by Cheryl Holt
One fact was certain. He was flirting with her, confiding information that no one—not even Angela—appeared to know. Did Eddie dare hope he’d noticed her? Dare she hope he was a bit enticed?
“The moon will be up tonight,” she slyly said, “and I’ll probably take a walk after supper.”
“Will you?”
“Yes, and I’ll be by myself. I like to sit on a bench, behind the second row of hedges. It’s very dark there, very quiet and secluded.”
It was the most brazen remark she’d ever uttered, but she had to put herself forward in a bold manner. She studied his eyes to be sure he’d received her message, and his grin widened to a full-on smile.
“I occasionally walk after supper too. I just might join you, if that would be all right.”
“It would be perfect,” she gushed. “You won’t be busy with Angela?”
“No. Now you get out of here so we’re not caught together.”
It was much the same comment he’d made to Angela when he’d shooed her out, but Eddie didn’t care. She felt as if she was floating on air, as if all the blessings in the universe had suddenly been bestowed on her.
She went to the door, peeked out, and stepped into the hall.
He was standing in the middle of the room, a beam of sunlight wafting in, so he shimmered as if spun from gold, his blond hair seeming to have a halo around it.
“Until tonight then,” she whispered.
She was on tenterhooks, eager for a sweet reply, but he simply said, “Go, before someone sees you.”
She dipped a quick curtsy and hurried off, wondering how she’d endure the tedious hours to supper and beyond.
* * * *
Evangeline loafed on the seat of the curricle, gazing out at the woods and the pretty lane. She’d been visiting and was on her way back to Fox Run. Her husband, Aaron, wouldn’t arrive for another week, and she was getting the house opened up, getting invitations sent for their party, getting the food and other amenities arranged.
She was new to being a wife, to being rich, to being a viscountess. She’d never imagined herself having charge of a grand property, had never imagined planning and hosting such a huge event. Luckily, their housekeeper and butler were guiding her decisions.
She was traveling by the gate to the nearby Greystone estate, and she recollected the housekeeper’s mention of a scandal, that other neighbors might be offended if the owners were invited to the gala. Evangeline hadn’t learned the details, but she supposed—without knowing the facts—she’d probably include them.
She’d spent much of her life mistreated by the headmistress at the school where she’d boarded as a girl, and she hated to think of a person being denigrated. It went against her grain as a happy, friendly individual. She liked everyone to get along.
With her mind so preoccupied, she didn’t immediately notice a man coming toward her on horseback. Her driver eased her vehicle to the side, and as the rider passed, he nodded and she glanced at him and waved.
Then, as recognition dawned, she whipped about and called to him. “Michael!” Her brother didn’t stop, and she called more loudly, “Michael! What are you doing here?”
Her driver halted, and the rider—having heard her summons—had reined in too. He pulled his horse around and approached until he was next to her.
“Michael,” she said, “are you looking for me? Is everything all right at Cliffside?”
The rider frowned. “You have me at a disadvantage, ma’am, and I believe you have me confused with someone else.”
“Michael!” she said again. “This isn’t funny. Are you having an…episode? Are you dreaming?”
“No, ma’am. I’m quite conscious, and I’m sure we’ve never met.”
Her mouth agape, she gawked, bewildered. He was the spitting image of her brother, Michael. There was not a single iota of difference.
He had black hair, worn long in the same sort of ponytail Michael preferred. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow. He was seated on his horse, but she was certain—had he been standing—his height would have measured precisely six feet, just as Michael was six feet tall. But it was his eyes, those very blue Blair eyes that had to indicate he was a close relative.
He claimed not to be Michael, so who on Earth was he? They had to be kin.
“I’m Evangeline Drake,” she told him. “My husband is Aaron Drake, Lord Run.”
“Your property is up the road.”
“Yes, I’m headed home. Ah…pardon me for staring, but you look exactly like my brother, Michael.”
He smiled, the quirk at the corner of his lips another absolutely precise feature. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I mean to say you look exactly like him.” She was positive she sounded deranged. “I mistook you for him.”
“Having made your acquaintance,” he gallantly replied, “I wish I could declare a connection, but I’m afraid I can’t.”
He was mounted on a fine stallion, his clothes well tailored and expensive: tan breeches, knee-high boots, a flowing white shirt. He had a large knife strapped to his waist, but the weapon didn’t concern her. He exuded no menace, but even so, there was an air of authority about him that matched Michael too.
When Michael walked through a crowd, he radiated such an aura of strength and danger that people nervously moved out of his path. She was convinced, should she see this stranger stroll into a room, people would sense his powerful character and react the same way.
“Do you live in the area, Mr…?”
She paused, giving him a chance to introduce himself, and he obliged her.
“I’m…ah…Rafe Harlow. I’m staying at Greystone Abbey with my younger brother.”
For an instant, she was tongue-tied, wanting to behave politely and invite him and his brother to Fox Run for supper, or perhaps to the party, but the story of scandal, imparted by her housekeeper, hovered on the horizon. On the spur of the moment, she couldn’t decide what was best.
She was so new to her role as viscountess. She’d hate to make a terrible misstep that would embarrass her husband and have the entire neighborhood gossiping.
“I haven’t met the Merricks yet,” she said. “Are you a relative or a guest?”
“A…guest.”
His responses were extremely odd, uttered with a slight hesitation, as if he wasn’t sure of himself or his spot in the world. Well, she couldn’t fault him for that. Hadn’t she always felt much the same in her life?
“I must ask you—please don’t deem me impertinent—but my maiden name is Blair. With those blue eyes of yours, I have to inquire if you’re related to the Blair family.”
It was there, then gone in a flash, and if she hadn’t been watching him so closely, she wouldn’t have seen it. At her mentioning the name Blair, he blanched with shock, but he quickly masked it, and he blandly stared, his blue eyes an exact copy of her own. Of Michael’s. Of Bryce’s.
“We couldn’t possibly be related, Lady Run,” he quietly said, but he was studying her so keenly.
“How about your surname of Harlow? By any chance, are you kin to the dashing and brave Captain Harlow who’s being feted in London?”
“Dashing and brave, is he?” He chuckled. “I’m not related to him either.”
She was puzzled and confused, as if there was mischief afoot she didn’t quite grasp. She had the strangest sense that if she posed her questions in the right way, she’d learn the answers she sought, but with him denying a bond, she could hardly call him a liar.
Still though, she couldn’t let it go, and she asked him, “Do you ever have peculiar dreams?”
“Everyone has peculiar dreams, Lady Run.”
“Yes, but these are different. Have you ever dreamed about a little boy who’s just like you? He could be your twin. Can you read his mind and hear his thoughts?”
That expression of shock occurred again, but he swiftly concealed it and laughed. “You must think me touched in the head.”
&nb
sp; “I’m sorry.” She laughed too. “I’m acting like an idiot, but I’m not usually so crass or so rude. Please forgive me.”
“Of course and you weren’t crass or rude. I shall spend several hours wondering what the devil you were trying to say.”
“As I’m not sure myself, I’m certain you’ll never figure it out.”
She smiled her most charming smile, the one that always had audiences clapping and cheering. He gaped at her, his own smile fading, and the moment grew awkward.
“I hope to see you again very soon,” she cordially said to ease over the tension.
“I’ll make it a point to call.”
“Come by, would you? And bring your brother. I’d like to introduce you to my husband.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
He whipped away and kicked his horse into a trot. She watched him depart, and as he was rounding the bend, he rose in the stirrups and glanced back at her. He grinned and gave her a perfect soldier’s salute, as if he’d been in the army for years.
She gasped, remembering Michael insisting Matthew was a soldier in the army, that he was at an estate in England. Could it be that he was practically next door? Would the universe arrange such a thrilling, bizarre conclusion? Had they been destined to cross paths?
She wouldn’t try to guess, but Mr. Rafe Harlow had some explaining to do.
The driver peered at her, and she motioned for him to continue on.
“Hurry, would you?” she said. “I have to get home and write a letter to my brother.”
Michael had to travel to Fox Run. Michael had to meet Mr. Harlow. Michael and Mr. Harlow had to stand side by side and gaze into each other’s eyes. Then—then!—they’d let Mr. Harlow decide if he wanted to claim no connection.
The man had secrets—of that fact Evangeline had no doubt. He hadn’t seemed inclined to share them with her. Would he share them with Michael? She intended to find out.
CHAPTER SIX
Matthew stood at the horse trough, a bucket of water in hand. His shirt off, his hair unbound, he dumped the contents over his heated skin.
It was a hot afternoon, and his head was pounding, his veins feeling as if they’d been scraped raw. He simply wanted to sit in a quiet spot and compose himself, but whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Lady Run smiling at him.
Blair… Are you related to the Blair family…
Matthew knew his surname was Blair, not Harlow. On the night of the fire, he’d been clutching a leather satchel, and it had contained several documents, one of them a birth certificate that listed his parents as Anne and Julian Blair. It was assumed they’d died in the inferno, and in the resulting chaos he’d ended up living with Mr. and Mrs. Harlow.
While efforts had been made to contact his relatives, they’d never been located. At least according to Mr. Harlow, but then the man had been a drunken, violent ass. Who could guess if he’d ever told the truth about anything?
Matthew had never fretted much over his deceased parents, about the possibility of his having cousins or aunties. He’d figured there weren’t any and had gone forward as the child Mrs. Harlow had hoped to have but hadn’t been able to conceive.
Later, Rafe had become his brother, with the scattered Harlow clan accepting Matthew as one of their own. After Mr. Harlow’s death, Rafe had inherited the man’s money and property in Yorkshire, and Matthew was Rafe’s guardian, most times seeming more Rafe’s father than his actual father had ever been.
But…the Blairs? Had he kin out there somewhere? If so, was Lady Run one of them? He was riveted by the prospect.
Those eyes of hers had rattled him as naught had in ages. He was back at Greystone, in the pasture behind the stables, but he had little memory of how he’d gotten home.
As he’d ridden away from Lady Run, the odd trance he occasionally experienced had swept over him, and he’d been in a stupor the whole way. The man who looked just like him had been talking in his mind, saying, Where are you, Matthew? I’m going to find you. You know that, don’t you?
Throughout Matthew’s life, he’d seen the man who could have been his twin. When he was younger he’d thought the other boy was his guardian angel, but as he’d grown older he’d presumed he had a touch of madness. He’d wondered about his parents, if they hadn’t been mad too. Or maybe lunacy had sprouted because of the difficulty of being the Harlows’ adopted son. Mr. Harlow had been a cruel fiend who’d believed in whipping children when they disobeyed him—and even when they didn’t.
Matthew had suffered his share of beatings. He’d been born with an aristocratic temperament, had been prone to sass and could never silently abide an injustice, which had often provoked Mr. Harlow to use his fists.
Matthew had tolerated the abuse, had never fought back—except with his sharp tongue—until the vicious oaf had started in on Rafe. Well, Mr. Harlow had been dealt with swiftly enough, and Matthew would never be sorry. Neither would Rafe.
But his years with Mr. Harlow had toughened Matthew, had made him a powerful, dangerous soldier. Nothing scared him, nothing worried him. Had it left him crazed too?
Who was Lady Run to Matthew? She’d been aware that he heard voices, that he had his peculiar dreams. How could she have known? The entire incident had left him grouchy and angry, and he hated to be disoriented.
Rafe blustered up, his youthful exuberance washing over Matthew, making him feel old and decrepit. Had he ever been that easy-going, that carefree? He was sure he hadn’t been. It wasn’t in his nature.
Rafe was grinning, full of himself—as if he had a secret—and with Rafe, it could involve any mischief. Matthew spent most of his time, keeping Rafe out of trouble, protecting him as Matthew had never been protected.
Unfortunately, Rafe was willful and opinionated, and he had too much money—inherited from his father—so Matthew had scant success telling him anything.
“Where have you been?” Rafe asked.
“Out touring the neighborhood.”
“Did you see any interesting sights?”
“No, but I met an aristocratic lady tooling along in her carriage.”
“You’re joking.”
“No. Her husband’s estate—Fox Run—is just up the road. She invited us to visit.”
“My, my, aren’t we coming up in the world.”
“Higher than I’d like,” Matthew grumbled.
“Guess what happened while you were away?”
“What?”
“Angela Merrick asked me to sneak up to her bedchamber tonight.”
“She asked you?”
“Yes. Flat out. No mistake.”
“You’re positive?”
“Trust me, I know a salacious proposition when I hear one. She was very direct.”
No matter how Matthew counseled and scolded, Rafe was the worst scoundrel. Women threw themselves at him, and he’d never seen a reason to decline what was offered. Luckily, he hadn’t yet landed himself into a jam that Matthew couldn’t fix.
Matthew’s head had been pounding, and now it thudded as if a hammer was being bashed inside it. He never should have started the silly game of letting Rafe pretend to be Captain Harlow. It had been a stupid idea.
“We’re done,” he said.
“With what?”
“With our changing places.”
“I was having so much fun being you. Must we stop?”
“Yes. Roland Merrick is coming to supper.”
“You ran him to ground?”
“He’s living in the gamekeeper’s cottage. We’ll gather the family after the meal and tell them who I really am.”
“Does this mean I can’t accept Angela’s invitation?”
“This definitely means you can’t, and when she discovers she’s been seducing the wrong man, she’s likely to throttle you. Better watch out.”
“I’m not afraid of a ninny like that,” Rafe scoffed. “What about Miss Edwards?”
“What about her?”
“She’s sweet on me.”
“Isn’t every female in the whole bloody kingdom?”
“She wants to walk with me after supper.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?” he pouted, as if he was still a child.
“Because she’s very pretty, and you’ll end up behaving precisely as you shouldn’t.”
“Spoilsport.”
“In this instance? Yes.”
Rafe snatched the bucket, dipped it in the trough, and poured the water over Matthew’s head. It was hot, and Matthew irritable. Normally he’d have taken Rafe to the dirt and delivered a sound pummeling, but he was too miserable to brawl.
“Go away, you little prick, before I beat the living daylights out of you.”
“As if you could,” Rafe boasted, but he skittered away, laughing and practically skipping as he hurried off.
“Don’t let me find out that you’ve been alone with Angela Merrick again,” Matthew called after him. Rafe didn’t reply, but waved to indicate he’d heard. “And you keep your hands off Miss Edwards.”
Rafe peeked back. “Just my hands? How about my other bodily parts?”
“Smart ass.”
Matthew picked up a rock and hurled it at him, but Rafe whipped around the corner of the barn, and the rock pinged off the wood.
Matthew tarried in the quiet of the yard, not wanting to go inside, but desperate to lie down and rest. The approaching evening would be awful.
Roland Merrick was a slimy cur—just as whiny and untrustworthy as Matthew had imagined he’d be—and Matthew needed to get him off the property as quickly as possible. Then there were Merrick’s female relatives to be dealt with, as well as the fact that Angela Merrick would learn Rafe’s identity. None of it would be pleasant.
What with Matthew being a soldier forever, he had enough fighting in his life. Greystone was supposed to be a haven, and he couldn’t abide all the drama his assuming ownership had created. If he’d understood how bad it would be, he’d have declined the gift, despite how Rafe had nagged for him to accept it.
He grabbed his shirt and used it as a towel, drying his face, his shoulders, arms, and chest. As he tugged it on, he turned and was surprised to see Clarissa Merrick at the edge of the garden, studying him with intense interest.
