by Lynn Kerstan
“He would have done so, had I been here.” The Earl fingered a letter opener thoughtfully for a moment before tossing it aside. His eyes, normally a calm, impassive blue, went from cool to cold. “And now, Miss Lamb, let us put an end to this drama so that I can have my lunch. You—” He looked directly at her and stared in fascination.
What had been a wet, furry clump of ringlets around her head was starting to . . . well . . . grow. He could almost see her hair expanding, rather like a balloon, as it dried. Even more astonishing, he heard the definite sound of a giggle as she realized what he was gawking at.
“Awful, isn’t it?” Jillian said cheerfully. “I’d forgot about it. Better not to think about it, if you want to know the truth. Between my name and this mop of woolly hair, I grew up listening to bleats and baas from playmates who thought they were clever. Came to a point when they changed their minds, though.”
“Bit them, did you?”
She grinned. “The butler? He deserved it and more. Go at ‘em tooth and nail, my father used to say, but my nails aren’t any use because I keep them short. For the cows, you understand. I specialize in teeth and a swift kick where it will do the most good. That jackass was lucky my feet were tangled in the cloak.”
Mark didn’t want to hear any more. This firebrand wasn’t from the streets. She was straight from the barnyard.
“Father was just as bad,” she plowed on. “Called me his fluffy black sheep. The hair does look like lambswool when it’s short, so I let it grow as much as I can. Then, of course, it looks like—”
“A bush?” the Earl supplied helpfully.
Jillian smiled, and he saw a tiny dimple in one cheek. “I’m afraid so. Fortunately, it makes no difference now what I look like, but when I was a little girl I used to pray that I’d wake up one morning tall and elegant, with masses of long blond hair and a patrician nose. Like yours. One that’s good for looking down when one is annoyed. Tall and long-nosed is much better when one wishes to make a point, don’t you think?”
Her pert nose was decidedly red and the Earl watched it disappear into his handkerchief for another sneeze. For a single-minded, determined little bullet, she had a remarkable capacity for digression. To his own surprise, he found himself suggesting a tray of tea and biscuits.
She was back on course immediately. “Don’t think to change the subject, My Lord. We need to get this settled so I can get home. As it is, I shall miss the night mailcoach unless I take a hack to Lombard Street, and my clothes are soaked through thanks to your butler. I’ll need to buy Polly’s dress from her to wear, and probably a cape as well.”
The Earl, tired and in considerable pain, lost what little fascination the chit had managed to arouse. He needed a hot soaking bath, and soon. It was the only thing that eased the agonizing spasms, other than laudanum, which he dared not take often, or drink, which he was careful to measure out in small doses. What had he been about to say when he noticed the bushy hair? “Perhaps if you would explain exactly why you are here and what you want, I can arrange to see you on your way. It cannot,” he added with calm disdain, “be soon enough for me.”
Jillian’s temper, as quicksilver as her smile, rebounded in a flash. “It is I, My Lord, who has been waiting for hours in the pouring rain for you to deign to appear.” Each declaration was punctuated with a pounding fist on his desk. “It is I who has been waiting for nearly a year for some word from you. Some acknowledgment of my letters and the resumption of the allowance which you have . . . illegally, I am sure . . . withheld from me while my house is practically falling down around my ears and the staff isn’t paid. It is I who wants the explanation, My Lord, and furthermore, I . . . aa . . . achoo!” The rest was smothered in his handkerchief as Jillian sank into the chair to indulge her fit of sneezes.
The Earl stared politely at the ceiling, sorting through what she’d told him. Two words held his attention—letters and allowance. It was possible, just possible, that she had a legitimate complaint against him. Business matters had been in disarray for some time and he rarely looked at any correspondence. He gentled his voice. “Miss Lamb, I assure you that I know nothing about you or any funds due to you. Has this something to do with my father?”
Red-rimmed eyes, watery from sneezing, looked up at him. She really did seem to disappear into the enormous wing-backed chair, and while he couldn’t see her feet from his position behind the desk, he suspected they didn’t quite reach the floor.
“You don’t know who I am, do you?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I can understand some confusion when the Old Earl passed away, and unimportant things—like me—would easily get lost in the shuffle for a time, but hell’s bells, man, don’t you even read your mail? I sent at least ten letters straight here, and expensive it was, too, because I can’t just scrawl a frank like you can.”
“My secretary handles correspondence,” Mark said a little defensively.
“Well, naturally I thought of that. I was afraid I’d got pushed to the bottom of some pile or other, so the last several letters were marked ‘Personal.’ The last two ‘Personal,’ ‘Confidential,’ and ‘Urgent.’ Surely something like that would come into your hands?”
“Yes, Barrows would pass such correspondence on to me, and no doubt he did so. But that does not mean I would read it.” In fact, it assured that he would not. The few friends he’d ever cared about were all dead except for Robin, who’d have done better to get himself killed like the others. No, there were no friends he wanted to hear from, not anymore. He’d closed that door, finally, and opened another that admitted only acquaintances.
The chit was on her feet again. “In that case, My Lord, permit me to introduce myself once more. I am Jillian Theodosia Lamb, and I have the incredible misfortune of being your ward.”
He blinked. “That’s impossible.”
“Unthinkable. Intolerable. And certainly unnecessary. But, unhappily, quite true.” Jillian watched him closely. The Earl looked as self-assured as a cat in a tree, but she knew he was not. He wore aloofness like a cloak, but it slipped every now and then . . . not so you’d notice until he regathered it around him. He really had not known, and culpable as that was, it was also forgivable. At least he had not willingly cheated her. He might be awesomely neglectful, a typical rackety aristocrat with no more on his mind than his hair-styling, cravat, and where to spend the night, but it began to appear they could straighten out this business with a few explanations. Then he’d pay her back allowance and she could return home, where being a ward meant only the nuisance of cashing the quarterly bank drafts. Jillian lowered herself to the edge of the chair, hands folded primly in her lap, giving him a chance to apologize.
“If you are speaking the truth . . .” he began, waving his hand lazily in her direction when she growled, “and naturally I must verify the situation for myself, then I have to inform you that it is not at all the thing for the ward of an earl to travel on a mailcoach . . . alone, I take it, unless you’ve an abigail packed away in that disreputable luggage. Not to mention displaying yourself on a doorstop in Berkeley Square for all the world to see.”
She was up again, bent over his desk and virtually nose to nose with him. “Not the thing? Displaying myself? Hell’s bells, you snooty, puffed-up, odious toad. I never—”
“But you did,” he informed her cuttingly. “And now you are ill, God knows what will become of your reputation if anyone recognized you, and this is scarcely an optimal way to begin a relationship that neither of us wants. For the time being, compose yourself, young lady. Resume your seat and remain silent long enough for me to finish speaking.”
“Sit!” His voice was quiet, as always, but it could have sliced a tough cut of meat. She sat. He drew out his watch and flipped it open. “It is, perhaps, a bit late to send for John Lakewood. He was my father’s solicitor—although he retired last year—and will doubtless be familiar wit
h this . . . ah . . . unpleasant situation. In fact, there are several people I’d like to consult, so it will be a day or two before I’ll be prepared to inform you of my decision.”
“But—”
He lifted a cautioning finger and Jillian clamped her mouth shut. When a low rumble sounded from her throat, he shook his head. “I do not tolerate tantrums, Miss Lamb. From anyone. When I am finished, you may speak.” Satisfied by everything except the look of pure malice in her eyes, Mark rubbed his forehead and tried to regain his thoughts. The knives in his back pronged up his neck, sparking the inevitable, disabling headache. Even the questions he wanted to ask seemed less important than easing the pain. She’d waited a year, so she said, and now it seemed she’d have to wait a little longer. He was certain she wasn’t going to like it.
“There is nothing more to accomplish until I have verified your story, my girl. In any case, you must rest for now, so we’ll settle you in with some hot soup and a large supply of handkerchiefs while I begin the necessary inquiries.” He started to rise and thought better of it. “Will you please give a tug at that bell cord?”
Surprised, Jillian jumped up to do as he asked, and before she could sit down again, Jaspers was in the room, bowing unctuously. The old goat had been listening at the door! She swiveled around and bared her teeth at him.
The Earl clipped out rapid orders, Jaspers growing more indignant with each one.
“Here?” he protested. “In this house? How can you permit her to remain? The Old Earl would never hear of such a thing.”
“The Old Earl, in case you have not noticed this last year or more, is dead, and what he can or cannot hear is nothing to the point. Put Miss Lamb in the Ivory Suite and find someone to act as her maid.”
“I want Polly.”
The Earl glared at her for interrupting. “Polly, then. A fire and a hot bath, luncheon, and anything else she asks for so long as—”
“Books.”
“Books. And she is not to leave the room, for any reason, until I say so.” He spoke to Jaspers, but the order was clearly meant for her. Jillian was too busy sneezing to argue.
“Yes, Milord. But if I may say—”
“You may not.”
With a sniff, the butler swung around and exited. The door crashed behind him.
“You ought to fire that man,” Jillian said frankly. “He’s a disgrace to his profession.”
“One does not terminate family retainers without serious cause,” the Earl told her patiently. “Jaspers served my father for nearly forty years.”
“And does so still, I apprehend. That attitude would not be tolerated from anyone on my staff, I can tell you.”
“Be grateful, then, that I am somewhat more long-suffering. It may enable me to tolerate you.”
The dimple winked in her cheek. “I expect, my Lord Earl, to put that to the test.”
He nearly smiled, and for that brief instant Jillian almost liked him, but his eyes clouded over like a storm sweeping across a lake. “You will do better, my girl, to simply obey me. If you are, in fact, my legal ward—don’t snarl because I do believe you—then whatever I decide will certainly be in your best interest. Delacourts always live up to their obligations.”
“As you’ve done so far?” she inquired sweetly.
“Your trick,” he admitted, his face grim. “This has all come as a complete—and unwelcome—surprise, Miss Lamb. It is possible that my neglect of unknown responsibilities may have caused you certain difficulties and precipitated this outrageous behavior, and we shall take up this matter again at a later time when I have ascertained the facts.”
“Hell’s bells, talk English, will you? You’re not addressing Parliament here. The fact is, you didn’t do what you were supposed to do and I did what I had to do. That’s the long and short of it.”
“We shall also,” he continued imperturbably, “address the matter of your indelicate language.” There was a light knock at the door. “That will be someone to take you upstairs. Run along, child, and have a good rest. Tomorrow or the next day, depending on how you feel, we shall come to a proper resolution of what is to be done with you.” The fire in her eyes heated the room, but the girl’s shoulders were slumped, and he could tell she was very tired and feeling not at all well. Perhaps the doctor should come have a look, for it wouldn’t be the thing to have his ward drop dead at Coltrane House. Only Jaspers would be pleased at that.
Jillian managed a curtsey almost as insolent as one of the butler’s bows. “Good day, My Lord,” she said, moving to the door. “I hope you are feeling better when next we meet.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Does your back pain you very much?”
“Nothing pains me!” he snapped.
She shrugged. “If you say so.” Her hand was on the latch when he spoke again. “How old are you?”
Jillian turned completely around. “How old do you think?”
Mark regarded her suspiciously. “Fourteen, maybe fifteen. You look younger than that, except for—” Flushing, he gestured vaguely in the direction of her bosom.
Precious Lord, the man could be embarrassed. Jillian dug into that chink in his armor with glee. “Have yourself fitted for spectacles, My Lord. In a few weeks, I shall be four-and-twenty.” She savored his dropped mouth and stunned expression for a delicious moment before sweeping out.
“Hell’s bells,” muttered the Earl.
Chapter Three
MARK SETTLED INTO the steaming water with a low murmur of pleasure. The hand-crafted copper tub was six feet long and two feet deep, allowing him to stretch full length with his neck against a pillow. It had a spout for draining off cool water, and footmen appeared at regular intervals to warm the bath. Sometimes he’d lounge an hour or more, emerging with his skin puckered like a raisin, but with his muscles relaxed and relatively pain free.
Foxworth held out a glass of claret. “Saw the little girl come down the passageway a few minutes ago. Who is she?”
“Servant’s network letting you down?” Mark refused the wine with a wave of his hand. “Thought you’d have everything by now. Jaspers had wood-burn on his cheek from pressing his ear against the door.”
“You know they don’t talk to me, laddie. Two camps in this house, them and us, and we’re outnumbered. Only the new ones treat me like something better than dirt.”
Mark frowned. “She says I ought to fire him.”
“Jaspers? Ought to string him up by his—”
“Neckcloth? I often wish to. And she’s not a little girl. She’s four and twenty. Tiny dab of a thing, though. Tongue like a hacksaw. No manners to speak of. Raised in a barnyard. She’s my ward, Foxy. Would you believe it? A late inheritance from the Old Earl.”
“What’s she doing here, Milord? Don’t she have a husband?”
“Must not,” Mark said reflectively. “And that’s the answer, of course. You always cut to the heart of things. Tomorrow I’ll get the lay of the land and take care of it.”
“Run an advertisement in the Times, will you? Small female with tongue like hacksaw, raised in barnyard, requires spouse. Large dowry. I presume you’ll stand for one?”
“If necessary. Dammit, Foxy, what did I do to deserve this?”
“Nothing just lately, Milord. Ain’t done much of anything just lately, near as I can figure.”
“You know, I believe I’ve had enough lectures for one day. Why don’t you get out of here? Have Marcel send up some lunch, and come back to dress me at eight o’clock.”
“Going to the clubs?” The disdain in Foxworth’s voice was nearly offensive, but Mark was too tired to feign annoyance. “To pay a call on my aunt, and send her a message I’m coming around, will you? Margaret may have a few suggestions for eliminating this blight on my otherwise peaceful existence.”
“Dull existence, if yo
u ask me.”
“I didn’t. And believe me, dull is exactly what I need for the foreseeable future. Maybe for the rest of my life. For that matter, I can scarcely resume a career in espionage, Foxy. They caught me, or had you forgot?”
“Didn’t kill you, though.” Foxworth tossed a bar of soap into the tub. “You got out pretty much healthy, considering what they did to you. Wouldn’t have thought you’d shrivel up so fast. Like the Old Earl.”
Mark had listened to this speech, or one much like it, too often to be offended. In truth, it took a lot to move him these days. More than a familiar diatribe by a man who’d loyally settled with him into a passive routine that suited Foxworth not at all. Probably Foxy would prefer the dungeon to this mausoleum of a house, but he was a born fighter and Mark was a staid English aristocrat, to the manor born. His rebellion was over. With his father dead there was no one to rebel against, and his usefulness was done with as well, because the French had found him out. He’d even had the desire to buy colors, like all his friends had done. It was too late for him, and too late for Rodger Mosley and Trevor Ramsey and Jamie Burnett. All his friends, all of Robin’s Merrie Men gone, except Robin himself—and he wasn’t merry any longer.
Only Mark Delacourt, scion of the House of Coltrane, was still whole. His father would have blackmailed the War Office to keep him from buying colors, and the pressure at home was unrelenting. Their quarrels grew more heated, until they could scarcely meet without an ugly confrontation. After one particularly fierce battle, Mark stormed to Whitehall and offered his services to the Foreign Office. A week later, with his father’s curses ringing in his ears, he was on his way to France. His mother still had influential family there, and he used them as a wedge to enter the court of the new Empire. Even now it seemed like a betrayal of the mother he had never known. He had no idea if she’d be proud of him or ashamed. He couldn’t guess where her loyalties would have lain, except that they didn’t reside with her son or her husband. And now that it was done with, he was fairly certain he’d betrayed both his parents by spying, all his friends by not fighting, and himself by never really knowing what to do.