The Soldier

by Grace Burrowes

  The footman withdrew at the earl’s lifted eyebrow while the child’s gaze bounced back and forth between the adults. Winnie sat, all innocence in an old nightshirt somebody had dragged out of a trunk. Her golden curls gleamed, and on her feet were wool socks many sizes too big.

  “Apple tarts sound delicious,” Miss Farnum said. The earl graciously seated her, taking the opportunity to notice that the lady—for all her egregious taste in attire—bore the scent of lemons and meadow mint, a tart, pleasing combination that went well with the summer evening. His gaze happened to stray to her neck as he pushed her chair in, and the smooth expanse of female skin suggested she wasn’t as mature as he’d first surmised.

  “Miss Winnie was just telling me about your cats,” the earl began, continuing his assessment of his latest guest. She was a dressmaker’s disaster, but then, what else would one expect in the wilds of Yorkshire? Fading black was seldom a good color for blondes, and she was no exception. “Your cats have interesting names.”

  “Gany and Io?” Miss Farnum replied, removing her gloves. At the earl’s discreet signal, the gloves were whisked away, but not before he noticed the tear on the right fourth finger. “They were from a litter of four, the other two were named Europa and Callisto.”

  “Somebody enjoyed either stargazing or mythology,” the earl said as the tarts were brought in. He would have to settle for one, he supposed, as the third tart would go to his uninvited guest. “Winnie, may I cut yours for you?”

  The question hung in the air just as Winnie reached for her tart with her fingers.

  “Bronwyn?” Miss Farnum’s voice was perfectly polite. “His lordship has offered to cut up that delicious tart for you.”

  The child sighed mightily but nodded. “Yes, please.” She watched, eyes near crossed with anticipation, as the earl cut hers into small pieces, then slid the plate to her.

  “Thank you.”

  “Go ahead. Mind you don’t choke, lest I have to turn you upside down and whack at you to save your scrawny neck.”

  Miss Farnum looked like she’d take great exception to his comment, but when Winnie only picked up her fork and began taking dainty bites, the lady held her peace.

  “I take it you are a neighbor, Miss Farnum?”

  “I am,” she said, regarding her tart rather than her host.

  “Shall I cut yours, too, madam?” The earl lifted an eyebrow when she blinked at him. Rustics were an odd lot, and women left to rusticate too long were the oddest of all. She wasn’t old by any means, but her expressions and mannerisms were old. Careful, as if she expected to be unpleasantly surprised at any moment.

  “Thank you no, my lord.” Her frown was aimed directly at him now. “I am your neighbor to the immediate north, or I am if you now own Rosecroft?”

  “I do,” he said, knowing full well the gossip mills in rural settings were never idle. “As the place has been neglected in recent years, I expect I will be spending a fair amount of time here, at least in the foreseeable future.” There was no part of him, however, seeking to spend the winter in Yorkshire. Picturesque, idyllic, dress it up a thousand different ways, the dales were miserably cold and prone to heavy snows, and there was an appalling paucity of company. Even York itself offered far less than London in the way of society and entertainment.

  “Will you rebuild the greenhouses?” Miss Farnum asked, spearing a bite of tart.

  “I honestly don’t know. Winnie, you have a serviette for that purpose.” Winnie paused in the act of wiping her mouth on her sleeve, then picked up the linen on her lap as if noticing it for the first time.

  “Heavenly days,” Miss Farnum expostulated on a soft breath. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth was moving in a slow caress over the bite of apple tart. “Where on earth did you find your chef? This is the best dessert I can ever recall having.”

  “Better than your gran’s plum cake?” Winnie asked between bites.

  “Better. I must winkle the recipe out of your cook, my lord.”

  “I can write it down for you,” the earl said, polishing off his own serving. “It’s not very complicated, provided you get the crust right.”

  “You expect me to believe you know the recipe for this apple tart?” She aimed her smile at him, and he had to push the last bite of tart down his throat with a concerted swallow. Despite the awful black clothing, despite her hair being scraped back into a nondescript bun, despite the complete lack of anything approaching feminine adornment, that smile charmed. It made him aware her mouth was generous and her lips were full. Her eyes, he noticed, were a soft gray blue, and her features were actually pretty.

  Not classically pretty—her nose was by no means small, but rather would be accurately described as giving her face character. Her chin was cast in the same, probably Teutonic, mold, and her jaw followed suit. But graced with that smile, the whole was pleasing, winsome, and utterly, arrestingly feminine.

  “Start with a clean, cored apple,” the earl recited, “and one quarter of a piecrust, preferably made with butter, not lard, and white flour twice sifted, a dash each of cinnamon, nutmeg, clove, and salt added to the flour. Shall I go on?”

  “You know a recipe,” Miss Farnum said, her smile softening into a muted glow. “I own I am impressed.”

  “I can count to ten, as well, provided I am not interrupted. Winnie,” he waited until the child raised her eyes to his, “you need not sit here and listen to me boast of my culinary and arithmetic talents. Would you like to go up to bed?”

  Winnie’s gaze locked on his. “I can sleep here?”

  “You are more than welcome to sleep here. You are Helmsley, after all.”

  “Where? The stables are hot, up in the haylofts, anyway. Down by the river in the trees, it’s cooler, but the cows like to go down there, and my feet would get dirty.”

  “Child, you will sleep in a bed, with clean sheets, pillows, and a nice cup of peppermint tea to aid your digestion.” Ye gods, had no one taken any interest in this girl?

  “Will I have to take another bath?” Winnie searched his gaze, and the earl knew she was alert for warning of when he would start lying to her.

  “Not until you are dirty again, though it being summer, one can find oneself in need of frequent ablutions.”

  Winnie’s expression was wary. “What are blutions?”

  “Bubbles.” The earl signaled a footman. “If you would fetch the tweeny who was so helpful at bath time, she can escort Miss Winnie up to the bed. Now attend me, Winnie. When you want to leave the table, you inquire of your host, ‘May I please be excused?’”

  “Are you my host?”

  “I have that great honor.”

  “May I please be excused?”

  “Well done. You may, but don’t forget to wish Miss Farnum good night before you go. I gather she was concerned about you.”

  “G’night, Miss Emmie.” Winnie hopped down from her chair, scampered over to the lady, and gave her a tight hug around the neck. “G’night, Rosecroft!” She inflicted the same affection on St. Just, grabbed the footman’s hand, and pattered out, leaving the earl an unobstructed field upon which to upbraid Miss Farnum.

  “Miss Farnum, shall we adjourn to the library for a cup of tea, or perhaps you’d prefer a cordial?”

  “The apple tart was quite sweet enough,” she replied, seeming to realize the child’s absence meant matters were no longer going to be so neighborly. “If you could just answer a few questions for me, then I will be going, though I’ll collect Winnie in the morning, shall we say, and my thanks for the very delicious…”

  The earl stood beside her chair, waiting for her to rise, and as her voice trailed off, he offered his arm.

  “I must insist on just a little more of your time.” He picked up her hand and placed it on his arm. “You are my first visitor here, you see, and I wasn’t aware the custom in Yorkshire was to burst in upon a neighbor at table, without explanation or invitation, and disturb his meal.”

  ***

&nbs
p; As they made a leisurely progress through the once-gracious manor, Emmie Farnum reminded herself that, drunk and mean, the late Earl of Helmsley hadn’t been able to make her back down. Sober and chillingly polite, the Earl of Rosecroft wasn’t going to be any greater challenge. Life’s circumstances had made her a good judge of character, particularly a good judge of male character, as it was invariably a shallow, trifling subject. In less than ten minutes in the earl’s company, she’d come to understand he was a very deceptive man.

  Not willfully dishonest, perhaps, but deceptive.

  He looked for all the world like an elegant aristocrat come to idle the summer heat away in the country. A touch of lace at his collar and throat, a little green stone winking through the folds of his neckcloth, a gleaming signet ring on his left hand, and even in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, he projected wealth, breeding, and indolence.

  His speech was expensively proper, the tone never wavering from a fine politesse that bespoke the best schools, the best connections, the best breeding. He wielded his words like little daggers though, pinning his opponent one dart at a time to the target of his choosing.

  His body deceived, as well, so nicely adorned in attire, tailor-made for him from his gleaming boots to his neckcloth, to everything so pleasantly coordinated between.

  And he was handsome, with sable hair tousled and left a little too long, deep green eyes, arresting height, and military bearing. His face might be considered too strong by some standards—he would never be called a pretty man—but it had a certain masculine appeal, the nose slightly hooked, the chin a trifle arrogant, and the eyebrows just a touch dramatic. No honest female would find him unattractive of face or form.

  Beneath the well-tailored clothes, great masses of muscle bunched and smoothed with his every move. The hands holding Emmie’s chair for her were lean, brown, and elegant, but also callused, and she’d no doubt they could snap her neck as easily as they cut up Winnie’s apple tart. He was clothed as a gentleman, spoke as a gentleman, and had the manner of a gentleman, but Emmie was not deceived.

  The Earl of Rosecroft was a barbarian.

  But then, there was the most puzzling deception of all: He was a barbarian, but barbarians did not notice when small children grew tired, they did not think to cut up a little girl’s tart for her, they did not coax and charm and guide when they could pillage, plunder, and destroy.

  So he was an intelligent, shrewd barbarian.

  Emmie let him seat her on a green brocade sofa in the paneled library. “My lord, if you would permit me to ask just one or two questions?”

  “I will not,” he replied, seating himself—without her permission, barbarian-fashion—in a wing chair opposite the sofa. “I will ask the questions, as you are under my roof and without my invitation.”

  “I apologize for interrupting your meal,” Emmie said, trying for humility, “but I was concerned for the child.”

  “So I gather. Tea, Miss Farnum?” He excused the footman when the elegant service was sitting on the low table between them.

  “Tea would be lovely,” she said automatically, resenting the delay in his inquisition. “Shall I pour?”

  “No need. I will pour for you so I might pour for myself, as I abhor a cup of tea prepared not as I prefer. Worse than no tea at all.”

  “I see. Well then, cream and two sugars in mine, if you please.” He passed her the tea cup, his fingers brushing hers as she accepted it, and Emmie felt a low current of awareness spark up from her hand.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she managed. Barbarians, she knew, had that ability to seem exciting. It was a deplorable truth, one she had learned early on.

  The earl prepared his own tea and took a cautious sip. “What is your relationship to the child?”

  “One might say I am her cousin, of sorts, though it isn’t common knowledge, and I would prefer to keep it that way.”

  “You don’t want the world associating you with the earl’s bastard?” her host asked, stirring his tea slowly.

  Emmie met his gaze. “More to the point, Bronwyn does not realize we are related, and I would prefer to be the one to tell her.”

  “How does that come about?” The earl regarded her over the rim of his teacup even as he sipped.

  “My aunt was kind enough to provide a home for me when my mother died,” Emmie said, lips pursed, as the recitation was not one she embarked on willingly. “Thus I joined her household in the village before Bronwyn was born. When the old earl got wind of that, he eventually sent me off to school in Scotland.”

  “So your aunt brought you here, and you were then sent off to school by the beneficent old earl.”

  “I was, and thereafter, my aunt became the young earl’s mistress. I suspect his grandfather sent me off to spare me that fate.”

  “And Winnie is the late earl’s by-blow? Your aunt must have been quite youthful.”

  “She was ten years older than Helmsley but said, since his mama died when he was young, she suited him.”

  “Did you know the late earl?”

  “I knew him. When the old earl grew ill about three years ago, I was retrieved from where I was a governess in Scotland, with the plan being that I could help care for him. When his lordship saw I was subjected to unwanted attentions, he established me on a separate property.”

  “In what capacity?” The earl topped off her teacup, a peculiarly civilized gesture, considering he was leaving her no privacy whatsoever.

  “I support myself,” Emmie replied, unable to keep a touch of pride from her voice. “I have since returned to Yorkshire. On the old earl’s advice, I never rejoined my aunt’s household in the village, hence Winnie doesn’t understand we are cousins. I’m not sure it ever registered with Helmsley, either.”

  “Did it register with Helmsley he had a daughter?”

  “Barely.” Emmie spat the word. “My aunt did well enough with Winnie, though she was careful not to impose the child on her father very often. Helmsley was prone to… poor choices in his companions. One in particular could not be trusted around children, and so Winnie was an awkward addition to her father’s household after my aunt’s death.”

  “And now she’s been appended to your household?”

  “She is… she finally is.” For the second time that evening, Emmie smiled at him, but she teared up, as well, ducking her face to hide her mortification.

  “Women,” the earl muttered. He extracted his handkerchief and passed it to her.

  “I beg your pardon.” Emmie tried to smile and failed, but took his handkerchief. “It was difficult, watching her grow from toddler to child and seeing she’d had no one to love her since my aunt died.”

  “One must concede, you seem to care for the child.” The earl regarded her with a frown. “But one must also inquire into what manner of influence you are on her. You aren’t supporting yourself as your aunt did, are you?”

  “I most assuredly am not supporting myself as you so rudely imply.” She rose to her feet and tried to stuff his damp hankie back into his hand. “I work for honest coin and will not tolerate your insults.”

  “Keep it.” He smiled at her slightly while his fingers curled her hand around his handkerchief. “I have plenty to spare. And please accept my apologies, Miss Farnum, as your character is of interest to me.”

  “Why ever is it any of your business how I earn my keep?” She resumed her seat but concentrated on folding his handkerchief into halves and quarters and eighths in her lap rather than meet that piercing green stare of his again.

  “I am interested in your character because you are a friend of Miss Winnie’s, and she has become my concern.”

  “About Bronwyn”—Emmie rose again and paced away from him—“we must reach some kind of understanding.”

  “We must?”

  “She is my family,” Emmie pointed out, then more softly, “my only family. Surely you can understand she should be with me?”

  “So why wasn’t she?” One of his dark eyebrows qui
rked where he sat sipping his tea. Emmie had the thought that if he’d had a tail, he’d be flicking it in a lazy, feline rhythm.

  “Why wasn’t she what?” Emmie stopped her pacing and busied herself straightening up a shelf of books.

  “Why wasn’t she with you? When I plucked her off that fountain, she was filthy, tired, and hadn’t eaten all day.”

  “I couldn’t catch her.” Emmie frowned at the books.

  “I beg your pardon?” The earl’s voice came from her elbow, but she was damned if she’d flinch.

  “I said, I could not catch her.” Emmie did peek then and realized the earl wasn’t just tall, he was also a big man. Bigger than he looked from across a room, the scoundrel.

  “And I could not run her off,” the earl mused. “It might comfort you to know, Miss Farnum, I am the oldest of ten and not unused to youngsters.”

  “You do seem to get on well with her, but I have an advantage, my lord. One you will never be able to compete with.”

  “An advantage?”

  “Yes.” Emmie said, feeling a little sorry for him, because he really would not be able to argue the point much further. “I am a female, you see. A girl. Well, a grown woman, but I was a girl, as Bronwyn is.”

  “You are a female?” The earl looked her up and down, and Emmie felt herself blushing. It was a thorough and thoroughly dispassionate perusal. “Why so you are, but how does this make yours the better guidance?”

  “There are certain things, my lord…” Emmie felt her blush deepening but refused to capitulate to embarrassment. “Things a lady knows a gentleman will not, things somebody must pass along to a little girl in due course if she’s to manage in this life.”

  “Things.” The earl’s brow knit. “Things like childbirth, perhaps?”

  Emmie swallowed, resenting his bluntness even while she admired him for it. “Well, yes. I doubt you’ve given birth, my lord.”

  “Have you?” he countered, peering down at her.

  “That is not the point.”

  “So no advantage to you there, particularly as I have attended a birth or two in my time, and I doubt you’ve managed that either.”