Tempting the Earl

by Rachael Miles

  Walgrave settled onto the couch, stretching his long legs out across the opposite bolster. “No redeeming qualities?”

  “None whatsoever,” Capersby declared. “I’ve already subscribed to the author’s next book.”

  “Does this paragon of literary skill have a title?” Walgrave swirled his wine, watching it move against the glass.

  “The Deserted Wife,” the two men said in near unison.

  “Or? There must be an or. Perhaps the perils of virtue? or the reward of infamy.” The tightness in his lower back began to loosen. It had been too long since he’d relaxed like this.

  “The lap of luxury. The hounds of hell,” Capersby chimed in from the depth of his chair. “Subtitles are better when they alliterate.”

  “The louts of London. Present company included.” Palmersfield raised a challenging eyebrow. “The title is The Deserted Wife. Nothing more.”

  In mock umbrage, Capersby sat upright. “Duels! There must be duels. Palmersfield has called us louts. You, Parliament’s greatest orator. And me, London’s brightest legal mind.” With a flourish, he brought his hand to his chest, raising his chin in a mock theatrical pose. “Brighter even than Palmersfield.”

  “I’m sure your bright legal mind, even pickled as it is now, can recall when you’ve behaved as an ill-mannered clown,” Palmersfield scoffed.

  “I’m being one, even now.” Capersby grinned winningly, and Palmersfield shook his head with mock dismay.

  “Palmersfield, how did you come to pick up such a book?” Walgrave turned the conversation deftly in another direction. “Have you traded your dratted ornithology books for gothic novels?”

  “Capersby dared me to read it,” Palmersfield confessed.

  Walgrave raised one eyebrow. “But it must have included birds for you to finish it.”

  Palmersfield brushed back the wave of bronze hair that had fallen forward over his left eye. “Three, in fact—all birds of prey, tearing the flesh of the deserting husband. All quite accurate in the descriptions. I wonder if the anonymous lady author is one of us.”

  “One of us?”

  “A Cambridge man,” Capersby explained. “I know a dozen men who write novels under women’s names because women’s novels are priced higher and sell better. But the Latin epigraphs are exact—that’s not something a woman would do correctly.”

  “And the science is top-notch.” Palmersfield pulled out the loosened cork from a bottle of claret on the floor.

  “Top-notch science in a gothic novel.” Harrison watched Palmersfield pour another glass. “What’s this world coming to?”

  “It’s quite a good read.” Capersby waved his fingers for the bottle. “Jeffrey is right. There’s not a moral in it.”

  “Unless,” Palmersfield interjected, “you count the observation that women, like men, are capable of strategic revenge.”

  “Nothing new there.” Walgrave breathed in the aroma of the claret, then drank. “The wars taught us that, if we didn’t know it before.”

  “I’ll send the three volumes over tomorrow. You might even like it. Besides, you can’t be hopelessly out of fashion all the time.” Capersby passed Walgrave the half-empty bottle.

  “To avoid the sin of being out of fashion and with the recommendation of two such . . . discriminating . . . readers, I’ll read it between parliamentary reports.”

  “Or perhaps you could simply read it,” Palmersfield chided. “Take an afternoon. Get your terrible cook to make you some cakes, and read. Parliament will still be there when you finish, and you might find yourself refreshed. Lately when we see you . . .”

  “If we see you,” Capersby corrected.

  “If we see you, you look a cross between, well, cross and beleaguered.”

  “Yes, man, we’ve had to invade your study and wait for your return.” Capersby counted the empty bottles strewn around their chairs. “We’ve drunk four bottles.”

  Harrison emptied the remaining wine into his goblet. “Make that five.”

  “We even drank slowly,” Palmersfield said only half apologetically.

  The men grew silent, waiting for Harrison’s reply. He had been fast friends with Palmersfield and Capersby since Eton and before any of the three had attained a lordship. Palmersfield, a first son, had taken his father’s title shortly after Walgrave had gone to sea, while Capersby had been granted an extinct title for his war service.

  But recently Harrison’s secret work for the Home Office had consumed him. He told himself his sacrifice was necessary. Dangerous times required men of conviction and ability to be ever vigilant. He had even convinced himself that he was temperamentally better suited to the job than other men. Then a mission had failed, and that failure had almost cost a friend his life. Since then, he’d realized the unflattering truth: He served his country because he was restless. He wasn’t a country squire to dote on his prize hogs or write articles for the Agricultural Magazine on how to make pond mud into compost. The Home Office challenged his heart and mind, but for a healthful life, he had to find a middle path, one between boredom and danger, friendship and duty.

  He looked at his friends, sprawled unbecomingly in front of his fire. As distant as he had become, they had never deserted him. A deep affection warmed the center of his chest. “You are right: I have been a terrible companion. Though I cannot promise to amend my ways completely, I can at least try.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Capersby and Palmersfield both drained their glasses, and Palmersfield opened a sixth bottle of wine.

  Reform was clearly going to be expensive.

  “Speaking of sending things over . . . your butler placed a letter on your desk.” Palmersfield poured himself another goblet.

  “Is it urgent?” Walgrave looked at his desk without rising.

  “Urgent?” Palmersfield growled. “How would I know? I only open your mail when directed to do so.”

  “Walgrave merely wants to know if the letter can wait or if he must unfold that giant frame of his from the comfort of his couch.”

  “Yes, man, you could have told me before I settled in.” Walgrave rested against the cushions for another moment, the events of the day still heavy on his mind. “But I should retrieve it. Grant indicates what needs my immediate attention by the room he places it in. Things that can wait until tomorrow go to the office; things sent here . . . well, I must get up.” Walgrave pulled himself up from his comfortable recline and strode to the desk.

  “Always surprises me that a man of your height can move that smoothly. Reminds me of that line from Coleridge, something about ‘a thousand thousand, slimy things.’”

  “Funny, John.” He read the address. “Either of you know Traister, Belanger, and Bidwell, solicitors?”

  Palmersfield and Capersby grunted negatives.

  Harrison read silently. Still holding the letter, he returned to his couch and stared at the hearth.

  The logs cracked on the fire. One spilled over beyond the marble hearth, its embers burning the edge of the ornate wool carpet. Capersby jumped to intervene, using the brush and shovel to return the log to the fireplace.

  Harrison didn’t move.

  Finally Palmersfield broke the lengthening silence. “What is it? Good news or bad?”

  He examined the letter once more. “Apparently I’m being sued.”

  “For what?” Palmersfield and Capersby spoke in unison and with equal levels of outrage.

  Harrison looked back over the papers. “My dutiful wife desires a separation.” He picked up a favorite piece of polished tiger’s-eye from a bowl on the table and rubbed it between his fingers.

  At length Capersby pulled himself upright and leaned forward, facing Harrison. “I’ve told you to at least answer her letters. One a week, like clockwork, for six years. Any woman would grow tired of being so completely ignored.” Capersby spoke softly, as if Harrison might break with his words.

  “Yes, Walgrave, any woman could reasonably expect that an arranged marriage meant children.”
Palmersfield’s voice was gentle. “You’ve left her on that estate with no communication since your wedding.”

  “That’s not true. Each week we communicate about the estate accounts.”

  “Through your agent,” Capersby corrected.

  “You’d think you hated each other, as carefully as you buffer your communication,” Palmersfield observed.

  “I don’t hate her. I barely know her,” Harrison lied, not wanting to admit how he’d devoured her letters over the years—or how many nights he’d dreamt of her kisses. “I simply didn’t want her. I didn’t want to be married.”

  “As a result, you’re punishing your dead father by refusing to communicate with the woman he coerced you into marrying.” Capersby let the goblet hang loose between his fingers.

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “It is that simple,” Palmersfield objected. “If it weren’t that simple, then why haven’t you at least written her, or better yet visited that blasted estate of yours?”

  “My wife manages the estate quite well on her own, and I’ve left it to her. It’s been my gift, to make up for my absence. She gets to be mistress of all she surveys—at least to the edge of the property. And I haven’t abandoned her. When she wishes for my opinion, I’m certainly available to offer my advice.”

  “Through your agent . . .” Capersby refused to be mollified.

  Palmersfield leaned forward. “So be truthful, Harrison. When was the last time you visited your estate?”

  Harrison offered only a dark stare.

  Capersby answered, “Unless Walgrave’s been deceiving us, he hasn’t set foot on the place since he married.”

  The men grew silent again. After some time, Palmersfield spoke. “May I see the letter?”

  Harrison held out the pages, distracted by memories and long-buried emotions.

  “The documents appear to be in order. She’s asking for a small maintenance, a sum you can easily afford. But this is strange. I expected her to claim a sort of abandonment. But she offers no reasons to justify her request, other than a letter from a clergyman who indicates her reasons are sound and preclude a reconciliation.” Palmersfield scratched his forehead. “This could play poorly.”

  “What do you mean?” Harrison shook off the memories of Olivia’s deep eyes and full lips.

  “You have a bit of a reputation as a rake and a scoundrel.”

  “That’s from before the wars.”

  “True. But clergy are supposed to counsel, except in dire circumstances, that married persons remain married.” Palmersfield looked distant. “You didn’t beat her on your wedding night, did you?”

  In an instant, Harrison remembered his wife’s limbs pale against the bedclothes, her skin flushed with pleasure. He shook himself from memories he had long suppressed. “I believe the lady was quite satisfied with our wedding night.”

  “Actually, he could have beaten her on their wedding night and been within his rights,” Capersby observed. “Let me see it.”

  Palmersfield handed the letter to Capersby who, donning spectacles, tilted the page to the light of the fire to read.

  “Hmm. Who’s your solicitor?” Capersby asked absently.

  “Aldine at Leverill and Cort.”

  “Aldine’s a good man. If either of you had read to the second page, you’d see she doesn’t provide reasons because she isn’t asking for a separation or an annulment. She wishes to have the marriage declared invalid.” Capersby adjusted his spectacles.

  “How, since the marriage was consummated?”

  Palmersfield harrumphed. “You’ve likely consummated your relationship with your mistress more often than with your wife.”

  “I don’t have a mistress. Besides, which side are you on?”

  “I always thought you’d come to your senses about Olivia. Instead she’s come to hers.” Palmersfield ignored Harrison’s response.

  “I. Didn’t. Want. A. Wife.” Harrison enunciated each word with crisp clarity.

  “If Olivia’s right, you’ve never had one.” Capersby looked back at the second page.

  “But annulment . . .”

  “Not an annulment. Let’s see. She quotes a recent book on legal marriages: ‘If the parties neglect the forms required to be observed, the state of such persons does not form a matrimonial, but a “meretricious union.” In such cases the sentence of the Ecclesiastical Court does not dissolve the marriage, because no lawful marriage can have taken place. It merely declares the fact of marriage to be a nullity.’ Well, that seems straightforward.”

  “Straightforward?” Harrison’s brain felt thick, as resistant as a peat bog giving up its dead.

  “If she’s correct that the forms of the marriage weren’t legal, then she could have a case for it being declared a nullity.”

  “But it’s been more than six years.” Harrison tried to imagine never having been married. It was easier than thinking that Olivia didn’t want him. But whether she wanted him or not, what woman didn’t want to be a countess?

  “If I understand her claims, ‘neither time nor cohabitation’ will matter.” Capersby’s voice drifted into silence.

  Palmersfield harrumphed again at the word cohabitation. “She’s asking for a settlement and a declaration of nullity?”

  Capersby turned back to the papers. “Appears so.”

  “That’s only fair.” Palmersfield poured another drink. “She’ll be considered damaged goods on the marriage market. With money, at least, she can attract a husband from among the fortune hunters. It will be a juicy scandal.”

  Harrison’s stomach clenched at the thought of Olivia in another man’s bed. But he said nothing, merely let his friends debate his future as if he weren’t present.

  “Damn fine woman. Never understood why you didn’t want her.” Palmersfield leaned forward. “In fact, if the marriage is invalid . . . and if you are happy to be free of her, then perhaps I could court her. I have an estate of my own she could manage and . . .”

  Harrison looked up, his eyes cold. “How would you know she’s a fine woman, Palmersfield?”

  Palmersfield looked at the floor, and Capersby shifted in his chair. Guiltily.

  “What do I not know?” Harrison felt the muscles along his jaw tighten.

  “We thought the two of you would eventually reconcile.” Palmersfield held out his hands, palms up.

  “What did you do?” Harrison pushed as if he were interrogating a criminal.

  “You have to understand: Olivia is a lovely woman, charming, intelligent.” Palmersfield rubbed his forehead.

  “Don’t forget elegant. Not a woman in the ton has better bearing.” Capersby seemed to be enjoying the awkwardness of it all.

  Harrison noted their use of his wife’s first name and forced himself to appear calm, even though he felt like throttling them first and asking for explanations later. “You are discussing my wife as if you are old friends.”

  “Well, if truth be known . . .” Palmersfield paused and met eyes with Capersby.

  “I prefer the truth.” Harrison stared until they shifted uncomfortably in their comfortable chairs. His two oldest friends, men he had trusted with his life, fell silent. He felt gutted. “Gentlemen, I’m waiting for your explanation.”

  Capersby started first. “Olivia . . . I mean Lady Walgrave. . . in the past sometimes came to town. When we discovered it, we . . .”

  “Kept it from her husband.” Harrison was unwilling to offer any generosity to his two traitors.

  “No. I mean, yes. But it wasn’t like that.” Palmersfield turned red around the ears as he had when embarrassed as a boy.

  “Like what?” Harrison pushed.

  Capersby, always the less flappable, explained. “You were still on the Continent. Anyone would expect her to come to London occasionally. The best modistes are here. You can’t have expected her never to leave that blasted estate. You yourself took every opportunity to escape.”

  “Of course, you’re right.” Harrison fe
lt as if he was listening to the conversation from a long distance. He knew that it was reasonable for his wife to come to London, but it had never occurred to him that she had—or that she would without informing him. “I suppose I’ve always thought of her as a homebird, enjoying the quiet pleasures of rural life. She’s a good woman, the modest, practical sort of woman my father preferred for his wayward son.”

  Harrison ignored the glances his friends shared. As the clock chimed the hour, Harrison forced himself out of his chair. “As much as I would like to remain and discuss my failed marriage . . .”

  “Not a marriage, Walgrave.” Capersby waved one finger half-chidingly. “Never a marriage.”

  “Then my failed . . . I haven’t a word for it.”

  “No, it’s an unusual circumstance, to be sure.” Palmersfield poured himself more wine. “Your best strategy will be to trust your solicitor.”

  “Yes, Walgrave, this is your opportunity to be free, if you want to be.”

  Walgrave shook off the interruption, not knowing how he felt. The idea that Olivia was not his wife produced no pleasure and some unexpected pain. “As I was saying, gentlemen, I have plans for the theater tonight with Forster and his fiancée. I must take my leave of you to change.”

  Capersby lifted his glass. “We’ll be here when you return.”

  Chapter Four

  At precisely half-past the hour, Flute tucked his watch into his waistcoat pocket. Time to interrupt a meeting. Charters, Flute’s business partner, never met with any new clients unless Flute or one of their bodyguards was available to intervene in case the meeting turned bloody. It was one of the problems of doing business with criminals: No one could be trusted. Only last month, one of their clients had tried to murder another, though luckily Flute had intervened in time. He shook his head at the memory. Charters had said he wouldn’t have minded the murder, except that the client had intended to point the blame at their firm.