by Lynn Kerstan
The cycle became nearly regular—three months alone in a black, icy, dripping cell, a few hours of interrogation, and back to the hole, usually unconscious. Eventually, he accepted that he was there to die.
He’d been imprisoned more than a year when, without explanation, he was hauled by wagon to Calais and dumped on a packet, flying a neutral flag and headed to Dover. Someone told him his father was dead and that he was Earl of Coltrane.
Mark realized his fists were clenched on the paper and he forced himself to relax. Even now he could not accept that his father had left him to rot in a French prison, refusing to pay what was, considering the family fortune, a paltry ransom. Could the Old Earl have hated him so much . . . enough to veer the title to an effete third cousin unlikely to produce the next generation of Coltranes?
He wrenched his thoughts from what did not bear thinking about. Nothing made him colder than thinking about his father.
What a love Megs had been, and how prodigiously needle-witted. He’d rushed his fences there, confiding in her before his nerves had settled. No doubt about it, Jillian Lamb unnerved him. That was something so new in his experience he hadn’t realized it, but Megs spotted the signs immediately. In a spin, was he? Perhaps he’d admit to being slightly disoriented, but there was no accounting for it.
Jillian Lamb was a minor nuisance, like a housefly in a closed room. More like a comet, he amended, remembering how she’d slugged it out with Jaspers in the foyer. Fought dirty, too, the little fiend. The part of him that was always wary filed away the information. Her very presence in his house gave her a powerful weapon, not that he thought for a minute she would use it. No female had ever taken him into such immediate dislike, and the Lamb would sooner elope with one of her cows than drag her guardian to the altar. On the other hand, she was not above propelling him into a scandal to get her way, so tomorrow, after meeting with the Old Earl’s solicitor, he would make the rounds of his clubs. Rumors could be squelched if caught soon enough, or at least diverted.
An attendant bustled at his elbow, mopping ashes from the table and piling empty glasses on a tray. Mark glanced up. “Madeira, Thomas,” he said. “No, on second thought, make it cognac. And I wouldn’t mind a good cigar.”
‘From the private stock, Milord. I’ll see to it.” As Thomas began to remove the newspapers, the Earl waved him off.
“Very good, Milord. A bit of privacy.”
Watier’s was his favorite club, ideal for a fence-sitting politician not ready to align himself with the Tories at White’s or the Whigs at Brooks’s. Everyone came to Watier’s, for the food and discreet service. His father had intended him for politics, whether he liked it or not, and fortunately he did. Most of his peers expected him to take up where the Old Earl had left off, but for now he was playing his cards close. So close, in fact, that he’d not looked at them himself. What if they made him out a Whig? He chuckled softly. Richard Delacourt would set off an earthquake rolling in his grave.
The childish temptation to rebel was nearly irresistible, but he squelched that impulse as deliberately as he avoided his father’s broad coattails. Politics was to be his life’s work, and he wanted to believe in the causes he supported. Now he just had to figure out what those were. One could almost envy the uncomplicated existence of a farmgirl like Jillian Lamb.
It would complicate his own existence to keep her in London. Most of the burden would fall on Margaret, but he’d be expected to escort the chit now and again, to provide the necessary cachet. She could not fail to be an embarrassment. Lord, she practically reeked of the farm. But he was an old hand at hypocrisy, and dancing attendance on a milkmaid was little challenge for a man who’d seduced Junot’s wife under his nose to find out when the General planned to set out for Madrid. Yes, he could carry it off, but he was sick to the heart of feigning interest in boring conversations and setting himself to charm people he detested. Scarcely a good state of mind, he reflected dourly, for a man entering politics.
Thomas was back with a decanter, a snifter, a clean ashtray, and a selection of rolled cigars. After pouring two fingers of cognac, he quietly withdrew.
Mark decided he would spend more time with Megs. She was so like her son, with Trevor’s swift, sly smile and sky-blue eyes. Coltrane-tall, slender, still lovely in her early fifties . . . three inches taller than her husband, he recalled suddenly, although that never seemed to trouble them. Once he’d run tame in their home, when he came down from Trinity for the holidays. Like all young bucks he’d wanted rooms of his own, but the Old Earl wouldn’t hear of it. No reason to take lodgings like a Cit when there was a perfectly good house at Berkeley Square. The subject was closed, until Trevor generously abandoned his own plans for a separate establishment and invited Mark to stay with him under the watchful eye of his mother. The Earl could find no objection to his own sister as chaperone and grudgingly surrendered.
Meg’s watchful eye blinked when necessary, and she never tattled when the boys, one or both, stayed out all night. A knowing one, Aunt Margaret, and never critical. If only for her sake, and because of her trust, oats were sown freely but discreetly. Good days, long gone . . . like Trevor. Mark took a deep swallow of cognac, gazing sightlessly into the fire.
Suddenly remembering the unopened letters stuffed in a drawer of his desk, he wondered if among those marked “Personal” was one from the Viscount Kerrington. Surely not. Robin would never let anyone see him now, and any overture would be taken as pity. Mark had come to terms with the loss of his close friends by shutting out the memories, and doubtless Robin was doing the same. It would be a mistake for them to meet.
Margaret was another matter. She needed to get out more often, and he would see to it that she did. If necessary, he’d use Jillian to pry her from that upstairs parlor.
Hearing voices behind him, he quickly raised his newspaper. The last thing he wanted was company. To his relief, the men settled on the other side of the room.
“It won’t fadge, you know,” came Ivor Malory’s deep drawl from over his left shoulder. Mark looked up with displeasure at the Marquess of Blackstone.
The title suited him to perfection. Blackstone was tall and solid as an obelisk, with sardonic eyes and thick hair blacker than soot. “That’s the ladies’ page, old boy,” he pointed out. “Who wore what to where with whom.”
Mark focused his eyes on a paragraph and learned that Lady Wilberstoke was in an interesting condition. Disgusted, he balled the sheets and chucked them in the fire. “Go away, Ivor. I’m in a foul mood tonight. You want no part of me.”
“Probably not,” the Marquess conceded mildly as he removed the litter from the other chair and sat down. “Good cigars. Don’t mind if I do.” Unwrapping one brown cylinder, he bit off the end.
Thomas was there immediately to light it for him. “Another glass, Milord?”
“Thank you, Tom.” Expelling a stream of smoke, Blackstone glanced sideways at the scowling Earl. “How is it you are skulking in a corner absorbing the latest crim-cons with such fascination, Del? I have it that you cut Marston this evening.”
“Didn’t cut,” Mark grunted irritably. “Didn’t see him, and I don’t want to see you, either.”
“Then you ought not array yourself in a public place. Especially tonight.”
Mark felt his blood drain to his feet. Dear God, was the word out already? Had someone spotted Jillian on his doorstep? Refilling his glass with shaking hands, he downed the brandy in a single swallow. “I take it my own name is likely to appear in tomorrow’s edition of the Times?” he inquired with an easiness he didn’t feel. “Are you here to be the first to congratulate me?”
Malory slanted a curious look at him. “My word, you have the news so soon? We’ve only just got here from Carlton House.”
Carlton. Prinny, too? No way to fob off that old gossip with a fuzzy story. Mark calculated furiously while he rea
ched for a cigar. Thomas was back with a snifter for the Marquess, and he hovered nearby as the Earl fumbled with the wrapping and bit nearly a full inch off the end. Impossible to smoke that. Arcing the remains into the fire, he did better with the second cigar while Thomas poised impassively, waiting to give him a light. Not daring to look at Malory, he sucked in a hefty draw and released it slowly. Smoke rings floated lazily to the high ceiling.
Blackstone folded his arms across his chest, regarding his protege with interest. Coltrane was a deep one, so much like his father in some ways that it was easy to forget how different they really were. Both stubborn as tree stumps, of course, but Mark possessed a sadly undeveloped sense of humor and more flexibility of mind than the Old Earl. He foresaw great things for him, when his energies were channeled and his spirits raised. Too often, like now, he brooded silently even in company. “Give over, Del,” he urged. “How did you know?”
Mark smiled enigmatically, the moment of panic ruthlessly suppressed. “How did you?”
“I was there when it was announced, but that wasn’t an hour ago and we were the first to leave. It was in the wind, eh? Should have known a master spy would be up on every trick. I expect you don’t much like the idea, but once you get past the embarrassment and claptrap, it will be for the good.”
“Do you think so?” Mark’s voice was carefully noncommittal.
“Well, painful in the short term, of course, but you can carry it off without making an ass of yourself. Not many that could, under the circumstances. And are you convinced that it is necessary?” He was aware of cold sweat running down the back of his neck. “No way out?”
“You could refuse, but Prinny wants this. For the sake of your career, you’d better go along. I’ll try to keep ceremony at a minimum, but you know the old fart. He wants a big display. At best we can do it in the Lords, but I don’t think he’ll be talked out of a banquet to celebrate.”
“In the Lords? No one got married in the House of Lords. Mark sat up. “Just who knows about this, Ivor?”
“The batch over there, and Flo’s cronies. Anyone you’ve told.”
“Dammit, why would I tell anyone?”
Blackstone examined the Earl through his quizzing glass, eyebrows arched with amusement. “Forgive me, old thing, but I begin to suspect that you and I are not addressing the same subject.”
Mark felt a breathless surge of hope. “Perhaps not,” he hedged, stubbing out his cigar. “So, tell me what transpired at Carlton House. If Prinny is involved, it cannot be good.”
The Marquess flashed him a sardonic grin. “Fact is, Del, you are destined for a medal. Service to the country, above and beyond, all that rot. Prinny allowed as how he hasn’t thought what to name the honor. Can’t make you a K.B.—not for spying—but he might pop for another title to add to your string. Got some people looking into defunct baronies, but I wouldn’t count on anything. Alas, the medal is nearly certain, with all the accompanying folderol. Not your style but there it is.”
Mark sank back into his chair and let the implications sink in. None of them were good. He groaned. “Why me?”
“I won’t flatter you with a lot of nonsense. Fact is, Prinny wants to associate himself with the war effort. Never mind we’d all like to see him in the front lines, and to do him credit he’d be there if anyone let him go. But as it is, he’s wallowing in debt, half a million pounds at last reckoning, and slavering at Parliament to finance his building projects. Been to Carlton lately? Didn’t think so. It would turn your stomach, not to mention what’s going on at Brighton.”
“You, my friend, ought to keep better company.”
“Indeed.” Blackstone grimaced. “But Florizel is likely to be Regent before the year is out, and I for one intend to keep a weather eye on his fits and starts, even if it means spending a dull evening hearing your praises sung by a fat fool trying to use you for his own benefit. Thinks he’s found a way with this medal business. Wants to bask in the afterglow. Wellesley is practically begging for horses and artillery, while Prinny shops for drapes and pagodas. You ought to have scotched this scheme before it took hold, Malory. Damn if I’ll be any part of it.”
“Ah, but you will,” the Marquess said tranquilly. “You’ll accept the medal, endure the puffery, blush humbly if you can, make a brief speech praising anybody we can think of, and dedicate yourself firmly to the public good.”
“I think not.”
Ivor regarded him through templed fingers. “Think again, Coltrane. It’s past time for you to fix on a project that interests you, and we can use this unwelcome acclaim to draw attention to it. And to you.” He smiled beatifically. “Like it or not, I have taken it upon myself to guide your career. Any objections, old thing?”
“Medals, for one.” Mark lapsed back in his chair. “So, you think I need a project, do you?”
‘For your own good.” Ivor’s gaze was serious. “Give it some thought, and I’ll back whatever you decide. Although I suspect you’ll want to draw my cork for saying it. Your father’s considerable talents were largely wasted because he never compromised, even in the most trivial matters. That is a mistake I do not wish to see you repeat. If Prinny wants a circus, give him one. He never forgets an insult. Ask Brummell.”
The Earl bent forward, hands on his knees, staring gloomily into the fire. “Can you buy me some time to think about it?”
The Marquess considered briefly. “Florizel is in alt right now over the idea. We could plead your health, but things will get very maudlin if you are a suffering hero. You aren’t, by the way?”
“Not for several months, but this is an excruciating pain in the neck. And some family business has come up. I expect it will occupy me for”—the image of a bedraggled, snuffling, red-nosed Lamb crossed his mind—”at least a month.” All of a sudden he felt much better. Once Jillian was foisted on the ton under his aegis, no one would want to give him a medal.
“Too long,” protested Malory. “Can’t pull it off.” Coming to his feet, Mark fixed his determined mentor with a glacial stare.
“One month,” he reiterated. “I’ll throw the thing in Prinny’s face otherwise. See to it, Ivor, and after that I’m yours. Right now I’m for dinner—alone, no offense.”
The Marquess rose with indolent grace. “Not hungry anyway, churl. Prinny served up the usual seven courses. I’ll find a way to put him off, but stay out of his sight if you can.” He grinned. “Truth is, I never thought you’d give an inch on this.”
Nor would he have, Mark agreed silently, except that he was breathlessly relieved to find a medal around his neck instead of a shackle around his leg with Jillian Lamb attached. It was, to his way of thinking, a reprieve.
Malory shook his hand with genuine sympathy. “Enjoy your supper, Del. And by the way, Marston recommends the baron of lamb.”
He could not imagine why Mark shot him a dagger glare before stalking out of the room.
Chapter Six
JILLIAN ENDURED two days of incarceration in her room with ill grace. Bored silly, with only her maid for company and nothing decent to read, she finally convinced Polly to raid the Earl’s library. The maid was gone a long time, and Jillian was beginning to regret her scheme when Polly lunged into the room, her thin arms wrapped around a stack of books.
“Jaspers almost caught me,” she panted. “Comin’ down the ‘all, ‘e. was, just when I got to the stairs.”
“Did he see you?” Jillian asked with concern.
“Must’ve. Don’t know if ‘e saw the books. Oh, M’Lady, I ‘ope these will do, because I don’t think I can go back there again. If ‘e turns me off—”
“He won’t do that,” Jillian said firmly. “And of course you won’t go back. I shouldn’t have asked you in the first place, and if anyone is to be punished, it will be me. Don’t worry, Polly. I can handle Jaspers.”
“Ye
s, M’lady,” she said in a dubious tone.
“Everything will be fine. I promise. Here, let’s see what you brought me.”
Polly gingerly spread the books on the bed, as if afraid they would fall apart. “You know I couldn’t read what they are, but I tried to pick out nice colors for you and ones with pretty pictures.”
“They can’t be any worse than the sawdust Jaspers selected for my edification,” Jillian said with disgust. When the Earl told him to provide her with books, the butler had served up two collections of dry sermons and something in a language that might have been German. She resolved to be satisfied with whatever the maid had chosen.
The covers were of hand-tooled leather in rich green, burgundy, and brown, and the pages were edged with gold. Valuable books, Jillian noted with a connoisseur’s eye.
“They was all together,” Polly said, flushing with pride, “in a locked case.”
As well they ought to be, Jillian thought. “How did you get to them, Polly?”
“I have me ways,” the girl said smugly. “Took the keys right off Miz Jaspers. After lunch she sleeps like the dead for two hours. Then she ‘as tea and sleeps summore.”
“Truly. Doesn’t she ever do her job?”
“What for? She ‘as us to do the work. In the mornin’ she gives orders, checks the silver, things like that. Rest of the time she eats and sleeps mostly. Better that way, M’lady. None of us wants to wake ‘er up.”
“I should imagine not.” Jillian tapped her chin thoughtfully. The household keys, even to locked cupboards, were accessible.
The books would be useless for reading, she knew without opening them, but she did so anyway, if only to commend Polly on her choice. And they were excessively beautiful—Books of Hours, illuminated in brilliant colors, the pages much older than the bindings. Someone had preserved the rare old things, but Gerald Lamb would not have approved. The pages once had had wider borders and had comprised only one book, but they’d been sheared off, edged with gold, divided up, and bound into a set. “Oh, Polly, these are quite lovely,” she exclaimed. “Look here. This is the Angelus.”