“I never thought for a minute ye wouldn’t, milord.” A gargoyle grin spread across the squire’s face. “It won’t be as bad as ye think. I’m not an unreasonable man. I’ll not expect ye to keep Meg at Ravenswood forever, for I can see ye’ve no liking for the spineless chit. Ye’ve my permission to send her back to Barrington Hall once ye get her with child, for ‘tis only me proper, legal grandchild I’m interested in.”
Theo watched Meg Barrington shrivel before his very eyes beneath the squire’s crass, unfeeling words. Remembering her sister had proclaimed her the only innocent in this sorry affair, he felt a twinge of guilt, knowing he had contributed to her humiliation. He could relate all too easily to how she was feeling at this moment. The countess might have couched her venom in more subtle terms, but in her way, she had been every bit as cruel as the brutish squire.
“Watch your language, sir,” he warned. “You’re discussing your daughter, not some bitch hound you’re breeding.”
“Well I like that!” The squire cast an indignant look at Theo. “What call have ye to rail at me, milord, when I was only thinking of yere feelings when I made me offer to take Meg off yere hands. For any fool with eyes in his head can plainly see the very sight of her puts ye in mind of the other one.”
He shook his head dismissively, rendering the air around him thick with straw and dust. “Though why ye was so goggle-eyed over that hell-born shrew is beyond me. Ye’ve an odd taste in women, milord, and that’s a fact. Once I settles me account with her later this month, I plans to wash me hands of her forever.”
Theo knew he would only fuel the squire’s speculations about his infatuation with “the other one” if he showed any curiosity. He couldn’t help himself. He had to ask, “How will you find her, pray tell. London is a big city, and I understand she didn’t divulge her direction when she left.”
The squire nodded. “That’s true. She didn’t. But I can always find her. Me friend, Hermione, knows where that little house her mother willed her stands—and I happens to know the chit hasn’t so much as a farthing to her name, so where can she go until she collects the money I promised her?”
He emitted a vulgar sound halfway between a belch and a sigh. “Aye, milord, if ye’re interested—and I can see ye are—I can find me daughter, Maeve, whenever I wants to. For didn’t I lure the she-wolf from her den once before, to me everlasting regret!”
Theo rode slowly back to Ravenswood, his mind in a turmoil. What, he wondered, was the squire up to now? On the one hand the slippery old scoundrel had badgered him to set a date for his wedding to Meg; on the other, he’d as much as offered an invitation to accompany him to London to visit Maeve.
Theo grimaced. The first thing was something he had no choice but to do eventually; the second was something he had no intention of ever doing. For why would any intelligent, right-thinking man want to seek out the heartless flirt who had led him such a merry pace for a fortnight—then calmly walked out of his life forever? The motto “Once burned, twice cautious” had taken on a whole new meaning in the past few hours.
He could remember every word in Maeve Barrington’s infamous letter. He just couldn’t understand why she’d written it, knowing her confession proclaimed her the worst kind of fraud and liar.
Likewise, he could remember every word she’d ever said to him, including those fateful ones that had sent his spirits soaring, “I love you Theodore Hampton, Earl of Lynley, with all my heart and all my soul and shall until the day I die.” He just couldn’t understand why she’d bothered to mouth them or to demand he make that solemn vow to believe her, when she had to have already made plans to leave for London the next day.
The woman was a mass of confusing contradictions. An acknowledged liar, who was the most truthful and straightforward person he’d ever encountered. A witty and talented Londoner, who was moved to tears by the sight of an apple tree in blossom. A cold-blooded fraud, paid for masquerading as his betrothed, who responded to his kisses with an innocent, eager passion that left his heart pounding and his knees weak.
Would he ever discover who and what the real Maeve Barrington was? Would he ever find another woman who intrigued him as she did? And what would it matter if either thing came to pass, when he was hopelessly trapped into marrying her spineless and incredibly tedious sister?
Leaving his horse in the care of a groom, he marched into the house and went directly to the small salon where Richard and he had met a scarce two hours earlier. At some moment on the ride home, it had occurred to him that his rage over Maeve Barrington’s confession had caused him to do something extremely foolish. Her letter was much too personal and revealing to be left where a nosy servant might find it.
He stepped through the door of the salon and stopped short. A faint, but unmistakable, scent of lavender lingered in the room—a sure sign the dowager had but recently departed it. He’d been aware for some days that she frequently visited Ravenswood manor house when he was gone. Figgins had warned him she had a paid spy amongst the servants who kept her informed of his comings and goings.
He’d done nothing to prevent these secret visits of hers. As long as she kept out of his sight, he had no quarrel with her visiting her old home. But the incidence of her visiting this particular salon on this particular afternoon was almost too coincidental.
He hastened to the trash basket, only to find it empty.
Damn and blast! Had some over-zealous servant emptied it the moment Richard and he quit the room? Or, as he suspected, had the dowager’s snooping rewarded her with a juicy bit of scandal regarding the Earl of Lynley and his future countess?
With a shrug, he left the salon and repaired to his chamber. Speculating on what his stepmother would do with the information Maeve’s letter contained—if indeed she had that letter—would yield him nothing but a headache. He had other, far more serious things to worry about, not the least of which was readjusting his thinking about his upcoming marriage.
Wearily, he climbed the stairs to his suite of private rooms, determined to do that very thing before the depressing happenings of the past few hours completely overwhelmed him.
The first thing he saw when he entered his sitting room was a silver tray, holding a decanter of fine French brandy and a small cut-crystal glass. He smiled to himself. Good old Figs! How could the remarkable fellow know that was just what he needed?
But then, why should he be surprised by this latest proof that his valet had a sixth sense where he was concerned? Figs had proven it time and again during the hellish years they’d shared on the Spanish Peninsula.
He sat down, poured himself a glass of the smooth, amber liquid and forced himself to think about the problem at hand. It wasn’t as if it were something with which he’d never before wrestled. He reminded himself that he’d been fully resigned to a loveless marriage no longer than a fortnight ago.
It was only after he’d come to know Meg—nay Maeve Barrington—that he’d wanted more. One glimpse of the passion, the excitement…the soul-satisfying contentment the right woman could bring to his life, and he’d foolishly begun to believe he might be one of those rare men who was privileged to enjoy a truly happy marriage.
Now the masquerade was over. The dream was dead. There was nothing for it but to get on with his life. But first, he’d try a dose of Albert Figgins’ remedy for what ailed him.
He downed the glass of brandy and promptly poured himself another. Then he stoppered the decanter and set it aside. Liquor might be an effective pain killer for some men; it only intensified the ache in his heart. Nor would bedding every lightskirt from here to London lessen his desire for the green-eyed cat who’d sunk her claws in him.
Work, and his beloved Ravenswood, were all that would save him from the black despair in which he was drowning. And work he would. All day, every day, he’d immerse himself in the business of making Ravenswood the profitable estate it once was before his foolish, profligate father drove it to the brink of destruction. Then every night he’d
fall into bed, utterly exhausted—too tired to think and hopefully too tired to dream of Maeve’s funny little face and Maeve’s wicked, laughing eyes and Maeve’s warm, passionate lips.
Somehow, he would conquer his despair. All was not lost simply because he’d fallen in love with a woman who was not what she’d appeared to be. So his foolish dream was shattered; he’d survive the disappointment. He’d survived plenty of others in the years he’d lived under the countess’s thumb.
He would have a busy and productive life—and a rewarding one in many ways. God willing, he might even have a child on whom to lavish his love. There were only two things he could think of that would be missing from his life from this day forward. Passion and laughter.
Albert Figgins was in a quandary. His young lord was bitterly unhappy, and he wasn’t certain what he could do to make things right for the lad. He was, however, certain of one thing. He hadn’t twice dragged the wounded earl off the battlefield, patched him up and sat up nights wrapping him in wet sheets to control his raging fever, only to watch him work himself into an early grave.
The lad never stopped. From sunup to sundown he was astride that wild-eyed black stallion of his, supervising the placing of every fence post or the planting of every seed on Ravenswood land. Then, from the time he finished his solitary dinner until he crawled into bed at midnight, he worked on the estate books. Albert found himself wondering how the earl’s estate manager and man-of-affairs had the nerve to keep on drawing their handsome salaries when their employer was doing all their work for them.
Now Squire Barrington had forced him to set his wedding date for two weeks hence—a sad mistake in Albert’s opinion. For he’d carried a certain letter on his person for over three weeks which he felt certain, if he could read it, would verify his suspicion the earl was being coerced into marrying the wrong woman.
He was already sure of one thing: the shy, brown-haired daughter the squire had had in tow when he’d called at Ravenswood last evening was not the woman who’d put the sparkle in the earl’s eyes and the laughter on his lips the night of the Dowager’s dinner.
Oh, she could pass for the lady he’d favored, except for her hangdog look and the fact that she’d never once stared dreamy-eyed at him, the way the other one had. But then, he’d never stared at her either. In fact, from Albert’s vantage point in the hall outside the salon where the meeting took place, he could see the two of them made a point of looking everywhere but at each other.
He heaved a heartfelt sigh. If only he could think of a way to save his young lord from wasting his life in this ruinous marriage, the way he’d saved him from losing it to a Frenchman’s bullet.
But therein lay the rub. How could he, a simple fellow who could neither read nor write, talk a fellow as smart as the earl out of making such a mistake? For one thing, valets weren’t supposed to give advice to earls. For another, he didn’t relish admitting he’d been listening at the keyhole the day the vicar had delivered the fateful letter, nor for that matter, that he’d snatched it from the trash basket to keep that witch, the countess, from getting her hands on it.
He wished Doddsworth was still around. The old man might be a bit forgetful, but he was still smart as tuppence, and he’d been at Ravenswood since before the earl was born. He’d surely know what to say to make the lad change his mind before it was too late. But Doddsworth was gone and that stiff-rumped fellow, Stepford was in his place.
But wait! What was it Doddsworth had whispered to him when he’d helped the old fellow into the carriage the earl had provided him? “Watch over our young lord,” he’d said in that wavery old voice of his. “For I know you’re as fond of the lad as I am. And if ever you need help with the task, call on Stepford. There’s a good man behind all that starch and polish.” That evening in the upper servants’ dining hall, Albert rose from the table when Stepford did and followed him into the hall that ran the length of the servants’ quarters. “I’d like a minute of your time, Mr. Stepford, if you please,” he said quietly.
The younger man stopped, a frown darkening his gaunt features. “What can I do for you, Mr. Figgins?” he asked in that high and mighty way he had of talking that made a fellow feel about two inches high.
Albert pondered a moment, trying to decide how best to broach the subject. “It’s not for me I’m asking, but for my young lord,” he said finally. “He’s mighty unhappy, you see, and I’m the only one as knows why—but I don’t know what to do about it.” He paused for breath. “Mr. Doddsworth said if ever I was to need help watching over the lad, I should call on you.”
Stepford looked momentarily taken aback, but he quickly recovered. “Rightly so,” he said. “Mr. Doddsworth admonished me to tend to his lordship’s welfare as well. But best we discuss this in my private quarters.” To Albert’s surprise, the elegant fellow took him by the arm and walked him down the hall to the butler’s sitting room.
Albert followed him through the door and stared about him at the room where he’d spent many an evening playing cribbage when old Doddsworth was the major domo of Ravenswood. It looked much the same. The cribbage board even sat on the same small table, though Albert knew for a fact Stepford never invited anyone to join him for a game after the evening meal.
The butler offered Albert a chair, took one himself and got right to the point. “I, too, have noticed his lordship was distracted recently. Perhaps if you tell me what you think is worrying him, I can be of some help.”
Albert withdrew the sheets of foolscap from his pocket and handed them to Stepford. “I haven’t read this letter, on account of reading and writing is about the onliest things I can’t do. But I know pretty much what’s in it.” He didn’t feel it necessary to explain how he came by such knowledge and luckily Stepford didn’t ask.
The butler withdrew a pair of spectacles from his pocket, perched them on his eagle’s beak of a nose and quickly scanned the letter. Then he read it again more slowly, a look of utter astonishment on his usually impassive face.
Carefully he folded the sheets of foolscap into a neat square and handed them back to Albert. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed in hushed tones, “there are two Miss Barringtons! Identical twins!”
Albert nodded. “And unless I misses my guess, his lordship’s marrying the wrong one.”
“How can you say that? The young lady who called with the squire last evening seemed extremely shy, but in no way disagreeable.”
“Except anyone could see she could scarce stand the sight of our lad—nor him of her.”
“There did appear to be a bit of constraint between them,” Stepford said thoughtfully. “Still, how can the one who wrote this letter be the right woman for his lordship? She not only confessed to deceiving him in every way possible and accepting a great deal of money to do so; she apparently left him to return to her former life.”
“Because she loves him, don’t you see,” Albert explained patiently. “Why else would she tell him what she done? She could just as easily have married him and him none the wiser. It’s what a woman as didn’t care for nothing but his title and estates would’ve done—and it’s ducks to dumplings that’s what that pawky father of hers tried to talk her into.
“But women—good women—is funny that way. She wouldn’t want the earl if she had to trick him into marrying her. Because she loved him, don’t you see.”
“I suppose that makes a certain sense,” Stepford admitted. “I wouldn’t know, since I’ve never known what I considered a ‘good woman’.”
Albert grinned. “Well I have. More’n one, as a matter of fact, so I knows how they think.”
“But if, as you say, Miss Maeve Barrington loved his lordship, why would she flee to London and leave him for her sister to marry?”
“Because she probably thought there was no way he could love a woman as had deceived him the way she done,” Albert explained. “But she was wrong. A man don’t stop loving a woman just because she’s made a mistake or two. If you asks me, the lad is still so
much in love with her, it’s near killing him. Remember how he was that two weeks they was together—always smiling to himself secret-like, or humming a tune, or laughing for no reason anyone could see?”
“I do,” Stepford admitted.
“And think how he is now. I swear he looked happier when we was slogging our way from one battlefield to another on the Peninsula than he does nowadays. Lord luv us, if he keeps trying to forget her by working himself to death the way he has these past three weeks, you and me will be seeing him into an early grave.”
Stepford frowned. “Well I certainly wouldn’t want that. He’s as fine a master as any man could want.”
“Then maybe you could say something to him as would bring him to his senses,” Albert said hopefully. “I would if I could, but I’m better at polishing boots than giving advice.”
“Me? Offer advice to his lordship as to how he should conduct his affairs?” A look of horror crossed Stepford’s lean face. “Heavens, no. I could never do that. It would be most unseemly.”
For a long, silent moment, he studied Albert thoughtfully. “I am not certain your assessment of this business with the two Miss Barringtons is accurate, Mr. Figgins. But since I have little or no knowledge of the female sex, or this confusing thing men call ‘love,’ I must take your word for the seemingly illogical dilemma in which his lordship finds himself at present.”
He paused, drew a deep breath and continued, “It so happens Mr. Doddsworth put me in possession of certain knowledge about a…a close relative of the earl ’s, whom he assured me was most concerned with his welfare. In fact, he gave me her direction in the Lake District and instructed me to write to her if ever I felt the earl should be in need of her counsel and support. I do believe this may be one of those occasions.”
“The Lake District?” Albert shook his head. “That won’t do at all, Mr. Stepford. The wedding will be over and done with by the time this relative, whoever she may be, can find a way to give the earl the talking-to he needs.”
The Madcap Masquerade Page 22
