An Earl To Remember

by Jasmine Ashford

  “I hope that her agreeing to visit means she has found peace.”

  “And so do I.”

  Evelyn squeezed her husband's hand. She loved him for his big heart and his grave manners. She knew that he would do everything he could to assist Emilia to find peace in their vast London townhouse.

  “We have enough room to take some things for her, do we not?” Evelyn asked. “In the carriages, I mean?”

  Bronson raised his shoulders, shrugging in a candid agreement. “I would say we ought to. We will take the lighter coach, and I think we can send Iva and Wallace in the heavy one.” Iva was Evelyn's maidservant and Wallace was their retainer.

  “So they could fit a case or two alongside theirs?”

  “Assuredly,” Bronson nodded. “You plan to take a great deal?”

  “No – just some silks for new gowns. I imagine she has not renewed her wardrobe in the last two years, and some new gowns would be welcome.”

  “That is a wise thought, my dear.”

  Evelyn smiled. She and Bronson had been married for a year, and she found her heart quickening in her chest as she leaned forward to kiss him fondly. He met the kiss and deepened it, and Evelyn closed her eyes blissfully.

  I love this man so very, very much.

  Her love for Bronson was part of the reason why she felt such great care for Emilia now. She refused to even consider how it would feel to lose Bronson, and her heart ached for her cousin. She wanted deeply for her to find happiness again.

  They broke the kiss and Bronson smiled at her. “That was nice.” He looked surprised and pleased, and Evelyn felt warm inside.

  “I'm glad to hear it,” she said wryly. “It has to be more exciting than tallying the rents, in any case.”

  Bronson laughed. “My dear, your kisses are exciting compared to anything. And, sadly, doing the rents is dull compared to anything.”

  Evelyn smiled sympathetically. “My poor dear.” The cottagers on their estate all paid a rent, which was part of the estate's annual income. Keeping records of who had paid what and when was a demanding business. Bronson had taken to it with a will, however, accepting the challenge with his natural stubborn persistence.

  “I'm getting used to it,” he agreed, running a weary hand over his brow. “I know I can trust Keeley to do it, but I like to keep an eye on things myself.”

  Evelyn nodded agreement. “I think you are right, dear. Do you plan to attend the tea in Greystones Manor this afternoon? Lady Etheridge invited us both. Only if you have the time, though.”

  “Thank you, dear,” Bronson smiled. “I would like that. I need to get away from these books sometime.” He indicated the leather-bound ledgers on his desk and pulled a wry face.

  Evelyn giggled. “Good! I have made great acquaintance with the top of your head in the last week – I have seen more if it than of the rest of you, bent over those books all day.”

  Bronson guffawed. “I can hope, then, that I am not going bald. Am I?”

  “Not really,” Evelyn said candidly. “Though there is a tiny patch, on the left side, about level with your ear...”

  Bronson groaned. “Remind me not to ask someone as observant as you.”

  They both laughed.

  “I'm going up to my chambers, dear. I have some things I need to write, too.”

  “Of course, dear. Luncheon at midday?”

  “Indeed,” Evelyn agreed. She kissed the top of his head absently as she walked out through the door. “See you later.”

  “Good.” Bronson called to her retreating back, and made her grin.

  Evelyn lifted her blue skirt in her hand and walked lightly up the stairs.

  She was observant – it was one of her strongest characteristics. She also had a great deal to think about. Upstairs, she settled at her own ivory-inlaid desk in her chamber with a happy sigh. She reached into her writing set and drew out a fresh quill and parchment.

  Waiting for inspiration, she glanced around the room. Decorated in lilac silk, with cream silk-papered walls, the room was a haven for someone who liked everything ordered and beautiful. She breathed in the scent of lavender water and smiled. Taking up her quill, she started work on her latest writing. She could not publish anything, of course – as a noblewoman it would have been entirely unseemly. She wrote for herself and her close friends, and had sometimes entertained the idea of publishing under a pseudonym – ideally as a man. She grinned. I wonder if anyone would guess.

  She read through the work from the previous day – full of imagery and passion, it could have been written either by a man or a woman. Whoever it was, though, the writing was vivid and intense. Her friends would guess who it was. She was surprised that the story involved a lady who was recently bereft, and realized that she must have drawn inspiration from the story of Emilia.

  She did not know a great deal about the circumstances under which her cousin's husband passed away – and she assumed that Emilia had kept them secret due to a reluctance to address the topic. She could understand that. I hope when she is here she has the opportunity to heal from that.

  She worked on her novel for an hour or so, until Hudson, the housekeeper, appeared at the door.

  “Sorry for disturbin' you, but I needed to ask about the arrangements for the trip to Chelsea House?”

  “Oh, of course!” Evelyn's hand went to her mouth in surprise. “I meant to find you earlier. We have the list of what has to be taken, yes?”

  “Yes, milady. I have it here...”

  “Will you take it to the parlor? I'll join you there directly.”

  Evelyn put away her writing things. Timing was going to be a little tight – she and Bronson would take the journey of some twenty miles the next morning, but Emilia would be arriving that very evening at the townhouse. Evelyn had anticipated that, and planned to send Janet and Davies, their steward and a chamber-maid, on ahead so that the house was in order.

  When the discussions were finished, she went back to her chamber to write. She smiled when her morning repast – a dish of tea and a light confection – was brought to her room by the maid. Drinking hot, sweet tea from the delicate gold-rimmed china brought her back from the realms of imagination to which her writing had lifted her.

  I should ask Iva not to pack my yellow muslin – I need to wear that to the tea today.

  The rest of the day passed in tranquil ease – a luncheon with Bronson on the terrace, followed by a few hours sewing or rehearsing on the pianoforte and then a delightful tea with Arabella Etheridge, a good friend, and Bronson and Felix, Lady Etheridge's husband. When she returned home in the landau a few hours later, a mauve dusk was falling.

  “Are we ready to depart tomorrow?” she asked Bronson as the carriage rolled through fragrant fields.

  “Yes, dear. I asked for some room to be left in the Clarence as you suggested, for some things for Emilia.”

  “She should be there soon.” Evelyn observed.

  “I asked to be sent word when she arrived.”

  “Thank you, dear,” Evelyn patted his hand. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

  “I have to think rather hard to think of something before you do, dear,” Bronson grinned at her, eyes soft.

  “Oh, you!” Evelyn admonished playfully as she kissed him on the cheek. “You talk nonsense sometimes.”

  “I know,” he smiled ruefully. “But that wasn't some of it.”

  They both laughed.

  When they alighted at Brokeridge Manor, their vast estate twenty miles or so out of London, the coachman handed them down onto the gravel drive.

  “Would you fancy a turn about the grounds before our dinner?” Bronson asked Evelyn as they walked up the stairs to the front door.

  “What a lovely prospect,” Evelyn agreed. Then she pulled a face. “I ought to go upstairs after supper, to ask Iva for help packing her gowns...”

  “Of course, dear.” Bronson said. “I ought to be in my study, in case word arrives from London of your cousin's arrival. W
e could take a turn after dinner, I think.”

  “Good idea,” Evelyn agreed and smiled at him. They kissed and he went left to his study.

  In the vast, silk-papered chamber she shared with Bronson, Evelyn rang the bell for her personal attendant. They were soon busy, a vast trunk open on the floor across from the wardrobe.

  “...and I'll take the blue muslin, and I think the dark green velvet, for colder days? And the yellow silk for anything particularly demanding. Have you included sufficient gloves?”

  “Yes, milady.”

  The room was a flurry of figured silks, light muslin's and heavy velvet gowns. As a married woman, the palette of colors was darker than those Evelyn wore before her wedding, and she usually wore a fashionable silk turban to cover her hair, though not at home. She was packing the scarves for her turbans while her maid folded the gowns that lay on the bed.

  At that moment, there was a knock at the door.

  “Yes?”

  “My dear? If I could borrow you for a moment?” Bronson asked.

  Evelyn bit her lip. “Of course, dear. Iva?”

  “Yes, milady?”

  “If you could finish with those – we can decide which bonnets I need when I return.”

  “As you say, ma'am.”

  Evelyn opened the door and glanced up at Bronson's face. She felt a sudden worry trace cold fingers down her spine. He looked very shaken. It was half an hour past seven and she wondered what could have gone wrong.

  Bronson led her to the breakfast room and closed the door. The fact that he wanted to be able to talk privately increased Evelyn's concern, and she turned to him with worry in her eyes.

  “I had word from Wallace at Chelsea house,” he began. He bit his lip and Evelyn felt her heart beat faster.

  “And?”

  “And Emilia has not yet arrived.”

  She had been meant to arrive over an hour ago. Where was she? Evelyn pressed a worried hand to her lips. “Has he sent out looking for her? She usually stops at the Hillhead Inn,” she asked.

  “I sent Jarvis out with the horse,” Bronson nodded. “I hope he will return soon.”

  Evelyn nodded, pacing over to the window. It was becoming dark outside, the evening springtime dusk, brief and lilac-mauve. The tranquil scene did not make her feel at ease.

  “I hope so, too.” Her throat was dry.

  Bronson squeezed her hand. “I am sure it is all well. Perhaps they had to change a wheel.”

  Evelyn bit her lip and nodded. She could not feel at ease about it, though, however reassuring Bronson was being. She knew how dangerous the roads around London could be. What if they had an accident? What if Emilia was out there, somewhere on the roadway, injured or unconscious? There were so many dangers on the road. Evelyn was pacing and had not realized she was.

  “Evelyn? My dear. We will do everything we can to find her.” Bronson laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, turning to face her. “I promise.”

  “I know,” Evelyn agreed. She drew in a shuddering breath. “I will just finish my travel arrangements and then we should have our dinner. I will feel better then.”

  “Of course, dear,” Bronson agreed. He headed downstairs.

  Evelyn finished her packing and had dinner. She did not feel any better.

  As the footman cleared away the trays, there was a knock at the dining room door.

  “Yes?”

  “My lord?” It was Jarvis.

  “Yes?”

  “What word?” Evelyn turned to face their stable-master, heart pounding.

  “My lord, my lady. I rode to Hillhead, as you instructed. The landlady there said they have not seen the lady. But her coach is there.” He looked down, biting his lip.

  “What?” Bronson stared at him. “How can her coach be there, but the lady not?”

  “My lord, my lady...” Jarvis wet his lips and looked down. Evelyn noticed that the man was almost in tears. “I am sorry to bring you this news. But the lady Emilia was kidnapped.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  SNATCHED FROM SAFETY

  SNATCHED FROM SAFETY

  Emilia was sleeping.

  The sway and jolt of the carriage had put her to sleep. In her dream, she was at the ball she had attended two nights before. She was dancing with Lord Oscar.

  Lord Oscar. He had filled the room from the moment Emilia had seen him. Tall, golden-haired and with some inner humor that seemed to make him smile at everything around him, from the sweating orchestra to the chatting guests.

  He had arrived late, which would account for the fact that Emilia had not noticed him immediately on entering the room. The crowds of people, the music and lights had made her feel scared at first after the long seclusion of mourning. The music had been beautiful, though, and her parents were as lavish as ever in their entertaining, Alicia in a cerise gown, gray hair piled becomingly on her head, while Leo, her father, also gray-haired now, was very distinguished in a tan-colored velvet coat. Emilia had worn a yellow gown gifted to her by her mother on the day her mourning ended. It had been strange after having worn only black taffeta or silk for two years.

  Even in the crowded room, which must have held more than a hundred guests, Emilia spotted her at once. Emilia had gone over to her after descending the staircase. She felt a little nervous. She had stood with Alicia a while as she introduced her to some new guests, and then excused herself to go and sample the refreshments. She had been drinking a glass of Malmsey, listening, distracted, to what her father's friend Earl Marston was saying, when she had heard someone cough.

  “My lady?”

  Emilia had turned around and her eyes had widened. At her elbow had been standing a young man she had never met before. He had golden hair and a smooth, well-shaped face. His eyes had held her gaze most – somewhere between blue and green, they were intense and deferential at once.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  He had smiled shyly. “I...you are Lady Sumpter, yes?”

  “Yes...” Emilia had replied cautiously.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Oscar. I was hoping to...do you have a moment to dance with me?”

  The request had been hesitant and boyish, and Emilia had smiled. “Of course.”

  They had danced the gigue. Then the gavotte. Then the sarabande. She had been shy at first, but soon discovered that he had a great deal to say. Oscar was visiting the countryside as part of a hunting party, he told her, which had explained why she had not met him at any other gatherings in the past.

  “...not that I care for the hunt,” he had added, wrinkling his nose distastefully. “I abhor needless death.”

  Emilia had felt her heart grow warm and she had smile at him. “I, too. Well said, my lord.”

  He had given her that rueful, shy smile. “I am glad you share my views on that, my lady. Few do, I am afraid.” He had looked sad and she had felt her heart touched by that.

  “I completely agree,” she said vehemently. “I hate the thoughtless taking of life. I wish all others felt as you and I do.” Since Lucian's death, her natural dislike of violence had become an abhorrence.

  Their eyes had met then. He had stared into her gaze gravely. The smile he had given her had a peculiar gentle quality that made her heart soften.

  “I think you are a kindred spirit, my lady. I am honored.”

  Emilia had swallowed hard, feeling her heart pounding. She had turned away, clearing her throat. “It am feeling rather tired, my lord,” she said faintly. “If you would excuse me, I would sit down a while.”

  Turning her back, she had fled to the refreshments table, where some elaborately carved chairs were set out. Several ladies were sitting there taking a respite from the dances, and she had sought a corner of her own, heart pounding and thoughts confused.

  I love Lucian. I should not feel as I do now. How can I be talking like this with Lord Oscar? My faithfulness to Lucian should be eternal. How would he feel, if he could see me here?

  She bit her lip then, feeli
ng wretched. I will forget I ever met Lord Oscar. I have to.

  She had stayed at the ball another hour and then claimed faintness. The next morning she had left for London. The trip had lasted three days now, and they were almost there. After three days of bad sleep in inns, she had finally found rest in the coach. She dreamed of Oscar.

  In her dream, there was a door banging somewhere. She could hear it. Slowly, she came up from her rest and realized that the sound was in the present. It was not a door, either. It was hooves. She opened her eyes just as the carriage stopped with such force she was thrown from her seat.

  “Halt!” A voice rang out. “This pistol's primed and I will fire it if I must.” Jackson, the coach-driver, shouted it above her and she tensed in terror.

  Sitting in her seat, she stared out through the window. It was dark outside – it was early spring and night still fell around six of the clock – and she could see nothing in front of her. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom until she could make out the shapes of horsemen, standing by the roadside. They seemed to have surrounded the coach – from her side she could see two – one across from her window, one ahead.

  She felt her heart pounding. They were in wooded countryside, and she guessed they were an hour or so away from London. Who are these people? Thieves?

  It seemed likely. The stretch of road near London could be dangerous, despite recent efforts to police it. She felt her heart thump and heard Jackson, their carriage driver, shout a reply.

  “If it's gold you're after, we have none of that.” Jackson shouted it valiantly.

  Emilia heard a laugh.

  “It is not gold. We want something far easier.”

  It was a windless evening and the cadence of it carried clearly across to her, even through the glass window pane of the carriage. It was a harsh, cruel voice, the laughter likewise mocking, and it made her shake.

  “If it's weapons, we ain't got none of those, either,” Jackson shouted. Emilia knew they had a carbine under the driving seat with which Jackson had just threatened them, but admired this refusal to share his arms with brigands.