during the war, selling Sotherton’s secrets to the French.”

  Nausea roiled the broth in Julian’s belly. He pictured Miss Vance’s frayed coat and vintage gown. “If she did, she hasn’t spent her ill-gotten gains on her attire.”

  “A smart woman wouldn’t.”

  And she was that. “She seems quite close to her charge.” And yet she was betraying the Sothertons for a fee. Surely the woman who had claimed her cynicism stemmed from a French shell wouldn’t have conspired with England’s enemies. “However, I don’t know if she’ll remain with the family after my niece’s comeout in the spring.”

  “Eight years is long enough to form significant connections in the neighborhood. Someone knows her well enough to realize she’d be receptive to betraying Lord Sotherton.”

  The serving girl collected the empty bowls. Julian placed a few coins on the table and earned a gap-toothed smile. “I suspect my sister is a demanding employer.”

  “So demanding a woman would betray her country to settle her grudge?”

  Julian rose from his seat, his thoughts turning back to Miss Vance’s comment about evil and the disparity of power. “She seems to feel injustice keenly.”