The Earl's Revenge

by Allison Lane

  There was only one chance. She would have to choose different poems and discard these illustrations. Or perhaps she had enough without them. Would he spot the similarities in style between Merriweather and herself? Helen had. Not having met the girl’s mother, Elaine had no idea which parent had contributed her creativity and eye for form.

  But it was pointless to worry about Bridgeport’s eye. There was nothing she could do about it short of refusing the commission entirely, and that would guarantee that she never got another job as an illustrator. She sighed.

  In the meantime, she must act as if nothing had happened. There were flowers to arrange and guests to look after; snide remarks to ignore and lecherous plots to deflect. What a wonderful prospect. How far she had fallen from her morning euphoria!

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in!” exclaimed Mrs. Woodleigh, who was in the hall when Elaine left her room. “You must have had a rough night.” The suggestive voice made the insinuation clear.

  Willing herself not to blush, Elaine kept her face rigidly composed. “Yes, it was rather long. Miss Beddoes is worse, and the doctor was unable to get here until after midnight.”

  That silenced Mrs. Woodleigh, but Elaine could not stand another minute in the house. Having to deal with catty females was bad enough in the drawing room. Turning her footsteps to the nursery, she offered to take Helen out on the moor to practice her sketching.

  It wasn’t until they were ensconced on the lawn before the cave that Elaine realized why Mrs. Woodleigh had attacked her. The woman must have spent the night alone and was now lashing out at the one she suspected of supplanting her in Bridgeport’s arms. First Hardwicke, and now Mrs. Woodleigh. It was only a matter of time before Elaine felt the censure of the other guests. She had to escape.

  “This gull is ugly,” complained Helen, drawing Elaine’s attention to the girl.

  “He just looks a little skinny,” observed Elaine. “Why don’t you try to puff out his chest a bit.”

  Helen added a few lines and giggled. “Now he looks like a pouter pigeon. Mr. Jacobs at home raises pigeons. He has all kinds of funny-looking ones, but the pouters are my favorites. They stick out so far they ought to fall over. Papa says many of the dandies in town look like that too.”

  “I am sure they do. Both your cousin Harold and Mr. Taylor are dandies. Have you noticed how the cut of their clothes, those ridiculous cravats that force their heads back, and the ruffles on their shirts make their chests protrude a prodigious amount?”

  “And the funny way they walk,” added Helen, succumbing to laughter.

  Elaine smiled. “That is called mincing. Tight clothes prohibit anything else, especially when they cinch their waists in so much they can hardly breathe.”

  “Papa doesn’t dress like that.”

  “No. He is what is called a Corinthian. That is a sportsman. Corinthians appreciate clothes that allow them to move freely.” Bridgeport would undoubtedly prefer to dress himself after his nightly indulgences, she realized – and promptly blushed. To cover her confusion, she continued talking. “Corinthians also like more sober colors – browns, blues, blacks, the darker greens, wine reds – instead of the lavenders and pinks Mr. Taylor wears or the turquoise coats and brightly embroidered waistcoats of Mr. Parrish. You can watch dandies sauntering through Hyde Park during the fashionable hour whenever it doesn’t rain.”

  “I must go see them. Papa says there are fun things to do in London,” confided Helen. “He promised I can go with him when he returns. And if I am very good and learn to ride well, he will take me to Astley’s to see the horses, and to the Tower to see the other animals. Have you ever been there?”

  Had Bridgeport really proposed such a thing? wondered a shocked Elaine as she answered questions about her brief stay in town. It was out of character for the man. The image of the libertine lord showing his young daughter the sights boggled her mind. But she hoped he would carry through with the promise, for she did not wish Helen to be hurt.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Burgess found Mark studying an estate ledger in the library. Bowles had just departed following another unsatisfactory discussion. After only a fortnight in Cornwall, Mark knew more about Treselyan Manor than the steward did.

  “Mrs. Hedges and Miss Paddington have called, my lord,” announced the butler.

  “Good Lord! What the devil are they doing here?” He was in no mood to entertain guests – especially the local gossips. The entire day had been nothing but problems – urgently needed stable repairs, inbred sheep flocks, new complaints about service, Hardwicke’s attack on Elaine

  No! He refused to think about that until he could explain his own actions.

  “I have placed them in the drawing room,” intoned Burgess, ignoring his employer’s ferocious scowl.

  Mark sighed. “Very well, Burgess. Make sure refreshments are served.”

  Would he ever forget the squire’s dinner party? Miss Paddington was a twittery old bird like so many country spinsters, but Mrs. Hedges reminded him all too much of Lady Beatrice. She already believed him to be a murdering, cheating reprobate. If Elaine was right – and he had no reason to doubt her outburst – the lady would have heard rumors that he had ruined Miss Thompson. Given the ill-assorted group gathered at the Manor, there would be even more fodder for her acid tongue if he did not remain on his toes.

  He smiled as he entered the drawing room, determined to play the role of an unexceptionable host. Miss Becklin and Miss Westmont were already there. Lady Means and Mr. Hardwicke followed close behind him. “Good afternoon, ladies. This is a pleasant surprise.”

  “Hardly a surprise,” denied Mrs. Hedges. “It has been a week since we have seen our dear Miss Becklin. We had to call and discover how she is getting on.” But the way her eyes devoured both the room and the house guests repudiated her statement.

  Several others arrived, and Mark made introductions. Elaine appeared just ahead of the tea tray, Burgess setting it before her. Mrs. Hedges took in this evidence of her position in the house with gleaming eyes.

  “Has Tom Bennett recovered from his accident?” Elaine asked Mrs. Hedges as she poured out tea.

  “Nearly, though he still cannot understand how that path became so unstable. Mrs. Sutton claims that her husband had been over that same section only the day before – and he must weigh nearly twice as much.”

  “That does seem rather strange, but perhaps Tom was walking closer to the edge,” suggested Elaine, though the path was quite narrow at that particular spot.

  “Hmph!” snorted Mrs. Hedges, then turned the subject. “That silly Lisa Smith is calling banns this week.”

  “Heavens! She is hardly a day over fifteen.”

  “Old enough to get herself in an interesting condition!” stated the gossip.

  “No! I cannot believe it of her.”

  “Why else would she up and wed so suddenly? And at her age, too!”

  “Who is her beau?” Elaine asked.

  “The lad who delivers supplies to the Merry Mermaid.”

  “I should have known.”

  “Do you mean you knew of her assignations and never warned her parents?” demanded Mrs. Hedges loudly, attracting every eye in the room.

  “What assignation?” countered Elaine. “Roger Anderson is Lisa’s second cousin. Their families discussed a match two years ago, postponing the decision until she was old enough to wed. Surely you knew the lad took bread with them every trip.”

  “Well, yes,” admitted Mrs. Hedges. “But what can they be thinking of to marry off the girl so young?”

  “Probably that Roger is able to support a wife, while feeding a growing daughter on a dwindling income gets more difficult each year.”

  Elaine turned the conversation to the injury suffered by Miss Paddington’s cat, determinedly keeping the talk on local matters for twice the half-hour that local custom allowed for calls. Anne and Miss Westmont were entertaining Miss Paddington with tales of Helen’s exploits and Mis
s Beddoes’s injury. The other house guests broke into groups to talk amongst themselves. Lady Means was looking peevish, probably because both Miss Throckmorton and Mr. Taylor were absent.

  Mrs. Hedges finally showed signs of leaving, and Elaine was congratulating herself on surviving the gossip’s scrutiny, when Mr. Parrish let out an affected laugh.

  “Oh, the Curst Lord! My cousin got that nickname in quite another way,” he lisped, still laughing at Mr. Hardwicke and Lord Means. Carrington tried to say something, but Harold overrode his voice. “He is under a curse, sure enough, but it does not affect the rest of the family. Miss Thompson cast the spell on him when she left him standing at the altar, and it has worsened every year since. His wife died producing a puny girl. His next betrothed was killed by a runaway barrel a week before the wedding. The most recent eloped with a soldier rather than marry him, only to die of a fever within a month of reaching Spain. He’ll never produce an heir now. They say four girls turned him down, fearing for their lives!”

  Mark was fighting to keep the anger from his face. Carrington glanced nervously between the earl and Parrish. It was too late to silence him, and the mixture of half-truths and lies had already achieved results.

  Mrs. Hedges rose to her full height, her chest swelling with indignation as her maliciously gleaming eyes darted from face to face. “Such scandalous behavior comes as no surprise to me,” she flung at Elaine. “I always suspected there was something unspeakable in your background. No proper lady would have shown up here with nought but a half-grown child as a companion, and no proper lady would ever wander around unchaperoned the way you do. So you ran away from your marriage! In my day such behavior would never have been tolerated.” She blazed a look of pure venom at Anne.

  Elaine could feel her contempt, but she refused to say a word. She had suspected that it would be necessary to leave, and now she was sure.

  “Come, Emily,” commanded the gossip, her voice drawing Miss Paddington unwillingly to her side. “The stories are obviously true. We must leave before our own reputations are besmirched by this collection of libertines and fallen women. If they dare not remain in London during the Season, they must be bad indeed.”

  Shock appeared on more than one face, but the two women had already swept from the room. Elaine noted that Anne seemed on the verge of a swoon.

  “How dare she pass judgment on her betters!” gasped Mrs. Woodleigh.

  “The woman is nothing but a country bore,” decided Lady Means with a snort.

  “I am amazed you let the harpy in the house!” thundered Lord Means.

  “Are you all right?” Carrington quietly asked a white-faced Mark. “Perhaps you should try a glass of wine.” Outraged commentary swirled about them.

  “Why would Harold toss that out now?” murmured Mark to himself. “Was it carelessness or was he deliberately trying to harm Miss Thompson?”

  “He cares for no one but himself and would give no thought to her,” Richard reminded him. “I suspect he was trying to embarrass you by ripping up your character in front of the locals.”

  “I was afraid of that. But it wasn’t me he hurt.” He circled the room, trying to gauge the effect of the contretemps. Lady Means and Mrs. Woodleigh were furious to be labeled fallen women. Hardwicke was looking nervous, as if he expected Mark to blame him for Harold’s diatribe. Miss Westmont had already helped Anne upstairs. Elaine might have been turned to stone. He wanted to comfort her, but any attention could only make matters worse. When the other guests began to drift away, he did likewise, drawing Harold into the library.

  “That was a despicable demonstration of a small and malicious mind,” he stated once the door was shut.

  “Trying to keep your mortification a secret, cousin?” taunted Harold. “Why should the world not know that the myth you have built around yourself hides a heart so black no woman will willingly wed you.”

  “I care not one whit what the locals think of me, Harold,” said Mark, his eyes blazing with enough fury to make his cousin pale. “I am rarely here, so their opinions mean nothing. What I cannot forgive is the way you callously play with others. Your pointless diatribe accomplished nothing but devastating one lady and badly injuring another. Does it give you pleasure to harm innocent bystanders?”

  “Innocent bystanders? The wench jilted you. She deserves no better.”

  “Severance from society is punishment enough, don’t you think? She has spent eight years here already. But how do you explain hurting Miss Becklin? She had nothing to do with ending my betrothal, nor did she know anything of it until after the fact. Yet she must also suffer for your irresponsibility. How long do you think she can stay here now that Mrs. Hedges has turned against her?”

  “So set her up somewhere else.” He turned toward the door.

  Mark slammed a fist into Harold’s jaw, holding him on his feet with his other hand. “I might have known you would have no heart at all. What gives you the right to judge others? My affairs are none of your concern, Cousin. And I have had more than enough of your spiteful tongue. You would be happier returning to your own estate.”

  “Later, perhaps.” Harold shrugged, pulling away and making an elaborate production of smoothing his coat and picking lint from the sleeve Mark had touched. “I told you in London that the dibs were not in tune. It suits me to stay here for the nonce – unless you would care to consider that loan we discussed earlier.”

  “I never finance a sure loser,” Mark reminded him. He paused to regain control of his temper. There was nothing either of them could do to retrieve Elaine’s reputation. Calling his cousin out would provide personal satisfaction – though little sport – but he could not kill the man, and defeating him would just hand him another grievance. He recalled his earlier thoughts on Harold’s problems. “I might consider investing in your estate, however, provided you make an effort to improve its productivity. As collateral, I would require a new steward of my choosing, an improved crop rotation plan, and a trustee to guarantee that the money is used to address problems and not finance your profligacy.”

  “You might as well demand I hand over the estate right now,” he sulked.

  “No, for then you would have no assets at all. If you stay away from the tables and rebuild, you could recoup your fortunes within ten years even without my help. Think about it.”

  Mark frowned once Harold left. It was unlikely that the offer would be accepted, but he had to make it.

  His mind returned to the scene in the drawing room. The blame must be laid at his own door. Elaine was right. His attentions had spawned rumors from small-minded people like Caroline and Harold, rumors Mrs. Hedges must have heard. Revealing that Elaine had jilted a lord made those rumors seem credible, for it was a short step in a gossiping mind between a breach of manners and gross impropriety. If it ever came out that Elaine was supporting herself as an illustrator, she would be forever beyond the pale, for artists were always suspected of loose morals.

  So what could he do?

  He had ruined her life. His attentions and his cousin had expelled her from local society. She had already turned down another offer of marriage. He would ask again, of course, but given her reaction that morning and her earlier oath to never wed, he doubted she would accept. Perhaps she would allow him to help her relocate. Or it might be better to pull strings so that M. E. Merriweather received a steady stream of well-paid work.

  He was still mulling options when he collected Helen for the ride he had promised during her morning lesson.

  “Let’s go out to the Dancing Maidens,” she begged. “I have not seen them, and I have already been along the cliff today.”

  “You have?” He was surprised that she had been out.

  “Miss Elaine took me up to the cave so we could draw this morning. I wish all these people would leave. She does not have as much time for me since they got here.”

  “That is the way of the world, Helen,” he reminded her. “When you grow up, you will discover that adult
s have many activities that do not include children.”

  “Miss Becklin tells me that, too.” She sighed. “I wish it would happen soon. I do so like to be with grown-ups.”

  “You will have a new grown-up to be with very soon,” he said. “Your governess will arrive any day now.”

  She frowned. “I wish Miss Becklin could be my governess.”

  “She is a delightful lady, but it is not possible.”

  “I know. She will be getting married soon, but I wish I could stay with her. She tells the most delightful stories.”

  “I had not heard of her engagement,” said Mark with a sinking feeling. “Do you know who she will wed?”

  “Mr. Reeves, the vicar. They have had an understanding for two years, but Miss Becklin did not like to leave Miss Elaine alone.”

  Mark digested this in silence. Was she waiting for Elaine’s income to increase, or for her to grow old enough to live without a chaperone? Either way, her actions were unexpected. Not many people would sacrifice their own lives for someone who was not even related.

  Elaine was lucky to have had Anne to run to when she fled London. But what would the lady do now? Would Harold’s careless words put her betrothal in jeopardy?

  Perhaps the vicar was firm enough in his attachment that he would not heed malicious gossip, but how could a vicar’s wife expect to assist her husband in so small a community if Mrs. Hedges and others decided her character was lacking? Mark would have to speak to the vicar. Maybe he could arrange a living elsewhere. Or he might have to take on Mrs. Hedges and defeat her. Surely the lady had a weakness.

  “I heard the most famous argument yesterday,” trilled Helen, breaking into his thoughts.