by Lynn Kerstan
Her best curtsey, unrehearsed for years until today’s session in front of the mirror, was nearly flawless, but she looked a fright. The colors of her three dresses had run together and nothing was fit to wear. With Polly’s help she’d chosen the most palatable mingling of brown and green—the one that didn’t look quite so much like cow cud—but the shrunken bodice and high collar were well-nigh strangling her. She sucked in a deep breath and knocked again, harder this time.
Still hearing no response, she leaned her ear against the door. The Earl had a very soft voice and her head was stopped up, so . . .
The door swung open without warning. Off balance, Jillian staggered against a broad chest. Two strong arms wrapped around her, holding her up. “Hell’s bells,” she muttered into a starched neckcloth.
The Earl let go immediately and stepped back a discreet two paces, rubbing his hands against his thighs. Lord, she was hot. Like a stove with a banked fire inside. “Miss Lamb,” he murmured.
“Earls don’t open doors for people,” she informed him cuttingly. “You were supposed to say, ‘Come in.’”
“Come in,” he said.
“Too late now,” she gritted. “I’m in.”
“So you are.” Mark looked down at her, wondering why she was so angry. Her teeth were clenched and her eyes glittered with fury. Where in perdition had she found that foul-colored dress? Then she curtsied—perfectly, with lovely grace—and he bowed in response. “Will you have a seat, my dear? May I offer you some refreshment?”
“No. Thank you.” With long strides, Jillian moved past him and settled onto a chair. Mark watched the sway of her hips, oddly provocative under that badly fitted rag she was wearing. How could he foist this impossible creature on poor Margaret? He took his place behind the desk and savored a long draught of sherry, observing Jillian from hooded eyes. “Are you feeling better?” he asked politely.
“I am not! I am—” She seemed to take hold all of a sudden. “I’m feeling much better, thank you, Your Lordship. My cold is nearly gone, except for a bit of scratchiness in my voice. And my head is stopped up a little. Probably why I didn’t hear you tell me to come in. Kind of you to ask.”
He regarded her suspiciously. “Indeed. I am glad to hear it. No ill effects from prowling around last night?”
“I was not—” Jillian bit her lip. “I already apologized for that.”
He waved his hand. “No insult intended, my dear. I am simply concerned for your health. If you would rather we speak later, when you—”
“Later? Dear God, don’t think to fob me off again. I wanted to get things settled from the first, but you wouldn’t face me. Have you any idea what it’s like to be locked up, waiting for the axe to fall?”
He knew exactly what that was like. “There is no axe, child, and you have nothing to worry about. I needed time to look into this business of guardianship, and you required some rest. Yesterday I consulted with my father’s solicitor, John Lakewood, and my own secretary has made further inquiries. If you are up to it, we can proceed.”
“Get on with it, then.” She forced a tight smile. “I mean, I am at your disposal, My Lord.”
That about summed it up. He wondered how she was going to react when she realized it. Jillian wasn’t the only one exercising self-control, but if he couldn’t handle a ragamuffin milkmaid, perhaps he ought to rethink his future in politics. “Before I begin, there are a few matters you may be able to clarify,” he said in a tone better suited to a speech in the Lords. “While the legal stipulations regarding the guardianship are certainly in order, some of the provisions are a trifle unusual. In these cases there is generally a relationship of sorts, however distant, or a friendship of long standing. Something, in fact, to explain why my father would agree to take on responsibility for the child of a man whom, from all I can discover, he scarcely knew.”
“There is no family tie, My Lord. The connection is purely a business matter. Your father was, as you know, a great collector of art and antiquities. Unlike many such collectors, he was not a man who appreciated clutter.” She gestured around the room. “He was very discriminating, choosing a few rare pieces arid giving each one a special place, apart from the others, so it could be appreciated.”
“Art was his passion,” the Earl agreed. In truth, the only time Richard Delacourt displayed any emotion whatsoever was when something new arrived.
“For many years my father was commissioned to seek out authentic works he thought would suit the Earl’s taste. He was compelled to travel, often for years at a time, and for that reason he came to an arrangement with His Lordship. As I understand it, Da’s commissions were to be retained and invested so that there would always be a source of income for the farm. Allowances would be paid quarterly, and I could apply for additional funds when the situation warranted. So you see, it really is my money, although there cannot be much left by now. Da passed away in China some years ago.”
“My condolences, of course,” the Earl murmured uncomfortably. “You told me that you met my own father.”
“Yes, twice. He came to the house—passing by, he said—when I was nine, and years later, when I was about fourteen. My Da was small, like me, and the Earl towered over us both like a great tree. He patted my hand and sent me off to play. Just how he put it, too. ‘Run along and play. That’s a good girl,’ he said both times, which didn’t sit well when I was fourteen and very full of my consequence. Beyond those encounters, there was never any communication between us. You must not take this guardian-ward thing seriously, My Lord, for no one else has ever done so. It is purely a legal thing involving the money and never meant”—she leaned forward and fixed a penetrating look at him—”any sort of authority over me.”
Mark could quite imagine that. Had the Old Earl exercised his authority, this filly would be schooled to the bridle.
Jillian sat straighter, folding her hands in her lap. “It must be up and done with by now, don’t you think? I mean, when one comes of age, these arrangements cease, do they not?”
“In fact, they generally do,” said the Earl noncommittally. “Now, I expect you are curious about what I have uncovered.” He patted the stack of papers in front of him. “Some of it you will find most interesting.”
“I am very interested in why the allowance stopped.”
Her forehead knitted in a frown. “Oh, dear. I don’t suppose it has run out already? Do you know, I never even considered that. What an awful time to have it happen. In the normal way of things the farm is self-sustaining, but this year everything went wrong all at once. You know how it is. First the weather, which did everything it wasn’t supposed to do. Then the barn and two outbuildings caught fire, and it was months before the cows calmed down enough to start producing anything we could sell. They were just like scared children, poor things, and nothing good for them to eat, either, because of the drought. Then it rained buckets for two whole months, and there was foot-rot all through the flocks. Wet grass, I expect. Footrot is the devil to treat and impossible without dry pasture. We had to sell the sheep to get them away, but prices were down and—”
“Miss Lamb!”
“Did I mention that the roof started to leak in five places, and with all the rain we could never get it fixed properly . . .”
‘‘Miss Lamb! Spare me the details, please, I quite understand that you endured a run of bad luck.”
“Bad luck! I think it was a curse. And now the well has dried up, too.”
“If, by the well, you mean the funds secured here for you, that is far from the case. Whatever his other failings, my father valued good service and rewarded it. Apparently, he valued your father very highly indeed. He was also a resourceful investor, so the generous commissions paid out over the years have”—Mark summoned an image she might grasp—“multiplied like rabbits. You are, Jillian Lamb, a wealthy young woman.”
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nbsp; Her eyes were enormous, and when his words sank in a wide smile split her face. “But that’s wonderful! Oh, I can’t tell you how wonderful.” She hugged herself. “This will make such a difference for—for so many people.”
Mark smiled benevolently. He rather enjoyed making her happy. He’d seen glimpses of a wicked sense of humor, but never a truly happy smile until now. It was like sunlight blazing through Saint Chappelle.
“Well, that makes everything very simple, doesn’t it?” she exclaimed. “If you will advance me funds to get everything started, I shall put together a plan and let you know how much to take out each quarter. Oh, dear, I am being presumptuous. There is no reason you should retain any obligation, since none of this was your doing. I am extremely good at managing with little money but have no idea what to do with a lot of it, so perhaps you will do me the kindness to recommend someone to manage the funds. Then you can wash your hands of me altogether.”
“I’ll do no such thing, of course.” The Earl folded his arms across his chest. “You are entitled to a complete accounting and will receive one, but the control of your money necessarily remains in my hands.”
“Your . . . but why? What has any of this to do with you?”
“While your money has not run out, neither has the guardianship, my dear. In fact, the Earl of Coltrane holds that responsibility in perpetuity, or until you are married. At that point, the disposition of your funds and estate, and of yourself, will be turned over to your husband. When you are wed, Miss Lamb, you can wash your hands of me, but until then I control you as fully as did your father.”
“But he never controlled me at all!”
“Why am I not surprised?” Mark said softly.
“Don’t dare to judge him, My Lord,” Jillian blazed. “I loved my father and Da loved me, but he would have been miserable playing country squire. My mother died when I was in leading strings, and I have been responsible for myself and for many others on the estate for years. Until lately, I was damn good at it. No, don’t look at me that way! You’d swear, too, if some great bird of prey swept down and tried to carry you off.”
“I assure you, Miss Lamb, the last thing in the world I wish is to carry you off. Indeed, I believe our ultimate goals are the same, if you will calm yourself long enough to listen.”
“Yes . . . well, all right then. I talk too much. I know that. And I jump to conclusions and lose my temper. But you made it sound as if everything was going to be handled for me.”
“And so it is, but I shall be happy to turn over the reins to the man of your choice, assuming he fits proper specifications, as soon as you produce him and I approve.” He could almost see the steam building inside her. She was practically bouncing on the chair, and he admired the discipline that held her, barely, in check. The girl had run wild all her life, and the consequences would not be easy for her husband nor pleasant for her. He’d never seen anyone more in need of a firm hand—well-gloved against sharp teeth and a sharper tongue. “Is there someone, perhaps, for whom you have a tendre?” he inquired equably.
There was someone for whom she had a great desire to sever his pompous head from his stiff neck. “What if there is?” she snapped.
“Then I shall have him investigated, and if he is an eligible parti, he may apply to me for your hand which, I promise you, I shall speedily grant.”
“Investigated? You mean spied on? And what does it take to be an eligible parti Hell’s bells, what a ridiculous phrase.”
“Try not to swear, Miss Lamb. It does not become you. I expect an eligible suitor to be of good birth, with no serious scandal in his past. He will be neither a wastrel nor a fortune hunter. Does your current swain meet these requirements?”
Jillian looked very unhappy.
“He does not, does he?” the Earl asked kindly.
“There isn’t anyone,” she muttered. “All the partis in my neighborhood are married. Or gone, fighting the war.”
“Yes, I quite understand it cannot have been easy for you in a rural area, with few families to choose from and so many of the sons in the army. No doubt you’ll have better luck here in London.”
“But I’m not—”
“Oh, but you are,” he said firmly. “I’ve come to certain decisions regarding what must happen next, and you will now oblige me by listening carefully and not interrupting until I have finished. It is your unfortunate habit to object first and think later, so we shall try to reverse that procedure. When you’ve had time to consider the advantages of what I am about to propose, I am certain you will agree that it is for the best and not allow your personal dislike for me to prejudice you against my course of action.”
For the first time, the Earl understood what was meant by a basilisk stare.
“Then I suggest you cut out all that diplomatic twaddle and get to the point,” she said acidly, “for I expect my personal dislike for you to erupt at any moment.”
“Very well,” he murmured, running a finger around his suddenly tight collar. Diplomatic twaddle? Was he vain to think himself skilled in diplomacy? He drew himself up. “To begin with, Miss Lamb, I would like to explain why your allowance was abruptly cut off.”
“Oh, speak of that,” she quoted sarcastically. “That do I long to hear.”
Hamlet, from a farm girl? Mark reminded himself again not to underestimate her. “It was my fault,” he admitted, “but in no way intentional. When I returned from France a year ago, my health prohibited me from taking up affairs for several months. On a recommendation I should not have trusted, I employed a man of business and instructed him to continue as his predecessor had done. To make a complicated story very short, the man was skimming funds from a number of accounts. In your case, he simply noted a change of estate managers and wrote the draft to the new name, for which he’d obtained forged papers of identification. He was discovered within a few months tampering with an account I did monitor, and dismissed. My new secretary, Barrows, is an honest man, but he’d no reason to suspect there was any problem with the name to which your allowance was paid. The amount was trivial, compared with most transactions, and has been distributed, faithfully, the last several quarters, always to the false name.”
“I presume the scoundrel is in Newgate by now?”
“It was sufficient to dismiss him without reference,” the Earl replied coolly. “He was employed only three months and did little serious damage that we could trace. Your troubles, I fear, got buried along the way.”
Jillian’s eyes flashed. “So even after you fired him, the man has been cashing in drafts like a pension or something.”
“Possibly. More likely the money is sitting in the account unclaimed. In any case, this is my responsibility. I shall replace the full amount, plus interest, and more when I see the effect this may have had on your property. Be assured, you will suffer no loss due to my neglect.”
Jillian didn’t seem at all concerned about that. “Oh, it makes me furious to think of him gloating all the way to the bank. Tell you what! We could trap him. Pay out another quarter and then grab him when he shows up to cash in.”
“Perhaps you are willing to sit for weeks in a banking establishment waiting to pounce, but the amount is not worth the trouble. And I shall not approve funds to hire a Runner, so try to turn the other cheek on this one, my dear. I am ultimately to blame, and you will have lost nothing.”
Nothing? If the dratted extortionist hadn’t interfered, it might have been years before this milksop Earl knew she existed. Jillian didn’t want the crook put in jail. She wanted to scratch his eyes out. “Yes, My Lord,” she said dutifully, conceding a point she couldn’t win. The big battles were yet to come, and she knew to save her ammunition for the Armada.
Within seconds, it sailed into range.
Chapter Nine
THE EARL ARCHED a well-shaped eyebrow, observing her with a
sense of foreboding. Jillian’s unnatural docility was a pleasant, but ominous change like the calm at the eye of a hurricane. “When your mild indisposition has run its course,” he said pacifically, “you will move over to my Aunt Margaret’s town house.” She has agreed to supervise the purchase of a suitable wardrobe, instruction in manners, and your introduction into society.”
Jillian was on her feet in a flash, sputtering incoherently.
He gave her no time to find words. “Sit,” he said very softly, pointing a long finger at the chair. To her own obvious surprise, she did. He continued with the slight curve of lip that passed for a smile. “Believe it or not, you will like the Baroness Ramsey. She is awake on every suit, kindhearted to a fault, and—doubtless to your vast relief—nothing like me at all.” Jillian’s mind was working too furiously for a response to his mild jest. Introduction to society? This was getting worse by the minute.
“Have you, by the way, any accomplishments?”
She stared at him blankly.
“Embroidery,” he explained with careful patience. “Singing. An instrument such as the harp or spinet. Watercolors. Accomplishments.”
She shook her head in wonder. “None of those, My Lord,” she mumbled scornfully.
The Earl sighed. “It doesn’t signify. When you are wed and discover the accomplishments your husband favors, no doubt you will develop some. Shall I also assume you cannot dance?”
She could dance, although she had not done so for a long time and was unfamiliar with the newest steps. But the Earl’s preoccupation with her accomplishments, or lack thereof, crystallized a plan she’d already begun to test on him. He assumed she’d bounced onto his doorstep straight from a turnip wagon. If she gave Lady Margaret the same impression at tomorrow’s interview, she would doubtless be on the next turnip-wagon home. Yes, an uncensored display of rustic imbecility might very well rid her of both these Coltrane do-gooders. Deliberately, she chewed off a fingernail and spat it onto the carpet. “I know some country dances.”