Enticing the Earl

by Nicole Byrd

  He decided to leave his horse at the hotel and walked the two blocks to another tavern, but when he ducked his head to enter the low doorway and blinked at the dim light and smoky air, he made out a dozen or so patrons drinking, talking, gathered in boisterous groups at short-legged tables. But once again, he saw no sign of Carter.

  Now what?

  He had been sure that he would find his brother at one of these drinking spots. Unless he had found a willing barmaid, in which case, heaven only knew where an assignation was taking place as Marcus stood here, frowning at the thought…

  Suddenly, he remembered the tavern on Two Hen Street where the odd little china shop stood, where he had traced the Asian to, the shop he was having watched. It was a small tavern, but perhaps worth checking out. He would have to go carefully; he didn’t wish his face to be too well known on that street, but if he approached the tavern cautiously, he didn’t have to be seen from the shop itself.

  He strode off, walking quickly, thinking it more prudent and less obvious to come near the tavern on foot than by horseback, and it was only a few streets away. The sun was lower in the sky, and the temperature dropping, but he heeded it not at all.

  This tavern, and this street, was somewhat less reputable, but in his present mud-stained condition, Marcus fit right in. In fact, he thought as he peeled off another clinging bit of straw from his jacket, just now he doubted that anyone would have claimed him as a gentleman, much less a lord.

  He went into the tavern and, buying another ale, looked around at the dimly lit taproom. At this late hour, the pub was full of working men stopping on their way home for their brews, and it was noisy, too, and full of smoke. But although it took him a few minutes to check out all the faces, once more he came up with no answers. Where the bloody hell was his misbegotten younger brother?

  And where was their man who should be watching the shop? Marcus looked covertly about him. Perhaps it was the quiet man with the scar on his face who sat at the side of the window, nursing an ale. Marcus did not try to speak to him, but noted his face for future reference.

  However, Marcus took the dark brew over to the other side of the window where an empty stool presented itself as a carpenter, by the look of his sawdust-covered apron, got up and walked with slightly unsteady steps toward the door.

  “Best get home,” he told his mates. “Wife’ll have the poker after me head, else!”

  Jeers and laughter met this attempt at high comedy, but Marcus paid little heed. He was staring at the china shop up the street. The sun had dropped so low that the first blush of color was streaking the sky; he knew he should head back to the hotel and reclaim his horse. He should ride for home before darkness descended. He needed a bath and his dinner, and he certainly wanted Lauryn in his arms.

  But he had a clear view of the shop where the mysterious lurker had returned to, and to Marcus’s dismay, he saw someone come out of the door of the shop, a face and a frame that he knew all too well.

  Carter!

  What the bloody hell was Carter doing in the Asian’s shop? Marcus forgot to be gratified that he had finally run his brother to earth in his dismay at where he had found him.

  Was Carter—could it be that Carter was connected to the mystery man? Could he be working the group smuggling opium?

  Marcus felt cold inside. His harum-scarum half brother…It was true that Carter had been in trouble often enough, boyish mischief, for the most part, petticoat problems, lack of applying himself, his father had said. After their father had died, Marcus had continued to pull him out of his scrapes, when he could. But he’d worried that Carter was never going to grow up, would always be irresponsible.

  Could Carter be capable of true criminal behavior? Marcus had never contemplated such a possibility. But Carter was always about; he could have picked up information about Marcus’s shipping, enough to manage to get the opium on his trading ships, enough to manage to send intelligence to his confederates in a smuggling ring.

  Smuggling, murder…

  It made his blood run cold to think of his baby brother up to his neck in such affairs…

  Marcus found he had lost his taste for the ale. He put his glass—which he had brought up to his lips—slowly back down.

  Carter was walking down the street, right past the tavern. He wore a satisfied smile on his lips.

  Marcus had to turn his face away from the window. He could not decide whether to confront his brother right now, or wait. What was he to say?

  Did he wait to see if Carter admitted going to the shop? Was there any chance there could be an innocent explanation? If so, Marcus could not think of it. His mind seemed to have stalled, like a spinning waterwheel with no water to push it.

  He sat there a few moments more, then rose and went out of the pub, turned, and followed his brother’s back down the street. Carter was going back toward the harbor. He returned to the same hotel where Tweed was staying. He headed toward the stable, perhaps on the same errand that Marcus would shortly perform. Yes, in a moment, a groom came out with his brother’s horse. Carter handed over some coins, put his leg up, and mounted his steed.

  Marcus let him go—he was surely headed for home—and then went to retrieve his own mount. As he retraced the familiar road home, he did not try to catch his brother up. For one thing, he wanted the time to think, and he had not yet decided how to handle this situation. He would certainly have something to say about leaving the women alone with only the servants to watch over them. But there was also the even bigger mystery of Carter’s presence at the shop where the Asians were present. How did Carter know of it, how deeply was he involved, if he was involved at all…

  Marcus felt as tense as if he were riding into battle, and his stomach roiled. His brother—how could this be?

  By the time the sun, a huge glorious burning ball, had fallen over the western horizon, its last rays fading slowly behind it and twilight spread across the lavender sky, with crickets crying loudly into the growing darkness, Marcus saw the torches of the hunting box ahead.

  He rode his horse around to the stable and put it away himself, still putting off the moment when he would have to decide how to handle his painful discovery. Then, at last, he strode toward the house.

  When he knocked, the footman answered at once. “My lord,” he said, swinging the door open wide.

  Marcus strode inside and up to the next landing, where he found everyone gathered in the sitting room.

  The two women had already changed for dinner. Carter was still in his riding clothes, and he greeted his brother with an easy grin. “I see I just beat you home,” he said. “A hard trip to London, Brother?”

  “Indeed,” Marcus agreed. “And why did I find you not at home where I had asked you to stay, Carter?” His voice sounded even grimmer than he had meant it to, but all his emotion was hard to control. And Carter would, of course, have already learned from the ladies that his elder brother had discovered that he had been away. He did not know, as far as Marcus knew, that his brother knew just where he had gone.

  “I thought I would do a little detection on your behalf, since you had to be away in London,” Carter told him, looking triumphant.

  That answer, he had not been expecting.

  “And what did you learn?” he asked slowly.

  “Non, non,” the contessa said. “You are a great mess, Zutton. You must change, or ve vill never have our dinner. Then Carter can tell uz his tale.”

  And the delay would give his brother more time to concoct his tale, if he needed to, Marcus thought. But he certainly could not sit down to a civilized table in his condition. Nodding to the ladies, he withdrew, going up the steps to the next level two at a time.

  In his bedroom, he was pleased to see that the servants had brought up warm water for his bath. He lathered and rinsed to finally get off the mud and dirt of several days, then dressed in clean dinner clothes and felt much better. When he finished, he hurried back down, knowing they would not announce dinner unti
l he had returned.

  Sure enough, as soon as he came back into the sitting room, the footman ushered them to the dining room, and Marcus offered his arm to Lauryn.

  She took it at once, and he found her touch both stimulating and delightful. “I have missed you,” he murmured into her ear as they headed toward the dining room.

  “And I you,” she breathed back, pressing his arm. “So much!”

  Smiling as he felt his body respond to her light touch, he took her to her seat at the table, thinking that hungry as he was, there were other, deeper hungers that plagued him even more.

  “Now, Carter,” the contessa commanded when they were all seated, as if she were queen and this her court, “tell uz all about your mystery zolving.”

  Marcus looked up from the piece of savory roast beef he had been about to take a bite of. “Oh yes, we certainly want to hear this,” he agreed, his tone dry.

  “Ah,” his brother said, beaming. “I do think I deserve some praise this time, Brother mine. I discovered that someone was watching our warehouse.”

  “Our warehouse?” Marcus muttered beneath his breath. Already, he had a bad feeling about this tale of adventure.

  Carter continued to look triumphant. “I went round just to check that all was well, having heard the story of the murdered guards, don’t you know?”

  The ladies stared, and the contessa squealed. “Alors, thiz itz too bad!”

  “So I wanted to check out the warehouse, since Marcus was gone, and be sure all was shipshape,” his brother continued, still sounding very pleased with himself. “Since we have many valuables stored inside.”

  Marcus felt a surge of annoyance, but tried to control his expression. He glanced at Lauryn, who was eating her soup, and thought how much more valuable were the contents of this house, and this was where Carter had been supposed to stay!

  “And by God, I found this strange man, some foreigner, not even an Englishman, lurking in the alley nearby, watching the warehouse. So I followed him back to a shop half a dozen streets away.”

  “And you went into the shop? So he knows your face?” Marcus interjected.

  “Ah, yes,” Carter admitted. “What was wrong with that? I wanted to see what kind of place it was. And it was selling chinaware, too, though not as valuable as the stuff we have in our warehouse, so it just goes to show, don’t you think he might have been involved with the burglary attempt?”

  Or much more, Marcus thought, feeling Lauryn’s gaze on his face.

  “A valid assumption,” he said, and Carter grinned broadly once more. “But better not to have trailed him back, as he probably knew he was being followed.”

  “I was careful,” Carter protested. “I don’t think he was aware that I was behind him.”

  Marcus raised his brows. His younger brother had all the subtlety of a drunken sailor, but he would not embarrass him in front of the ladies by voicing that thought aloud.

  “It appears you vere quite the sleuth today, Carter,” the contessa remarked. “I did not know you had it in you.”

  Carter preened and took a sip of his wine. “I can do more than some people”—he glanced at his brother—“give me credit for.”

  Marcus ignored the comment and concentrated on his dinner. He was enormously hungry after the long trip and several missed meals. The aromas of beef and fresh bread wafting across the table made him appreciate the skills of his cook even more after the privations of the journey.

  “I’m sure you do many things well,” Lauryn said politely. For the most part, however, she said little during dinner.

  Once Marcus saw a worried look cross her face. She saw the dangers, too, he suspected, now that his heedless younger brother had likely alerted the smugglers that they were being watched.

  When the ladies withdrew to the sitting room, there was silence for a minute or two as the footman brought them a bottle of port. Marcus poured some into his glass and passed the bottle to Carter.

  “How did you hear?” he asked, suddenly.

  His brother jumped. “What?”

  “How did you hear about the murdered guard?”

  Carter turned to frown at him. “Since you didn’t bother to tell me, you mean? From a gossiping barmaid, if you must know. You can’t expect a crime like that not to be whispered about all over town. But why didn’t you tell me, Marcus? Why must you insist on treating me as if I’m so bloody undependable that you cannot trust me with any important fact or errand?”

  “I gave you the most important task,” Marcus interrupted, not caring to hear a litany of self-pity. “I asked you to keep watch over the two females, who can hardly be expected to protect themselves. We’ve already seen that the gang we are up against will not stop at spilling blood. Yet I come home to find that you have left the women on their own, with only a handful of servants around them.”

  He met his brother’s startled gaze with a hard look of his own.

  “You didn’t tell me that!”

  “I should not have to explain everything. Can you not take me at my word?”

  “You don’t explain anything! If you treated me like a man, instead of forever like a ten-year-old, dammit all—” Carter gulped down a mouthful of port and then slammed the glass down on the table and pushed back his chair. He stalked out of the room, not looking back.

  It didn’t appear to occur to him that he most often acted like an angry child, Marcus thought, running his hands through his hair and leaning his elbows on the table, his face in his hands.

  He felt very weary.

  Was he being unfair to his brother?

  Even worse, was Carter putting on a show of wounded feelings to cover up darker motives?

  How could Marcus tell?

  Lauryn sat in the sitting room and made polite conversation with the contessa, but she had to hide the fact that she was watching the clock on the mantel from the corner of her eye. She had missed the earl so intently that she couldn’t bear for him to be out of her sight. She could hardly wait for it to be time to retire, so they could have privacy, could embrace, so she could be in his arms again at long last.

  When she heard footsteps, she turned eagerly to see Marcus in the doorway. Slightly to her surprise, however, he was alone.

  “Your brother is not vith you?” the contessa said, sounding surprised.

  “I thought he was here,” the earl said. “Perhaps he is tired after his long day and has gone up to bed.”

  There was nothing to say to that except to nod and pretend that healthy young men often retired early. Lauryn saw that Marcus had a crease in his forehead and his voice seemed overly controlled. Had the two brothers quarreled?

  Perhaps the earl felt that his brother’s actions today had not been the wisest. Still, they could not discuss it just now. Perhaps it would not be advisable to discuss it at all, she told herself. The contessa went to the small pianoforte at the end of the sitting room and sat down before it.

  “Vould you like zome music, Marcus?” she asked.

  “Of course, if you feel up to playing,” he said politely.

  The lady arranged some sheet music on the stand and moved her hands gracefully over the keys, and the notes flowed smoothly. They could not, in civility, talk, but Lauryn was content just to have the earl sit beside her on the settee and to revel in his nearness, after the wasteland of his absence.

  It reminded her much too painfully of how it would be when they were parted for good. How would she stand it?

  That was too grievous to consider; she pushed the thought away from her.

  After some time, the contessa rose and returned to sit with them.

  “That was beautifully played,” Lauryn told her.

  “Merci,” the other woman said. “I try to keep myzelf in practize.”

  They talked awhile about music and a display of paintings that the contessa and the earl had visited, separately, in London. Presently the footman brought in a tea tray, and they had a last cup of tea. Then, at last, they could go up
to bed.

  Lauryn felt her spirits lift as she walked demurely up the staircase. But with the contessa on her own, alone in the other bedchamber, it would be very poor form to skip up the stairs, laughing aloud because she could at last be once more alone with Marcus.

  Nonetheless, stealing one glance at the earl, who walked beside her and could look back with his eyes twinkling, she knew he understood and shared her feelings. So she had to fight to hold her smiles inside.

  When the door closed behind them, she turned and threw her arms about the earl’s neck. “Oh, I have missed you so,” she exclaimed, pulling him as close as she could and burying her face in the clean-smelling linen that covered his chest.

  Marcus kissed the top of her head, and for a moment he was simply content to hold her, surfeit with the feel of her warm, healthy body in his arms. She was here, she was his—life was good.

  She laid her cheek against his chest and they stood there for several long minutes. Then she sighed, and he looked down at her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. “Everything is right; you are here.”

  He felt a surge of happiness.

  “Tell me about your trip; it must have been very difficult, with the flood and the carriage accident and all.”

  He sat down in the wide chair by the fireplace and pulled her onto his lap. He told her about helping out when he had discovered the carriage mishap.

  “How sad,” Lauryn said, her voice sober. “And the poor little boy. Do you think he will be all right?”

  “With careful nursing, he should be, and I’m sure his mother will see to that,” he told her, tightening his arms about her.

  For a few moments he simply sat there, allowing the feel of her in his arms to sink in, needing the physical reassurance. She was here, and had not somehow disappeared in the time he had been away. She had waited for him. She had met him with open arms.

  The soft warmth of her body gradually dispelled the cold knot of fear that had been inside him, without him even knowing.