The Last Earl Standing

by Blackwood, Gemma

  George gave Shrewsbury’s shoulder a meaningful shake. “While we are in there,” he said, dropping his voice to a dangerous purr, “we might discuss the little incident that occurred at the Balfour household the other day. Unless you would rather talk here?”

  “No, no!” Shrewsbury sprang to his feet with previously unthinkable alacrity. “Do excuse us, Mother.”

  Lady Shrewsbury’s facial expression was oddly reminiscent of a sour prune from the far east. “Far be it from me to keep a gentleman from his poetry,” she said, giving her snoring pug another stroke.

  George kept his hand clamped on Shrewsbury’s shoulder as they made their way to the other side of the house.

  “Now then, Shrewsbury, let’s not beat around the bush,” he said, as soon as the library door closed behind them. “Lady Ursula Balfour is missing an item of jewellery, and you are both short on cash and interfering with one of their maids. Don’t tell me you know nothing about it, for I won’t believe you.”

  “Know about it?” Shrewsbury’s piggy eyes darted about the room as though he were afraid he would find that his mother had crept behind a curtain to eavesdrop on them. “I know a sight more than you do, that’s for sure!”

  George permitted himself a slow smile. “Do you, now? Well, I am impressed.”

  “I know that nothing of value has been taken, for a start!” Shrewsbury boasted, attempting to square a pair of shoulders that were inescapably round. “The stolen brooch was a fake! Absolutely worthless. Glass and gold paint!”

  “Interesting.” George stroked his chin, pretending to be intrigued. “Why would anyone bother to steal it if they knew it was fake?”

  “Oh, the silly girl didn’t discover that until the deed was done…” Shrewsbury’s ears caught up with the incriminating words tumbling out of his own mouth, and he changed tack immediately. “I suppose you heard this from Lady Anthea. I wouldn’t set too much store in her words! Man to man, she is not to be trusted.”

  “Is she not?” If George had listed all the people in the world in order of whose opinion he would most trust on the subject of Anthea’s character, Lord Shrewsbury would have scraped the bottom of the list. “You are wrong there, Shrewsbury. My opinion of her could not be higher.”

  “Ha!” Delighted spittle flew from Shrewsbury’s mouth, lightly misting George’s face. He blinked and resisted the urge to go for his handkerchief. “You thought you were very clever, taking her out for a drive! Well, you won’t feel clever when you learn the type of creature she is. Wetherton has told me all about it.”

  “Has he?” George kept his face carefully blank. Inwardly, he added Wetherton’s as-yet-unnamed slander to the list of reasons why he would be glad to bring the man to justice. “Has it not occurred to you that Wetherton is simply a sore loser? Lady Anthea is not interested in him. A blind man could see it.”

  “And a lucky escape for him that she is not! The girl is a harlot.”

  “I beg your pardon.” George’s composure slipped, just for a moment. A low growl deepened his voice. Shrewsbury blinked rapidly and took a step back, raising his hands in defence.

  “It’s true! Wetherton told me himself! Lady Anthea is the mistress of Mr. Timothy Harding!”

  “Harding?” George had not spent enough time in London over the past years to familiarise himself with every name in society. “Who is this Mr. Harding? What is his connection to Anthea?”

  “Oh, you must know Harding! The newspaperman! He made all his money selling papers! He owns one of the rags, you know, the –”

  A terrible suspicion stirred in George’s mind. “The London Chronicle?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. Well, Wetherton has it on good authority that Lady Anthea receives a weekly cheque from Mr. Harding.” Shrewsbury waggled his eyebrows as though they were both enjoying a salacious secret. “‘Think on that, Shrewsbury!’ That’s what Wetherton said to me. ‘Think what that means!’ And I did think, and of course, it’s all obvious.”

  “Yes,” said George, his mouth suddenly dry. The conversation he’d had with Anthea the previous day replayed in his mind. Gossipmongers! Blabbering scribblers!

  Oh, hell.

  “Lady Anthea is Mr Harding’s mistress!” crowed Shrewsbury. “And to think the three of us were making fools of ourselves chasing after her! That girl deserves a stern set down, I don’t mind telling you! I’ve half a mind to set Mother on her.”

  “That seems rather uncalled for,” said George mildly. Shrewsbury shrugged, his triumph fading.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Especially since there’s still a chance I might catch one of her sisters.”

  Since the chances of any of the Balfour sisters falling happily into Lord Shrewsbury’s arms were exceedingly slim, George did not consider the threat to Anthea in any way diminished. “Listen, Shrewsbury,” he said quietly, flinging his arm about Shrewsbury’s shoulders again. “I think we can do each other a favour, here. I’ve made rather a fool of myself over the girl, and I don’t want it to come out that she’s been unfaithful. I’ll be a laughingstock! You see my predicament.”

  “I do,” Shrewsbury nodded. “I do. Dreadful thing. Women make fools of us all.”

  “Exactly. So perhaps I might see my way to helping you out of your financial situation –”

  “How do you know about my finances?”

  Drat. George hadn’t expected Shrewsbury to be alert enough to notice that, but it seemed that when it came to his own pride, the man was sharp enough.

  “You’re courting the Balfour ladies,” he said airily. “I simply assumed there was a financial motive.”

  “Fair,” Shrewsbury grunted. “Fair.”

  George pulled him in closer. “I was simply suggesting that, if you help me out by keeping quiet about Lady Anthea’s… connection with Mr Harding, I might be able to send you a little something to cover any debts you happen to have. How does that sound?”

  Shrewsbury’s wheezy breaths quickened as he considered it. “It would have to be a considerable something, Streatham.”

  “Money is no object when it comes to my pride, Shrewsbury.” George placed his hand over his heart, hoping he was speaking a language the foul little man understood.

  “Well,” said Shrewsbury, brightening up considerably. “I cannot refuse a friend in need. Why not, after all? It’s a fair deal.”

  George stuck out his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, Shrewsbury.”

  He dialled down the strength of his handshake to match Shrewsbury’s rather limp one. The effect was rather like two recently caught fish flopping in each other’s direction. George was glad there was nobody there to witness it.

  “Now, let’s return to the drawing room,” he suggested, steering Shrewsbury towards the door. “Your mother will not want to greet the other guests alone.”

  And he had a powerful desire to see one particular guest the moment she arrived. He had an apology to make to Anthea, the lady otherwise known as Lady X of the London Chronicle, and he had no idea how to go about it.

  * * *

  Anthea had rarely sat through a duller dinner party. With Lady Shrewsbury hunched over the head of the table like a vulture ready to descend upon the faintest shred of an interesting conversation, even Anthea’s lively family was subdued. They well knew that anything they said in front of the elderly countess would be quickly disseminated through all the great matriarchs of the London social scene.

  Lady Shrewsbury had seen fit to place Anthea beside her son, which was not exactly what the order of precedence demanded. Whether Lord Shrewsbury was offended by this demotion, or whether he had given up his pursuit of Anthea in favour of lower-hanging fruit, it was impossible to say, but it was clear that whatever light he had once seen in her had been firmly extinguished. He spoke not more than three words to her in the entire course of the dinner, for which Anthea was grateful.

  Poor Edith, sitting on Lord Shrewsbury’s left, did not escape so easily. He insisted on serving her such enor
mous portions of meat that, out of desperate politeness, she could do nothing but sit and chew on it as he droned on and on about his exploits at the gaming table.

  The one bright spot was George, seated opposite her and a few seats away, and the way his eyes kept meeting hers across the table. Each time he glanced at her, a particular smile tugged the corner of his mouth. Anthea was beginning to recognise it as the expression he wore when he was admiring her. A smile that no other person elicited; a smile all for her.

  She was surprised to see that George was content to let Lord Wetherton control the conversation. The man droned on to Lady Shrewsbury about his own large estates and his many important friends at such great length that Anthea wondered how the lady bore it without yawning. She hoped at every moment that George would interject with one of his pithy remarks and set the windbag in his place, but George was listening with peculiar attention. Which was, in itself, rather strange. Anthea did not believe for a moment that George was truly interested in what Wetherton had to say. What could his motive possibly be?

  After dinner, the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, where Isobel relieved them of the burden of conversing with Lady Shrewsbury by playing an energetic minuet on the pianoforte. Anthea’s mind remained in the dining room with the gentlemen. She hoped that Alex was beginning to see what she saw in George. It would be too awkward if they did not become friends.

  She realised, to her surprise, that she was already more than half infatuated with the Earl of Streatham. She gave herself a little shake. Letting her mind run away with silly fantasies simply would not do. She had only scratched the surface of the man George Bonneville was: nobody’s character was comprised solely of charm and good humour.

  She had even half-forgiven him for condemning her column, for heaven’s sake! If she was not careful, her behaviour would soon be as ridiculous as that of any of the silly lovestruck girls she had always pitied.

  “Are you well, Lady Anthea?” asked Lady Shrewsbury, piercing Anthea with her uncomfortably sharp eyes. “You have gone pale.”

  Anthea bit the inside of her cheek, as though that would draw some colour back to her face. “I think I will take a turn about the room,” she said, standing up abruptly. Lady Shrewsbury frowned, presumably dissatisfied that Anthea had not admitted to being pale with love for her unfortunate son, so Anthea warded off further disapproval with a vague smile before beginning her circuit of the well-appointed room.

  By the time she reached the fireplace, at the opposite end of the room from the other ladies, the gentlemen had returned from their brandy.

  Lord Wetherton came in first, Shrewsbury following at his heels like a kicked puppy, and then Alex, his polite smile frozen onto his face. Anthea sighed. It seemed her brother had not enjoyed the post-prandial conversation.

  Then came George, strolling in with his usual easy gait. His eyes found Anthea immediately, and without even an attempt at disguising his intentions, he made his way across the room towards her. Ignoring the way Lady Shrewsbury craned her neck to see what he was doing, he leaned against the mantelpiece and turned his back on the rest of the party.

  Anthea could not help but smile. “You are being impolite to our hostess.” And she was rather flattered by it.

  George shrugged. “Oh, there’s no love lost between me and Lady Shrewsbury. I see no use in sweet-talking a lady who doesn’t want it.”

  “I hope you are not going to attempt anything of the kind with me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He grinned a moment, then, to her surprise, his eyes dropped. “Besides, sweet words are not appropriate. Not when I owe you a serious apology.”

  “An apology for what? You have not offended me.”

  George hesitated, clearly choosing his next words with great care. “I made some comments about the character of a certain lady columnist in the London Chronicle.”

  Anthea’s mouth remained fixed in a smile, though she could feel her eyes widening in panic. She was not used to hearing her column discussed. Oh, Lady X came up fairly often around card tables and in ladies’ drawing rooms, but Anthea had always managed to delicately remove herself from the conversation. It was safer that way.

  Besides, she was not sure that she wanted to hear any more of George’s thoughts on the matter. His first opinions had been decidedly unwelcome.

  “You said that I ought to learn from her, rather than take offence,” he continued. “I doubted you. I spoke as though I were one of the very idle braggarts the lady condemned. But you were right, though I was too proud to admit it. I do have something to learn. I will read the column again, and I will take it to heart.” He looked up, meeting her eyes with his deep blue ones. The thrill that ran through her was becoming pleasantly familiar. “Can you forgive me?”

  “Of course.” Now, far from forcing herself to maintain a smile, Anthea struggled not to beam too openly. “I am very glad to hear that you have seen the value in it. But what changed your mind?”

  “You will not believe me,” he said, smiling ruefully, “but it was something that Lord Shrewsbury said. I will not tell you what. Better that it remains unspoken between us. But I have resolved never to behave in such a way that I draw Lady X’s censure upon my head again. And I hope we are friends, Anthea.”

  Did true friends deceive each other? Anthea hated the thought that she was lying to George, even by omission. But she had never shared her secret with anyone but Edith, and she could not bring herself to tell it now. Particularly not in Lady Shrewsbury’s drawing room, where any secret ran the risk of being spread throughout the ton by the following morning.

  “Yes,” she said, more touched by his apology than she could show. “We are friends.”

  Behind George, Lord Wetherton approached with his hat under his arm. He coughed noisily, as though he were being forced to intrude upon something very intimate.

  “Good evening, Lady Anthea, Lord Streatham,” he said, making a stiff bow. “I must take my leave. Streatham, I hope you will keep your promise and come to my club.”

  “Certainly I will!” George shook Wetherton’s hand with a warmth that the other man had done nothing to invite. “Sixteen Curlew Street, wasn’t it? You may count on me to make an appearance tomorrow.”

  Wetherton smiled his oily smile. “I am all anticipation.” He turned to Anthea. “Good night, my lady. I trust it will not be too long before we next see each other.”

  Anthea could have gone several years in perfect contentment without Wetherton inflicting his attentions on her again, but as ever, his behaviour was such a careful measure of politeness that she found no way to snub him. “I look forward to it, my lord.”

  When Wetherton was gone, she breathed a little easier, though the malevolence he exuded hung in the air behind him like a bad smell.

  “I did not know there was a gentlemen’s club on Curlew Street,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. Wetherton had managed to chill the air even beside the crackling fire.

  “There is not, officially,” said George. “It is a private gaming club Wetherton runs himself. He is rather proud of it.”

  “Then I wish you would not go. That man is foul.” When George glanced at her in surprise, she nodded emphatically. “I mean it. He seems pleasant enough, but there is something about him that disturbs me. He reminds me of an apple with a worm inside. Red and ripe enough until you are so foolish as to bite.”

  “I hope you are not planning to bite Lord Wetherton.”

  “Don’t tease. I am serious. I wish you would not accept his invitation.”

  “Usually I would never dream of disappointing you. But in this case, I am obliged to.” He reached out and took her hand, the pressure of his fingers steady and reassuring. “Don’t worry about me. I have been in worse places.”

  “You do not understand,” said Anthea wretchedly. “Lord Wetherton only ever acts to further his own interests. He is no friend of yours; why should he invite you to his club? I am certain he has some dark motive.”
<
br />   “And if he does, I mean to discover it.” George kept hold of her hand, holding it close to his chest so that no one else could see. His fingers slowly interlaced with hers. “Does he frighten you?”

  Anthea almost laughed. With her hand very nearly pressed to George’s chest, Lord Wetherton seemed an ogre that might easily be overcome. “Frighten is the wrong word. He disturbs me. He has recently begun showing an interest in me that I never looked for. No matter how I discourage him, he always returns.”

  “Can you not imagine why a man might long to be near you?”

  “I have too many opinions to inspire longing in any gentleman of worth.”

  George lifted her hand to his lips. “Then I must be very unworthy,” he said, and kissed it.

  “Anthea!”

  George dropped her hand as Selina approached them, his eyes flashing his amusement.

  “Are you leaving, Lady Selina?”

  Selina raked him with her eyes. “I have a feeling we will be seeing you before too long, my lord.”

  George bowed, not bothering to deny it. A warmth spread through Anthea’s chest that had nothing to do with the fire.

  He was courting her. It was undeniable. Not only that, but he had resolved to become an avid reader of Lady X and her strident opinions. He did not dislike women with passions that went beyond needlework and housekeeping. He had changed his ideas to better suit hers.

  She spent the entire carriage ride home in uncharacteristic silence, a smile of satisfaction on her face.

  The only thing that remained was to redeem him from the unfortunate connection he was forming with Lord Wetherton. As Anthea pretended to ignore the knowing remarks her sisters made about the handsome Earl of Streatham, a plan was forming in her mind.

  She had long wanted an excuse to investigate Wetherton’s motives for courting her. George was wrong to think that Wetherton was capable of any romantic feeling. His own growing affection, with any luck, had blinded him. But Anthea had spent too many years uncovering the inner workings of the ton for her column to be similarly naïve.