Entrancing the Earl

by Patricia Rice

  “As do bastards,” Iona said pertly, recalling what she’d heard from Isobel about Max Ives, her employer. “Handling resentment from a position of power is scarcely a hardship.”

  “A position of power tends to be lonely,” the librarian admonished. “And the earl has more or less been wrapped in cotton batting all his life for fear anything might happen to him too.”

  “The exact opposite of me!” Iona tried to laugh it off, but inside, she understood what the librarian was saying. As a man of integrity, the earl would never unleash his passion or do anything that would bring shame on his aging, worried parents.

  So, she was on her own. It wouldn’t be the first time. She’d make inquiries about a good negotiator with the ladies at the School of Malcolms, and with Lydia, the librarian at Calder Castle. She had options, of a sort. She simply needed to time her departure to suit the best possible conditions.

  The earl rode out and didn’t return for dinner that evening. Iona didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned. Deciding it was easier not to think of the earl at all, she went about the important business of securing her hives for the winter.

  It broke her heart and frightened her more than a little to leave her favorite queen behind, but if she had to put an end to Mortimer’s depredations in order to reclaim her life, then sacrifices had to be made.

  Over the next week, Iona prepared her honey and the candies she’d promised, and rebuilt the hackles to protect the old-fashioned hives. The Langstroth book arrived, and she poured over it from beginning to end, taking notes, drawing sketches, dreaming, and wishing she could take the precious volume with her. Instead, she showed it to the estate carpenter so he could better understand what the bees needed. Her notes and sketches she packed in her bags, in case she never returned.

  She hoped desperately that she could return here in the spring to introduce her queen to her newly-constructed palace.

  On the days the earl stayed at Wystan, he spent his time riding the fields, overseeing his new steward’s work, and his nights in his tower. He didn’t seek out Iona, as was perfectly proper. He was a busy man. She was nothing but a tenant to him.

  That didn’t mean she couldn’t wish otherwise, but she didn’t have time to waste on wishes. Remembering the earl’s questions about Roman ruins, she had consulted her queen before tucking in the hives for the winter. When she had time, Iona roamed the fells and dales, looking for the ancient mulberry the worker bees had noticed. Bee minds recalled pollen fields better than old buildings, but the memory of warm stones and what might have been an old garden came through.

  Mary Mike knew nothing about mulberries, but Iona had studied mythology and herbals and knew the tree had ancient history. An old garden and old stones might yield whatever the earl was looking for. She would like to thank him for his generosity and maybe inspire him not to neglect her hives once she was gone.

  As it happened, the earl had been away for several days, and Iona was growing restless, when she stumbled upon the stone foundation near an almost dead tree. The frost had killed back much of the vine and weed, leaving only a bit of green boxwood clinging to the heat of old, squared-off stones.

  During the summer, the spot would be lush with weeds and herbs, if she identified the leaves and stalks correctly. The stones would have been invisible unless one was directly on top of them. The shepherds might have eaten their lunches here, but no one else had reason to traverse this distant hill.

  She tidied the stalks a little, disturbing the earth by pulling weeds, clearing space for the wild garlic, celandine, and watercress. She’d never had a great deal of time for gardening, but she’d learned herbs and foraging from her mother. Iona preferred working with flowers, simply because of her bees and the scents. But all plants interested her.

  She sketched a hasty map and image of the location, but she found no artifacts that might interest the earl. Plants probably didn’t matter to him if he was asking about Roman coins.

  When she returned to the castle with her sketchbook, Mrs. Merriweather called to her.

  “You must have intrigued Calder Castle with your bees. You have another letter.” The librarian waved an envelope.

  Iona’s stomach plummeted to her feet. Isobel was endangering both of them to write directly again. Managing a smile, indicating her dirty gown, she took the letter and hurried off with it.

  Once in her room, she hastily unsealed the missive, lit a candle, and copied the secret code that appeared.

  Too many suspicious inquiries. Must leave soon. Where?

  Iona began packing her valise.

  Twelve

  Gerard sprawled his boots over the carpet of the inn room he and the banker had hired for this meeting. He yawned as Avery’s mistress wept and employed her charms for the sake of the bespectacled businessman. The Berwick banker merely polished his spectacles and glanced to Gerard for aid.

  “Bess, the house does not and never did belong to you, no matter what Avery told you,” Gerard reminded her with his best aristocratically bored drawl. He had learned from an early age that people expected things of him that he could not give. It got old. “We are doing our best to be fair. If you paid rent, Avery did not record it on the estate books. I will not question the past two years that you have apparently lived at my expense. But going forward, you must make choices.”

  Still young and beautiful in a round-faced, cherubic way, Bess blinked her long fair lashes at him. “But I have nowhere to go,” she pleaded. “It is my home! What shall I do?”

  Gerard had a multitude of sisters, female cousins, and aunts, along with all the ladies at Wystan, and was not swayed by feminine attempts to garner his pity. He knew perfectly well that Bess was as much of a businesswoman as the banker or she would not have landed herself a substantial cottage in the village where she entertained men and dressed herself in fine gowns.

  “You may follow Avery, I suppose, if he wants you. Otherwise, we have offered you two respectable choices. Mr. Pettigrew here will buy the property from me, and you may pay him rent, with the understanding that the house is his to do with as he wishes. Or he will arrange a loan so that you may buy the house and make payments at a very fair rate of interest, with the understanding that if you miss payments, he can take the house away. I cannot make it any more clear than that.” Gerard impatiently jingled the coins in his pocket.

  “How will I ever make payments of any sort?” she asked with a quivering lip, dabbing at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “Avery managed all that sort of thing for me.”

  Gerard wanted to return to the castle before nightfall. Once he concluded this transaction, he’d have funds to begin repairing the orchards. He wouldn’t be any wealthier, and the castle maintenance still had to be paid, but his duty in Wystan would be done. He supposed he should linger longer to oversee Mary Mike, but she was doing a better job than he ever would. He’d simply have to come back more often until he was sure the men continued to respect her.

  For the sake of expedience, he leaned forward and glared at the weeping, calculating wench. “You make the payments the same way you paid Avery, bought your pretty gowns and jewels, and pay your servants. You may have to cut expenses, but I’m sure you will figure it out as most people must. If you feel you are not capable, I’ll let you know where Avery has gone and help you sell your household goods so you may follow him, and Mr. Pettigrew may sell the property. Now choose, so we may all move on with our lives.”

  She shot him a baleful glare. “You have no understanding of what—”

  “On the contrary, madam, I have a complete understanding of what you require. I’m not unfamiliar with the needs of courtesans. I’m simply not interested. This is business. If you wish to run a business, then you must learn to be practical and not weep like a child. That only works on feeble-minded fools who think with their lower parts, and that is decidedly not me.”

  Every once in a while, it paid to show how he felt. Bess pressed back in her chair as if he’d shoute
d at her. He hated being a bully, but sometimes, it was necessary.

  Gerard stood. He could not help that his height was an additional intimidation. “I need to ride on. Pettigrew, I rely on you to see the funds are transferred to my account. You have the deed, and she’s your problem now.”

  Despite his milquetoast looks, the banker had a heart of solid granite. Gerard had offered him a good price just to be rid of the property and have the funds for his orchards. He could rely on Pettigrew.

  He needed to be in Edinburgh, determining what was happening with the louts attempting to locate Iona and her sister. Leaving the inn, heading for the stable, Gerard was striding down the market street when the mercantile owner ran out, waving a paper.

  “My lord, a telegram just arrived. I was about to send my boy out with it.”

  Gerard’s innards ground. Telegrams were seldom good news. Murmuring a few pleasantries, he handed the shopkeeper a coin and continued on. Not until he was alone did he tear open the envelope. From Rainford.

  Twins Age 23 Runaways Any newcomers?

  The marquess had evidently reached Edinburgh and was searching for the missing heiresses—rather than court his own, of course. Gerard wasn’t too worried about Rainford. The marquess didn’t need the reward and was simply escaping his family for a last fling at freedom.

  It was the less-wealthy men following Rainford who worried him.

  Gerard rode home in the dark, trying to work out how to handle his beekeeper’s ardent suitor. He had promised she’d be safe at Wystan, and she would be. She was of age. Her father couldn’t force her to leave. But fortune-hunting mongrels might be desperate enough to stage an abduction in return for a reward or for the heiress herself.

  And Gerard couldn’t protect both Iona at Wystan, and her sister, wherever she might be. Putting them in one place might be doubly dangerous, as they’d already assumed. Apart, they could blend in. As twins, they’d stand out.

  Perhaps he could explain the dilemma to Rainford. The marquess had the wealth to send the women to China, if need be. But Gerard would need Iona’s permission to spill her secrets. She didn’t trust easily, for good reason, it seemed.

  He rode in, sweaty and stinking of horse. Throwing the reins to the stableboy, he hurried to his tower to bathe. He might have time to catch some of the women still in the withdrawing room. He didn’t dare hope he’d find Iona. And he couldn’t arouse suspicion by sending for her. Damn.

  Lowell greeted him without fuss, filling his bath and fetching clean clothes. The old batman made an excellent valet, Gerard admitted. He just didn’t need the extra baggage or expense of a personal servant. He never stayed at Wystan for long. He didn’t need a valet at Iveston Hall, where the family estate swarmed with servants. His flat in London was small. He’d be forced to find a larger one—more expense—or settle in the family townhouse. He shuddered at the idea since the ancient edifice spilled over with his relations and any of their friends who needed a temporary home.

  Could he send Iona to his family? What explanation would he give? His mother could sense a lie from a mile away.

  Since dinner was over, the kitchen sent up a hot meal to his room. After bathing and dressing, Gerard took the tray to his desk, where he flipped through various papers the women had left for him. Mary Mike was more efficient at communicating than Avery, he noted. She’d already acquired estimates on replacing the older trees, along with the cost of the new hives and the hedge to protect them.

  He uncovered a sketch of a hillside with a dead tree and a list of herbs to be found there. Puzzled, he almost set it aside in his haste to hunt for Iona. But as he finished off his wine, he studied the sketch, trying to figure out why it had been left on his desk. The writing was not Mary Mike’s.

  The sketcher was no artist, but something about the drawing compelled him to study it. He could determine what appeared to be square stones among the penciled weeds. In the distance, he thought he could see the top of Wystan’s tower. Village was penciled in to the west of the tower and Orchards to the east. So it was a map of sorts, to a patch of weeds and stones.

  He picked it up and received a shock that shot up his arm as if he’d been electrified. He occasionally picked up on vibrations from old artifacts that called to him, but this. . . This was abnormal.

  He hastily strode downstairs in search of anyone who might still be around in the main house. He met Mrs. Merriweather on her way to her room, and she greeted him cheerfully.

  “There you are, my lord! We’ve missed you. I’ve not found anything in the library yet about ancient ruins, but I see you found Nan’s sketch. She said the bees showed her that spot. She didn’t find any artifacts, but she thought the stones and garden looked very old.”

  Iona had done this? Gerard had to work at displaying his usual nonchalance. “I should thank her,” he said politely. “I’ll ride out and look for this in the morning. Is she still about?”

  “Oh, no, she left this morning.” Mrs. Merriweather’s smile faded a trifle. “We tried to persuade her to stay, but she received a letter and said her family needed her. I do worry about her, but there was no persuading her to wait.”

  She’d left! She’d run away even after he’d promised her safety. He would kill her if he ever found her. She couldn’t leave him. . . She had.

  It tested all his diplomatic skills to refrain from punching a wall and roaring his rage. “Did she say which direction? I have to leave soon. I might catch up with her and see that she travels safely.”

  Mrs. Merriweather frowned. “The only letter she received was from Edinburgh, my lord, but she didn’t say where she was going. Does it matter? I can write—”

  If she had a letter from family—he could guess who wrote from Edinburgh. Biting down on his fear and fury, he waved off that suggestion. “I hope she had sufficient funds to take the train and not a coach.”

  “We paid her in advance for the honey sales. It seemed the right thing to do. She was worried about her bees, but we assured her we’d take the best care of them. I suppose it’s better that she travel before the weather worsens. Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord? My kitten and my rocking chair are waiting.”

  “No, I thank you for explaining. Perhaps I’ll look for Mary Mike to see if she can provide better directions to this hill.” He continued down the corridor, his stomach grinding as if he’d eaten glass.

  If he asked questions, the women would want explanation of his interest. He didn’t have a good explanation, except for the fears Iona had confided and weren’t his to reveal. The sketch was all he had.

  He carried the paper into the withdrawing room where Winifred and Simone cut up map pieces they’d glued to sturdy fabric. He’d seen them creating puzzles before, although he had no idea what they did with them.

  “I was hoping to find Nan to explain this sketch to me, but I understand she’s left?” he asked idly, studying their puzzle pieces.

  He knew from experience that the women only told him what they thought he needed to know. And most of the time, they concluded he didn’t need to know anything. Shouting at them wouldn’t change their minds.

  Winifred took the sketch and examined it in the oil light. “Very pretty. That looks like a mulberry tree. Oh, yes, she notes that in the corner. Interesting. No, she didn’t mention this to us, but she left in a bit of a hurry.”

  “The market cart couldn’t wait for her to say her farewells.” Simone snapped two puzzle pieces together to see if they fit. “The driver had to be back in the village before dark. I only saw her go because I was in the kitchen. She left us a lovely thank-you note and apologized for her haste.”

  Gerard didn’t think pounding them over their pompadours with a piece of paper would help. “She didn’t say why she left? Or where she was going?”

  “Of course not, dear,” Winifred said soothingly. “We don’t ask questions. If she wanted us to know, she would have told us. The bees are apparently settled in for the winter, so she may have decid
ed she wasn’t needed here for now.”

  Gerard didn’t believe for a moment that one of the witches hadn’t questioned the girl, but he couldn’t accuse his great-aunt of lying. “Very well. Then perhaps I’ll leave hunting for this hill for another time. Tell Mary-Mike that I will be back in a few months to see how she’s getting on. And if she has need of me, to address my man of business in London, as always. He’ll know how to find me.”

  He walked off on the non-informative ladies. Two could play this game.

  She’d left with the market cart. There was a coaching inn in the village. He may have just missed her. He’d ride out first thing in the morning.

  But Gerard had the strong suspicion that she’d gone to her sister—who would be the only person who knew how to reach Iona. And if the letter came from Edinburgh, then that must be where the sister resided—in a nest of Malcolms.

  It was also where Rainford and his pack of hounds were sniffing and where the unwanted suitor apparently stayed.

  Damn the woman, did she want to get caught?

  Of course she did. She wanted to marry wealth and be free to do as she pleased. He ought to leave her to her own devices.

  Unfortunately, the piece of paper in his hand was vibrating with a woman’s panic and terror, and Iona had been the last woman to handle it.

  Thirteen

  Cold, grimy, and exhausted, Iona arrived at the train station in Edinburgh wishing she were wealthy enough to own a private traveling carriage. The journey from Northumberland’s wilderness had involved a series of transfers from coach to train and from one line to another. She’d thought that an advantage when she’d gone to Wystan, believing no one would ever look so far from civilization.

  She hadn’t considered the disadvantage of leaving Wystan.