The Lonely Earl

by Vanessa Gray

  They stared at each other. “What kind of man, my lord, goes about erasing his own footprints?”

  “Exactly.” He frowned a moment. “Dawson, do you think you could make a duplicate of that print? Here in the ground?”

  When Dawson had finished, it was a fair imprint of a boot, unusually cut into the ground more heavily on the outer edge. “Like a lame man,” said Dawson succinctly. “And we know who that is.”

  “Or,” said Hugh slowly, “someone who wanted it to look like that”

  “Then, my lord,” said Dawson simply, “who erased the print?”

  Hugh grinned. “Maybe the lame man himself, knowing he was set up as guilty.”

  “Perhaps,” said Dawson reluctantly. “I still think…”

  “No matter what you think,” said Hugh, not unkindly. “First we’ll need proof before we say anything. And proof is what we’ll keep our eyes open for.”

  Gratified at his employer’s inclusive pronoun, Dawson nodded. Then he said, “It’s going to rain. Hear it starting yonder?”

  The patter of raindrops sweeping across the heavily leaved trees and brush grew louder and reached them. It was an easy rain, softening frequently into mist.

  “Go on back to the house, Dawson,” said Hugh. “I’m going to stretch my legs a bit.”

  I need to sort out my thoughts, Hugh mused as he walked away from the coppice alone. His steps were aimless, and he scarcely knew where he was.

  His thoughts were gloomy company. Crale Hall seemed to have drawn to itself a foggy atmosphere of — what could he call it? Not quite misery, but of joyless traveling along the deep grooves of life.

  What had he expected? A half-brother who had always resented him, and even in his absence had not matured into a responsible adult. Now, almost twenty, Vincent was as raw as the veriest greenhorn. Too late to send him to school. He would have to think very hard about what to do with him. Perhaps Ned could find him a position in the government Hugh’s lips twisted in amusement as he thought of the proper and incipiently pompous Ned faced with the task of making something out of Vincent. It would not suit, of course. Vincent was a Crale, and therefore Hugh’s clear duty.

  Besides, Ned had sufficient problems of his own. Smuggling was no great crime; the strict laws of England regarding the importation of duty-free items had never been strictly enforced, and the smugglers might well claim right of custom in their trade. Hugh could not become indignant over kegs of brandy or even a length of French silk or two. Times were hard — weren’t they always? — and it was smuggling that put the few extras on the table, without doubt, of many a cottage along this coast.

  Probably, many a cottage owned by the Earl of Pendarvis himself, and inhabited by his tenants!

  But brandy, he thought, turning the comer of Bosk Woods, high on a hill above Trevan, lying a couple of miles distant in the valley below — brandy was one thing, and Bony’s spies were another. He redly could not allow such an event to take place. Ned would get his full assistance, Hugh vowed.

  Rain was pouring down now, and he decided to seek shelter. The Green Man was closest He hurried on with his coat collar turned up and his shoulders hunched against the pounding rain.

  He was scarcely conscious of the sound of wheels coming toward him, only enough to step to the side of the road and keep walking. But the wheels stopped beside him.

  He looked up into the concerned face of Faustina Kennett.

  “My goodness, Hugh!” she said, startled into familiarity by the surprising sight of the earl slogging along the road like any farmer.

  “Can I give you a lift?” she said. ‘I’m going back home, but I can turn and take you into Trevan.”

  He climbed up into the seat beside her. The roof of the old-fashioned caliche had been brought forward to provide some protection from the weather.

  “Not a bit of it. If you will drop me at my gate, I shall be more than grateful. Do I take it that you are driving alone?”

  She assured him, “I often do, as far as Trevan. I do not feel in the least alarmed on this road, at least”

  They traveled for a short distance in silence. “I am sorry,” she said shyly, “that I assumed a familiarity that was unbecoming. But I hear my father call you Hugh.”

  “I confess,” he said, “that I should like it above all things if you were to forget my title, too.” Surprisingly, he realized that he spoke truth. Quickly he added, “There are few enough of my acquaintance who do not stand on ceremony.”

  There seemed little to talk about Faustina’s thoughts were of such a nature that she could hardly broach them to the earl — how could she warn him against her own aunt? How could she beg his kindness toward her young cousin?

  On his part, Hugh found it hard to remember that he was possessed now of an ideal opportunity to give Faustina the set-down he had planned for her.

  Beguiled by the clean scent of her amber curls and the smooth curve of her cheek as she refused to look at him, he realized, as she halted the caliche before his gates, that he had almost forgotten that he had such a scheme.

  “Shall I drive you to the house?” she offered.

  “No, thank you,” he said, bemused by the unexplained alteration in his feelings. “The rain, you see, is much lessened. And since I let it be known that I wished a vigorous walk, I fear I would lose credit with my people if I arrived home in such style!”

  Bowing, he hurried between his gates, and she whipped up her horse. Such a lonely man, she thought. Did he know how he stirred her when he said wistfully that few people called him by his Christian name?

  Or — the thought struck her with unwelcome clarity — was he simply bamming her again, remembering the larklet of years ago, and suspecting her unconquerable weakness for strays?

  Chapter 12

  Earlier that day, the rain clouds had lowered on Kennett Chase as well as on their neighbors. And within the house the disappointment over the postponed outing was equally severe.

  Faustina would not have believed that she was counting so much on the picnic. She had made such plans, sketched such telling dialogue to use with Pendarvis — to let him know how outrageous he was, to steal her picnic and then present the idea in such brazen effrontery.

  She settled down in her upstairs sitting room with Bucky. “My dear,” said that lady, “I really cannot blame you for feeling out of sorts. It is too bad to have one’s hopes dashed, is it not?”

  “The picnic, Bucky? You don’t imagine that I set store by what is only an afternoon’s diversion, do you?”

  “Of course not,” soothed Bucky. “But it is always distressing to have one’s day planned and then find oneself without employment.”

  “That is something that you never do,” marveled Faustina, with affection. “Always your hands are busy. Here, give me some of that linen to mend.”

  “No, no, my dear. This is my work to do.”

  They sat in companionable silence for a bit, and the conversation then turned into the well-worn channels of domestic affairs.

  At last Bucky laid down her needle and peered shortsightedly at Faustina. “My dear,” she ventured anxiously, “I wonder at your distress. Is it your aunt’s presence? Does she … I mean, do you…?” Bucky became so entangled in her roundaboutations that Faustina took pity on her.

  “Does she remind me of unpleasant times in London?” guessed Faustina. “Is that what you mean? Truly, she does. But you are right. I am in such a grump that I don’t know how you abide me.”

  She rose and took a few quick steps to the window and back. “What is it, Bucky? Do you fear I am sickening for a decline?”

  Bucky’s serene countenance bore no sign of the worry that had brought her to speak. Instead, she smiled and picked up her needle again. “Dear me, how do you suppose this bolster case sustained such a great rent? It is past mending, and I’ll set it aside for bandages.”

  “Bucky, you’re not answering me.”

  “Quite right, my dear,” said Bucky, suddenly forthri
ght. “I wish you had more countenance, and did not let your feelings dangle for everyone to see. You see what comes of asking me, child.”

  “You tell me the truth.” Faustina reflected. “Then you think my dislike of Aunt Louisa is too pronounced?”

  “Oh, no, not your aunt,” said Bucky, her head down as she searched for her scissors.

  “Then… Pendarvis?” said Faustina, jolted. “I thought I had been most civil to him. But I am sure you are right. I must hide my dislike of him.”

  “Not quite that, either,” said Bucky, a queer, smothered note in her voice. “In fact, my dear, one gets quite the opposite impression!” And though she watched Faustina with eyes brimming with suppressed mirth, she would say nothing more. Fortunately, she was saved from Faustina’s teasing curiosity as to her real meaning by Julia’s hurried entrance. Both women were struck by her abounding cheerfulness.

  “Don’t let me interrupt you!” Julia cried. “The vicar is coming to dinner tonight, isn’t he?”

  Faustina and Miss Bucknell surveyed her with surprise. Obviously, the idea of the vicar’s coming to dinner imbued neither of them with an attitude of cheerfulness. Faustina, when she recovered the power of speech, explained as much. “Quite the contrary,” she said with comic exaggeration, “we go into mourning for the day.” “Pooh!” said Julia, correctly assessing her cousin’s feeling. “But that means his whole household will come?”

  Faustina lapsed into momentary thought “I believe not.”

  “No?” Julia was crushed.

  “I think the cook will stay home, and I am sure that Helen’s maid, Jenny, does not intend to come. And perhaps the cat will refuse.”

  “Oh, you idiot!” cried Julia, and joined Bucky’s hearty laughter. “I simply meant…” She did not finish. Instead she said, “Tell me about Helen Astley, Faustina.”

  “She is an overly educated, overly self-important young woman who is quite possibly an even more boring conversationalist than her father. But then, I would not like to wager on the subject.”

  “My dear Faustina!” said Bucky.

  “Her father,” continued Faustina, “thinks that Helen’s mother’s family, the Hortons, will provide her with a perfect jewel of a husband — I mean that literally, you know. Jewels, and money, and…”

  “Then she is betrothed?” There was an odd anxiousness in Julia’s manner as she sank to the floor in schoolgirl fashion.

  “Not in the least,” said Faustina crisply. “You’ve met her. Does she act engaged?”

  “No,” Julia admitted.

  “But I think that Pendarvis will not be attracted,” said Faustina judiciously. “At least…”

  “If she’s after the earl…” mused Julia, and caught by accident Bucky’s kind but admonishing eye on her. “I know, Miss Bucknell. It is not the thing to speculate in such a fashion, but you see, it does mean quite a bit to me!”

  While the two watched her in surprise, she regained her feet and walked gracefully through the door, leaving them the prey of wild surmise.

  “Don’t tell me she has developed a tendre for the earl!” cried Faustina. “What a tragedy!” She paused, then added, “But I do remember that she danced with Pendarvis, and they seemed to have quite a bit to talk about.”

  Further speculation was halted by the entrance of Lord

  Egmont. “My dear,” he said, “isn’t tonight the night that the vicar comes to dinner?”

  “Yes, it is, Papa, and I’ve been meaning to ask your advice,” said Faustina. “Don’t you think that we can now divest ourselves of the vicar every week?”

  “You think so?” said Egmont hopefully. “Probably not, though. He’s the kind that never gives up anything that appeals to him.”

  “Anything that appeals to his vanity, you mean,” retorted his daughter. “But now that the earl is back, perhaps the Pendarvis table will suit him better.”

  Egmont brooded. “I doubt it. He’ll hang out for both.”

  Faustina laughed. “How gloomy, Papa. But alas, how true. But while Vincent was alone, one could not expect him to sit quietly while Astley prosed on, could one?”

  “One could,” said Egmont with a touch of crispness. “That is how one grows up, by doing things that are required of one’s station.”

  “But Vincent—”

  “Vincent is like his mother,” said Egmont, quietly bitter. “No breeding. His father was my greatest friend, but I see little Crale blood in the boy. A pity.”

  Faustina’s impulse was to defend Vincent. She usually did, when her father pronounced disapproval of Vincent’s actions — a fairly frequent occurrence — but this time, she decided to keep silent. She suspected her father had not come merely to ask about the vicar, a regular engagement he knew well. He seemed vaguely troubled; in fact, the arrival of Ned, she recalled, had heralded this anxious look in her father. Perhaps he would tell her the substance of his worries. In due time.

  Just now he delivered himself of the burden he had carried into his daughter’s sitting room. “My dear, I must tell you. I’ve invited Hugh to dinner. And that, of course, means Vincent, unless he cries off.”

  “Wh… what? I mean when?”

  “Tonight, I’m afraid. Two more at table won’t upset anything, will it?” he responded hopefully.

  “Oh, no! But with the vicar—”

  “The child means, I fear, Lord Egmont, that it is a cruel punishment to the earl to take dinner with his vicar,” said Bucky, adding, “I must say that I did not teach her these shabby ways.”

  “Of course not,” said Egmont, returning Bucky’s twinkle with a smile. “I fear it is I who have allowed her such unladylike manners.”

  “Nonsense!” said Faustina stoutly. “You both agree with me. But… I must tell cook! And I must go into Trevan to obtain the saffron cook needs. She will be mortified at the earl’s arrival unless she makes some of those tiny pasties he likes!”

  *

  The vicar’s party arrived early. Helen led the way, taking off her shawl and allowing Woods to take it. “Such a dreadful day,” she said mournfully. “We had such a nice outing planned, thanks to the earl’s invention, and of course we must not complain about the weather — it is providential, after all — and I do say that I found it so, for I had a chance to unpack all my trunks. Such a chore, I always find it.”

  Faustina guessed shrewdly that it was Mary Bidwell and Jenny who had found unpacking such a chore. But she responded suitably, greeted Mary Bidwell with cordial warmth, and turned her over to Ned’s care. Aubrey Talbot and Mr. Astley arrived at the door at the same time.

  Vincent and Hugh arrived together, by dint of the earl’s adroit maneuvering. If he were to be shot at again, Hugh thought, he wanted to know where Vincent was. It would make a great deal of difference to be positive that his half-brother was innocent of the attempt on his life.

  It was an unwieldly, unbalanced group. Faustina could not place the earl, as ranking peer, anywhere but at her right hand. And she was conscious of the detested man with every breath she drew. But, remembering Bucky’s pointed advice, she determined to mend her ways.

  Ned was at her left, and Mary Bidwell beyond him. Aunt Louisa had arranged for Helen to sit opposite her. at Egmont’s left, “so I can keep an eye on her!” she had muttered to Faustina.

  Glancing down the table, Faustina wished they had all stayed home — or, failing that, would soon feel an overpowering urge to be in their beds.

  Helen prosed on at the head of the table, leaning forward from time to time to address Aubrey, diagonally opposite, and at the same time stealing a sidelong glance at the earl. Faustina soon became amused, for the earl ate steadily and seemed totally unaware of Helen’s flashing eyes. Certainly he gave no sign of becoming jealous of her marked attention to Aubrey. Indeed, once he looked up unexpectedly and caught Faustina’s eye. Before she could summon her defenses, she returned his look of wicked amusement. The moment was over in a second.

  Mary Bidwell, between Ned and Aubre
y, was quiet, responding to remarks addressed to her but making none of her own. She was abstracted, almost sad. Faustina did not marvel at that. A few days spent in Helen’s company would send anyone to Dismal Street.

  And down the table Aubrey was conversing with Julia. And Julia was laughing merrily, and across the table, Helen was frowning.

  “Pray let us hear what you are saying, Mr. Talbot, that makes Miss Waverly laugh so much,” said Helen. “I am sure we will all be the better for a good laugh.”

  Clearly, she herself hadn’t indulged in “a good laugh” for some weeks. But good-naturedly, Aubrey obliged. “I was simply telling Miss Waverly the story I told you this morning — about the farmer I saw at Banbury fair last month, with the two mules.”

  “Oh, that story. I confess it was not so amusing when you told it this morning. I always say that it takes an elevated mind to tell a story, even a plebeian tale like yours, Aubrey, with any degree of nicety. I should imagine that the earl might give you a few words of advice on the subject.”

  Julia subsided, her cheeks hot. “I thought it was funny,” she said in a shy voice.

  To everyone’s surprise, Lord Egmont agreed. “Astonishing what comedy one sees in the everyday course of events,” he said, claiming the attention of the entire table, “if you have a discerning eye. As it seems you must have, Mr. Talbot. I remember one time…” Then, eyeing Faustina quizzically the length of the table, he laughed and stopped. “I tend too much to dwell on stories of my years in India. It was long ago, and very far away, but my niece has spoiled me greatly by asking for my hoary old stories.”

  Faustina looked at her cousin with new respect. The girl had brought Egmont, that tolerant spectator, to defend her against attack, and she admitted that Julia had earned such defense. She gave Julia an encouraging smile, and would have added her own word except that Vincent, who had been toying with the stem of his wineglass for some time, now managed to spill the sauterne across the white napery. Faustina, in the midst of Bone’s cleanup, caught sight of Hugh’s thoughtful gaze upon the unlucky Vincent. Well, who could be calm, with one’s older brother watching every move? she demanded of herself, and knew she was not fair.