An Affair to Remember

by Karen Hawkins

  Karen Hawkins

  An Affair to Remember

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Books by Karen Hawkins

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The men of the St. John family are outrageously handsome and possess far too much wealth. It is enough to make one ill.

  Viscountess Hunterston to Miss Sophia Canterley,

  while sipping lemonade at the

  Woodhouse Charity Masque

  Prologue

  It’s true that the St. John men are far superior to all other men. I wish just one of them would find me superior to all other women.

  Miss Sophia Canterley to her mother, Lady Fetchwythe, while driving in Hyde Park

  Kiltern House, England

  May 1, 1816

  “And last, to my cousin Anthony Elliot, the estimable Earl of Greyley, I leave the sole care of all five of my beloved children.”

  A complete, stunned silence met the solicitor’s words. The silence stretched and grew, punctuated only by the rustle of stiff black bombazine as people turned toward the back of the room where the Earl of Greyley lounged in a chair, legs stretched before him, hands shoved into his pockets. But although the assemblage waited, the earl gave no reaction.

  The solicitor was disappointed. Mr. Hebershem had expected something. A startled blink. A quick frown. Anything other than bland acceptance. After all, the earl was a noted bachelor and one of the most successful, wealthy men in England. As such, he could hardly be pleased to learn that he had just inherited five notoriously unruly children from a cousin he’d openly abhorred.

  Fortunately for the solicitor, the earl’s half brother was not so reticent. “Bloody hell, Greyley,” Lord Brandon St. John said, amusement gleaming in his blue eyes. “You’ve just inherited an armful of babes.”

  “Babes?” the earl drawled in that lazy, deep voice that was peculiar to the head of the Elliot family. “If they’re anything like cousin James, they’re devil’s spawn.”

  Lady Putney leaped from her seat in the front row, her black mourning dress a compliment to her falsely colored hair. “How dare you impugn my son’s name!”

  Greyley turned a bored gaze to the woman. “It’s the truth. James Elliot was a nip farthing, a scoundrel, a cheat, and a liar.”

  “I’m afraid he’s right,” Lord Brandon agreed thoughtfully. “Didn’t know how to dress, either. Never saw a man more given to wearing stripes with dots.”

  “Oh!” Lady Putney turned to Mr. Hebershem. “My son would have never left his beloved children to that”—she cast a look of virulent dislike at the earl—“man.”

  “Careful, Greyley,” Lord Brandon warned his brother. “She has thrown down the gauntlet and calls you a man. Such rudeness.”

  The earl ignored him. “Lady Putney, if you have issue with the will, then take it up with your son. He wrote it.”

  Her face reddened. “My son is dead.”

  “So he is,” the earl said with a sardonic glint. “I must assume, then, that you know what he wished. I daresay he spoke to you about it frequently?”

  A nervous titter arose. Everyone knew Lady Putney and her son hadn’t traded a word for over ten years. “My relationship with my son is no concern of yours,” she said stiffly. “My concern is for my grandchildren.” She turned to Mr. Hebershem. “Isn’t there something you can do?”

  Mr. Hebershem was not used to members of nobility asking for ways to disinherit an earl. Especially not when the earl in question was sitting a mere fifteen feet away. “I, ah, my lady, you can’t mean to—please, madam. Lord Greyley has the care of his cousin’s children unless he voluntarily assigns their care to someone else.”

  Lady Putney turned to face Greyley, but he held up a negligent hand. “Don’t.”

  “But you don’t even want them!”

  “No, I don’t. But I have never shirked my duty, and I’m not about to begin now.”

  A faint stirring of appreciation warmed Mr. Hebershem. Few knew the extents to which the Earl of Greyley had gone to salvage his family name. Since he had assumed his responsibilities at the age of seventeen, he had pulled the Elliots from the dregs of their own waste and ruin. He had paid their debts, bettered their lands and profits, smoothed over scandals, and brought the entire, unruly family to heel.

  In a normal man, the wear and tear of such an endeavor would have had some sort of effect—left him ill or wan or perhaps just bitter. But Lord Greyley’s broad shoulders seemed to handle the heavy burden with ease. Oh, it was true that Mr. Hebershem could detect a slight hint of arrogance that had not been present before. But that was, after all, only natural.

  Lady Putney’s numerous chins quivered. “Greyley, if you think for one moment I’m going to accept this, you are sadly mistaken. Those children cannot—”

  “Mother.” Rupert Elliot, Lady Putney’s last remaining son, stood and crossed the room to his mother’s side. Tall and lanky, his dark hair falling over his pale brow, he stood out among his Elliot relatives, his fashionable attire nearly as well wrought as Lord Brandon’s.

  Rupert frowned down at his mother. “You have said more than enough.”

  “But I—”

  “No,” he said again, more firmly this time. “You will not make a scene. Not here. Not now.”

  The two glared at each other, the room fraught with tension. Just as Mr. Hebershem thought Greyley would have to intervene, Lady Putney flushed an ugly red.

  “Oh very well,” she snapped. “But I will not be silenced forever.” She freed her arm from her son’s grasp and plopped back into her chair.

  That was the end of the theatrics, and Mr. Hebershem reluctantly finished reading the last few paragraphs of the will. The second he reached the final word, Anthony Elliot rose in an unhurried manner from the small, spindly chair and glanced down at his half brother. “Thank God that is over.”

  “Over?” Brand stood and picked an invisible piece of lint from his perfectly pressed coat. “You have a nursery to open, a governess to hire, ponies to buy—”

  “My man of business can take care of such nonsense. Dalmapple will find the task invigorating.”

  “Anthony, I don’t think you understand. Five children? That is a very heavy responsibility.”

  “I’ve been taking care of the entire Elliot family since I was seventeen. How much trouble could a few children be?” Anthony lifted a brow. “I suppose you will be sending news of my misfortune to Marcus?”

  “As the oldest, he will want to know.” Brand hesitated, then placed a hand on Anthony’s shoulder, his expression serious. “Anthony, I know you don’t—if you need any help, we are here for you. The St. Johns always support their own.”

  “I am not a St. John.”

  Brand frowned and squeezed Anthony’s shoulder. “You were raised a St. John, and a St. John you are.”

  Anthony wasn’t sure he believed that. His true father had died when Anthony was quite young and he’d been raised by his st
epfather, James St. John. Anthony’s mother and her new husband had been deeply in love and had rapidly produced five more children, four boys and a girl. Anthony hadn’t minded—he’d enjoyed his little half brothers and sister. But he’d always been aware that he was not one of them. “Brand, thank you for coming to this debacle. I suppose I owe you something in exchange?”

  A sudden flash of humor lit Brand’s blue eyes. “Now that you mention it…” He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew a thick silver ring, heavily decorated with circular carvings.

  “Good God. Mother’s ring,” Anthony said. Their mother had believed that whoever possessed the talisman ring would meet his life’s mate. Her sons, however, thought of the ring differently. They had early on dubbed the ring “the family curse” and then spent a considerable amount of time attempting to fob it off on one another. “I thought Chase had that blasted thing.”

  “He did. I discovered it in one of my riding boots after he visited last week.”

  “So hide it in his boot the next time you visit him.”

  “Yes, well, I was hoping you’d do the honors. He’ll be expecting it from me.”

  Anthony sighed. Normally he stayed out of this little game since the ring wouldn’t affect an Elliot. Still, it was the least he could do after Brand’s show of support. Anthony held out his hand.

  Brand dropped the ring into it and grinned. “I’ll owe you for this.”

  “Yes, you will.” Anthony deposited the ring in his own pocket. It seemed like a fairly easy request considering he’d just agreed to take on five unruly hellions.

  He almost grimaced at the thought. Despite his outwardly calm reaction, inwardly he was seething. Cousin James must have laughed uproariously as he’d written that damnable phrase in his will. Anthony was quite certain the cretin had done it with no other thought in mind than to make his life miserable.

  And who could blame him? Anthony had single-handedly forced the Elliot family to become…better, he supposed it was, for want of a more accurate word. At least more respectable and certainly more financially mature. In return he’d earned their deep and undying hatred for imposing his will on the lot of them. He tightened his jaw. It was a good thing he was used to such. It had been his life for almost eighteen years now.

  He glanced about the room now, noting that not one of his erstwhile family dared meet his gaze. None except Rupert Elliot, who offered a deprecating shrug and a half smile as he escorted his nearly hysterical mother from the room. Anthony returned the smile with a brief nod. Rupert was the only Elliot who showed any promise of overcoming his upbringing.

  Anthony rubbed his neck wearily. Perhaps he was being unfair. Perhaps James’s children held the same promise. After all, he’d never seen them; and they were young, after all. For several minutes he mulled over this fact, an idea hovering. There must be some reason fate had given him these charges—perhaps here was his chance to prove that the Elliot family was not ramshackle by blood, but by the circumstances of their upbringing.

  The thought took hold. It grew and expanded as Anthony considered the myriad of possibilities that lay before him. By God, he’d raise the children to be models of propriety. That would show the doubters who believed that once an Elliot, always an Elliot.

  His boredom banished, Anthony took his leave of Brand. He had to prepare Greyley House for the imminent arrival of five soon-to-be-perfectly-behaved children. The time had come to put to rest the last, unfortunate ghosts of his Elliot ancestry.

  Chapter 1

  The Earl of Greyley’s sins have finally caught up with him. It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving man.

  Lady Fetchwythe to the Dowager Duchess of Roth, while taking a breath of fresh air on the terrace at the Hotchkiss soirée

  Greyley House, outside London

  June 15, 1816

  “Your brother will not be happy to see us.”

  “Nonsense.” Sara Montrose, the Countess of Bridgeton, regarded her husband from across the rumbling carriage. “Anthony will be delighted we came to visit.”

  “Not if you engage in your usual heavy-handed matchmaking attempts,” Nick said, a warning threaded through his silky voice.

  “Me?” Sara slipped off her shoe and rested her foot on the edge of the seat opposite hers, very near her lord’s muscled thigh. “Heavy-handed?”

  He lifted a brow, his blue eyes fixed on her with unwavering regard.

  “Truly, Nick, I only wish to see if he is well.”

  “Hm.”

  He said no more, and after a moment, Sara frowned, a niggling worry settling between her shoulders. Her husband suffered from horrendous headaches, though it had been almost six months since he’d succumbed to an attack. “You seem out of sorts. Is your head—”

  “No.” Nick’s gaze softened. “I’m fine. And so is Anthony. Leave him be, Sara. He’s over thirty and well able to live his own life.”

  Sara wiggled her toes once more. “I just want to visit my brother. Surely there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Nick snorted inelegantly, responding to her not-very-subtle demands by capturing her foot. His warm hands cupped her ankle as he kneaded the pad of her foot. Sara closed her eyes, almost purring as his hands made their way up her calf.

  But before he could proceed further, the carriage rumbled to a halt. “Damn.” Nick sighed and released his hold.

  Sara hurriedly pushed her skirts back down and thrust her feet into her shoes just as the footman opened the door.

  Moments later, they were climbing the stairs to Greyley House. Surrounded by a wooded park, the house sat on a small knoll and cast a forbidding shadow across the front lawn. Large and square cut, the manor conveyed all the welcome of a mausoleum.

  “It makes me yearn for Hibberton Hall,” Nick murmured.

  “We won’t be long.” She was just as impatient to return home as he. She hated leaving their daughter for more than a day or two at most. The thought of little Delphi made Sara sigh. She would say what she came to say to her brother and then leave, not that Anthony would pay any attention. He rarely did. Still, it was her duty as his sister to keep a watchful eye on him and to offer advice. Whether he wanted it or not.

  She and Nick had just reached the top step when the door opened and a horse-faced woman dressed in a sturdy traveling pelisse stomped onto the portico. A bandaged dog was tucked under her arm, a flowered bandbox dangling from her fingers.

  Her clothing proclaimed her a step above a practical servant, but the state of her coiffure made Sara pause. The woman’s long, dull blond hair tangled to one side, a mass of feathers seeming to grow from the lump.

  Jenkins, Greyley’s most proper butler, followed hard on the woman’s heels. “Miss Turner, pray reconsider. They were only teasing—”

  Miss Turner whirled to face the butler. “Teasing? Were they teasing when they rubbed poor Fanny with catnip and then locked him in the loft? That orange tabby in the barn frightened him so badly he nearly had a seizure.”

  “It was never proven that the children—”

  “Are you suggesting that my sweet little dog opened the window in my room, climbed down a trellis from two stories up, and locked himself inside the barn loft?”

  Sara’s glance slid to the nearly bald dog. He was as fat as a stuffed hen, his legs splayed in a most unattractive way. He truly was an ugly specimen. As if aware of her thoughts, the dog turned his bulging eyes toward her and lifted a lip to display crooked, yellowed teeth.

  “Miss Turner,” Jenkins entreated. “If you’ll just listen! I’m certain your beloved Fanny is an excellent dog. But His Lordship was most insistent you stay for the contracted length of time.”

  “Not for a hundred pounds!” Miss Turner descended the stairs at high speed, her chin so high, she didn’t see either Nick or Sara standing to one side.

  “Two hundred pounds?” Jenkins said swiftly.

  But it was a lost cause; Miss Turner never stopped. As she reached the drive, a lone carriage rattled
from the stables and pulled to a halt. Miss Turner sent one last, virulent glare at Greyley House, hugged her ugly dog, then clambered into the carriage.

  Jenkins had by this time noticed his master’s sister and her husband. His face colored and he quickly stepped forward. “My lady! My lord! I didn’t see you! Please accept my apologies. We’re in a bit of an uproar today and—”

  “I’m sorry we didn’t let you know we were coming,” Sara said quickly, trying to soothe the ruffled servant. It was a sign of how badly things were faring at Greyley House to see the usually stoic Jenkins so overset.

  “The earl is expected any moment.” The butler opened the door and escorted them inside. “A fire has been laid in the sitting room in anticipation of his return. I will light it now and bring some refreshments while you wait.”

  Sara smiled pleasantly, but her attention was already diverted to the foyer. Someone had added two sets of imposing armor at the bottom of the stairs, and a new tapestry adorned one wall.

  Anthony loved old things. As the years passed, his house looked more like a museum display than a home. It was yet another sign that he needed a wife. Before Sara could point out such an incontrovertible truth, Nick’s hand closed over her elbow and he firmly guided her toward the sitting room.

  They crossed the foyer and Sara noted other changes; one of the bottom spindles on the stair railing was missing, and the mirror in front of the entryway displayed a large crack.

  Jenkins caught her inquiring gaze. “Master Desford’s cricket ball.” He opened the door to the sitting room and bowed low. Just as Sara and Nick passed inside, a sound came from upstairs. It began as a low rumble, then increased in volume to a roar, passing directly overhead, then moving away.