by Lynn Kerstan
He waved his hand negligently. “I know enough for the easy things. What I can’t find is a way out with honor. Fact is, I haven’t taken a move these last four days. Best I can see is a draw, which is the most I ever manage against His Lordship.”
“Would you give up the draw for a chance to win?”
“In a wink.”
“Then bishop to queen four. He’ll want to protect his knight and might be lured into moving it. Shortsighted, though. If he’s really good, he’ll let go the knight and counter with his rook . . . here, like this. Are you following?”
For once, Foxy’s concentration wasn’t on the game. “I’ll take the move you say and go from there. Can’t gloat if it works and you did it all.”
Jillian nodded appreciatively. “You ought to win, if only for stretching things out so long. By now he’s probably forgot—”
“Not a chance.” Foxworth lifted his bishop with a flourish and planted it on the black square. “Mark Delacourt never forgets a thing, but I’ll whip him sooner or later because chess is an exercise for him and a passion for me. I wouldn’t mind a lesson or two, if you have the time. Perhaps tomorrow?”
“I’d hoped to be gone by tomorrow, but I suppose that’s not likely. The Earl hasn’t said a word to me for two days. Do you know, he locked me in my room!”
Foxworth grinned at her. “So I see.”
Fondling the white king, Jillian examined the intricate carving. White jade, matched to black onyx. The chess set was worth a fortune. She held the piece to the light. “I can’t bear to be caged. Which reminds me, I need to return the keys before they are missed. They belong to the housekeeper.”
Foxworth held out a callused hand. “Will you permit me? I’ll see them put where no one will guess they were purloined.”
“Oh, would you?” Jillian pulled the ring of keys from her pocket. “I won’t take them again. I just wanted to get out of that room for a bit and find something decent to read. Then I got distracted and forgot to pick up any books. You must be wondering why I’m here, in the Earl’s rooms.”
“It crossed my mind.” Foxworth pocketed the keys and went to a small table spread with crystal decanters and glasses. “Would you prefer sherry or brandy?”
Jillian giggled. “I’ve never actually tasted brandy.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, flexing her fingers and toes. “Is this wicked, Foxy? Drinking brandy in His Lordship’s suite?”
“Alone with me? Fox and Lamb?” He waggled his bushy eyebrows. “Would it were so. But I fear our rendezvous is but the sharing of a nightcap between a charming young lady and a man old enough to be her father.”
He handed her a glass and she lofted it in a toast. “With a friend, I hope,” she said, tossing off the drink in a dramatic single swallow which she quickly regretted. The heat felt wonderful coursing down her aching throat, but it set up a fit of coughing that left her voice huskier than before. “Th . . . thank you,” she choked.
Foxworth drained his own glass, more easily, and refilled them both. “Slowly, Miss Lamb. The brandy will be good for that cold and help you sleep. Now tell me, what led you to the Fox’s lair?”
“I was looking for a statue, about seven inches high, green jade, carved like a dancer. I couldn’t find it anywhere, and this was the last room where it might be. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find it here. If she were mine, I’d have the Dancer in a special place in my own room where I could look at her.”
Foxworth wrinkled his brow. “I’ve seen nothing like that in the house, and I know the collection.”
“The former Earl bought it about ten years ago. My father often worked on consignment for him, and I remember when he brought the Dancer home. We always got to keep the best things for a little while. I’d hoped to see her one more time, but perhaps she’s been sold.”
“Mark don’t touch anything what belonged to his father,” Foxy said with a frown. “Maybe the Old Earl got rid of it while we was in France. Want me to find out for you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I was only bored and curious.” Jillian took a long, slow sip of brandy, wondering how it was a servant called the Earl by his first name. “This is awfully good,” she said. ‘It feels warm going down. You know, Mr. Fox—”
“Foxy.”
“Foxy. You don’t look very much like a valet.”
He drew up, pretending to be insulted. “And what do I look like, Miss Lamb?”
She chewed a fingertip thoughtfully. “Like a soldier. One I’d want next to me in a fight.”
“I wouldn’t mind that as an epitaph, Milady. Truth is, I’ve been valet to His Lordship more’n fifteen years, and other things on the side. Been next to him in a fight or two along the way, and I could say the same of him that you said to me.”
“Truly? I picture him more at home in a ballroom.”
“So he is. Ballrooms and other places I wouldn’t want to turn my own back. Give me a clean cavalry charge any day. I was in India early times, with Arthur Wellesley that’s now Commander-in-Chief, and he’s good in ballrooms, too. Will outdance Boney one of these days. But some of the war goes on in places you wouldn’t expect, Miss Lamb. His Lordship could tell you about that.”
“I don’t imagine he will. What a spectacle I’ve made of myself here. It’s most embarrassing.” Jillian was beginning to feel a little woozy. It took a great deal of effort to remember where the white king had been and to put him back in place. “This is a very strange household, Foxy. It unnerves me.”
“I can’t imagine that anything unnerves you, Miss Lamb.” The Earl spoke from the door, which he’d opened silently after hearing voices inside.
Jillian was on her feet in a flash, but Foxworth only leaned back in his chair with a wide smile wrinkling his cheeks.
“You’re h . . . here,” she croaked. “Oh, damn.”
“Your language, my dear. Yes, I am here, but this is, after all, my room. Dare I ask—?”
“What I am doing here?” His cool insolence hit the brandy warming her insides and set off a minor cyclone. “Yes, you may dare. I should not be here. I was wrong to come here. I apologize.” Jillian’s curtsey was lopsided and her foot caught on the hem of her gown, baring one white shoulder. Blushing furiously, she tugged the robe around her neck.
The Earl moved into the room, slicing a pointed look at his valet.
Foxworth shrugged. “Talking art, we was,” he said mildly. “Statues and all. You’re back early.”
“I shouldn’t be here,” Jillian muttered again.
“No, you should not.”
He didn’t look angry, she decided. More like amused or resigned. Also very tired. Lines of pain creased his forehead, and she understood why he’d come home unexpectedly. But he bowed smoothly and tilted his head, evaluating her appearance with one raised eyebrow.
She looked like a moppet caught with her hand in the biscuit box, he thought. How could that wide-eyed, wild-haired little thing be twenty-four years old?
“How dare you lock me up!” she blazed. “I can’t stand to be closed in.”
“Lock you up? I didn’t . . . ah, Jaspers. Well, I apologize for that, Miss Lamb. I never meant you to be imprisoned, and it will not happen in the future. But neither do I care for you wandering around in the middle of the night, and most particularly into my rooms.”
“I shouldn’t be here,” she said for the third time. “I know that. I only went looking for something to read.”
“You have a poor sense of direction, young lady. The library is on the first floor.”
A small bare foot stamped ineffectually on the carpet. “Well, I know that!”
“Were you not provided with books? I did, or so I recollect, give instructions to that effect.”
“Sermons!” Jillian spat the word with distaste. “Two books of sermons, so dul
l they’d put the Apostles to sleep. And I don’t read German.”
“Neither do I,” acknowledged the Earl. “Stop laughing, Foxworth. I’ll get to you later. German sermons?”
“English sermons, and something else in German. Who knows what it was? I went to the library, and when I came back upstairs I saw a light in here, and—”
“I invited her in,” Foxworth said.
“Yes, so I apprehend. But if she was locked up, how did she get out?”
Jillian glared at him. “Don’t talk about me like I wasn’t here! Ask me how I got out.”
“In truth, I’d rather not know,” the Earl said dryly. ‘For the moment, I only want you to take yourself out of here.”
She picked up her glass and drained it. “Very well, My Lord. But you did promise me we could talk, and now is as good a time as any.”
“Tomorrow,” he said, schooling his lips to a faint smile. He really wanted to laugh. The Lamb, slightly tipsy, was reeling a bit. “My secretary has business which will occupy me all morning, but I shall see you in the library at one o’clock. From now on, your door will remain unlocked, but do stay in your room unless I, or Foxworth, tell you it’s safe to come out. Believe me, Miss Lamb, this is for your own good. I want no one outside this household to know you are here.”
Jillian chewed her lip. “You will see me tomorrow? You promise?”
“I promise. Now go to bed, little girl, and sweet dreams.” He turned his back, dismissing her.
Slicing a pointed how-do-you-put-up-with-him look at Foxworth, who grinned back with empathy, Jillian fled.
“Don’t say a word, Foxy,” Coltrane muttered when the door closed. “We’ll forget she was ever here.”
Foxworth, recognizing the signs of an excruciating backache, helped the Earl undress in silence. Then he poured a full glass of brandy and handed it over. “A hot bath, Milord? It won’t be any trouble.”
“Thank you, but no. I’ll try to get some sleep. By the way, I need to get out of London for a while.”
“Not before you talk to Miss Lamb.”
“No, not before then. In fact, I can’t possibly leave until Thursday.” He rubbed his eyes. “First I’ve got to introduce that infernal child to Margaret and pray she takes her off my hands.”
“Not a child,” insisted the valet. “Take a fresh look, Milord. She’ll surprise you.”
“She’s done nothing else,” the Earl confessed, sipping at the brandy. He hated needing the relief that it provided. The amber liquid caught the warm light in the room, and he studied it as though something might appear there. “Margaret says she’ll take the chit, but I can’t be certain of anything until they’ve met. If things work out, I’d like to be gone early Thursday morning. Pack me clothes for the country, enough for about a week, but keep it simple. I’m taking the curricle.”
“Going to tell me?”
“What? Oh, where I’m going. Certainly. Miss Lamb has been living on a farm in Kent, depending on an allowance my father paid out. Something went wrong—Barrows is looking into it—and I’ll have more answers in the morning. I want to inspect the place to see how much damage this mix-up has caused. And as I said, London is too hot for me at the moment. His Royal Pain in the Behind has a whim to honor a hero so he can ride the updraft of all the ceremonies, and I seem to have caught his attention. Out of sight, out of mind, or so I hope. With luck, he’ll forget me in a week or two and clamp onto some other poor devil.”
“You grow more obscure from day to day, Milord. Since when can Prinny drive you into hiding?”
“Since he wants to hang a medal around my neck. And Foxworth, if the Prince has his way, I’ll see to it you are standing on the platform next to me.”
“When do we leave?” Foxy asked with a laugh.
“I leave Thursday. You stay here.”
“I’ve always wanted to visit a farm. Never seen one. You either, I expect.”
“No, but a pooling of our mutual ignorance won’t help matters, and I want you here, ready to take Miss Lamb in tow if Margaret decides she’s irredeemable.” He groaned. “Can you imagine that little bit of gunpowder dancing at Almack’s?”
Foxworth flipped back the counterpane on the enormous bed and fluffed the pillows. “I’d ask her for the first waltz.”
As the Earl set his glass on the table, his gaze fell on the chessboard. “By God, Foxy, you’ve actually taken a move!” He studied the new position, memorizing it instantly. “Hmmm. Interesting. Not your style.”
“Live and learn,” murmured the valet. “Care to make a bet?”
Mark frowned. “On this game? Your prospects aren’t good.”
“On the bigger game. On the Lamb, so to speak. She has moves you aren’t ready for. I’ll bet you a monkey.”
“On what?” The Earl gazed at him, puzzled. “What do you think she’ll do? What’s the wager?”
“You’ll know,” Foxworth said mysteriously, “when you’ve lost.”
Mark eased his aching body under the covers with a low moan. He could as easily craft a countermove in bed, and he was glad to have something to think about. Sleep would not come swiftly this night. He heard Foxworth chuckling softly as he moved around the room extinguishing the lights, and the Earl was relieved when the door finally closed.
Had any man in London a more impudent band of servants? What was it he would know? And when he lost what? He’d no idea what his friend was talking about. And what enormous, telling eyes the little girl had. They seemed to look right through him.
Chapter Eight
THE MEETING WITH his secretary took most of the morning, and when Barrows was gone the Earl ignored the lunch delivered to him in the library while he reviewed the papers. Everything was clear-cut . . . and appalling. Without question Jillian Lamb was his ward—a responsibility long neglected by his father and one that must now be put to rights. He buried his face in his hands. What if Margaret refused to take her on? What other choices did he have? On no account would he send her unchaperoned back to the farm, but neither could he keep her in his own house. He rubbed his aching forehead. War hero? He couldn’t even think what to do with one tiny, troublesome female.
Jaspers was more shifty-eyed than usual as he collected the tray. Something about the ormolu clock seemed to fascinate him, and he kept glancing over his shoulder at the grandfather clock near the door.
“Is something troubling you?” Mark inquired curiously.
“The clocks, Milord. They are gaining a bit. I noticed it when I brought your luncheon.”
“They both show forty-seven minutes past the hour.”
“Indeed, Your Lordship, but it is precisely twelve forty-six. They are each a minute ahead.”
“Do you judge that by the watch in your pocket, Jaspers, or by the one in your head?”
The butler’s thin lips pursed. “Both are impeccably accurate, Milord. I shall see your clocks repaired.”
“If you must. But it could well be the rain. Humidity affects even the most delicate instruments, so perhaps your own watch—”
Jaspers paled, as if his mother’s honor had been impugned. “It cannot be.”
“One minute is scarcely of earthshaking importance,” the Earl said mildly, “but do whatever is necessary to ease your mind. I’d like a glass of sherry, and please inform Miss Lamb that I shall expect her here at one o’clock. Give or take a minute, of course.”
The butler decanted the wine and placed a full glass, along with the ornamented flask, on the desk.
“By the way, Jaspers, no more locked doors,” Mark remembered to say. “The young lady is to have the freedom of this house and anything in it that takes her fancy. Let her alone, unless she tries to leave, and then, do whatever it takes to stop her, short of mayhem. Is that clear?”
“Very clear, Your Lordship, a
lthough I cannot like it. There are many valuable items in plain view, but if you trust a stranger to move freely about the place, who am I to say?”
“I wonder that myself.”
The butler cleared his throat. “Your guest will be informed that you await her, Milord. Have you any idea how long we are to have the pleasure of her company?”
“Yes, Jaspers, I do. And now that will be all.”
Mark cradled the wine glass between his palms and leaned back to enjoy a few minutes of peace. He almost looked forward to the encounter with Jillian Lamb, and the notion brought a grim smile to his lips. He’d felt the same way when a guard swung open his cell door for another session with the rack. A few months alone in a cold, dark place could do that to a man.
Once on the trail, it hadn’t been difficult for Barrows to track down the terms of Gerald Lamb’s contract with the Old Earl and determine what had gone wrong. Except for a few details, Mark had a fairly good picture of things. Now to set them right. Was it too late to salvage the daughter of a neglectful father and the ward of an indifferent guardian? Jillian Lamb, more or less on her own since childhood, could not be blamed for growing into an un-mannered firebrand, but she had good blood in her. Even prime horses needed tending, and clearly no one had penned her in long enough for grooming. Things would be different now.
He checked his watch, chuckling as he slid it back into his waistcoat pocket. Which clock was she running on? he wondered. Jillian had been busy last night. Jaspers was easy prey, but the Lamb had known just how to get to him, with exquisite subtlety. It was something to remember.
At precisely one o’clock, by real time, Jillian knocked lightly on the door. She was determined that her entrance would be a model of propriety. For once, she would not begin an encounter with the Earl at a disadvantage, and whatever happened she would behave herself and prove that she was a sensible grown woman. After a whole morning of practice she’d several speeches prepared, including one humble, desperate plea that was to be her last resort. And she would not, under any circumstances, lose her temper. Catch flies with honey, Annalisa always said. Jillian hoped pompous aristocrats were snared as easily. She would positively squeak with propriety. She would be dignified. In control of herself. Yes, Milord. If it pleases you, Milord. You are most kind, Milord. She doubted there would be an opportunity to use that line. Coltrane didn’t have a kind bone in his body, and she didn’t think she could tell him otherwise with a straight face.