The Earl's Revenge

by Allison Lane

  “Cheated,” insisted Hardwicke. “Just like you cheated Wainright and Hodgkiss and–”

  “Who fed you such delusions?” interrupted Mark, his voice deadly.

  “Not delusions. All over town.”

  “Lies. Every one.”

  “Who you callin’ a liar?” demanded Hardwicke, swinging a fist.

  Mark neatly sidestepped and Carrington grabbed Peter from behind. “Go to your room,” ordered the earl. “Sleep it off. Meet me in the library tomorrow morning. My cousin is spreading all manner of filth in a deliberate attempt to blacken my name. It is time to figure out why.”

  Hardwicke tried to protest, but Carrington hauled him away. Sighing, Mark went to dress for dinner.

  * * * *

  Elaine paced restlessly around her room, unable to think clearly. It was well after two, but she could not sleep. Bridgeport’s proposal still rang in her ears. Despite her words, she could not put it out of her mind.

  She had been through all the arguments against such a match. They were strong ones. But they were based on a public image that she knew was partially false. How much of the rest was real, and how much was an act he used to hide his literary career? It was that hidden self that plagued her now.

  And more.

  She could still feel his arms around her, comforting her tears. Strong arms that could soothe fear or incite passion. They had cradled her against broad, muscular shoulders that promised protection against the world. His lips were warm and gentle … and utterly exciting.

  Stop it! she admonished herself. Such thoughts were dangerous. The last thing she needed was to become his latest conquest. Gulping down a glass of water, she stared out the window.

  Moonlight on the moor. Guaranteed to bring thoughts of romance to the fore.

  A series of crashes jerked her attention back to the house, and she dashed into the hall. Her room was next to the main staircase. A low moan drew her eyes to the hall below.

  Bridgeport lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs.

  She had taken two steps forward when she spotted a cord on the top step. Stooping to look closer, she found another. Each was tied to a newel post, the loose ends feathery where the cord had snapped. Rage burst through her veins. And fear. She raced downstairs.

  “Are you all right?” she gasped.

  Mark was sitting up, fingering his head. “I think so.”

  She lowered her voice to a whisper. “If you can stand, go to the library. I will join you there in a minute.”

  “What–”

  “Shh!”

  He looked closely at her face and nodded. Stifling a groan, he staggered to his feet and limped away.

  “What was that all about?” he demanded when she appeared in the doorway a few minutes later. She looked marvelous in a deep green dressing gown, her dark hair hanging loose about her shoulders. Despite a host of pains screaming for attention, his fingers itched to rake that glossy mane.

  “First, tell me what happened.”

  He shrugged. “I tripped. Stupid thing to do, but it happens to the best of us.”

  “Especially when you have help.” She held out the cords. “Someone obligingly stretched this across the top of the staircase. You might have noticed had you been carrying a candle, but you were not.”

  Lascivious thoughts forgotten, Mark poured a second glass of brandy and gulped half of it down.

  “Why were you coming down so late?” she asked.

  “I thought to do some writing. This is when I accomplish most of my work. I rarely need much sleep.”

  “Convenient.” No wonder he was able to juggle a writing career with a full life as London’s premier rake and Corinthian. “So you are in the habit of wandering about the house at night. Is anyone else?”

  “Not normally, though I have encountered all of the gentlemen on occasion. The brandy is in here.”

  “That does not do much to limit the suspects.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “I am not stupid, and neither are you,” she snapped. “Cords do not tie themselves across stairs. You are known to come down here often, so anyone wishing to harm you could expect to do so.”

  “I suppose someone may have wanted to play such a prank on me,” he conceded.

  “Prank?” She stared in shock. “People often die from such falls. Whoever stretched that cord must have expected to kill you.”

  “There is no need for melodrama, my dear,” he scoffed. “I have a fair idea who was behind this trick, and there is no doubt he meant it as a prank.”

  “Stubborn, aren’t you?” she demanded. “At least do yourself the favor of being cautious.”

  “I thought you didn’t care.” His voice was a caress.

  “This is no time for a philosophical discussion on the many ways one person can care about another.” She frowned. “Since you are obviously not disposed to be sensible, I shall retire for the night. You may keep your secrets to yourself.” So saying, she departed.

  Mark’s face slipped into a frown once she was gone. He was more upset about the incident than he had let on. Was Hardwicke so far into his cups that he might try to harm his host? He picked up the cord and examined it. But there was nothing to be seen. Opening a drawer, he dropped the pieces atop the barb from under his saddle.

  Of course this might have something to do with Harold, though his cousin was not the sort to move beyond spiteful innuendo. In fact, he would not have believed either of them could be responsible, but the possibility could not be ignored.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Elaine awoke early, though the night had been anything but restful. Images had swirled through her head, insistent and disturbing.

  As expected, one of these was the picture of Bridgeport crashing down the stairs to possible death. Not for a moment did she believe that the cord was a prank. Nor did she accept the notion that anyone but the earl was the intended victim.

  On the other hand, Bridgeport was not stupid. A lifetime of secrecy might prevent him from discussing the incident, but he knew as well as she what had really happened.

  More disturbing was her interrupted contemplation of the earl’s character. On the surface, her image of Thornton seemed incompatible with the one she had long held of Bridgeport. Yet they were indisputably the same man, and she must reconcile her impressions – not that she could explain why. Nor did she know how to do so.

  Thornton was a sensitive man whose poetry revealed pain, rage, and a vast loneliness. Bridgeport was a libertine and sportsman dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure. He had claimed that his mother was the moving force behind his writing, and she saw no reason to doubt it. In the face of the woman’s determination, she herself had fled, sacrificing everything she knew. But the earl had not had that option. Tied to his mother both by blood and by his position as Bridgeport’s heir, he could flee only in spirit. And so he had lived his life as two disparate people.

  Why had he broken a lifelong habit of secrecy to reveal himself?

  It might have been a magnanimous gesture to relieve her fears, but she doubted it. Bridgeport was a selfish hedonist. Nothing she knew of Thornton countered that image. Of course, Thornton was only one facet of the earl’s secret life. Without knowing his other pen names, she could not fully understand him.

  Perhaps revealing himself was in expiation for his sins. He had done her considerable damage. Honor might compel him to pay that debt, and was probably what lay behind his proposal.

  But a corner of her mind urged her to consider another possibility.

  Could her art speak to him in the same way his poetry spoke to her? Such a truth would indicate that they were kindred spirits in a way she had never considered possible. Supporting this theory was the second sketch for ‘The Siege.’ He admitted its veracity, yet claimed that he had not himself realized it. Such rapport with someone she knew only through the written word was frightening.

  Bridgeport’s sudden trust may have arisen from any or all of those
reasons. Or he may have sensed a safe way to experience direct acclaim for Thornton’s work. He knew how much she loved his poetry. Had the accolades paid to Byron made Bridgeport yearn to receive praise himself? Or did he specifically need her praise, perhaps even for ideas beyond the world of literature?

  But that led her wayward mind into new channels. The overwhelming truth of their cottage confrontation was the safety, security, and excitement she had felt in his arms. Despite the rein he had held on himself – unlike the day before – his touch had ignited feelings she had never before experienced. No wonder he was so successful a rake!

  And her reactions called into question some of her own decisions. Was marriage really such an intolerable estate? It had always seemed incompatible with her need to do illustrating, for few men approved of women in any serious role, and most considered female artists immoral. But Bridgeport might empathize with her compulsion to share her talent with the world – at least, he would if he truly cared. Though he had twice offered for her, she was not convinced his reasons were sound. Marriage would only work for her if there was equal commitment by both partners, but she could hardly identify her own feelings, let alone his.

  She climbed down and drew on her gown. This was not the time to think of marriage. First she must recover from the recent shocks. And there was much to be done. Someone was trying to kill Bridgeport. Whatever the future held, she could not stand idly by and allow a murderer to roam free.

  An hour later, she entered the breakfast room to find the earl already seated at the table. No one else had yet come down.

  “Good morning, my lord,” she said a trifle grimly.

  “You look like you could use some more sleep,” he commented irritably.

  “As could you. Your charm and address got left in bed this morning.” She blushed as she heard the words, for her own manner was sadly lacking. “Forgive me. That was presumptuous.”

  A hint of a smile appeared on his face. “Certainly, but true nonetheless. I take it you slept no better than I.”

  She nodded. “I have been making inquiries. Several recent events have puzzled me. After last night, I decided to do more than shrug.”

  “This is hardly the place to discuss it,” he interrupted, and she had to agree. They stuck to neutral subjects until both had reluctantly eaten as much as they could manage, then he escorted her to the library.

  “I suppose you are still convinced that last night’s accident was no prank,” he said with a sigh.

  “Do you honestly believe that it was?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that is something. We both know who is determined to put an end to your existence.”

  “Hardwicke would never go that far!” he exclaimed.

  “Did you think he was responsible?”

  “He was both drunk and abusive yesterday.” He described the scene by the stables. "After refusing his challenge, I ordered him to meet me here this morning. It seemed logical that he might further annoy me.”

  “You are deliberately obfuscating the facts,” she charged. “The culprit can be none other than your odious cousin. And you know why.”

  “Fustian. Harold hasn’t the courage to kill anyone.”

  “He is precisely the type to arrange an accident and leave the consequences to Fate. He has done it before. There was a tenant boy on his estate who infuriated him when I was ten. Within a day, the lad suffered a freak accident that left him with a broken leg. When Anne was my governess, she rebuffed Harold’s advances. The next morning she narrowly avoided serious injury when a previously sturdy footbridge collapsed as she walked to the village. She only told me about it recently, along with similar tales that she had heard from her cousin. Harold is evil. In addition to arranging accidents, he revels in creating ill will – you need look no further than Mr. Hardwicke. I’ve seen and heard evidence of that often enough. Harold has goaded people into provoking fisticuffs, fighting duels, and creating permanent rifts in previously close relationships. It is a talent he undoubtedly inherited from his mother. She was a manipulator worse than Lady Macbeth, motivated by malice rather than ambition. She was never quite right in the head, as you must know.”

  “You exaggerate,” Mark protested. “And he would never try that on me anyway. He may be annoying, but he is also my cousin.”

  “Blood means nothing, especially to the greedy,” she countered. “Even offspring of the same parents can turn out quite differently. You are fortunate, for you inherited the best of both your parents – your mother’s determination and energy; your father’s intelligence and sensitivity. But Harold got the worst from his – his father’s weak character and his mother’s selfish, unstable mind. Even your appearances are different. Your fathers were identical, and your mothers very similar, yet you and Harold look nothing alike. You must accept the probability that he is trying to kill you.”

  Mark stared at her in shock.

  She pressed on relentlessly. “Look at all the odd things that have happened since he arrived. I never did understand how the cliff path became so suddenly unsafe when there had not even been a mild rainstorm. I talked to Freddie this morning, and he admitted that he had been on that path not two hours before Tom Bennett and saw no sign of instability. Tom is smaller, yet the path collapsed. That was the day after you arrived and three days after your cousin reached Bodmin. I doubt he realized that it is a public thoroughfare that happens to cross your property.”

  “That is too long a shot to be believable,” he objected. “Why would he expect me to wander out along the cliffs?”

  “Where did we meet the following day?”

  “Touché. But Harold does not know me that well.”

  “I wonder. I suspect he knows you better than you think. Thornton must spend considerable time wandering the countryside alone.” He blinked, and she knew her supposition was correct. “But all speculation aside, his failures have probably made him more determined and less inclined to leave things to chance. I saw a flash of red on the roof that day the coping fell. It could not have been a bird. Harold was wearing a dark rose jacket that afternoon. And I also had an interesting talk with Cook this morning.”

  “What has she to do with anything?”

  “Your cousin refused to partake of the mushrooms at dinner two nights ago, claiming that he was not partial to them. Understandable given his experience last week, but he was so pointed about it that he drew attention to himself. It struck me at the time as being odd, but only after your fall did I begin to understand why. Cook verified my suspicions. Someone replaced the mushrooms she had obtained for dinner with a nearly identical, but very poisonous, variety. She noticed the change when she was preparing them and was able to get others, but she insists the ones that were delivered were good.”

  Mark had blanched during her recital. “She is sure that they were tampered with?”

  “Positive. She always checks mushrooms very carefully – something your cousin would not know, of course. Her sister died from carelessly ingesting the wrong sort.”

  “I cannot believe that he could wish to kill me.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Not very. Our respective mothers never got on, and our respective fathers lacked the fortitude to insist on visits.”

  “I do not know him personally, except by sight, but I grew up on tales of his exploits. He is evil and sneaky, a man who has never balked at underhanded and outright illegal means to achieve his ends. His parents’ deaths were quite odd, though there was insufficient evidence to support formal inquiries.”

  “What? I never heard a word of that.”

  “Your father would have been the one to deal with the authorities. Then there is his fortune. Even eight years ago there were rumors that he had squandered all his own assets and a good portion of his father’s at the tables. Have you seen any sign that he has recouped?”

  “No,” he admitted. “He has tried to talk me into bailing him out more than once.”

  “
How does he support himself?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you suspect,” she stated, reading his eyes clearly enough to shock them both.

  He nodded. “Rumors have circulated for months accusing me of fleecing various gentlemen, including some strangers. I have accepted wagers from none of them, but Harold might be doing so in my name.”

  “It sounds like him. I suppose Wainright was one of his victims.”

  “That was behind his challenge.” He snapped his mouth closed and stared at the ceiling. “Devil take it! You did it again – crawled inside my head and opened doors I had firmly nailed shut.”

  “So there was a duel.”

  “But I did not kill him.”

  “I never suggested you did. Why do you feel guilty?”

  He sighed. “I chose swords since we were evenly matched at fencing – he was awful with a pistol. His pretext for the challenge left me in the wrong, so I could not kill him, but I had no intention of giving him a shot at me.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m sure you do.” His eyes danced. “But the bout lasted all of half an hour before I managed to pink his shoulder. I expect the exertion was too much for his heart. He died a week later.”

  “Stuff and nonsense! He would have died that day if there was any connection. But back to business. If Harold has been using your name, it is bound to get out sooner or later. He must know that – for all his faults, he is perceptive about anything that might threaten his interests. He probably decided to strike while he is still your heir.”

  “You are the one who is perceptive,” murmured Mark, sliding his arms around her to pull her close. “You see so much it frightens me. I need to think, and you must leave. I expect Hardwicke to arrive any minute. But we will talk later. In the meantime, please do not indulge in any more probing. If Harold is guilty of plotting against me, you put yourself in danger by investigating his activities.”

  “The servants would never expose me,” she objected, looking deep into his eyes.

  “Promise me, Elaine.” His voice was implacable and his arms tightened. “Do not add to my problems.”