James, Earl of Crofton

by Rebecca Cohen

“Yes,” he said, keeping his head high. No matter how much someone sneered at him about this, he would not be ashamed about his attachment.

  “Then it is of even greater value.”

  He grabbed James’s hand, but instinctively James pulled away. James recoiled in pain at the sharp crack of the pistol’s butt against his head, and he staggered backwards, sliding down the side of his carriage. His head swam, stars dancing before his eyes.

  “Give it up. Or I will cut it off, finger and all.”

  James saw the glint of a blade. “You will pay for this.”

  “Fine words from a fripperous fool.”

  “Enjoy the state of your neck, for I swear, I will see it lengthened by a rope as you dance at Tyburn.”

  The knife pressed against his throat as the bandit crouched in front of him. “As you wish, my lord. But first the ruby.”

  Now was not the time for false bravery. James slid the ring from his finger. As soon as he reached London he would issue a reward for its safe return, and an even higher one to see this bastard hang.

  The bandit grabbed the ring and inspected it. “A lovely piece.”

  He stood up, and James saw him tuck his knife away and then point his pistol squarely at him. “I think if I were to leave you alive, you would try to make good on your promise to see me hang, and I would not like that.”

  James closed his eyes, his breathing ragged, his heart hammering, waiting for the fatal crack of the pistol. Instead, he heard the sound of bodies hitting the ground. He forced open an eye and saw two men scrabbling in the dirt, another man having knocked the bandit off his feet. They rolled around for a few moments before the bandit kicked out and managed to unbalance his attacker. James saw him reach for his belt, but his pistol was nowhere to be found. He turned tail and ran to his horse, throwing himself into the saddle and galloping away.

  Only then did James realise who his saviour was, recognising the mask of the Chivalrous Highwayman as he pulled his hat firmly back into place.

  His head still spinning, James got to his feet, bracing himself against the side of the carriage. “You saved me. Why?”

  “I told you before, Lord Crofton, I like pretty things.”

  James thought the voice familiar, but he suspected his befuddled head was playing tricks. He made to answer, but the need to concentrate on staying upright took precedence. A moment later the highwayman was by his side, slipping an arm around his waist and holding him up. This time the light was better and James could make out the clear blue of his eyes. “Thank you.”

  The highwayman helped him climb aboard his carriage and sit down. His head was beginning to clear a little.

  “Sit still awhile. I will check on your servants.”

  James groaned as the carriage jolted when the highwayman left, the slamming of the door didn’t help matters either. His head throbbed, and he reached under his wig and tentatively prodded the duck egg-sized lump. At least it wasn’t bleeding. He would have a headache for a few days, but nothing compared to the heartache of losing his father’s ring. The ring had not been on his finger long enough for him to truly be used to it, but he still felt bereft as he stared down at his now non-bejewelled finger.

  The door was flung open and the highwayman clambered aboard, sitting next to him on the bench. “Your men will be fine. They may need a few minutes to pull themselves together, but a serving of snuff and they are well on their way to recovery.”

  “I should thank you for coming to my aid. And be equally thankful you happened to be in the vicinity.”

  “You need not thank me. I am in many places.”

  “Still.”

  He leaned closer. “You are not in my debt, my lord.”

  “I would be dead now if it were not for you.”

  “Then I thank the Lord I was in the right place. Perhaps, if I were pushed, I might admit my interest is not merely passing.”

  Soft lips brushed against his, and James relished the gentleness of the kiss. Fleeting yet so intense. The pain in his head forgotten, he let this unexpected pleasure flood through him. Almost as soon as it started, though, it was over. He stared, wide-eyed, and licked his lips.

  “I must leave you now. Travel safe. I will keep a watch from a distance until you are at the city limits.”

  Before James could argue he was gone, and instead his driver was at the window. “Are you well, my lord?”

  It took a moment for him to answer. “Yes, let us continue. I would like to be back in London post haste. Have the sheriff called for once we arrive.”

  His headache returning, James closed his eyes against the throbbing pain and tried not to think about the ghost of soft lips against his own.

  Chapter 11

  Usually James loved London, the city a vibrant mess where all life converged. But alone in his study in his townhouse, he couldn’t settle. There were more servants than ever—now he was the Earl of Crofton he could no longer have the minimalist household he’d kept when he’d stayed here as a viscount—but he had never felt so alone. He’d arrived late last night and had succumbed to a fitful sleep, leaving him tired and woolly-minded. The sheriff had come and gone earlier that morning, taking a statement and advising on how he might try to advertise a reward for his ring, but, in reality, it was unlikely he would see it again.

  He knew he would be expected at court, but in his current mood he was fit for nothing beyond skulking in a corner, which was hardly the impression he wanted to make with his first attendance as the earl. Maybe tomorrow, after a decent night’s sleep had chased away the remnants of his headache, he might be more inclined to attend. But his eventful journey, on top of his grief, had left him with little energy to do more than sit at his desk and stare unseeingly at the papers he had brought with him. No matter how many times he looked through them, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something. The figures tallied, in fact they were almost too correct, but apart from uncanny competence there was nothing to support a case against his servants. Clement’s lists gave no further clues, but they did help him piece together the different parts of the estate, which was a small mercy. Then there was the bigger unknown that threatened the hall, but that was equally elusive.

  A knock made him look up, and before he had chance to answer, the door was flung open and Marchent strode in, a worried Remembrance behind him.

  “Sorry, my lord. I did try to ask His Grace to wait in the parlour, but he weren’t having any of it.” Remembrance had yet to perfect the manner a personal manservant would need, but James had grown far too fond of the lad to change him. Although, a few extra lessons on decorum would be necessary.

  “Don’t worry, Remembrance. His Grace is not known for his ability to wait. Bring the new claret and some cheese.”

  Remembrance sent Marchent a dark look but left anyway.

  Marchent laughed. “He is a lively fellow. I like him.”

  “I will speak to him about greeting guests. I’m not sure why he met you. There should have been a senior servant waiting at the door.”

  Marchent took off his hat and dropped into a chair. “Oh, there was. A stuffy fellow who knew exactly how to greet a dignified guest. I let him show me to the parlour, then I slipped out once he’d gone. The young lad tried to stop me. I wish my man was so concerned for my welfare.”

  “He has potential—and he is honest.” James knocked Marchent’s feet off his desk. “What are you doing here? Actually, how did you know I was back?”

  “Do you think I am that terrible a person not to come the minute I hear my best friend is back in London? You said you would be returning, and I made sure I was alerted when you did.”

  “I truly appreciate it.”

  Marchent’s actions and words touched him deeply. He’d lost his own father the year before, but there had been little love lost between father and son, and Marchent had returned to court as fast as decorum would allow. Remembrance returned with a platter of cheese and a jug of wine and two glasses, he even managed to pour
the wine with only a tiny wayward dribble. A definite improvement, and James’s wardrobe would be grateful.

  Once they were alone, with drinks in hand, Marchent was the first to speak. “I should also apologise for not attending the funeral. If I had not been needed here in a political capacity I would’ve come.”

  “I must admit, I didn’t realise you weren’t there until afterwards. The day itself was … difficult. And events that followed have made matters worse.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Marchent was someone he could trust with his life; that he would share the details of what he had learnt had never been in question. “Before he died my father said he had uncovered irregularities with the estate business. He was too weak to go into detail, but he had made notes in his diary. The problem is, when I went to his study I could not find his diary, and the records I have checked have been impeccable, bordering on too good.”

  It was a relief to talk with someone outside the family who could be sympathetic but who also might have been able to help. He’d not talked to his mother. He’d considered it, but it had felt too much of an intrusion into her grief. Francis had since returned to Cambridge, leaving James without a confidante, and Marchent had an outside perspective that could be useful.

  “It is easy enough to skim money off an estate the size of yours. But men get greedy, make mistakes. You are right not to overlook this. You need to stop it before it creates an infection and something worse festers in the sore.”

  “It may already be too late for that.”

  Marchent raised an eyebrow. “Meaning what, pray tell?”

  “I don’t know much, only a grave warning of more immoral deeds. I had hoped to find details in my father’s papers but so far nothing.”

  “If they are there to find, we will find them.” Marchent leaned forwards and placed his wine on the desk. “You have the documents here?”

  “Some of them. I also had my steward write a list of all our suppliers and upcoming activities. But I did not want to alert anyone to my suspicions until I knew the truth, so I did not bring everything. I do not wish to see men stripped of their jobs, their families cast out, if there is no evidence.”

  “You are a better man than some. Others, and I do not discount myself here, would have acted already, maybe rashly, and would have cut out anyone in the right position to steal from me.”

  Partly it was because he didn’t want to admit that people his father had trusted, worked alongside to rebuild the hall, could do what he suspected them of. James could only hope there was an external force acting, but his heavy heart told him otherwise. He unlocked the drawer of his desk, withdrew a thin ledger and several sheaths of paper, then handed the book to Marchent.

  “And this is?”

  “Supposedly all the daily expenditure of the hall. The figures don’t look wrong, but they don’t look completely correct either.”

  Marchent turned the ledger over several times before opening it, carefully checking the binding before he started on the lists of expenses. “You spend even more than me on apples. Mind you, I do have a better orchard.”

  “Ha. Ha. Bigger is not better—which I am sure you’ve heard said a fair few times.”

  Marchent snorted. “I am pleased to hear your sense of humour is still with us. When that deserts you completely I will call for a physician.”

  “It is slowly returning. My mood has been darker than normal, but the light will fully return at some point.”

  Marchent spent several minutes looking at the pages and several times re-examined the construction of the ledger. “There doesn’t appear to be any pages missing. But I see what you mean about it looking too good. There are no crossings out or corrections, which to me is highly suspicious, as mistakes are to be expected. But the real telling thing is the binding. The leather doesn’t show the level of wear a well-used book should have.”

  “I see.” But James didn’t. “What do you think?”

  “I think this is an imitation or a duplicate—a record to show whoever checks the books—and there is another real record where the true figures are kept, so whoever has it can make sure they aren’t taking too much. They would need something to keep track themselves. I would have expected to see more than one hand in the writing and there is not. Instead, I think someone has taken the receipts and other records and created this.”

  “And in here the values are higher so as to justify the payment of the amount, and then someone had pocketed the difference,” said James.

  “Yes, and the difference in one item many be tiny, but a tiny amount over many items will make for a generous payment, and a regular one at that.”

  “There are not many at the hall who would have the ability to hatch and carry out such a thing.”

  Marchent nodded. “I know among my own household barely a handful who would be capable. You should use the list of servants your steward gave you to reflect on who it could be and then send word to the sheriff. Although, if your local sheriff is as incompetent as mine you would be better dealing with it yourself.”

  Marchent had held a long dislike of the local sheriff of his estate in Oxfordshire, and James thought it was only a matter of time before Marchent got his wish and had the man removed from office.

  It would not take much reflection. There were three people he knew of who had the access and the writing skills to create the ledger. But the most obvious was Clement, the estate steward, who could read and write well, had good penmanship and could negotiate a hard bargain with merchants. He was perfectly pleasant to the family, but from recollection he could be swift to deal out harsh discipline in the household, and that might explain why he would not be challenged even if someone had suspicions. James would have preferred to act on more than supposition, no matter which way his gut led. It was important a man should only be punished if guilty. He thought better of voicing this opinion to Marchent, as he would be accused of being too soft-hearted.

  “I think if I could find my father’s diary that would solve this.”

  Marchent glanced up from the piece of parchment he’d picked up to read. “It was missing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I fear, then, it is long gone, and indeed it would have been incriminating.”

  James had suspected the same, but he also knew his father was not the type of man leave something important unprotected, and Stephen had taken the pains to lock it away. But James had searched his father’s office, favourite sitting room and bedchamber to no avail, hoping maybe he had left it somewhere less obvious than his desk. Francis had also searched, and when he’d departed, James had asked his mother if she could look, although he had not told her the real reason for doing so, not wanting to add to her distressed condition.

  Marchent drained the last of his wine. “One thing is certain, you can do nothing about it at the moment. And I will not let you laze around here on your own.”

  “I am not on my own; you’re here.”

  “Pedant.” He snorted. “Come, Crofton, it’s time you were seen at court as the earl.”

  James flinched at the use of his earldom. Marchent had, for years, called him that. As viscount it had been allowed, but it meant more now, and hearing it for the first time from Marchent’s lips in the new context made everything more real. “I am not sure I am in the right mood for court.”

  “Since when has that stopped you?” Marchent got to his feet. “Besides, it does not matter if feel you in the mood or not. You will be expected. It is known you returned to London yesterday, and one night’s grace may be granted, but now you must present yourself.”

  “Surely I would be granted one more day.”

  “And then what? Another, and another after that until you have hidden away so long no one remembers who you are? I do not think so. You are the 4th Earl of Crofton. The James Redbourn I know is not a coward.”

  James slammed his fist upon the top of his desk. “It is not a matter of cowardice.”

  “Then
what is it?”

  James hesitated, then sighed. “I am not ready to be the earl.”

  “Nonsense. You were born to be the earl,” barked Marchent. “You are a good man, a great man. I understand your concern, I really do, but do not let your insecurities take hold. It will not help you, or your estate, or your family. You need to be strong, hold up your head and swagger into court as if it would not survive another day without your presence.”

  James knew Marchent had also been reticent when his own father died, but it had been a moment’s pause and not James’s crippling inaction. “I am not the man my father was.”

  “Are any of us? Listen to me, Crofton. We are not normal men; we are born into power and privilege. A privilege that was taken from us, and it was our fathers and grandfathers who fought to restore it. No one man has lived through such a time before. We are at the precipice of the start of a new world. Are you really telling me you would rather sit and hide here than come and face it? If you had no intention to attend court and show the world just who you are, you would not have left Crofton Hall.”

  Marchent was a complete and utter bastard, and he knew exactly how to coerce James into doing things. He picked his words perfectly to stir James’s blood, and even though James knew what Marchent was doing, he couldn’t help but rise to the challenge.

  “Then I should get my hat.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  James gathered up the ledger and papers and locked them away. At least his conversation had assured him he was right to be worried, though the extent was not yet known. He should be able to whittle down the list of culprits, and even though he didn’t like it, he would have to do something about it. What that was he had yet to decide.

  “Stop your dawdling. I can hear you thinking from here. Let court suspend your worries for a few hours. Let your new status attract the most beautiful, and then succumb to their charms.”

  Maybe Marchent had a point. It had been a while since he allowed himself to indulge his pleasures. He’d made no progress beyond friendship with Adam, and the soft lips of the Chivalrous Highwayman had given him fuel to fire his fantasies but no actual warm bodies in his bed. The idea should have stirred him more, but following Marchent out and clambering aboard his coach, he realised his heart wasn’t in it. He, like most others at court, had never shied away from the opportunity if presented. He’d spent many, many happy hours in the arms of beautiful women and, to a similar extent, attractive men, but what he wanted now wasn’t a meaningless encounter but someone he could confide in, be himself with without the burden of the title.