Weston nodded. “You’ve a good palate. That was a gift. One of the last batches of whisky ever made at Glenavon Distillery.”
Sterling pursed his lips and whistled. “I’ve been after one of these for years. Can’t find them anywhere. And that’s saying something, given my connections. Who gave it to you?”
“Lord Lachlan Campbell.”
“How do I find him?”
“Devil if I know,” Weston shrugged. “Our fathers attended Eton together. Lachlan was as close a friend as any I had growing up, and then last year he disappeared. He was here, for the house party, and then he left early without a word. Haven’t heard from him since.”
“Tall fellow?” asked Sterling, holding a hand several inches above his not-so-inconsiderable height of six feet. “Auburn hair? Bellowing laugh?”
“That’s him.”
“Hmm. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down an enormous red-haired Scot. Speaking of disappearances…” Topping off his glass, Sterling sat across from Weston and tilted his head to study his whisky. “You’ve heard the news by now, I assume.”
“That you killed your mistress in cold blood, chopped up her body, and tossed it in the Thames to be devoured by sharks?” Weston lifted a brow. “I heard something to that effect, yes.”
“Bloody sharks?” Sterling scowled. “Next it’ll be Nile crocodiles.”
“I thought it was a little farfetched myself.”
“Then you don’t think I did it.”
Not bothering to deign such an absurd statement with a response, Weston just gave a snort and sipped his whisky. “That’s why you’re here, then. To avoid the gossip running rampant through London.”
“Aye. The private detective I’ve hired believes it would be best if I laid low for a while. Let the attention shift elsewhere and all that before the House of Lords reconvenes.”
That gave Weston pause. “You cannot seriously believe you’ll be brought before us on real charges. You’re the Duke of Hanover, for God’s sake.”
“And a murderer, if public opinion counts for anything.”
“By the start of the Season, everyone will have found some new piece of salacious gossip to entertain themselves with, and doting mothers will once again be shoving their daughters in your path like sacrificial lambs.”
Sterling looked up from his glass. “Speaking of lambs, do you know there’s one in the parlor?”
“I’m well aware,” Weston said through gritted teeth. “Her name is Posy, and she belongs to Miss Evelyn Thorncroft. I’ve high hopes that both the lamb, and Miss Thorncroft, will be departing shortly.”
“Thorncroft…Thorncroft…why does that sound–I know.” Sterling snapped his fingers. “I’ve met her sister. The red-haired one. Ah…Joanna. She’s working for the private detective I’ve hired to clear my name. Thomas Kincaid. Nice fellow. You’d like him.”
“You mean she was working,” Weston corrected. “Joanna was working for Mr. Kincaid, and now she’s on her way back to Boston.” With Evie soon to follow in her footsteps, he added silently.
“Boston? No, not unless she’s a doppelgänger I don’t know about,” Sterling said cheerfully, oblivious to the sudden tension in Weston’s jaw. “Just saw her yesterday afternoon. It seems she and Kincaid have taken up with each other. Never seen him happier.” The duke drank his whisky. “Shouldn’t you know all this? Joanna’s your sister, not mine.”
“Half-sister.” Throwing back the remainder of his drink, Weston rose to pour himself another. “Joanna Thorncroft is my half-sister. And I want absolutely nothing to do with her. Or Evelyn.”
Especially Evelyn.
“Inviting her to be your guest for a month is an odd way of showing your dislike.”
As the tension in his jaw traveled down into his shoulders and arms, Weston gripped the crystal decanter with such force he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had shattered in his hand. “Brynne invited her, not me. She has some nonsensical idea about wanting a close friend. For my part, I’d just as soon never see Miss Thorncroft again.”
“Is that the sister you’re not related to, or the one that you are? Sorry,” Sterling chuckled when Weston uttered a curse. “With the way things have been going lately, if I didn’t have fun at your expense, I’d have no fun at all. Relax, mate. I’ve never seen you this flummoxed over a skirt before.”
“I am not flummoxed,” Weston growled.
Sterling nodded sagely. “Exactly what someone who is flummoxed would say.”
“You’re a right bastard. You know that, don’t you?”
“So I’m told.” Sterling stretched his legs out in front of him. “Do you think you’ll really do it, then? Propose to Lady Martha.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Having topped off his glass, Weston pivoted to face the duke and notched a brow. “I have to marry someone. We all do, yourself included. It’s the price we pay for the titles hanging round our necks, and Lady Martha will make as fine a countess as any.”
“A tad boring, isn’t she?”
Why did everyone keep saying that? True, there was nothing that made Lady Martha Smethwick particularly interesting. But that was what he liked most about her. Pretty and predictable was far better, in his opinion, than captivating and capricious.
A wife was meant to be a dependable means by which to keep his house in order. Not a distraction or, worse yet, a temptation.
Again, he thought of Evie.
Wrapped in silk.
Her tongue peeking out to wet her lips as she sank to her knees before him and–
“Lady Martha is a young woman of distinction,” he growled, swiping Evie from his mind with all the testiness of a bear swatting at a bee that persisted in buzzing around its head. “She has impeccable manners, her family has never suffered so much as a hint of a scandal, and our political interests align. I cannot imagine a more suitable wife.”
Sterling yawned. “As I said, boring.”
“When are you going to take a bride?” he asked pointedly.
“Why the hell would I go and do that?”
“Because you’re a duke, and you need a proper heir.”
A shadow of grief rippled across Sterling’s countenance as he raised his glass to his mouth, a stark contrast to the cheerfully roguish persona he generally exhibited. “Sebastian was the duke,” he said, referring to his eldest brother who had been killed in a duel. A duel Sterling had jestingly urged him to participate in, never imagining in his worst nightmares that it would cost Sebastian his life. “I’m just the spare pretending to take his place.”
Weston did not know what to say. What words would bring comfort to a man who felt responsible for the death of his brother? A man who was about to be put on the trial for the murder of his mistress.
“Here,” he said gruffly, reaching for the decanter of scotch. He filled up Sterling’s glass, then struck his against it. “To Sebastian, may he rest in peace.”
“To Sebastian,” said Sterling bleakly.
Together, they drank.
Chapter Nine
Evie felt like a new person.
After sending her wool dress monstrosity away to be burned, she’d soaked in an honest-to-goodness porcelain tub with a hand carved wooden rim polished in beeswax. As if that wasn’t luxurious enough, the water had been hot–not tepid, not warm, but hot–and scented with rose oil. Bubbles had floated on the surface, so thick and plentiful that Evie hadn’t even see her own limbs beneath the frothy concoction of glycerin soap and sugar.
It was the first real bath she’d had since leaving Somerville, and even then, the round metal tin she’d shared with her sisters and grandmother with water pumped directly from their well (which was so cold it took nearly an hour to boil, and then there were the long treks with heavy pails up and down the narrow stairs) hardly qualified.
After emerging from the tub, she had taken a nap, and slept through the afternoon into the evening. Dinner in her room, and then back to bed, whereupon she’d floated off into d
ream until morning…and nearly wept with joy when she found another bath already prepared and waiting for her.
This time, she stayed in the water until the bubbles had all but dissipated, and when she was ready to emerge, all she had to do was a ring a bell and her appointed lady’s maid, a beaming brunette named Hannah, bustled in carrying a Turkish towel that was nearly as tall as Evie herself.
“Here you are, Miss,” said Hannah, holding the towel wide and politely averting her gaze as Evie emerged from the tub. “How was your bath?”
“Wonderful,” she said with feeling. “Just what I needed.”
She wrapped herself in the thin, flat cotton, mindful not to slip on the ivory tile beneath her bare feet. Her bedchamber was so large it included two entirely different types of flooring! Wide oak boards beneath the brass bed and accompanying furniture, which included a wide velvet lounge she couldn’t wait to take a nap on, and glossy marble squares that distinguished the bath from the rest of the room, along with privacy panels draped in pale yellow silk to match the wall hangings.
“Very good, Miss. I had your trunks brought up and unpacked your belongings while you slept, along with a few other things that Lady Brynne wanted you to have during your stay with us at Hawkridge Manor. I hope you don’t mind–I was afraid I might wake you, but you’re a very heavy sleeper.”
“Don’t mind?” Evie said with a delighted laugh as she crossed the room and flung open the doors of a towering armoire to reveal half a dozen dresses she’d never laid eyes on before. “Hannah, I could kiss you!”
The maid blushed. “I am pleased that you are pleased, Miss. Lady Brynne indicated that you are an extremely special guest, and that I am to take excellent care of you.”
“I could kiss her as well,” Evie said fervently, running her fingers down the sleeve of a lavender walking dress with double-breasted buttons and chenille fringe.
Even though I’d much rather kiss her brother.
The unbidden thought stilled her in her tracks. As her cheeks suffused with hot, splotchy color, she kept her head tucked behind the door of the armoire and took her time sorting through the colorful sea of gowns that Brynne had graciously allowed her to borrow.
There were narrow-sleeved jackets in crisp taffeta, peplum skirts with long trains, a stunning morning dress in floral printed silk, and an evening gown that stole her breath with its cascading layers of flounces and striped tulle bodice, all in a splendid canary yellow that was certain to draw attention for miles around.
Deciding to save the yellow gown for the receiving dinner, she settled on a white day dress with pagoda sleeves, red satin trim, and rosettes piped in black lace. Hannah helped her get ready, and even styled her hair in an elegant coiffure with curled tendrils that framed the sides of her face. A pair of modest pearl earrings that had once belonged to her mother, and Evie was prepared to greet the other guests and rub shoulders with British nobility.
Her heelless slippers made nary a sound as she descended the master staircase into the middle of an empty foyer, a grandly sized room that was notable if only because there was nothing about it of note.
Plain white was the dominating color, with nary a picture or a rug or even a tapestry to break up the monotony created by such a lack of pigmentation. Given the natural, almost fairytale-like beauty of the manor’s exterior, Evie had been expecting the inside to be…well…more. Certainly she hadn’t anticipated this blank slate of ivory. But maybe she should have, considering the estate’s principle occupant.
If Weston had designed a house to reflect his personality, he’d succeeded and then some. The cold, emotionless man who’d all but shoved her out of the growler paired perfectly with this frigid, icy backdrop. Rather like French wine and Italian cheese, but without the delicious aftertaste.
“Miss Thorncroft!”
Evie automatically turned at the sound of her name, and smiled when she saw Lady Brynne Weston hurrying over. The two women exchanged pleasantries, and then recused themselves to an adjoining parlor with views of a pond that Evie hadn’t noticed upon her arrival. A pair of swans floated across the calm surface, their arched necks forming half a heart as they paddled in leisurely circles.
“Are they tame?” Evie asked, nodding at the fowl.
“The swans? They were raised here on the estate, but I wouldn’t call them tame.” Brynne gave a rueful shake of her head. “Just make sure that if you ever go over to the pond that you’ve plenty of bread crumbs with you, or else you’ll need shoes that are equipped for running. Tea?”
“Thank you.” Accepting the delicate cup made of bone china and embossed in gold, Evie added a swirl of cream and then sat down across from Brynne. “I also wished to thank you for your generosity,” she said, stroking her skirt with all the loving adoration of a parent embracing their newborn child. “I shall endeavor to do your clothes justice, and I absolutely must have the name of your modiste.”
While Evie couldn’t afford so much as a new handkerchief at the moment, she was already looking forward to when cost was no object and her husband’s allowance permitted her to buy whatever she desired. She needn’t wear the same gown until the stitching became threadbare ever again. Or get blisters on her feet from hand-me-down shoes that were a size too large because they’d been made for Joanna’s enormous rabbit feet. Or feel that awful prickle of embarrassment at the nape of her neck when she walked past her peers in their fashionable dresses designed straight from the pages of Journal des Dames et des Modes.
“Think nothing of it.” Brynne gave a dismissive flick of her wrist. “I am fortunate to have more clothes than I could wear in a lifetime, and you’ll fill them out better than I ever could. Please consider everything a gift.”
Evie’s jaw dropped. “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly keep–”
“You can,” Brynne said firmly. “And you will.”
“All right.” Why object further, when it was clear this was what Brynne wanted? She didn’t want to be rude. “I should like to get you something in return, though.”
“Tell me about you and your sisters.” Brynne smiled encouragingly over the rim of her teacup. “That is the only present I require.”
Evie often liked talking about herself. Honestly, what wasn’t there to like? But she failed to see any facet of her life that might possibly be of interest when compared to the gorgeous gowns and glittering ballrooms and lavish house parties that made up Lady Brynne’s world.
As the sister of an earl, the daughter of a marquess, and the granddaughter of a duke, she had doors available to her that Evie could never dream of. Doors that would have opened, at least partially, for Joanna as well…if she’d decided to stay instead of following in the footsteps of their mother and sailing back to Boston.
Evie did not understand her sister’s decision any more than she did her mother’s. Who would want to leave all this? It was like giving a bird wings and then telling it not to fly. Or entering a horse in a race and then not allowing it to run. As for herself, Evie couldn’t imagine leaving England. And not only because her last sailing expedition had begun and ended with her head in a bucket.
From the second she stepped onto British soil, she’d felt a sense of belonging. Of recognition. Of coming home, even though she’d never traveled further than Boston.
But then, England was in her blood.
Her grandmother, Mabel Ellinwood, had been a lady. The second-born daughter of the Viscount of Clarencott, who had fallen in love with a visiting American scholar by the name of Joseph Pratt. They would go on to marry, and have a daughter of their own…Evie’s mother, Anne.
By Evie’s calculations, that made her a quarter-British. It wasn’t as good as Miss-Joanna-my-secret-father-is-a-marquess, but surely it was better than nothing. And it also helped explain her innate love of the country’s architecture, and its fashion…and its earls.
One earl in particular, but who was keeping track?
Certainly not Evie.
Not after the way Weston had
treated her.
As if she were just any other guest. As if she were no one of importance. As if she were ordinary.
And for Evie, who prided herself on her exceptionalism (even under the most dire of circumstances), there was no greater insult to be had.
“What would you like to know?” she asked Brynne, mustering a smile that was tight at the edges, like a stocking too small for her calf.
“Oh, everything,” Brynne gushed, her hazel eyes lighting. “What was it like growing up with two sisters? I’ve only a brother to compare, and, well, you’ve met Weston. He can be…difficult.”
To put it mildly, Evie thought as she raised her tea to her lips.
“Although I’d be remiss if I did not say that there are times he is so sweet-natured and thoughtful you could just kiss him. Don’t you agree, Miss Thorncroft?”
Evie almost spit her mouthful of tea back into her cup. “I…er…I don’t believe I’ve gotten to know that side of him.”
“Haven’t you?” Brynne said innocently. “That’s a shame.”
She knows, Evie realized. Maybe not everything, but Weston’s sister knew something. At the very least, she suspected.
Pesky things, suspicions.
They could either prove to be helpful…or hurt Evie’s plan in any number of ways. One thing was for certain: until she knew where Brynne stood in regards to her brother marrying an American, it was best to steer their dialogue towards safer waters.
“Growing up with two sisters was very…loud,” she said, deliberately inserting good cheer into her voice despite the constrictive band wrapped around her throat. “Joanna and I invariably find ourselves at odds, whereas Claire, the youngest, can do no wrong. But when Joanna isn’t throwing a shoe at my head, we’re really very close. Our disagreements stem from being too much alike, I fear. We’re both obstinate and opinionated, whereas Claire is as gentle as a kitten.”
Entranced by the Earl Page 11