Defying the Earl

by Anabelle Bryant

  For now, the money he gained would be well spent on food, tailoring, and overdue wages for the servants, because in essence he had little else to his name beside a ramshackle country house, a filthy, ill-fitted waistcoat, and one rapscallion of a brother, whose whereabouts were Val’s next matter of business. The tempting scent of fresh bread wafted from the bakery on the corner where he’d paused and the comforting smell cemented his determination.

  Recovering his horse from the post, he mounted and steered toward Barnaby Street. Turner recovered a scrawled notation from Jasper’s bedchamber. If the information proved correct, Jasper was spending the weekend at Randolph Beaufort’s town house, a friend from university. In all matters Jasper, Val embraced skepticism. University? He doubted good old Randy would prove the intellectual type.

  A short time later Valerian aimed Arcadia down the narrow cobbles, his goal in sight. This section of London indicated wealth, a banquet of ne’er-do-well gentlemen swimming in lard, situated in row-houses where the only aspiration was to lessen the family coffers and explore the indulgent opportunities available to idle aristocracy. Val’s preconceived assumption strengthened as he approached the cream-colored residence. Some unidentifiable article of clothing hung from the second story wrought iron railing and the bright orange paint of the front door indicated the town house was one of tomfoolery more than ambition.

  He threaded Arcadia’s reins through the iron loop of the hitching post near the curb and flipped a coin to the lad waiting for the opportunity before Val sidestepped a crooked topiary and climbed the four steps to drop the knocker. No one answered. Tamping down his impatience, he rested a palm against the left pilaster and leaned over the railing in an attempt to peer into the lower bow window, but thick drapery obscured his view. He pounded the knocker with measured force and skimmed his eyes upward where the sounds of a casement opening drew his attention. Jasper’s smiling face emerged soon after. He wore no cravat, his white lawn shirt gaping at the neck, his hair about his head in unruly direction. With observable effort, Jasper stifled a yawn before he spoke.

  “Val, what are you doing here?”

  Not for the first time, Valerian wondered the same thing.

  “We need to discuss our endeavor. I am to begin tomorrow evening.” Perhaps the solemnity of his tone would produce a stroke of responsibility on Jasper’s part.

  “I’ll be down in a jiffy.”

  Perhaps not.

  A few minutes later Valerian stepped into the ornate interior hall, the home proving much as he’d assumed. The furnishings were all the crack, from the marble tiled floor to the crystal wall sconces brimming with flickering candlelight to cast a dance of shadows on the crown molding. Any visitor would be instantly impressed, any light o’love automatically charmed. Everything was polished and perfect, that is, aside from Beaufort, who appeared unconscious, sprawled on the drawing room floor, one boot on, the other off, his face pressed awkwardly to the tassels adorning the corner of a cobalt-colored Persian rug. Randolph would have terrible creases in his cheek come morning.

  “Where’s the butler? What exactly is happening here? And don’t give me a bag of moonshine, I want the truth.” Valerian examined his brother’s disheveled attire with a suspicious sweep of the eyes. Jasper appeared somnolent, but none the less for the wear. His assessment returned to the man on the rug. Beaufort looked completely out of sorts. “Should we help him up?”

  “Don’t mind Randolph. He’s nursing the loss of his sweetheart.” Jasper grinned as he glanced to his friend on the floor across the hall. “He went off last night and got drunk as a wheelbarrow, then provoked the wrong group of men at the tavern and wound up with a facer.”

  Val narrowed his eyes as he leaned closer, barely able to discern a mottled discoloration under Randolph’s left eye. “What role did you play in all this?”

  “Must you always assume I’m to make a mull of something? I suggested an evening out to drown his sorrows. I couldn’t allow him to sit in all evening-tide lamenting his unrequited love.”

  “I see.” Valerian prayed for patience. “So yours was a mission of compassion and empathy?”

  Jasper paused long enough to dismiss the superfluous sarcasm. “Randolph has penned letters to a lovely miss in the country for over two years. They’d never met, but he developed strong feelings and intended to advance their relationship until their correspondence stopped without warning. His missives were returned unopened, so he traveled to the lady’s address only to discover she’d left with no further information.” He darted another glance to his friend on the floor, this time his expression a tad sympathetic. “It’s been over a year’s time, but his heart remains broken and I thought to provide him with a diversion to replace his fit of the blue-devils. Depression is a bottomless pit and I’d only good intentions. There’s no need for your picksome attitude. You would do the same.”

  Valerian remembered his pathetic decline after Caroline’s jilt. She’d effectively crushed his heart with the heel of her boot. Despite severe scarring, the weak organ stuttered to life and he’d vowed its sole purpose would be to keep him breathing, nothing more. He’d kept that promise valiantly, letting no one in, nor any emotion out. It would appear Randolph would learn the same lesson. “May I assume he paid the liquor tab?”

  “Randolph has deep pockets, but that isn’t the half of it. He’s invited us to make use of his town house while we’re in London. It solves all our problems, doesn’t it? I doubt you can disapprove now.”

  “I wouldn’t be so cock-sure as of yet and it solves one of our problems, not nearly all of them.” Valerian advanced further into the home, stepping past Randolph, who appeared content on the floor. He entered the drawing room and made quick work of removing his ill-fitted garments, the cravat and waistcoat abandoned to an empty chaise. Poverty felt like an ever tightening vise around his chest and the undersized waistcoat emphasized the dire conditions. “Aren’t there any servants?”

  “Randolph has them on a rotating schedule. They come and go so as to not disturb the carryings on.” Jasper did not seem the least concerned about his friend awkwardly positioned on the floor in the next room. “What happened to your clothing? It looks like you went swimming in a mud puddle.”

  A vivid image flooded his mind and senses, an unbidden smile tweaked his mouth. “Are you sure we shouldn’t make Beaufort more comfortable?”

  “I asked him before he fell asleep, and no. He likes it down there. Finds it comforting.” Jasper dismissed the question with eloquent sangfroid.

  It was the same quality their deceased father possessed; the ability to take things at face value and not over-think the circumstances and consequences, to live life in the moment unfettered by concern. Valerian was cut from different cloth.

  “So what do you suppose about staying in town?”

  He could hear the underlying plea in Jasper’s voice and it played against his better judgment, but with the most logical rationalization, if Val were to find a way to achieve their matchbreaking business, London was a veritable bed of opportunity. Of course, he would need to keep a close watch on his brother’s waywardness, but that proposed nothing new. It could prove easier if they lived under the same roof.

  “It would make sense, both of us residing here, although you will be under my perspicacious surveillance. We are here to recover from poverty, not sink further into the bowels of destitution.” Valerian schooled his voice with an unmistakable didactic tone and swept a glance around the interior. “Given our lack of financial choices, Beaufort’s generous offer is a boon, although it goes against my integrity to hang on someone’s sleeve.”

  “Consider it a favor between friends.” Jasper poured two healthy portions of brandy and handed a glass forward. “So how did it go with Rigby?”

  “As well as could be expected, I suppose. I’m to start destroying Leonard’s hopes and dreams as early as tomorrow evening.”

  “So you’ve laced your endeavor with dismal intention. I expe
cted that, although you’re the ideal person to execute this plan and the last man to act like a chocolate box over a pretty face. Why not consider the peaceful salvation your service will provide? I’ve heard Fiona is a regular church-bell. There could be no sanity shared when married to a gabster.” Jasper dropped into a nearby wingchair, entirely undisturbed by the implied ramifications of interrupting someone’s emotional goal, no matter his friend lay prone on the floor from unrequited love.

  “I’ve known Leonard Rigby since Eton and I’m not so sure the boot isn’t on the other leg.” Val took a long swallow of brandy in hope it would smooth the wrinkles of his discontent, then glanced at his own boots, caked with mud and water-stained. An image of the unsettled beauty he’d met earlier flittered through his mind with intense clarity and this time he allowed it to remain. Perhaps if he concentrated on her delicate features and lovely sable eyes he could escape the ever present absurdity of this situation. He scoffed at the fleeting proposition. “Nevertheless it matters little. At the end of this venture we’ll be that much richer and on our way, albeit in a small stride, to financial recovery. That is as long as you mend your ways. If cavorting is on your schedule, make damn sure Randolph is doing the spending.” He flicked his eyes to the front window. “Where is One-Eyed Jack? Does Beaufort rent stalls in the nearby mews? I left Arcadia tied to a post near the curb. The last thing I need is to have my horse stolen.” Arcadia was the one constant in his life and a dear friend. A dependable, strong animal who didn’t talk back, spend money, or tread on his emotions.

  “There is a stable around the corner. I’ll bring you afterward. Let me show you abovestairs and you can choose your room. I suspect you’ll need use of a tailor, although Beaufort has an extensive wardrobe. He may not mind if you borrow a coat of two.”

  Valerian eyed the black velvet waistcoat abandoned on the couch with obvious distaste, then dashed his eyes to Randolph’s collapsed form. The vivid embroidery of his puce ensemble merged with the ambitious pattern of the Persian rug. “No, I think not, Jasper. Our tastes do not run parallel.”

  Chapter Five

  Wilhelmina returned home in great hurry. Having directed the hackney to let her off on the corner, she’d walked with vigor to Aunt Kate’s town house. A little out of breath and mentally disassembled, she rushed through the door and directly to her bedchamber, hoping no one would question her disheveled state of dress, although falling into a muddy puddle would supply a needed excuse for her tardiness if anyone inquired. Her thoughts whirled with a flurry of excitement and curiosity, but not from meeting Lady Rigby. Encouraging a match between Leonard and Fiona should prove easy since they already held each other in esteem.

  Instead, her thunderous heartbeat and quivering nerves were due to the stranger and their interesting, almost intimate, encounter on the street. Why, the gentleman had been condescending, overbearing, rigidly stoic and undeniably handsome. She lingered on the last observation, recalling the wondrous shade of his eyes, the hard line of his chin, and the strength of his hand as he assisted her from the roadway. She should feel outrage at his treatment, and disapproval at his rudeness, but curiosity and desire swamped her, drowning the righteous objections and encouraging she relive the encounter with exacting detail.

  Shedding her soiled skirts and slippers, and thankful she’d dried enough not to dirty everything in her wake, Wilhelmina dressed in a simple day gown and settled at her escritoire near the front window. Setting pen to paper, she detailed every specific she could remember about the mysterious stranger and their unlikely encounter. Then she allowed it to dry and pasted it neatly onto a fresh page in her keepsake book.

  She paused, her fingers skimming the words. She could hear his voice in her imagination; the deep tenor of his words causing goosebumps to trace her arms. Good heavens, how fanciful. She slammed the book closed before burying it below the extra coverlet inside the trunk at the foot of her bed. Then she hurried to her sister’s bedchamber intent on regaling Livie with the details of her morning, but with every stride she reconsidered.

  By the time she reached Livie’s rooms, Wilhelmina had decided it best not to mention the overbearing and terribly dashing gentleman on Oxford Street. Perhaps that encounter was one left to her heart and imagination. She’d never see him again, one stranger in an overpopulated city…most especially when she hardly left Aunt Kate’s town house. Truly, where was the harm in harboring one little fantasy about an elusive, mysterious stranger? It could lead nowhere except when replayed in her overactive memory.

  In the same fashion as a monotony of mornings, she found Livie sitting upright in her bed, her eyes bright behind her wire-rimmed spectacles. A lap desk was pushed off to the side as if she’d been reading or writing earlier in the day.

  “I have quite a bit of news to share. Are you up for the details?” With a cheery smile, Wilhelmina swept into the room intent on retelling her adventure with Lady Rigby in such descriptive language Livie would experience it too. A shadow of regret caused her smile to falter before she buoyed it back into place. Livie deserved a proper come out, extravagant parties, and a bevy of suitors instead of the torment served her by their parent’s carriage accident.

  A shiver traced her spine with the ever present memory. The coach had lost a wheel, diverged from the roadway, throwing the driver to his death before rolling down a steep embankment and settling on its side. Their parents were killed, but the worst of the accident, if there existed any one pinnacle to be labeled singularly cruel, was that Livie remained pinned beneath Mother and Father’s bodies, her legs broken and useless, her strength weakened from blood loss and a traumatic strike to the head. She lay helpless under the weight of her beloved parents, waiting. One could only imagine what she heard during that time or the distraught agony of her thoughts while she suffered through the night.

  Livie refused to discuss it at any length, and Wilhelmina prayed her sister was unconscious for the duration, as it took nearly ten hours before the coach was recovered from that countryside roadway ditch.

  A violent wave of despair squeezed her heart. The accident had been Wilhelmina’s fault. She would never recover from her foolish decisions that night.

  “Yes, yes. I have been able to think of little else.” Livie patted the comforter beside her. “Come and tell me everything.”

  The following evening, under no guise, Aunt Kate and Wilhelmina climbed into a hired coach and left for the Collingsworth dinner party. Having received an invitation instigated by Lady Rigby’s meddling, Wilhelmina had the sharp mind to request her aunt accompany her, more of a companion than a chaperone although both labels applied. The mild manipulation of truth assuaged Wilhelmina’s burdened conscience. At first Aunt Kate had declined, knowing Livie would be left at home with only her nurse for company, but eventually she’d relented.

  “You do look lovely, Whimsy. How clever of you to choose the lavender silk. A few bright trims and you’ve turned last year’s fashion into a bright vision, although I refuse to allow you to dissuade me again. One day very soon I insist on purchasing new gowns for you, most especially if you choose to become more active in society.” Aunt Kate tapped Wilhelmina’s knee with the tip of her fan. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology. I answered too quickly when you first presented this invitation. While we both worry over Livie’s welfare, I cannot neglect my duties in seeing you experience the season as well. Please know I am thrilled to accompany you this evening and hope tonight leads to many more exciting excursions.”

  “Thank you. Of course I understand.” Wilhelmina offered her aunt a reassuring smile. “I troubled over the opportunity as well, but Livie insisted I accept and truly, she’s in very good hands. Nurse will likely have her pacing the room before she goes to sleep with the incentive she will soon take the same strides across a ballroom.”

  “It is my wish. The two of you have experienced such tragedy, but Livie…I worry about her. She barely speaks of the accident and with the limitations of her condition, cannot esc
ape for a time by visiting friends or strolling in the park. She is fragile in many ways. I shudder to think of her experiences that night.” Aunt Kate’s mouth pressed tight in a rueful grimace and for several long moments the only sounds heard were the carriage wheels revolving against the roadway cobbles. With a sigh, Wilhelmina wondered if her aunt would continue the conversation, the circumstances surrounding that evening tangled tight with heavy emotions, but no, they sat in quietude.

  Eventually the coach slowed and when the steps were extended, it forced the women from their pensive considerations. Wilhelmina held tightly to her aunt’s arm and entered the Collingsworth residence. The town house was long and narrow, accentuated by the lengthy hall and ornamental moldings forming synchronized rectangles along the walls in varying shades of cyan. A footman took their shawls and at his direction, they ventured further into the home to a large drawing room, its interior decorated in peacock and ochre gold. Several people had already arrived, drinks were plentiful and small clusters of friends were gathered in corners, determined to flirt, socialize, and gossip. It was the trademark of any successful gathering, yet Wilhelmina hesitated, uncomfortable amidst the crowd. Her pulse jumped with insecurity all too anxious to remind she was nothing more than a country miss disguised as a city socialite and hired to bring together two people whom she did not know.

  She bit her lower lit and steeled her courage. Best to get on with the task at hand. Moments later, her aunt provided the opportunity Wilhelmina desired.

  “I see an old friend who I haven’t spoken to in decades. You don’t mind, do you, Whimsy? You’ll be fine?”

  Relieved to disperse the need for fabrication, Wilhelmina nodded assent, and turned toward the drawing room, straightening her spine with hollow fortitude and dispersing an anxious quake of nerves. Armed with Lady Rigby’s detailed description, Wilhelmina noted Lady Fiona conversing in a quiet corner with two young ladies, one of whom she’d met previously when her aunt’s acquaintance brought her niece to tea. The ladies stood beside an overfilled bookcase where one guest held a volume in her gloved hands, the group’s animated conversation seeming to refer to the opened pages. How brilliant. Books posed a safe topic and talk of literature would serve perfectly were Wilhelmina to eloquently assert herself into their conversation and avail an introduction to Lady Fiona. She possessed a treasure trove of knowledge having read every book in her father’s expansive library before parting with the volumes. Feeling a trifle more self-assured, Wilhelmina stepped in their direction.