The Earl's Revenge

by Allison Lane

  She flushed painfully, for she had never considered herself in that light. “You misunderstood,” she said softly, but her eyes glittered with anger. “I only wish to please you.”

  “In that case, I need not fear another unpleasant scene.” He mastered his irritation, resuming the demeanor of the perfect host. “Tea will be waiting in the drawing room. I have business to attend to now, but will see you later.”

  “Until later,” she cooed, but her face was resigned. She had played and lost.

  * * * *

  Elaine caught the end of this exchange through the open dining room window. She shook her head, furious that he would continue his assignations in a house sheltering both respectable guests and his daughter. It was bad enough that his mistress was here at all.

  Well, she wished them both to Hades. Mrs. Woodleigh had been positive that they would make a match of it, and it did not seem unlikely. Secure in righteous indignation, she refused to recognize her pain. And she had no time to think about it just now. Where was Burgess? Lucy had been sure the butler was in the dining room.

  It took another five minutes to run him to ground, her increasing anxiety leaving her nearly frantic. It had been a long day.

  After Bridgeport had left Lookout Peak, she had remained for nearly an hour, frozen in place. He was becoming dangerous to her peace of mind, actually invading her dreams just before dawn. She needed to leave, yet the arguments for staying remained as powerful as before. Nor would it do any good to retire to her cottage while he remained in the Manor. Not seeing him when he was so close would be worse.

  Appalled at the direction her thoughts were taking, she had abandoned all hope of work, returning to the house in a state of confusion. Tossing her bag onto her bed, she went to visit Helen.

  The girl was delighted to see her. Anne had developed one of her rare migraines and was resting. Helen showed off her progress in reading and math before bringing out her latest drawings. A happy two hours ensued, which allowed Elaine to thrust the confrontation with Bridgeport aside.

  “How is Nana today?” she asked late in the afternoon. “Shall we visit her for a few minutes?”

  “Please, let’s do. She was still in terrible pain when I peeped in this morning. I hope she will heal soon.”

  “You must pray for her,” urged Elaine. “But you must also be realistic. A broken hip is a terrible injury, especially for the elderly. It is unlikely that she will ever walk again. The most we can hope for is that her pain will diminish so that she may someday be able to sit in a chair.”

  Tears trickled from Helen’s eyes. “Does she know that?”

  “No one will have said anything, but I doubt she could have lived this long without learning what the future must hold.” She pulled out her handkerchief and wiped the girl’s face. “Don’t cry, Helen. It would upset Nana to see you unhappy. I believe that you are old enough to know the truth, but reminding Nana will not be good for her.”

  Helen nodded. “I think I knew even before you told me,” she admitted. “But I did not like to picture it.”

  “Life is often unfair, but it is possible to deal with adversity and not allow it to break you. Once the pain eases, that is what Nana will do.”

  They walked hand in hand down the hall to the room where Nana would live out the last days of her life. A groan seeped through the door. Helen’s eyes widened.

  Elaine pushed her way into a scene of chaos. Nana thrashed weakly about in the bed, groaning every time she twisted her hip. The maid was trying ineffectively to hold the nurse down, but the girl was only fifteen and not very large.

  “Fetch Mrs. Burgess,” Elaine ordered Helen. The child scurried away.

  “Oh, miss, she’s growing ever so hot!” sobbed the maid. “And she is so restless and unhappy. How can she stand this?”

  “Calm down,” instructed Elaine. “I will hold her while you find water to sponge her off. We must get this fever down. Has she taken her medication?” Nana’s skin was fiery red and burning to the touch.

  “She is supposed to drink this for fever,” said the maid, holding out a glass. “But she refuses to swallow today.”

  “Find that water immediately,” commanded Elaine, lifting Nana’s head. “Drink this, Miss Beddoes!” Her sharp tone seemed to do some good, for Nana managed to choke down most of the medication. Elaine tossed the sheets aside, loathe to countenance anything that might hold the terrible heat close to the nurse’s body. She unbuttoned the gown and pushed it aside as well. Enormous bruises still mottled the skin.

  “Lie still!” ordered Elaine as Nana twisted again. Accepting a cloth from the maid, she began bathing the heated body. “You do her head and face,” she suggested to the girl.

  They had been at it for half an hour before Helen returned with Mrs. Burgess. The housekeeper’s eyes widened at the sight of the nearly naked woman on the bed.

  “Her fever is alarmingly high,” reported Elaine. “She managed to swallow the medication, but it seems to have done little but dull the pain.”

  “I will take over here,” declared Mrs. Burgess. “This is no place for a single lady.” She tested Nana’s temperature and grimaced. “Send for the doctor.”

  “Immediately,” promised Elaine. “Helen, Miss Anne should feel better by now. Will you remain in your room until she comes to see you?”

  “But–”

  “I know you want to help, dear, but there is nothing you can do at the moment except pray. Mrs. Burgess will tell you what the doctor says.” She looked at the housekeeper who nodded in understanding.

  And so Elaine had embarked on her frenzied search for someone to fetch the doctor, finally locating Burgess in a pantry. He was teaching the footmen how to polish silver, but immediately sent one of them running to the stables.

  Deciding she had endured enough tension, Elaine eschewed the drawing room. A peaceful stroll in the gardens would better soothe her rattled nerves. It had been an exhausting day, from her meeting with Bridgeport on Lookout Peak, to the frantic fight against Nana’s fever, to that suggestive exchange between the earl and Mrs. Woodleigh.

  Why that last bothered her was something she refused to consider.

  She rounded the corner of the terrace, only to face Bridgeport coming the other direction. They both paused in momentary surprise, barely ten feet apart. Before she could speak, a chunk of stone crashed to the ground between them. She screamed.

  * * * *

  Mark watched Mrs. Woodleigh disappear into the house, fury bubbling through his veins. He had known that she had designs on more than his body. Her proprietary behavior was one of the reasons he had decided to end their affair. Outside of bed, the woman had no redeeming virtues and cared only for his title and wealth.

  But why should that bother him?

  He frowned, trying to understand what was happening to him. He hardly knew himself anymore. Uncharacteristic thoughts seemed to be taking over his mind. Clasping his hands behind his back, he paced the terrace for several minutes. It was bad enough that he’d considered baring his innermost secrets to Merriweather. How could he explain changing his ideas about matrimony? Since when did he want a wife who cared for him? He would do nothing but bed the chit a few times. The last thing he needed was emotional involvement on either side.

  Yet one of the reasons he was resisting Caroline was her focus on money. And what about Miss Throckmorton? His most pressing complaint with her was uneducated stupidity – the one attribute shared by all his previous fiancées.

  He must have caught some strange malady. The wisest thing he could do was to forego all thought of marriage until he recovered his customary good sense. He headed for the library.

  A moment later, he stopped in his tracks as a disheveled Elaine strode around the corner, her face also creased in thought. She looked like she had just engaged in a rambunctious wrestling match.

  Pain suddenly seared his leg as a stone crashed onto the terrace between them.

  She blanched and screamed.
>
  “My God, are you all right?” he demanded, leaping forward to catch her before she could fall.

  “Of course,” she gasped, but he could feel her shaking. “What happened?”

  He glanced up to see a gap in the roof line. “One of the coping stones broke loose. Are you sure you are all right?”

  “You may release me, my lord.”

  “If I do, you will collapse,” he observed, tightening his hold. “Come into the library.”

  * * * *

  “Drink.” Not until Bridgeport shoved a glass into Elaine’s hand did she realize that she was sitting in a chair with no recollection of how she had got there.

  “Ugh!” The brandy tasted awful, but it warmed her lingering iciness and snapped her mind back into focus.

  “One more sip.”

  “What happened?” she asked again after complying.

  “A piece fell off the roof, nearly killing you. Were you hit?”

  “No. Merely startled. How about you?”

  His leg made its presence known, throbbing in sudden agony. “A chip must have winged me,” he admitted, noting for the first time that he was bleeding.

  “And you did nothing for it? Idiot! Look after yourself. I do not need cosseting. Or are you using this as yet another excuse to force yourself on me?”

  “I will impute your obvious hysteria to shock,” he snapped. “I would never force unwanted attentions on anyone. No gentleman would.”

  “There are very few gentlemen in the world, then,” she scoffed. “Including yourself. Do you really think I am blind to your stratagems, my lord? Despite my request that you cease your attentions, you continue your efforts to seduce me. My feelings and my reputation mean nothing to a libertine’s mind, do they? All you think about is your own selfish plot. It matters not that you cared nothing for me. It matters not that you immediately married someone else. An arrogant, self-centered lord thinks of nought but himself, so you are bound to seek vengeance. And there is little I can do beyond begging that you reconsider. Perhaps you will realize how childish revenge is, and how unsatisfactory.”

  Tears stood in her eyes, the sight burning into Mark’s conscience. “I have already done so,” he claimed, not entirely truthfully. “You may rest easy. I shan’t force you into my bed. Shall we cry friends?”

  She frowned. “Friendship is not something one consciously bestows. It either occurs naturally or not at all.”

  “Philosophy. You must be feeling better.” One hand brushed lightly across her shoulders to comfort her, but he quickly snatched it away. The touch was weakening his own knees. Apparently, three weeks of celibacy was scrambling his wits, and there was little he could do about it now that he had officially broken with Caroline.

  “I am fine,” insisted Elaine again, suppressing a betraying shiver. “But I do not believe that stone fell on its own. I saw movement on the roof out of the corner of my eye. Whoever was up there must have seen me. If I had not stopped, I would have been under it.”

  “As would I, but do not let imagination run away with you, Miss Thompson. The place is falling to bits.”

  Of course, she castigated herself. Neither Mrs. Woodleigh nor Lady Means was desperate enough to kill her. But Bridgeport’s enemies might be. “This has nothing to do with imagination. Mr. Hardwicke is muttering louder each day about fleecings, and staring daggers at you while he does it. I thought you said the rumors were false.”

  “They are, though the game with Peter can be twisted to support them. He backed me into a corner one afternoon, so I could not escape playing with him. He was drunk. I won. There was nothing dishonorable about it. It happens every day to someone.”

  “But it gives him a grievance.”

  “Fustian! He might try to embarrass me, but he is not the sort to attempt murder. At least half a dozen birds darted into the air when that piece fell. They are undoubtedly what you saw.”

  “Of course.” Elaine pulled herself together. Despite her disclaimer, she remained badly shaken, her condition worsened by his sincere concern, which penetrated her defenses more easily than his usual banter. His face twisted into a frown as he paced the room. Or was it pain? He was noticeably favoring one leg. “You are dripping blood all over the carpet,” she observed. “Let me look at that cut.”

  “Nonsense! It’s my carpet. I can drip if I want to. Mrs. Burgess will bandage it later.”

  “She can’t. Nana is worse, suffering a high fever that threatens her with convulsions. Mrs. Burgess is trying to bring it down and must remain there until the doctor arrives. The maids are no use at all.”

  “Is that why you are so disheveled?” he asked.

  “How chivalrous of you to notice, my lord. But yes, I was with Nana for half an hour. Now sit down and quit being stubborn.” She pushed him into a chair, none too gently.

  “You are a nuisance.”

  “And you are a mule.” She took out her handkerchief, already damp with Helen’s tears, and dabbed at the cut on his leg. His pantaloons were ruined, so she ripped them to better examine his injury. “I suspect you will need stitches, though no more than two or three. You are fortunate. The cut is clean and will heal without problems as long as you do not aggravate it. Freddie can stitch it if you don’t care to wait for the doctor. Have you a handkerchief? This one is past using.”

  He silently handed his over.

  “Very good,” she said, making a pad and laying it on the wound. “Now give me your cravat.”

  “This is ridiculous,” he snorted.

  “Which would you prefer, my lord?” she asked maliciously. “Leaving a trail of blood between here and your room, or sneaking up one flight of stairs without a cravat? I never pegged you for a dandy.”

  Still grumbling, he untied it and handed it over. Elaine knotted it in place and left without another word.

  She should have curbed her outburst, but had not been able to summon the energy. His touch had burned clear to her soul, terrifying her far more than the falling stone. If she did not soon escape this house, he would win, and she would hate herself for all eternity.

  Thoroughly drained, she headed for her room.

  It wasn’t until she had washed and changed into a clean gown that she realized her bag was not on the bed. But Lucy would not have straightened her room. The girl stayed belowstairs during the day.

  Anger had not had time to take hold before she found the bag on the floor next to the dressing table. She frowned, trying to recall if she could have placed it there herself, but she was positive that she had left it on the bed.

  It took no more than a minute to confirm her suspicions. The sketchbook was closed though she had shoved it hastily out of sight when Bridgeport appeared, and had not taken it out after he left, being too upset to think about work.

  Someone had been in her room and had searched her things. Who could possibly have both the desire and the bad manners to do so?

  * * * *

  “You enjoyed the trip into Bodmin, then?” asked Elaine. She and Miss Westmont were sitting in the drawing room that evening, considerably apart from the others.

  “Very much,” murmured Miss Westmont. “It is a charming town, though the setting is rather stark.”

  “The hills do seem to glower down,” agreed Elaine.

  “Mr. Sedgestone has a wonderful bookshop. I found a volume on native plants that will make walks on the moor more interesting. I would have liked to remain longer, but the others were determined to return as quickly as possible.”

  Because Bridgeport had not accompanied them, suspected Elaine. “It is not a place likely to amuse London ladies,” she agreed quietly.

  “Or gentlemen,” said Miss Westmont, but she was interrupted before she could explain her enigmatic comment.

  “Are there other things to do around here?” Miss Throckmorton asked, joining them as the gentlemen arrived after a round of port.

  “Yes, surely there must be interesting places to visit,” chimed in Mr. Taylor. He was spendi
ng more and more time at Miss Throckmorton’s side.

  “Not much,” admitted Elaine. “If you like ruins, there is Tintagel, of course, but the roads are so bad that an expedition requires a full day by carriage.” There were insufficient riding horses to mount all the guests.

  “It might be worth a look,” said Lord Carrington. The isolated corner was now the focus of the room as more guests eschewed the comfort of the fireplace.

  “Isn’t that where King Arthur was born?” asked Miss Throckmorton.

  “According to legend,” agreed Anne.

  “Perhaps we can make a trip of it,” suggested Lady Means.

  Elaine nodded. “There is a circle of stones called the Dancing Maidens near the Tintagel road that might also be interesting. Or it can be reached by riding into the moor from here. Shall we include that in the excursion?”

  “I thought the Dancing Maidens were farther west.” Carrington sounded interested.

  “You are thinking of the Merry Maidens, my lord. It is the most famous of Cornwall’s circles. I’ve not seen it myself, though those who have are invariably impressed – nineteen stones rather than seven, and each considerably larger – but our own maidens are interesting.”

  “Why are they called maidens?” asked Mr. Taylor.

  “It is probably a corruption of maedn, old Cornish for stone. But legend is more fun. The story claims that seven sisters slipped away in the dead of night to dance in the moonlight on a midsummer’s eve. Worse, the clock turned round to Sunday while they capered on the moor, adding a more grievous sin to their disobedience. And so they were turned to stone, condemned to stand for all eternity as a warning.” She laughed. “It quite helps parents discipline their children.”

  “And you say these stones are on the way to Tintagel?”

  “Yes. In fact, you can see them from Lookout Peak, though it is too far to walk from here,” warned Elaine.

  “But you walk out there all the time,” Hardwicke said to Mark.

  “To Lookout Peak,” agreed Mark. “That is only a couple of miles. But the maidens are another three beyond that.” Actually, they were inland, so the distance was not that far, but he had no interest in leading a walking tour of the moor.