About an Earl (What Happens in the Ballroom)

by Diana Lloyd

  “I should have thought of it; that’s how Oliver and I made our way through my uncle’s house without being spotted. Well, not at first.” Taking up a place farther down the inside wall, Jewel felt around the woodwork for a hidden door latch. A frisson of excitement coursed up her arm as she pressed a raised fleur-de-lis flourish and heard the telltale snick of a latch giving way. “I think I found it.”

  “We going in?” Elvy grabbed a lit candle from the fireplace mantel and hesitated impatiently. “I’ll go alone if you’re askeert.”

  “I’m not afraid.” The door pushed silently inward, revealing a narrow hallway. “If found, I’ll just claim we became lost. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “Prolly best not to ask that.” Elvy raised the candle high and led the way. “Close the door behind you but mind where the latch is so we can return this way.” Once safely inside the walls, Elvy held a finger to her lips.

  The reason for their silence soon became clear. As they tiptoed down the narrow walkway, the sound of men’s voices led them to their destination. Following Elvy’s lead by pressing her ear against the wall, Jewel waited and listened for the visitors’ purpose to reveal itself.

  “This should have been brought to my attention when I answered the summons and paid the writ.” Oliver’s voice carried through the wall. He didn’t sound pleased. One of the other gentlemen had a voice so low and deeply pitched that it was hard to make out clearly. Whatever he said, it produced a cursing reply from Oliver. “Bollocks. This is an insult, a ruse of some sort. The Committee for Privileges is being used to abuse my good name. Who raised this ridiculous charge? Name him and I will have my satisfaction.”

  Jewel looked to Elvy with shock. A duel? Good heavens, what charge had been raised? Elvy nodded to show she’d heard as well, but there was no time to ponder as the third man in the room spoke up. “We’ll contact witnesses, of course, before we proceed with our inquiry. A request has been made, my lord, for you to be examined by a physician from Bethlem hospital.”

  “Bedlam!” Oliver roared in response, quickly followed by a loud thud that Jewel could only imagine was him pounding his fist on the desktop. “I’m not a lunatic. I’m a peer, the rightful male heir of my father, and I will not be denied my place because of those who find my face offensive. I find your presence in my home offensive, this challenge offensive, and—”

  Whatever more he might have had to say was cut off by the low-voiced man, whom Jewel now guessed to be Lord Sibley. Jewel brushed her hair back behind her ear and repositioned it against the wall.

  “…disheveled and ranting like a madman.” She was able to make out a few words. Oliver looked a fright because he’d been trying to help her. If only she could help him explain things. “…a bloodline corrupted by madness…duty to marry…the last of your line…” Oliver’s response consisted of a long chorus of colorful cursing. They’d accused him of being a madman, provoking him into anger to prove their point.

  “Witnesses have come forward, my lord.”

  “Witnesses to what?” Oliver’s voice roared out loud and clear.

  “They say you’ve the vision of a cat. Color is denied you in exchange for being able to see in the dark. It has been reported that you roam the grounds by night with your…familiar.”

  “My what?”

  “A winged figure, my lord. They say a pitch-black raven sits on your shoulder and whispers incantations into your ear.”

  “I am free to walk about my own property at any hour of the day I choose to do so.” Oliver’s voice grew louder, and Jewel imagined that he was now pacing the room as he spoke. “I am less likely to encounter anyone else while walking at night, and that has become my preference. As for the bird, that would be my pet parrot, Jones. He is neither black nor is he all that clever with words.”

  “And where is the bird now, my lord?”

  “In my brother’s care. I, we, had brought Jones to London with us, but I left the bird in Penry’s care as I had to rush off to attend to an important matter. Penry should return with Jones by tomorrow or the next day. Return then and you will see this charge for the foolish mistake that it is.”

  “And the nature of the business that snatched you from London so quickly?”

  “My cousin…” Oliver spoke slowly, drawing the words out as if even he had no idea what should come next. She had to do something.

  Elvy grabbed her arm and shook her head just as Jewel was about to knock upon the wall and crash into the room. Nodding her head toward the narrow passageway, Jewel followed along behind Elvy until another door led them out into the main hallway. From there they made their way to his office door.

  With a fortifying breath, Jewel opened the door latch and burst into Oliver’s office.

  Chapter Six

  What the hell? Apparently, there was to be no end to Oliver’s humiliation today. Bright-eyed and beautiful as ever, Jewel walked in with one of her perfect smiles upon her lips. She would now witness his greatest fear come to life. The scar he’d worn since boyhood was now wearing him. He was Lord Scar, and even the esteemed House of Lords would never allow him to forget it.

  “Have you shared our happy news with your friends?” Jewel closed the space between them and placed her hand on his arm. “I know we thought to wait, but I’m near bursting with happiness.”

  “Happiness.” He repeated the word dully, much as Jones might have done, as his brain stuttered over the meaning of her words. Both Sibley and Merrick politely rose from their seats as Jewel entered and were now staring at them with unmasked curiosity. If Jewel thought to play this game now, who was he to ruin her intent? “By all means, dear cousin, you should be the one to relate our good tidings.”

  “Oliver, I mean, Lord Winchcombe.” Jewel paused dramatically and smiled coyly at his unwelcome guests. No stage actor could have done as well as she was performing this evening. She even managed to coax a blush to her cheeks. “Has asked me to be his good wife, and I have accepted.”

  “My love.” Oliver forced the words out with what he hoped was the appropriate degree of warmth for such an occasion. If it was madness the committee was looking for, it may have just walked into the room. He’d play along while it served his purpose. Feigning a smile, he tried to appreciate the dark humor of it all. She must have overheard them. It was the only logical explanation for her sudden change of heart. He’d allow the ruse, but he knew better than to trust it. If he’d learned anything in his six and twenty years, it was that betrayal and heartbreak were never too far away.

  “This changes nothing,” Mr. Merrick squeaked out in a voice that held no conviction.

  “This changes everything.” Oliver let his retort hang in the air between them for a second. Jewel’s ruse shocked the men enough to turn the tide of power in the room. “I’ve paid my fee and collected my writ. I will take my place in the House of Lords. I will claim my countess and produce the future Earl of Winchcombe—and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.”

  “We must finish our investigation,” Lord Sibley chimed in. “Once begun it must be concluded. That’s the only way to get the objection dismissed from the records.”

  “Make it quick.” Oliver was not about to allow Lord Sibley to have the last word. “Round up your witnesses. It will be very interesting to see which of those cowards is willing to put their outrageous claims in writing. What is easy to gossip about in pubs is rarely sworn to in writing. Interview the damn bird for all I care. I have an estate and a fiancée to attend to.” He hadn’t intended it, but his hand sought out hers as he spoke, and she squeezed it tightly. That didn’t mean he trusted her. It didn’t.

  Lord Sibley and his secretary were persuaded to leave directly after supper. Oliver should have offered them the hospitality of his home for the night, but there were too many ways things could have gotten worse. Who knew what madness Jewel might blurt out next? And Elvy was
a wild card. How favorably would it appear that his future wife’s maid slept among the trees and had walked out of the forest only the day before? Who knew what nonsense would erupt from her mouth? The sight of her would give anyone pause.

  Oliver’s chin dropped to his chest. Dear God. He’d just judged the woman by her appearance. As if he wasn’t living proof of the callous unfairness of the practice. He was the worst sort of hypocrite.

  Back in his office, he walked to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. He didn’t often partake of distilled spirits, but he should at least toast his own betrothal. It was likely to be the only one he’d have. The first sip warmed his tongue and slid down his throat. Swirling the amber liquid in the glass, Oliver held it up to the candle as he’d seen his father do a hundred times before.

  He couldn’t remember a time when his father hadn’t been addicted to the stuff. Penry wouldn’t even touch it, but Oliver had tried to determine what his father had found so attractive at the bottom of a bottle. Try as he might over the years, he could never figure it out. Too little had no effect at all, and the drink might easily be replaced with a liquid more sweet, tasty, and refreshing. Too much, however, dulled the brain and thickened the tongue. It not only made the bed spin at night, it caused the sun to shine too brightly the next morning.

  Oliver took another sip and dashed the remaining liquid into the fireplace. He was not his father. No bottle would hold dominion over him. He’d claimed the title, now he had to prove that the Earl of Winchcombe was more than just Lord Scar, the lunatic son of a drunken wastrel.

  The estate still had a long way to go before it was truly profitable again. His father’s other vice, games of chance, had dictated an elaborate bookkeeping scheme of shuffling money from one account into another as rents came in and bills came due. His father had never wanted Oliver to know how much of the estate’s money was devoted to his gambling, so he’d been hiding things. Trouble was, in his often-inebriated state, he’d forgotten where he’d hidden them.

  For the first time since his father’s death, Oliver emptied all the drawers, pried open every lockbox, cleared shelves, and began assembling stacks of paper. No more cluttered, shabby office, no more false ledgers. It was time to banish every trace of his father’s weaknesses. Bills, deeds, letters—they all were placed in their own pile. One by one, scraps of paper fluttered out of their hiding places. Markers, IOU declarations, and promissory notes, all written in his father’s shaky hand, dozens of them.

  Remembering another one of his father’s peculiar habits, Oliver pulled a few books from the shelf and fanned out the pages. Sure enough, more scraps of paper were soon added to the pile. God only knew where his father would hide things when he was applejacked. No sober man could make sense of it. Curious, Oliver looked through a few of the scraps. Ten pounds, fifty, and a few more for larger amounts. Head shaking, he tossed them one by one onto the desktop after a mental tally of the amounts.

  The next, on the tips of his fingers before being committed to the pile, caught his attention. Three thousand pounds. Owed. Dammit. The drunken old fool had kept receipts of his markers owed as well. Lot of bloody good it did to hide them away here. Oliver quickly sorted the remaining pile into debts owed and amounts due. A few canceled each other out but it was clear his sire owed nearly twice as much as he was due. Death overruled all debts. He should just burn them all to ash.

  But not tonight. Penry should have a look at them. His brother studied law, so he might just have a useful opinion on the matter. If truly worthless, he’d use them to line Jones’s cage. The thought made him smile. Jones could nibble the useless things to bits and then shit on the last reminder of their father’s perfidy.

  Leaving the tidy piles of paperwork behind, Oliver snatched up the candle and made his way up the stairs and down the hall to his bedchamber. There was no light from under Jewel’s door. He wasn’t even sure why he checked. He had no words for her tonight. Maybe he just wanted their fake engagement to last a little while longer. He could use the excuse of a broken engagement as a crutch for years. Everyone would understand. They’d take one look at him, nod their heads, and think it was no damn wonder he got thrown over.

  Was it better to have their pity or their fear?

  Neither, if he had to choose, but it was never up to him. Unlike the village beggar, he could hardly wear a badge that said he could display his scar in any area he chose without fear of persecution. Closing the door to his room behind him, Oliver leaned his forehead against the cool wood. Jewel was making him crazy, and this was not a convenient time to be crazy.

  She’d be sitting across from him at the breakfast table tomorrow morning. He had until then to figure out how to be charming, suave, and convincing. Pushing himself away from the door, he stripped off his clothes and made ready for bed. Clean sheets and a familiar mattress surrounded him with comfort. He was exhausted, which meant he should sleep well.

  Except there was one part of his body that wasn’t yet ready for sleep.

  Closing his eyes, he scrubbed his hands over his face.

  Down, boy. Sleep. SLEEP.

  Damned inconvenient time for a cock-stand. Jewel was probably already asleep. Snuggled up in a bed just down the hall. Did she sleep naked when the nights were warm? Thoughts like that were not going to help matters. Rolling over, Oliver slammed his fist into the pillow. She had most likely fallen asleep without giving him a second thought.

  She’d probably crawled into bed, pulled the covers up to her chin, closed her eyes, and fallen sound asleep. He hoped the sheets were soft against her skin.

  Dammit.

  There was no use denying his need. He’d surrendered to the base impulse years ago. It had gotten him through many long, lonely nights. Settling himself more comfortably on the mattress, Oliver slid one hand down to his erection.

  He shouldn’t think of Jewel while doing such a thing. It was somehow wrong to borrow her beauty for such a coarse act. He would instead imagine the face of one of the anonymous dairy maids from a painting of the countryside that hung in the library. It was a face he’d borrowed often enough over the years. Spreading his legs a little wider, Oliver reached down with his left hand to cradle his aching balls, closing his right around his cock. Anticipation of sexual relief flooded his senses with the first stroke.

  Make it last, he chastised himself. Tightening his grip, he forced himself to pump slowly. But his body didn’t want slow this evening. His hips wanted to thrust against something. Someone. Try as he might, the milkmaid kept transforming into Jewel. Red hair morphed into brown, blue eyes darkened to amber, until it was Jewel’s face staring back at him, watching him debase himself. But she didn’t turn away in disgust, she smiled.

  It was that damn perfect smile that put him over the edge. He had to bite his lip to keep from shouting out her name in the last few seconds before le petite mort. He would not further embarrass himself by calling out her name into an empty room. On the next stroke his muscles tensed and his balls lifted, tightening up close to his body. His orgasm hit him hard, raising his hips from the mattress as he pushed himself into the final stroke with his ejaculation.

  Had he called out? Made a noise that would rouse a servant? He might have squawked out like Jones for all he could recall of the last few seconds. Lethargic with satisfaction, he couldn’t help but smile, even as he listened for approaching footsteps that might find him out in his greatest shame.

  Throwing the blankets aside, he let the cool night air dry the sweat from his body. Before he surrendered to sleep, he pulled the soiled sheet aside, wound it into a ball and dropped it on the floor. He’d bathe in the morning and mix the sheet in with the damp towels.

  At least his laundrymaids were discreet. They were probably the best paid washwomen in the county. Oliver smiled into the darkness again. Worth every penny.

  “Dobbs,” Oliver sat up in bed and addressed his valet. “Set u
p the drip bath in my bathing chamber and direct some of the other staff to carry the bathing tub into Miss Latham’s room. Then tell the kitchen staff to start heating water.”

  “Of course, my lord. Shall I bring a breakfast tray?”

  “No, I’ll take breakfast in the morning room. Have the maid Sally inform Miss Latham’s maid that it would please me to have Miss Latham’s company for breakfast.” Rather than frightening the female staff, who mistook his grimace for perpetual displeasure, Oliver had gotten into the habit of having his valet or butler relay his directions to the rest of the staff. The fewer people he had to interact with personally, the better things ran.

  “Absolutely, sir.” Dobbs had been with the household many years, but even he couldn’t keep the concern from his voice.

  “What?” Oliver grabbed his dressing gown and covered himself before making his way to his writing desk. “Something’s on your mind, Dobbs, spit it out.”

  “I heard the most remarkable thing, my lord, and I am, well, I was hoping you might confirm it as fact.”

  “Depends on what you’ve heard. This doesn’t have anything to do with Jones, does it?” If that particular rumor was already being widely circulated, it might take longer than he wanted to convince everyone of his sanity.

  “Jones the parrot, sir? No, my lord. I believe I heard you were to be married.”

  “Oh, that.” He’d forgotten about the servants. Everything had happened so quickly yesterday. Might as well announce the news as if it were real. There was merit in making it sound convincing until the complaint in the House of Lords was dismissed. “Yes. Miss Latham and I are betrothed. She’ll be staying here until the ceremony. Please make the staff aware that she should be offered every comfort this house can provide.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, I thought her name was Miss Soules.”

  “Latham-Soules, with a hyphen. Two names. It’s perfectly normal.” Shit. He’d already forgotten his own falsehood. “She will soon enough be Lady Winchcombe.”