The Earl Who Played With Fire

by Sara Ramsey

  Alex almost hated him for it. How had Nick, of all people — a man who had come back from India with the hungry look of someone intent on revenge — found that, when Alex wanted it and couldn’t have it?

  He tamped down his unseemly jealousy and slid a finger under the sealing wax. When he opened the paper, another piece slipped out of it and into his lap. But Ellie’s bold handwriting drew his attention first.

  Salford - A friend has asked me to sell a most unusual stone. I have enclosed a partial rubbing of the piece to whet your curiosity. Please do be in touch to confirm your interest. We shall auction it a week from tonight. Yours, etc., Lady Elinor Folkestone

  Ellie knew Alex’s tastes. She preferred paintings to ancient artifacts, so they rarely moved to acquire the same pieces. Still, she was well aware of what had value on the market and what didn’t. Just the fact that she described something as “unusual” piqued his interest.

  But when he picked up the second scrap of paper and turned it right side up, his heart stopped.

  The hieroglyphs across the top were a perfect match to the ones on his dagger. He could see the symbols even when he closed his eyes — a gathering of carved lines that might save him if he could only learn how to read them. Those symbols were on whatever rock Ellie was selling. And below it, half a line of what appeared to be Aramaic, just enough to show him the promise of the stone without giving him access to more of it.

  Alex exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d held. Ellie thought he would be interested because it was another version of a Rosetta Stone — another possibility to translate the Egyptian language. The Rosetta Stone was such a find that it had been specifically included in the negotiations between the victorious British and the defeated French at Alexandria in 1801; the French had very nearly smuggled it out of Egypt illegally before a clever soldier retrieved it.

  The Rosetta Stone was far larger than this piece. The stone Ellie was selling wouldn’t be as useful for translation purposes, although any fragment could help. But for Alex, this was even more precious.

  If the Aramaic matched the Egyptian, it would tell him what the dagger said even if he never learned how to translate the symbols themselves.

  He was already racing toward the thought of what he could do if he broke the curse. He could have Prudence, if she would have him after how he’d treated her. He could have this life, the life he would have grown into if he had not frozen himself into the life he’d wanted at twenty-two.

  He looked up. The others had gone back to their drinking. Within the hour, they would either go to their beds or rally for one final bout of carousing, if he read their flushed cheeks and glassy eyes correctly.

  But Thorington’s eyes weren’t glassy. And they never missed anything. “So she told you as well.”

  Alex nodded. “Lady Folkestone knows every man who would bid on this. She’ll have told all of us by tomorrow, I’m sure.”

  “Then I shall have to outbid you,” Thorington said, taking a long draught of his claret.

  “You can’t.” Alex could spend as much as he wanted to on the object. Until he broke it, the curse would find a way to replenish his finances so that he wouldn’t have to waste valuable study time on managing his estate. As long as he had the money in hand to pay for the object, he could bid as high as he wished.

  Thorington’s shrug was noncommittal. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you don’t know as much as you think about my affairs.”

  Thorington had wealth, but from what Alex knew of Thorington’s business, most of it was tied up in his lands or in trusts for his family. A purchase from a lady like Ellie would be treated like a debt of honor — it would have to be paid immediately, unlike shopkeepers who might go months or years without being reimbursed.

  Alex would gather all the resources he had to bid on the rock. He couldn’t allow Thorington to win it.

  “To the hunt,” he said to Thorington again.

  Thorington’s teeth gleamed. “I wish you all the fortune you deserve.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  On the surface, everything at Lady Salford’s ball the following night was perfect. Prudence wore a new, gauzy evening dress of purple silk that was wildly expensive compared to her gowns from seasons long past. She had already danced with six men, none of whom had stepped on her toes. And she had yet to see her mother.

  Perfect — if one ignored the fact that her lies had paid for her dress, that her friends had cut those men out of the flock for her like sheepdogs, and that her mother would inevitably find her.

  Her last dance partner had left her on the edge of the ballroom with a glass of lemonade. She watched the couples swirling through the steps of a country dance. Ellie had yet to say a word about the auction. It was quite possible that everyone had seen through her forgery and there would be no bidders.

  If she wanted to escape and have a home of her own, that left marriage as her only option. Not that anyone had offered it, of course. With the wars Britain had fought over the last decades, there were no longer enough men for every woman who wanted one. Those men who still lived could do much better than her, if money and lineage were all they cared for.

  She straightened her shoulders. She didn’t want any of them, either. Most were crashing bores or controlling prigs.

  And then there was Alex. “Bloody bounders,” she muttered into her glass.

  “What did you say?” her mother said from behind her.

  Damn. She schooled her features before turning around. “Mother,” she said, kissing her briefly on the cheek. “How do you do?”

  Her mother frowned. Prudence winced. Even with everything that had come between them, she should have said something better than that. But if Lady Harcastle was hurt that Prudence would say “how do you do” after not seeing her in weeks, she didn’t say it. “Daughter,” she said, returning the kiss. “You look well.”

  Her eyes slid to Prudence’s dress — a dress she couldn’t afford to give her. While Prudence was dressed in the very latest fashion, Lady Harcastle’s dress was a black bombazine from their mourning period four years earlier. They had still had money for dresses then, in those bleak, awful weeks between receiving the news from Talavera and when Prudence’s father had died from the strain of losing his sons in battle.

  Prudence flushed, but she couldn’t say where she’d gotten the dress. She lied instead, a skill she was becoming adept at. “Thank you. Lady Salford has been most generous these past months.”

  It could have been true; Lady Salford was always offering to buy her dresses. Her mother believed it. “I am glad. I thought she might be giving you too many tasks since you haven’t had time to visit or write.”

  Prudence deserved that little hit. But even though she felt guilty, something had snapped after that awful night in Alex’s study. Something bigger than her heart. It was as though her whole life had broken apart — as though everything she’d found important before was no longer important, as though the Miss Etchingham the ton knew was dead and buried.

  Prudence wanted to be someone else. Someone who got what she wanted. Someone who lived, rather than dreamed.

  But when she saw her mother, the life she wanted crumbled in the face of the life she should settle for.

  “I am sorry I haven’t written,” Prudence said. “Very busy, of course.”

  “Of course.” Her mother looked straight into her eyes as though trying to read her inner thoughts. Lady Harcastle wasn’t quite a mirror for Prudence — time and grief had hardened the lines around her eyes, and her brown hair was fading to white. But Prudence could see how her own face might look if she spent the next few decades making the best of things.

  “Are you sure you’re well?” her mother asked. “You look peaked. Perhaps we should sit?”

  Prudence found herself in a chair along the wall before she could say no. Not that she could say no. Her mother’s force of will was indomitable. They were slightly away from everyone else, with her mother holding her hand, before Prudence
could protest.

  She finally found her voice, but she couldn’t tell her mother to leave. “Are you comfortable with your cousin, Mother?”

  Lady Harcastle nodded. “Eliza was very kind to take me in again. But it would be pleasant to have my own house, with room enough for you.”

  “You do not need to worry about me,” Prudence said.

  “I cannot help it, you know. You’re my daughter. And you’re all I have left.”

  Her mother’s hand on hers suddenly felt like a dead weight, bearing her down into a vast subterranean lake of grief. “I’m sorry, Mother. But I…”

  “I know you are better off here,” her mother said, ignoring her. “You deserve everything Augusta has given you — everything I cannot give you. But I miss you.”

  Prudence looked away. “I wish…”

  Her mother interrupted again. “There’s little point in wishes, I know. And I shouldn’t have pushed you to marry Carnach last summer, or behaved so badly when you did not. But it doesn’t take money to visit each other, does it? Or to have Salford frank your letters to me? I’m sure he would do it if you asked.”

  “Salford has done en…”

  “Have you thought to try to marry him?” Lady Harcastle asked, her voice dropping. “I vow Augusta had it in mind when she asked you to move in with her.”

  Prudence closed her eyes. “I’m sure Salford can do better than me, Mother.”

  Why was that the sentence her mother allowed her to finish? She felt the assessment in her mother’s silence, and wasn’t surprised when the woman sighed. But the answer shocked her. “I don’t think he can. You are pretty, well-behaved, and your unfashionable interest in history is actually a benefit to him. I’ll grant you, the money is a problem…”

  For once, it was Prudence who interrupted. “What do you know of my interest in history?”

  Lady Harcastle snorted. “It wasn’t your brothers who were marking up the history texts in our library when you were younger. They were smart, honorable young men — but interested in history they were not. If they had been, they would have known better than to buy commissions.”

  It was the first time she’d ever heard her mother make something like a jest about George and Andrew’s fates — or say something that might have been a criticism. “How did you discover my markings?” she asked. “I thought none of you used the library.”

  Lady Harcastle looked down to where their hands were still intertwined. “In a different life, I might have been a bluestocking myself. But my father insisted on finding a better match than a mere scholar. And Lord Harcastle didn’t enjoy reading…”

  She cut herself off. Prudence leaned forward. “Did Father stop you from reading?” she asked.

  “No, of course not,” her mother said. “He was a good man, albeit a bit dull. But my duty was to him, not my own interests. You’ll discover the same when you marry.”

  Prudence had never heard her mother criticize her father. She was so surprised that she accidentally said exactly what she was thinking. “I don’t think I wish to marry.”

  Her mother just laughed, the same indulgent laugh she used to give when Prudence, as a child, had been so sure she’d someday be a princess. “You’ll do your duty in the end. You’re my daughter. You are too well-bred to be selfish forever.”

  And like that, the brief moment of rapport vanished. Prudence had been angry at her mother before — more and more often in recent years, as she grew impatient, then guilty, then impatient again over how long it had taken her mother to recover from Andrew and George’s deaths.

  But this was the first time Prudence had hated her.

  Her salvation came from an unexpected quarter. She hadn’t seen even a glimpse of him in the crowded ballroom, but suddenly Alex stood before her. “Miss Etchingham. May I have the pleasure of your company for this dance?” he asked.

  He was perfectly dressed, as usual, with a dark evening suit and a silver waistcoat. His smile was friendly, but his eyes were somehow inscrutable. It wasn’t a description she often used for him — after so many years of watching him, she knew nearly every expression he was capable of. But tonight, she couldn’t read him.

  “I’m sure you have other guests who would appreciate your attentions,” she said. “No sense wasting time on me.”

  Finally, his façade cracked. She didn’t see what she wanted to see — didn’t see lust, or love, or any other emotion that she longed for. Instead, she saw concern. “My mother would no doubt like to see me dance with every woman here. But I, for one, would like a bit of comfortable conversation.”

  They hadn’t had a single comfortable conversation since that night in his study weeks earlier. But his eyes flickered to Lady Harcastle, who seemed intent on every word they said to each other.

  If Prudence had to choose between dancing with Alex and letting slip to her mother that there was any difficulty between them, Prudence knew which evil she should take. She held out her hand. “Of course, my lord. If you’ll excuse me, Mother?”

  Lady Harcastle let her go. “Enjoy yourself, my dear. I hope to see you again soon.”

  Again, the guilt. Prudence nodded, noncommittal, and let Alex lead her away. His grip on her was firm, almost commanding. But his voice was soft. “Are you feeling well, Miss Etchingham?”

  “Is there a reason for the sudden concern for my health?”

  She couldn’t stop the venom from seeping into her voice. But he didn’t drop her hand. “I have always been concerned for your health, regardless of what you might choose to believe.”

  She would rather believe that he had never cared anything for her at all. It might have been easier to recover if he had loathed her, rather than merely loved her as a friend. She couldn’t say it, though. “I thank you for your concern, my lord. I am feeling quite well.”

  He pulled her into his arms as they reached the floor. A waltz had started — just her luck, that he would choose a waltz.

  “I know you better than that,” he said shortly. “As though I could leave you to your mother’s tender mercies. What did she say this time?”

  “The usual nonsense about how I must marry to save us.”

  “I thought she was comfortable living with her cousin? She could move here with you if she isn’t — I have no objection.”

  Prudence shook her head. “My mother and yours are friends, but can you imagine them spending every day together?”

  Alex shuddered in an exaggerated way that wrung a laugh from her. “You are right, of course. But you don’t need to accept whatever marriage she might arrange for you.”

  Prudence’s instinct was to read something into that — to let herself believe that he meant for her to wait for him. But she knew she was lying to herself. “She already tried one arranged marriage. I’m sure she won’t waste her time trying again.”

  “Carnach wasn’t a good match for you,” Alex said. “That doesn’t mean there won’t be another.”

  “He was the best offer I was likely to ever receive. An earl with a suitable fortune? I should have done everything in my power to win him.”

  “You didn’t want him,” he retorted. “I was there, if you recall. It was obvious your affections weren’t attached.”

  His eyes were dark as he said this. She held his gaze for a moment. As they swayed through the room together, it felt like the rest of the world had fallen away — that the connection between them could set them free of everyone else.

  “Of course my affections weren’t attached,” she said quietly. She couldn’t lie about that, not when she was looking him straight in the eye. “But marriage isn’t about affection, is it? I would have a house of my own now if I’d accepted him.”

  Alex looked away. He was silent for a full turn around the dance floor — long enough for her brain to obsess over why he was talking about marriage with her, when she wanted to discuss any topic but that with him. “I understand why you would want a house,” he finally said. “The economics of the marital state a
re more important for most people of our class than the emotions of it. But you deserve affection, too. And you certainly deserve better than Carnach.”

  She didn’t let herself mull over that statement. She couldn’t look below it, for fear of reading too much into it. She tried for a teasing tone instead. “You forced your sister to marry him — do you really hold him in such low esteem? That’s not very brotherly.”

  His eyes flashed. “They love each other. It was obvious from the moment they saw each other that the spark was there. Just as it was equally obvious that you would never love him. Did you never think that I pushed them together to save you from him?”

  Her eyes widened. His widened too — so quickly that she knew he had never planned to confess. His lips flattened into a thin line, trying to trap the words that had already escaped.

  But it was too late. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.

  Her voice trembled. If he heard it, he didn’t acknowledge it. His hand, at the small of her back, turned into a fist. It pressed into her spine like a warning. The hard knuckle of his thumb grazed against her backbone as though both ridges of bone were weapons and only one of them could win.

  But if his touch menaced, his voice was light enough to make her doubt it. “Call it instinct. Your brothers cannot protect you, so I took it upon myself.”

  She hadn’t needed protection. She and Malcolm might never have loved each other, but he wasn’t the type to beat or starve her. He was good in other ways, of course — or at least Amelia believed him to be. But when Prudence had seen Malcolm for the first time, all she had thought was how she wished he were Alex instead.

  Still, she should have married Malcolm. That plan had died when she and Alex had caught Malcolm with Amelia instead. She had always thought that Alex had demanded their marriage out of some overprotective brotherly piety. The four of them could have chosen to sweep that ill-timed kiss under the rug without the ton ever finding out.