An Earl To Remember

by Jasmine Ashford

  “I cannot imagine Lucian visiting here.”

  The butler returned a minute or two later with a tray: a china pot and teacup balanced carefully there, together with a sugar bowl containing lumps of sugar and some dainty silver tongs for lifting them.

  “Thank you,” she smiled, making the man blink. When he turned to leave, she impulsively called him back. “I wished to ask something,” she said hesitantly.

  “Of course, milady,” the man said, bowing. “Pleased to be of assistance.”

  His manner had softened a lot, and Evelyn decided to ask as much as she possibly could – what Lord Everett's servants knew of him might be even better information than his own words.

  “Your lord. He knew Lord Sumpter, did he not?”

  “Yes, milady, Heaven rest his lordship,” he said gravely.

  “I pray so, too,” Evelyn said sincerely. “So he visited York often?”

  “Sometimes,” the butler said cautiously. “He had not, to my knowledge, in recent years. His lordship, the earl of Lonsdale, did not hunt any longer, I understand, so he saw them mainly in the town. Or so I heard, my lady. His lordship does not confide his goings-on with me.”

  “Of course,” Evelyn said quietly. “You say they visited in town?”

  “Once a year, ma'am. The Sumpters used to stay upstairs, in the room overlooking the drive.”

  “Oh. But he was not in York at the time Lord Sumpter...” she paused.

  “At the time of his demise. No, my lady. Not so far as I understand. Though the master is often absent, and I do not ask where he has gone.”

  “Of course,” Evelyn agreed. “Was he absent then?”

  “He was, my lady. Though only for a few days.”

  “Oh.”

  Evelyn was thinking rapidly. Lord Everett had not been in London at the time of the death. If he was in York, he had traveled there quickly. He had not told anyone of his whereabouts. That was odd.

  “Did you wish for something to eat with that, milady?” the butler asked, looking at the tray of tea with sudden concern.

  “Oh, no, I just dined,” Evelyn said lightly. In truth she was hungry, but did not, stupidly perhaps, want to eat here. “Before you go,” she called out as the man made toward the dark doorway, “I wanted to ask one more thing. When is the master going to return today?”

  “He...” the man checked the pocket watch that gleamed against his dark wool suit. “He should be here around five of the clock, my lady. When he goes to the harbor he usually stays several hours.”

  “The harbor? I did not know he was involved with shipping?”

  “Oh, yes, milady. Not directly, but I understand he meets with business associates – he is invested in a merchant company. He and Lord Sumpter invested together, a great deal. Or so I believe, ma'am.” He bowed and looked uncomfortable.

  Evelyn smiled. The butler, evidently, spent some time eavesdropping on his master's meetings, which was, in this particular case, a wonderful thing. “I am sure you are right,” Evelyn said warmly.

  “Thank you, ma'am,” he said, blushing at her friendly smile. “May I have leave to depart?”

  “You may indeed.”

  He bowed and left. He looked relieved to be out of the place and Evelyn guessed he was uncomfortable with answering all those questions. She leaned back, thinking.

  As she considered his answers, she sipped her tea, glad to have the warm sugary drink to revive herself. She had so much to think about! She stood and went to the hallway to fetch her drawstring-bag in which she had packed her purse and a small notebook. She dug it out, together with her sketching pencil and settled herself back on the chair.

  Making notes always set Evelyn's mind in order. If she had a collection of information in one place, she could read over it, and see information she had missed. At this moment, she had a lot to write down.

  Lord Everett and Lord Sumpter visited regularly. Lord Everett may have been in York at the time of the death. If he was, he kept his presence secret. Why?

  That in itself was decidedly questionable. Why would Lord Everett have traveled to York in secret, or anywhere in secret for that matter?

  Lord Everett was invested in shipping companies with Lord Sumpter. He still visits the harbor regularly to meet with the merchants.

  She leaned back in the chair, looking out across the room. The fire leaped and danced but she did not notice it. She was lost in her thoughts.

  Which company? she wrote.

  Things were coming together, making sense. If Lord Everett and Lord Sumpter had both been invested in some merchant enterprise, then it was quite possible that Lord Everett wished to claim from him. He could conceivably have been in debt to him.

  If I can discover more about this company, and whether or not Lucian could have directly or indirectly owed Lord Everett money, then I will at least have an idea of a motive. From a motive, she knew she would be able to find more clues.

  Lord Everett has a blue sigil, with acanthus leaves on it, she reminded herself. Exactly like the carriage that kidnapped Emilia.

  There was too much that pointed to Lord Everett as the murderer. The house was suddenly too oppressive for Evelyn – dark, dank, and menacing – and she stood.

  Walking to the door, she pulled the bell and asked the butler to lead her out.

  Standing in the street, she was grateful she had only told Jarvis to leave her for fifteen minutes. There he was, waiting in a shadowed alcove across the street.

  She hailed him and climbed hastily into the coach, streaming with rain which was now falling hard on the cobblestone.

  “Home, Jarvis.”

  “Good, my lady,” he replied.

  As they sped through the silent, rain-soaked streets, Evelyn leaned wearily back on the cushioned seat, eyes closed. She had so many answers, but, as answers often do, they proved to be the gateways to new questions. Questions Evelyn was not sure how to answer.

  All she could hope was that Emilia could remember something of what Lucian had been involved in the days before his death. She was her only source of information.

  The accountant had already gone missing.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SECRETS, SATIN AND SARABANDES

  SECRETS, SATIN AND SARABANDES

  Evelyn's wardrobe room was a flurry of silks and satins. Emilia sat on a patterned wing-back chair in the corner, watching as her cousin unrolled bolts of figured cloth and plain, gauzy muslin.

  Willfully forgetting their concerns and fears for a while, the two women were taking time to select the cloth for new ball dresses. The Season was starting and they already had an invitation to Almacks. With some luck, the seamstresses would be able to run up both new gowns by the time the ball was held.

  Evelyn was in front of the mirror, a frown on her face, a length of silk beneath it.

  “And what think you of the yellow..?”

  Emilia smiled. “It becomes you, cousin. Though I rather liked the dark green more...”

  “Oh, yes! I agree! I like the dark green better also.” Evelyn smiled.

  Emilia was pleased to see her cousin enjoying herself. Evelyn was always calm and collected, or even worried, and it was rare to see her look excited. She looked excited now.

  “And you?” Evelyn asked, holding up a length of white muslin, decorated with an intricate design of leaves and swirling tendrils in deep blue.

  “Oh...” Emilia felt shy at the sudden attention focused on her. Her cousin had, it seemed, had all the fine material in London brought to Chelsea house, and she hesitated to avail herself of them. Besides, choosing new gowns was a habit she had broken during the two years of mourning, when all she could wear was black. She reached tentatively for a length of yellow silk.

  “I think this is nice,” she said hesitantly. It was a paler shade than the one Evelyn had held up in front of the mirror, and the silk had a lighter, gauzy feel.

  “Oh, yes!” Evelyn sighed. “But try it properly – here, hold it up against your face
.” Evelyn moved away to let her cousin inspect the effect of the yellow silk.

  Emilia stood shyly in front of the long silver mirror. The woman who looked back at her seemed suddenly all gold hair and bright eyes. The yellow brought the color of her eyes out, making them sparkle like a blue diamond.

  “Oh, yes!” Evelyn breathed, surveying the result. “Yes, cousin. I insist. You shall wear that to the ball on Tuesday. I shan't take you there with me else.” She giggled, showing she was not serious, and Emilia smiled back.

  “Thank you, cousin. But are you certain..?”

  “Of course,” Evelyn said decidedly. “I have no sister and you are now sister to me. Of course I want you to have a lovely dress!”

  Emilia felt her heart ache with tenderness. It had been a long time, it seemed, since someone was so simply kind. She reached for her cousin and they embraced.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “Don't even think it,” Evelyn said. “Seeing you enjoy yourself will be all the thanks I need. Now off you go and get ready for our soiree.”

  Emilia smiled and wiped the trace of a tear from her cheek. She hurried upstairs. Her cousin was so kind. The first gatherings of the Season had begun the previous day, but Evelyn did not make her feel pressed to attend. She gave Emilia the time she needed to decide.

  Which was why they were going to a recital this evening and then to the ball on Tuesday. Emilia swallowed. She did not know why, but thoughts of attending a ball had brought the mysterious Lord Oscar back into her thoughts. She could not help remember the last ball she attended – his smile, his shyness, his friendliness. He had made an impression on her and, much as she wished she could forget him and mourn Lucian forever as she would like, she also could not forget.

  I should tell Evelyn about it, she thought. She is like a sister to me and she would understand. Emilia's own sister, Constance, many years her junior, lived in Hampshire with her husband Lord Dowling, and she had not seen her since Lucian passed away.

  It is good to be with Evelyn.

  She prepared for the soiree and the carriage sped off. It was a delightful evening, and it left her looking forward to the ball – and her new gown – with some excitement.

  The ball.

  The first real ball of the season, the opening ball at Almacks. Evelyn and Bronson predictably had invitations, and so Emilia did also. She had to admit she was excited.

  When the new gown arrived on Tuesday afternoon, sewn at remarkable speed over the course of three days, her excitement deepened further.

  She waited until the evening to try it on – superstition led her to believe that trying on a new gown before a ball was bad luck, and she could not make herself forget that. Janet arrived at six of the clock to help her ready herself and by half an hour later she was in the center of her room, transformed.

  She stared in the mirror. The gown had a high waist and fell in graceful folds to her ankles. Her hair was piled elegantly on her head in golden curls and her long neck was bare, adorned with a thin silvered chain. The dress had puffed sleeves and her long, pale arms were bare. The buttery yellow silk shone in the candlelight, soft and cool under her touch. She turned in front of the mirror, feeling it sway and lift about her ankles. She wore thin-soled slippers on her feet and white silk stockings.

  “I feel beautiful,” she told her reflection shyly. Her reflection, predictably, said nothing.

  Not so Evelyn. She arrived to fetch her cousin and she gasped, standing in the doorway out of range of the candles and firelight within.

  “Emilia!” she raised a hand, white gloved, to her lips. “You look beautiful!” Her eyes were wide, her face suffused with delight.

  “Thank you, cousin,” Emilia smiled hesitantly. “As do you.”

  Evelyn did. She wore a gown of powdered-blue silk, hanging down to her ankles from a high waist. The gown had sleeves of gauze, caught at the elbow and wrist in a style that looked like a medieval painting and was increasingly fashionable in London. Her long white-blonde hair showed against her high brow, but most of it was hidden beneath a dark blue turban, decorated with a silvered pin. Overall, she looked at once otherworldly and unusual – as if she might turn at any minute into mist and disappear.

  Evelyn stepped forward to take her hands. “Come, then, cousin. Let us go down.”

  At the foot of the stairs they were met by Bronson, handsome in a black velvet suit, white silken hose and dark hair glossily brushed.

  “I am, I hope you know, escorting the two loveliest ladies in the land,” he smiled, kissing Evelyn's hand and then Emilia's.

  Evelyn gave him a playful smack with her gloved palm. “My dear, you are the handsomest man in London, so it is fitting you should be.”

  They all laughed and walked down the marble staircase into the mauve dusk outside.

  As the carriage rolled through the crowded, well-lit streets of the fashionable Chelsea region, Emilia felt her stomach churn. She felt suddenly frightened at the prospect of seeing so many new people. I have been out of society for two years. What will people think? How will I feel, in a crowd, now?

  She tightened her hand on Evelyn's, who seemed to sense her anxiety. She did not say anything but her fingers gripped hers tightly.

  She and Bronson kept up chatter about the carriage, and how they should modernize and invest in something with a lighter frame, how the Etheridge's had bought a new coach and it was so fast they were all a little scared to go in it. Emilia listened with distant interest, feeling her heart pounding in her chest.

  It was not so bad last time, she reminded herself. Last time he was there.

  Oscar. She could not help wonder if she would ever meet someone who made her feel as he had done. She had thought her heart was incapable of feeling, after Lucian had passed, and she still largely thought so. However, Oscar, even in that one night had opened her thoughts to the possibility that she could, mayhap, one day love again.

  But it's wrong! Isn't it?

  She was sure there was some unspoken rule that widows spent the rest of their lives mourning their husbands. That they never remarried. That was what society saw approvingly.

  The thoughts tortured her and Emilia wished she could ask Evelyn about it, and would have done so but for the presence of Bronson, peering inquiringly out from behind the blinds and commenting on the carriages going past.

  “...and there goes a Hackney...good design, the Hackney...” Bronson was saying, as the carriage slowed.

  We're here.

  The coach came to a halt, and Emilia felt her palms sweat. She reached for her drawstring-bag which held a kerchief and a purse, hastily wiping them before she stained her silk.

  “Here we are,” Evelyn said warmly. “Out we go.”

  She alighted first, allowing Emilia a moment to calm herself. She took Jarvis's hand and he helped her carefully down. Then Bronson followed them.

  They walked together up the shallow marble steps of Almacks Hall.

  “Lord Brokeridge and his wife, Lady Brokeridge, Earl and Countess of Norwich.”

  Heads turned to stare as Evelyn and Bronson walked in together, announced by the footman.

  Then Emilia followed them. The hall glittered with bright silks and taffetas, muslins and lace, the candlelight winking off diamonds and pearls and sinking into the velvet of suits. She swallowed hard. The whole of high society was standing down there, at the foot of the marble entrance steps, looking up at her.

  “Lady Sumpter, Dowager countess of Lonsdale.”

  Emilia swallowed as she stepped down the marble stairs behind her companions. She did not look but she had already seen a few people whispering. The tale of Lucian's sudden death had been the talk of London for about two days, or so she had heard from Henry, her younger brother, who had been here at the time.

  Let them talk, she thought boldly. It could not harm her.

  She did not really feel that though and she bit her lip, standing back when an older man with snow-white hair and his wife
, resplendent in silk, came to talk to her cousins. She did not want to approach anyone, want to read the conclusions they drew about her as they stared.

  Emilia, left on her own, looked around the hall with desperation. She knew no one, and it had been years since she faced strangers. She glanced wildly to the refreshments table, hoping that seats were there – sitting down would calm her. The violins were playing in the gallery, though the dances had not started yet.

  Let me sit down.

  She was turning to go there, when she heard a voice behind her. She turned.

  “My lady Sumpter?”

  She stared. It was him. Oscar! His pale hair was brushed back from his high brow and his blue eyes were deep and sincere. He bowed to her.

  “Lord Oscar?”

  He smiled. “I am flattered you recall my name, my lady,” he said with that naughty smile that made him look no older than fifteen.

  “I remember names,” Emilia said lightly. “I can certainly remember names from two weeks ago, my lord.”

  Oscar laughed. “My lady, forgive me. I had not meant to suggest any incapability on your part, merely a certain colorlessness on my own. If you would allow me to escort you to the refreshments table?”

  Emilia stopped. She stared. She remembered that voice. It was the voice she had heard a week ago. Then, it had spoken out in a dark hall, remonstrating with a brigand. It had spoken to her, offering assistance to embark in a carriage in exactly the same deferential, soft way.

  It had belonged to the masked man. The one who had spoken out as she was dragged from the room.

  Oh...

  Emilia looked wildly round. Her fingers went to her throat. She needed to breathe. She needed water. She needed cool air...

  “I will go out to the terrace,” she said quickly. “Just for a moment. Excuse me, my lord.” She spoke with tightness, as if she choked. She couldn't breathe...