My Kind of Earl

by Vivienne Lorret

  “Jane,” her friend sleepily called, halting her for the moment. Ellie turned her head on the pillow, her gaze curious despite her fatalistic fears. “What did it feel like when you met the gray-eyed scoundrel? Was it different than meeting an average gentleman?”

  Jane considered her answer carefully, making a mental note of the sudden escalation of her pulse as she pictured Raven’s face. How peculiar.

  After forty-seven rapid beats, she said, “Do you remember when it was our last day at the academy and Prue and Winnie and you and I were being terribly silly and dancing the waltz until we were all so dizzy we had to lie on the grass for our heads to stop spinning?”

  “I was certain we were all going to die of some strange spinning brain fever.”

  “Well, I felt like that again tonight,” she admitted and her cheeks grew hot. “What do you think it could mean? Part of me fears that it is a warning from my mind to steer clear of him. But the other part wants to spin around in circles and laugh.”

  Ellie closed her eyes on a fretful sigh. “I think you should avoid anything that makes your head spin. It almost always means something dire is about to happen.”

  Chapter 8

  Jane was sure nothing calamitous or scandalous would happen with a little more research. Certainly not when she was at home. Therefore, the instant she stepped inside her parents’ Palladian mansion in Westbourne Green, she went straight to work.

  The library at Holly House was a towering, rectangular room, surrounded by an inaccessible upper gallery with walls merely painted to look like an upper library arcade. Mother was fond of trompe l’oeil and had hired artists to paint false representations of reality all throughout the house.

  In Jane’s opinion, anything that looked like a bookshelf ought to be an actual bookshelf. She’d thought so even as a child, when she’d built a rickety ladder—her first contraption—to take her five-year-old self all the way to the wrought iron catwalk.

  To this day, there remained a broken arched pediment above the far window and a crescent-shaped scar on her shin from her first failed attempt.

  With her third attempt that same year, she’d succeeded. She’d gained the platform but then came to the disconcerting realization that her construction skills were sorely lacking when her ladder collapsed, leaving her stranded.

  Thankfully, her uncle had dropped by for a visit and found her. He’d suggested that, perhaps, her time was better served by expanding her mind in reading the books instead of building shelves for them. And, over the years that followed, she’d read every tome in this space cover to cover, finding the answers to many of life’s mysteries.

  Just not all of them.

  Now, amidst the rows and stacks, she tried to find another. Her memory flashed with a picture of the mark on Raven’s arm. Then it flashed again with the sketch in a book, of a bird surrounded by a wavy-edged circle.

  But in which book had she seen this particular raven?

  Unsure, she simply took every title remotely ornithological.

  Piling them on the trolley that she’d built when she was eight, she made her way to the opposite end of the house. But the old cart heaved and squealed under the immense mound of research. It was like walking with a stubborn pig on a leash who kept digging his back hooves into the floor. She simply pulled harder, tugging the beast along the variegated marble floor. She passed several oddly placed murals in the main hall, each marking her mother’s brief interests.

  First came the Parthenon flanked by pilasters, when having a folly in the south garden simply wasn’t enough. Then came a landscape meadow of sheep, from Mother’s brief knitting period. The third was a sea of silver-capped waves with gulls flying overhead, before holidays in Brighton had lost their appeal. And the most recent was a desert pyramid, commissioned after Lord and Lady Hollybrook returned from their tour this summer.

  They’d left Jane and the horde behind, of course. Traveling with one’s children simply wasn’t de rigueur and they always abided by popular opinion.

  Unfortunately for them, their plain, bookish, and odd daughter was decidedly out of fashion. While she was accomplished in many areas, they weren’t the right areas.

  A debutante needed to demonstrate to society—and her future husband—that she would be a graceful ornament for any man’s arm, an asset in his home. She should be wholesome, modest, and delight others with scintillating conversation, as long as it was about art, music, or the weather.

  A debutante never spoke of scientific matters, ideas for inventions, or writing a book. Therefore, Jane would never be truly accomplished. At least, not according to the ton’s standards and not her parents’ either.

  Tucking that thought away as she always did, Jane took a right turn at Egypt and steered the cart down the arched vestibule between the main house and the conservatory rotunda.

  Inside, the air was cool and fresh and humid. She drew in a deep, invigorating breath and felt every ounce of exhaustion lift from her shoulders, floating up to the misty glass of the domed ceiling.

  Beyond the eastern wall of mullioned windows and past the winding canal, she saw the dawn slumbering on the horizon beneath downy bands of coverlet-clouds in shades of apricot and lavender. Pastel light crept in through thousands of diamond-shaped panes to brush the eager leaves that overlapped the narrow stone path within the conservatory. And as she tugged the cart along, a plethora of potted flowers, plants, climbing vines and trees—which she’d cultivated herself—now greeted her, brushing against her shoulders and cheeks.

  This jungle was her real home, the place where she had spent many a happy hour, deep in her studies.

  The foliage opened up to a glade, where her desk waited. Leaving the cart, she deposited her reticule on a grayed and stained trestle table that was cluttered with vials, jars, gallipots and even a Leyden jar. Then she flitted around the semicircular clearing, lighting lamps and adding kindling to the embers beneath the curfew in a small cast iron closed-stove.

  But when she turned back to the cart to begin her hunt for the raven, she stopped short.

  The pile was puzzlingly small. It had been much larger when she’d left the library, she was sure.

  In that same instant, the aged butler appeared in the doorway, his arms overladen with the books that must have fallen during her lengthy trek through the house.

  “Good morning, Miss Jane. Up early with your research again?” he asked without any inflection in his tone or alteration in his ever-grave expression. And yet, for most of her life, Jane had a sense that there was a wealth of untapped mirth hidden deep in his jowls.

  Mr. Miggins was a somber man of established years with gently rounded shoulders under his black livery. He wore his hair styled in a comb-over of dull gray hair streaked with white that, regretfully, reminded her of bird droppings on a statue. Of course, she’d never told him that. He’d always been kind and patient with her and the horde.

  “Actually, I haven’t been to sleep yet,” she confessed, knowing that he would keep her secret. “The evening filled me with a dizzying array of new questions and I’m not certain I’ll ever be able to close my eyes again unless I find the answers.”

  “I’ve no doubt you will,” he said with his usual unblinking certainty that she’d always found comforting. He shuffled down the slope and proceeded to stack the books on the cart again.

  Already skimming through the pages of the first one, she paused briefly as a new curiosity formed in her mind. “Mr. Miggins, suppose you were an orphaned boy. Wouldn’t the foundling home have assigned you a Christian name and a surname?”

  Familiar with her random odd observations, he answered without question. “I should think so, miss.”

  “Then, what might be a reason not to accept the surname?”

  He continued his task, carefully arranging the books in an orderly pile. After a moment, he said, “Perhaps I’d be waiting to know who I truly am. Every man deserves to know his own origins in order to make a name for himself.”
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  Thrumming her fingers against the cloth cover, she thought about Raven and wondered if that was the reason he only went by a solitary moniker. Perhaps there was a part of him—whether by conscious choice or by some internal guidepost—that wanted to know who he truly was.

  “I believe I agree with you,” she said.

  He inclined his head as if he never doubted she would. “If that’s all, miss, shall I have the kitchen send your usual tray?”

  “That will be lovely. Thank you.”

  Jane didn’t wait until he left to dive headlong into the stack of books. She carefully surveyed page after page, feeling shivers of anticipation gathering beneath her skin. The answer was near, she sensed it.

  She didn’t know how much time had elapsed before she was disturbed by a peculiar tapping on the glass. But it was probably just a bird pecking at its own reflection. Ignoring it, she ambled over to the cart for another book.

  Unfortunately, the first seven had not contained the sketch she remembered.

  Beside the stove, she noticed that the mahogany and brass serving trolley from the kitchen had been left, and so she poured herself a cup of tea to take back to her desk. However, by the time she set it down, the window tapping had grown more insistent.

  “For heaven’s sake. That bird must be in love with his own reflection,” she said, stalking toward the foggy mullioned door that led to the garden, fully prepared to shoo the creature away.

  But when she reached the door, she saw that it wasn’t a bird tapping on the glass. At least, not the avian type.

  Beneath a shock of feathery black hair, a pair of frost-colored eyes peered through the glass.

  Chapter 9

  For a moment, Jane just stood there, staring at Raven.

  He looked wild and windblown, eyes bright, hair tousled in black layers that fell carelessly over his forehead. He’d changed clothes, too. Now he wore a blue shirt with a short, buttoned collar beneath a brown coat.

  In her mind, she could still see him shrugging out of torn black wool and rending the seams of white linen to bare his tightly loomed arm. She could still feel the smooth texture of his skin, the hardness beneath. Still sense the sure grip of his hands encircling her waist, his thumb coasting circles around her navel.

  Her pulse raced as if it were happening all over again, her heart pounding in rapid spurts beneath her breast.

  “How on earth did you find me?”

  His mouth curved in a slow, mysterious grin. “You’re not the only one who knows things, Jane.”

  The sound of her name, spoken in that low, growling drawl sent a warm flutter to her midriff. Within her cranium, her gray matter tilted ever so slightly on its axis as if preparing for a series of revolutions. She feared that the peculiar dizzying rush would take her unawares again.

  “Are you going to loose the hounds on me?” he asked with a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, his breath fogging up the glass.

  “Our dog died this last summer,” she said inanely. “Besides, I’m not afraid of you. It’s just taking my brain a moment to orient itself to this unforeseen outcome.”

  “While you’re busy puzzling it over, let me in.”

  “I really shouldn’t.”

  He was a scoundrel who didn’t follow the rules of society. He lived in a world of gaming hells and bawdy houses. He did whatever he liked, whenever he liked. His only furnished room was a bedchamber, for heaven’s sake! And he had an uncanny and stealthy ability to appear before her eyes when least expected.

  “Likely not,” he agreed, seeming to read her thoughts like the pages of a journal. “But it’s hardly fair that I allowed you into my home when you won’t do the same.”

  Well . . . Put that way, it seemed rather hypocritical of her. He had trusted her, after all.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she slid the bolt free.

  A shock of frostbitten morning air rushed over her, the cold blast lifting fine tendrils from her nape as if in warning. As if she’d just unlocked a panther’s cage.

  Raven crossed the threshold, instantly shielding her in a cocoon of warmth and the fragrance of leather, raw earth, and the clove from his shaving soap. Then he laid his hand over hers and slowly eased her fingers away from the latch before closing them both inside.

  The conservatory had never felt so small.

  She blinked up at him. “I’m glad the paste worked.”

  “As am I. Though I’m surprised I’m not blue at the moment. It took an age for you to let me in.” He cupped his hands and blew a steady huuuh of air into them as he looked her over. “Mind if I share your warmth?”

  Share her warmth? She’d never been asked so bold a question. Frankly, she was surprised a man so primal would bother asking permission instead of merely hauling her into his arms.

  She blushed, recalling every moment in his chamber, the way he’d sat on his bed with his legs spread, the heat emanating from him, the grip of his hands . . .

  It had been the most intimate experience of her life.

  “Well . . .” She hesitated, not knowing quite how to respond. “I don’t think that would be entirely proper under the circumstances.”

  “I meant your fire, Jane.” And there was that smirk again, slowly bracketing one side of his mouth. “It may not have occurred to you yet, but we’re still standing on the mud rug while the little stove is all the way over there. Then again, if you prefer a more carnal method, I’m fully at your disposal.” He winked. “Think of it as research for your book.”

  Her cheeks flooded to scarlet, she was sure, as she realized that she’d been blocking the path, a pair of urn-potted yews on either side of her.

  “Yes, help yourself,” she said as she took a step back beneath the branches. Then, seeing his eyebrows arch, she quickly added, “To the fire.”

  He offered a reluctant nod. “I suppose it’ll have to do . . . for now.”

  As he brushed past, she tilted her head quizzically. Was that a flirtation? If it was, then it made little sense, considering his preference for worldly women. Not only that, but she’d already surmised that he’d only flirted with her before as a means of distraction.

  Puzzled, she followed a few steps behind. “I thought you were fairly determined to put an end to our acquaintance.”

  Warming his hands at the stove, he said over his shoulder, “I was. Then I found myself standing alone in my bedchamber, dripping wet from head to hoof with pink water in a basin, and staring down at a scrap of black lace on the floor . . .”

  With rapid strokes, her mind sketched the illicit image and her breath caught, her throat suddenly dry. Gentlemen never spoke of bathing rituals openly. And she had a strange, almost desperate, desire to know if this man had used the bit of toweling to dry the water from his skin, or if he’d stood nude in front of the fire instead.

  She swallowed, imagining the latter.

  “. . . so I came by to return it,” he continued, unaware of the scandalous spinning of her thoughts.

  Though, in her own defense, this mental voyeurism was not wholly without scientific merit. In fact, she was certain his anatomy would make an enthralling study.

  Dimly realizing that she hadn’t responded, Jane shook her head to rouse from her daydream and found Raven staring at her. She blushed as if caught peeking at nude etchings . . . of him.

  “What were you thinking about just now with your eyes all dark and drowsy, hmm?” He clucked his tongue as if he already knew the answer. “Naughty, Jane.”

  She cleared her throat. “I’ve no idea to what you are referring. And I cannot fathom why you’ve come all this way for a mere scrap of lace, as you put it.”

  He averted his attention to the stack of books on the cart, lifting one after the other. “Seems someone’s developed a sudden interest in birds.”

  “It should come as no surprise. I declared as much when I left you. And you made it perfectly clear it didn’t matter. So, whatever I discover, is for my sake alone,” she said, wondering what
had actually compelled him to seek her out. It certainly wasn’t to return her mask.

  She had her answer when he spoke again.

  “There’s no reason for you to think that my birthmark has any real significance. And it is lunacy to imagine, for a single bloody second, that it could tell you where I came from.”

  Ah, there it is, she thought and smiled to herself in triumph.

  Would a man who was determined to let the matter rest truly come all this way simply to repeat himself? Or was he reluctant to acknowledge his own curiosity had been roused after a lifetime of never finding the answers on his own?

  She scrutinized his profile as she approached.

  He wasn’t as aloof as he pretended to be. She knew the signs of curiosity well—the quick eye movements over every title, the splayed hand denoting the desire to absorb the contents of the book through his fingertips, the faint hmm of interest that he tried to cover by clearing his throat.

  “You could be correct,” she said in stealthy agreement. “However, I try to look at everything through a broader lens. To see potential and possibility that, perhaps, others cannot.” She picked up a penny that rested on the corner of her desk. “A coin, for example, is not only a matter of currency but a scraping tool, a prop for an uneven table leg, a piece of jewelry, a hoe for digging a trench through a small patch of dirt for planting seeds, and so much more. Therefore, in my way of thinking, that extraordinarily detailed mark on your shoulder could be more than it seems.”

  “It isn’t. It’s just a mark and nothing more. An accident of birth. It couldn’t be anything else. Even if it were, why should I care? That’s all in the past.”

  “‘The’ man ‘doth protest too much, methinks,’” she said, borrowing a line from Hamlet after seeing the slender volume in his bedside drawer earlier.

  “‘. . . and the lady shall say her mind freely,’” he retorted, adding, “even though she’s wrong.”

  “The fact that you are standing here in my conservatory proves otherwise.”