The Earl Who Played With Fire

by Sara Ramsey

  He was teasing her. She laughed and sipped her brandy again. “Perhaps I’m meant to be unruly. My hair does curl, you know.”

  She suddenly felt the urge to pull out her hairpins. But she wasn’t drunk enough to take that step, even as his eyes narrowed with sudden intent. “I’m sure it fits your nature, Prudence.”

  He never called her that. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure what she wanted. She wanted him to say the words she’d dreamed of, to pull her into his arms and do everything she’d seen in every illicit engraving she’d ever sought out.

  But she also wanted to stay safe, in her dream world, suspended between what she wanted and what he had never said. Because if he didn’t want her…

  She set her glass on the table. “I should go to bed, my lord. I must attend your mother in the morning.”

  Lady Salford didn’t really need her. It made the charity grate a little more, even though Prudence should have been grateful to have so little to do. But Alex scowled. “You don’t have to work to live here. I meant what I said earlier, even if I was hamfisted about it. I want you to be happy here.”

  She stood. “I am happy.”

  Perhaps he heard something in her voice that she hadn’t meant to give away. He stood, but he didn’t bow to her. He clasped her hand instead. “I hope you are.”

  With another, it might have been brotherly. Perhaps he meant it to be brotherly. But she couldn’t keep her heart from leaping — couldn’t keep herself from looking into his eyes. She searched for the emotion she wanted him to feel for her.

  But as she searched, she saw the warm light in his eyes turn to wariness.

  “Alex,” she whispered, thoughtlessly trying to draw him back into her dream.

  He dropped her hand like it had burned him.

  Something broke within her. She hadn’t realized, until that moment, how very much she’d placed her hopes in him. She’d thought that she had been pragmatic — that she had accepted that an earl would never offer for one like her.

  She hadn’t known how deeply her heart was engaged until he stepped away. “It is late, Miss Etchingham.”

  Miss Etchingham. He’d called her Prudence before. But his voice was firm. He wouldn’t call her that again.

  She nodded dumbly. “Thank you for the drink, my lord.”

  He bowed. She felt small and rumpled next to his perfect posture and impeccable dress. “You are welcome to explore my books if you still wish. I believe I shall go to my club.”

  He didn’t wait for her to leave. He left before she could, striding away from her like a man escaping disaster. Did he think she would have trapped him into marrying her if he had stayed?

  At least he gave her the courtesy of closing the door behind himself.

  She swayed on her feet. Perhaps it was the brandy that left her unsteady, but she knew herself better than that.

  He didn’t love her.

  She had come to his study looking for an artifact. She hadn’t expected an irrevocable answer to the question she’d harbored.

  She hadn’t cried in months. Even now, she didn’t cry. She just stood, still swaying, and wrapped her arms around herself as though they could compensate for the embrace he hadn’t given her.

  He didn’t love her.

  The dagger he’d held when she entered should have been an omen. He couldn’t have hurt her more if he’d driven it into her chest instead. He had run from her as though he knew exactly what she was — a poor not-even-relation, dependent on his charity, who might be expected to fall in love with any eligible man and should be pitied for it.

  “Bloody bounder,” Prudence muttered to herself. It didn’t sound particularly threatening, not in his empty study, not when her voice trembled. But it made her feel just the tiniest bit better.

  Until she remembered that she would have to see him again in the morning. And the morning after that. And every day after, without hope or end, until she miraculously found a husband or Lady Salford turned her out.

  Neither was likely to ever happen.

  Alex could go to his club — the sodding Society of Antiquaries that would never accept a mere female like her as a member — whenever he wished. But Prudence was trapped there, a glorified servant even though no one would call her that to her face. She didn’t have the funds to go anywhere else. She had friends who might take her in, but she had nothing to offer them in return.

  He didn’t love her. That fact had etched itself into her heart so suddenly, so brutally, that it had nearly become an unbridgeable ravine. And she was trapped on the other side now, never able to go back to that more innocent place where she could dream that he loved her as much as she loved him.

  She should return to her room. But her bed, the bed he paid for but would never share, would not comfort her. She looked around his study instead. She had come there on a mission, after all.

  And his implicit rejection of her had confirmed what she needed to do. She had to forge something — something impressive, something that would bring her enough money to fund her escape. She couldn’t bear the thought of staying in his house even a moment longer than she had to. Even if she was stupid for loving him, she could be smart enough to find a way out.

  Her eyes settled on the dagger he’d embedded in his desk. Her heart may have broken, but her mind still had room to be curious. She walked over to it. She noticed other punctures in the wood around the dagger, all approximately the same size and shape. She’d never seen the dagger in his collection before, but he must have had it for some time — long enough to stab the desk with it more than once.

  She traced a finger down the blade to where it ended in the wood. There were Egyptian characters inscribed in the bronze. If the dagger was an original, it was better preserved than any weapon she’d seen from ages past.

  If she were more bloodthirsty, she would wait for him to come home, then murder him with his own dagger. But she was no Lady Macbeth, and death seemed like such a stupid punishment for breaking her heart. If she wanted to punish Alex, there were better ways.

  Her heart began to expand from the familiar territory of grief to claim a vast new territory of anger. She ignored it for the moment, as she usually did. The papers strewn on Alex’s desk all had hieroglyphs on them — the untranslated, and some thought untranslatable, language of ancient Egypt. Some doubted that it was a language at all, although Prudence thought the characters were too regular to be mere decoration. The Rosetta Stone, when it had been found in Egypt in 1799, had promised to be the key, but after fourteen years it still hadn’t been solved.

  Alex seemed to be making an attempt, though. There was a set of sheets with rubbings of the Rosetta Stone — he must have bribed the British Museum to let him copy it. Another set of sheets had identical rows of hieroglyphs across the top of each page and his notes across the bottom. Most of his writing was scratched out, seemingly in anger, but it was easy to see where that set had come from. The rubbings were in the shape of a dagger.

  The same dagger he’d savagely stabbed into his desk.

  She stared down at it, considering. Her heart was threatening to rebel — it wanted tears, and rage, and possibly something to break. She knew those feelings for what they were.

  She was grieving for him. Or, more likely, for the life she might have had with him — for the dreams she’d indulged in. Prudence was intimately familiar with the ebbs and flows of grief.

  But it wasn’t just grief. It was anger, and shame, and self-loathing, and the knowledge that she was chained to Alex’s house by circumstance even though her heart might not be able to bear it.

  He didn’t love her.

  But Prudence would find a way to survive. The Etchingham men weren’t good at survival, but the Etchingham women were champions at it.

  She pulled the dagger out of the wood. Then she rummaged through his desk until she found a fresh sheet of paper and a pencil. She made a rubbing of the hieroglyphs, putting too much force into the gesture and shaming herself with how much her
immoral plot soothed her.

  Then she carefully nudged the dagger back into the wedge he’d made for it and folded the paper into fourths. A new Rosetta Stone would bring a fortune. And if no one ever translated the original, they’d never know that hers was fake.

  If her conscience rebelled, she would quell it. She should have been a better person — would have been a better person, if life hadn’t driven her to this.

  But it was either do something drastic, or spend the rest of her life dependent on the charity of others. And if she had to depend on Alex’s charity, letting him clothe her and feed her and keep her on the shelf while he someday brought a wife home to rule over her…

  She would rather go to hell for her sins than live through that.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Six weeks later…

  “Who are the most eligible bachelors in the ton this season, Prue?” Amelia, the Countess of Carnach, asked as she poured the tea.

  “We only convened a moment ago,” Prudence said, stifling her sigh like a good charity case. “May I trouble you to hold the Inquisition at bay until we’ve taken a bit of refreshment?”

  There were only four ladies in attendance, including Prudence and Amelia. They were all part of an artistic society that they had dubbed the Muses of Mayfair, and the ostensible purpose of this gathering was to discuss their latest projects — Amelia’s novels, Madeleine’s dramas, Ellie’s paintings, and Prudence’s histories.

  But as her friends had begun to pair off with their chosen mates, the conversations had shifted to focus more on their relationships than their interests. Today was no different — her friends were more eager to discuss Prudence’s marital prospects than their art. Madeleine, the Duchess of Rothwell, joined the fray. “Aunt Augusta’s ball is tomorrow. It is the perfect opportunity for you to examine this year’s crop.”

  Madeleine’s Aunt Augusta was Alex’s mother and Prudence’s employer. Alex would attend, of course. Prudence would be expected to dance with him, if he thought to take pity on her and offer. She pretended it didn’t matter. “What if I don’t wish to harvest anyone?”

  Madeleine shrugged. “I didn’t intend to harvest Ferguson — in fact, I rather think he harvested me — but I’m glad of it now. I hope you find a similar match.”

  “Similar to Ferguson?” Prudence asked, wrinkling her nose. “No, but I thank you for the sentiment.”

  Ellie, the Marchioness of Folkestone, laughed as Madeleine feigned a wounded air. “My dear brother does not fit everyone’s tastes,” Ellie said. “Madeleine seems to like him, though, so we’ll leave it at that. But I trust that Prudence can find her own match without meddling from us.”

  Prudence shot Ellie a grateful look. Ellie was the only one of the three who had guessed where Prudence’s heart lay — currently in a crushed, bleeding lump under Alex’s foot.

  Ellie’s sympathetic smile was undercut by Amelia’s usual determination. “Unfortunately, I cannot assist in person,” Amelia said, as though her assistance was something Prudence would miss. “My confinement is too far along for a ballroom. But please promise you’ll tell me everything that happens?”

  Amelia and her husband Malcolm were living with Alex and Lady Salford while their London townhouse was being remade to suit Malcolm’s political ambitions. They had returned to London from Scotland in March, rather unexpectedly since Amelia was now nearly six months along, and had promptly taken up a suite of rooms in Salford House.

  Prudence was glad to have her friend back. She had recovered from the rift they’d experienced after Amelia’s marriage — Amelia had married the man Prudence’s mother had tried to arrange for her, and Prudence had been hurt even though she hadn’t wanted him. And she should have been glad that Lady Salford was so wrapped up in the birth of her first grandchild to need anything from Prudence. But in those awful weeks after realizing that Alex would never love her, Prudence would have liked some chores — digging a ditch from the garden to the Thames might have been a start. Or putting new paving stones down the length of Piccadilly…

  “Prue?” Amelia prompted. “Everything.”

  “You can write a better party scene than what I shall observe,” Prudence said.

  “Why are you so reluctant?” Madeleine asked, frowning. “Of all of us, you always had the best time at balls and breakfasts and the like.”

  “I am a year younger than you. Perhaps my age has caught up to me.”

  “There are still many weeks left of the Season,” Ellie said, trying again to divert the conversation. “There is time enough for Prudence to find a match without our input.”

  “I may not want a match,” Prudence said.

  Her voice sounded mulish. She looked into her teacup. She shouldn’t have said it. It wasn’t their problem. And there was nothing less appealing than a charity case complaining about her situation.

  But it was growing harder to pretend that she was satisfied with her lot, especially when she was making secret plans to escape it. She loved her friends, but she couldn’t tell them everything. She would rather cut out her tongue with a grapefruit spoon than talk about her failed love with women who only knew success.

  At least they didn’t laugh off her disenchantment. Madeleine sighed. “I know it must be difficult, Prue. How can we help?”

  Prudence smiled as she looked up, putting on the happiest face she was still capable of making. “There’s nothing to help with, I vow. I’m merely having a case of the blue devils. I’m sure I shall be happier before the ball begins.”

  Her happiest face must have looked sadder than she realized. Madeleine and Amelia suddenly looked as concerned as Ellie had. “There are any number of eligible men,” Amelia said. “I’m sure if you make an effort, you’ll find one who suits you.”

  “If I make an effort?” Prudence asked.

  Ellie must have heard the edge in Prudence’s voice. “There’s no need to make an effort,” she said, with a sidelong glance at Amelia. Amelia flushed a bit, as though she’d just realized how her words might be taken.

  “No, please tell me, what effort should I make?” Prudence asked. “I’ve yet to stumble across a duke in an alleyway, or an earl in a library, or a former lover in a darkened studio. Perhaps I should spend tomorrow night looking for men in the shadows of the ballroom?”

  Her voice broke off into an uncomfortable silence. All three of her friends had found love in unconventional settings. And she could have had that story, too. If Alex had loved her, her grand love story might have started with an illicit encounter in a darkened study. They didn’t know what had happened — she couldn’t bear to tell them. But she knew, and the knowledge ate at her.

  Her jealousy was getting worse. She wasn’t just wistful about what she didn’t have — she was horridly, unbecomingly jealous. Her friends all had grand love matches, with sufficient titles and wealth to do whatever they wished. And not for the first time, she wondered about their futures.

  How long would they remain friends with her if her situation continued to be so far beneath theirs?

  If they thought it, they didn’t say it. Amelia poured Prudence another cup of tea, as though she was afraid she’d say the wrong thing but wanted to do something to offer comfort. Madeleine moved to sit next to her on the settee. “It may not happen for you tomorrow, Prue,” she said. “But it will happen.”

  “It may not,” Prudence said, shrugging as though this were a philosophical conversation rather than one that threatened to expose her broken heart. “And perhaps I don’t want it to. It wasn’t so long ago that all of you seemed more content with your art than you ever thought to be with a man. Perhaps that’s still true for me.”

  Amelia rejoined the conversation, never able to stay silent for long. “With the right man, you may still have your artistic pursuits. But as the one of us who I thought would be least likely to marry, I must say it’s worth doing, if you find the perfect match.”

  Prudence sighed. “Unfortunately, perfect matches are not fling
ing themselves out of the woodwork at me. Have you seen the men who are available and would be satisfied marrying the daughter of a mere baron? One who has no income and no particular beauty?”

  “You are lovely,” Madeleine said firmly.

  “But my poverty remains,” Prudence said.

  They were silent at that. Perhaps they knew that none of them could convince her — while Madeleine and Amelia had married much later than was fashionable, they had had dowries that compensated for their advanced ages. Granted, Ferguson and Malcolm cared nothing for their dowries, but they were unbelievably lucky to have found love matches with men who didn’t need to care about all the usual qualifications.

  “It’s a shame that marriage is the only choice,” Ellie said. “Perhaps you should marry a rich man and wait for him to die. It’s not the worst that can happen.”

  Ellie had been widowed three days after her first wedding — but for all the lightness in her voice, Prudence knew that Ellie would never wish that fate on her friends. Prudence shook her head. “I have to put marriage out of my mind — it isn’t going to happen, unless I want to settle for a missionary. Can you imagine me trying to convert natives in a jungle somewhere?”

  “The cannibals would love you even if the missionary didn’t,” Amelia said.

  Prudence laughed despite herself. “I don’t like heat, so no missionaries. I thought of trying to become a governess, but I do not like other people’s children. I would be a milliner, but I don’t wish to waste my eyesight making hats for silly women.”

  Ellie snorted. “You would be a horrid milliner, my dear. You don’t even like hats.”

  “I know. But it’s almost genteel enough, isn’t it?”

  “True.” Ellie tapped her fingers on her chair, considering. “But you would probably stab some poor lady in the eye with a hatpin if you heard how inane their conversations are.”

  “Is there something you can do with your historical treatises?” Amelia asked. “My novels sell well enough that I could have supported myself if Malcolm hadn’t married me.”