Good Earls Don't Lie

by Michelle Willingham

  The boy’s resentful words were spoken as if he wanted Rose to be aghast at his misfortune. Mr. Donovan only laughed at the boy and said, “Hardly. But if you don’t bring back everything in the morning, I might consider it.”

  He winked at Rose, and the harmless teasing unnerved her in a way she didn’t understand. Even if, God help her, he was an earl, he would never spend this much time flirting with a woman like her.

  Unless he desired her fortune.

  Yes, that was undoubtedly the reason. He hardly knew her at all, and she couldn’t even walk. She decided to ignore his flirting, for it meant nothing.

  They continued riding down the dirt road, and she grew quiet, savoring the evening light. The sky was transforming from a soft blue into a darker indigo. Upon the horizon, the setting sun gleamed its golden rays.

  Beauregard looked as if he wanted to ride on ahead of them, but Mr. Donovan kept him close, holding the reins of his horse.

  “I can go home on my own,” the young man asserted. “I know the way.”

  “Children should be seen and not heard,” was Iain Donovan’s answer. Rose had to hide her smile at Beauregard’s indignant glare.

  “I’m not a child.”

  “Aye, you are. Only a child bent on mischief would be stealing a man’s shirt and coat. Unless you believe yourself to be a man, in which case I’d have to bring you to the authorities for a more appropriate punishment.”

  Rose glanced back at Iain, wondering if he truly meant it. But she spied the amusement in his eyes.

  “Go and ride alongside Calvert,” he bade the young man. “But don’t try to flee home without us, else I will drag you back.”

  For a fleeting moment, Beauregard looked uncertain of whether to accept the freedom. But he took advantage of the offer, guiding his mount back to ride alongside the footman. It gave Rose and Iain a slight measure of privacy to their conversation.

  “Calvert, if the lad attempts to ride home on his own, bring him back to me,” the Irishman ordered. The footman only shook his head and muttered.

  “He’s not very cooperative, is he?” Mr. Donovan said. “What about you, Lady Rose? If the boy attempts to flee, will you help me hunt him down?”

  She started to argue, but then realized it was all in fun. With a serious nod, she said, “I shall send my mother’s wolves after him.”

  A wide, appreciative smile slid over his face. “A fine idea, to be sure.”

  Though there was an easy tone to his voice, offering friendship, his eyes were watching her with interest. Her cheeks warmed, and she tried to pay it no mind. To shift his attention, she asked, “Where do you live in Ireland, Mr. Donovan?”

  “In the west, not far from Connemara. There are mountains there, and green meadows so beautiful, they would break your heart.” His expression held love, but there was also a trace of tension in his tone.

  “I’ve heard stories about the famine,” she said. “So many have left. Is it as bad as they say?”

  His face grew somber, and his eyes remained fixed upon the road. An invisible shadow seemed to pass over him, and his tone darkened. “Worse than anyone could ever imagine.”

  “I’m sorry.” She had heard about the hundreds of thousands of men and women leaving their homes. The workhouses were filled with the poor, and many Irish had sought work in textile mills and factories. Even then, there were not enough positions.

  “There’s hardly any food left in Ireland,” he continued. “No one has money to buy anything. My mother and sisters went to New York to stay with family, while I came here.”

  “Will you join them there?”

  He shook his head. “I made a promise to take care of the tenants at Ashton. I must return to them by the end of summer.”

  So he still maintained he was an earl. While it was indeed possible that he could possess a title, she didn’t quite believe him. Instead, she kept the conversation centered on what she knew to be true. “Did you lose your crops?”

  He fixed his gaze upon the road, expression grim. “The blight struck us hard, and a great deal of the land is wasted now. But we will bring back supplies and replant the fields.”

  “We?” Was there someone else who had come with him?

  “My wife and I.” He cast his gaze upon her again, and this time, she was the one who was surprised. Perhaps she’d been mistaken in thinking he had come to England in search of a wife.

  “So . . . you’re already married, then?” The thought seemed impossible, especially given the way he had been staring at her.

  “Not yet. But if you’re offering, a chara, I’d be glad to accept.” He sent her a teasing smile, and it seemed that his mood had shifted from the earlier melancholy.

  She sent him a wry look. “I was hardly proposing marriage, Mr. Donovan.” She wasn’t so desperate as that. “Besides, I already have a gentleman suitor.”

  “Have you?” His face brightened. “I cannot say I’m surprised to hear it. Any man would be honored to wed a cailín as fair as you.”

  Although his words were kind, she wasn’t interested in idle flirting. “Yes, well. You can turn your interests somewhere else.”

  “Is he here, then? Your betrothed husband?”

  “No, he’s in London.”

  “I can’t believe that’s wise. Leaving a beautiful woman such as yourself at the mercy of the local swains. You might change your mind about marrying him.”

  She didn’t bother to correct him, that Lord Burkham had not yet asked for her hand in marriage. It might be true enough one day soon. She wasn’t going to fall prey to meaningless compliments when there were far more serious matters at hand.

  “So you intend to find a bride with the help of my grandmother, is that it?” She wondered what sort of woman he hoped to woo. It wasn’t going to be easy, for few women would marry a man who wanted her for nothing but money. Only someone quite desperate. Ireland lay in ruins, and it was unlikely that any woman would want to live there.

  “Indeed. Unless you change your mind, that is.” He reached out and took her gloved hand. His touch lingered upon her, warming the kidskin glove. When he stared into her eyes, she had a sudden rash thought that he was about to kiss her. Right here, in front of her footman and Beauregard.

  “Keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Donovan. Or I shall be forced to whack you with a parasol.”

  “Or a rake,” he suggested cheerfully. He winked at her, and she relaxed when she realized that he was only teasing her.

  “I could be quite lethal with gardening tools. You don’t want to imagine what I would do with a pair of shears.”

  He winced and made a face. “You terrify me.”

  Her smile widened. “You should be scared. I can be quite fierce when provoked.”

  “I can easily believe that.” His green eyes locked upon hers. “You are a strong woman, Lady Rose. You would tell everyone to go and kiss the devil’s backside before you’d turn away from your family or those who need you. Am I wrong?”

  Rose blinked a moment at his assumption. No, he wasn’t wrong that she would fight to the death to protect her loved ones. “It’s true that I will always stand by my family.” She straightened in the saddle and regarded him. Though she didn’t know why she was telling him this, she felt the need to insist, “But more than that, I also intend to walk again.”

  He studied her for a moment as if he wanted to ask questions. But he simply gave a nod of acceptance. “You will.”

  His quiet confidence should have reassured her. But instead, she found herself confessing to him, “I am well aware that no man wishes to marry a woman who cannot walk. I’ve been trying for months, but no matter how hard I try, I fall. Every time. I just . . . don’t know how long it will take for me to rebuild my strength.”

  “All you can do is get up and try again,” he said. “If you want something badly enough, you won’t give up.”

  She turned to look at him, and when she met his gaze, she saw a challenge there. “You’re right. I su
ppose I have to keep trying—no matter how long it takes.”

  Chapter Three

  After they had returned a scowling Master Beauregard to his home, Iain escorted Lady Rose back toward Penford. The boy had been correct that his father was not in residence. Iain learned from Lady Rose that Beau’s mother had died four years ago, and Beau had been a hellion ever since.

  Although the boy had paid the price for his thievery, Iain wasn’t satisfied. He wanted the rest of his belongings returned to him—but that likely meant tracking down the other boy.

  Lady Rose had grown quiet and had slowed her pace, taking a moment to look across the land.

  “You should ride every day,” Iain suggested. The freedom would do her a world of good. He couldn’t imagine being bound by the whims of others.

  “My sister is afraid I will fall and hurt myself even more.” She glanced behind her at Calvert. The older footman had a resigned expression upon his face, and he looked displeased at this short outing.

  “It is a risk, aye. But I’d say it’s a sight better to be away from Penford and go where you’re wanting to. You could take a groom with you instead of the dour Calvert.”

  She sent him a sidelong look. “Like yourself, were you suggesting?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not a groom, but if you’re wanting me to ride with you, I could indeed keep you safe.” Though he knew she would need a chaperone in that event.

  “I do not require anything from you, Mr. Donovan,” she said.

  “Lord Ashton,” he corrected. Though she persisted in believing he was a liar and a beggar, he thought it better to correct her. It didn’t matter that he bore little resemblance to an earl, given his bedraggled appearance. And it didn’t matter that his mother had refused to have anything to do with him, wanting to hide him away from the world. He was her youngest son, and the heir to the estate.

  Lady Rose’s sigh made it clear that she still didn’t believe him. So be it. He would not spend needless time trying to convince her. The truth would speak for itself.

  When they reached Penford, Iain drew his horse to a stop and took her reins. “Shall I help you down?”

  “Leave her be,” came Calvert’s annoyed reply. “I know my duties well enough, and you can let Lady Rose alone.”

  Iain inclined his head and then asked, “Should I be bedding down in the stable this night, Lady Rose?” The thought wasn’t at all welcome, but at this late hour, it was better than seeking shelter from strangers in the village.

  He cast one last look at the road, in the unlikely event that his long-lost servants returned. But there was no sign of anyone. In the morning, he would have to travel back to the place where the axle had broken on his coach. At least then, he would have answers.

  A flash of something came over Lady Rose’s face, but he couldn’t tell what it was. Calvert had stepped between them to lift her from the horse. “Don’t be troubling the lady over things that don’t matter to her. Be on your way and find your own place in the village.”

  But Lady Rose paused a moment, lifting her hand. “It does matter, I suppose.” She eyed him closely, as if wondering about the truth of his identity. “We do have enough room among the servants to accommodate one more.”

  Calvert looked horrified at the prospect. “My lady, you cannot be serious. We know nothing about this man.”

  “You could lock him within one of the rooms,” she suggested, and Iain spied a hint of amusement in her voice. “Or you could sleep outside his door with a loaded revolver if that would make you feel better.”

  Her footman appeared unaware that she was teasing, and seemed to be considering the idea. As for himself, Iain was willing to sleep anywhere that wasn’t tainted with the odor of manure.

  Her decision made, Lady Rose continued, “Tell Mrs. Marlock to find a place for Mr. Donovan in one of the garrets. He need not sleep among the horses.”

  The footman grimaced and promised to speak with the housekeeper. But the look he sent toward Iain suggested that he would rather have him bide with the pigs.

  “Do you believe me, then?” Iain asked Lady Rose, before Calvert could take her away.

  She held his gaze for a long moment. “I don’t know what to believe.” Then, in a softer voice, she admitted, “But I think there is more to you than the others see. I hope that my instincts are not wrong in this.”

  As she left with her footman, it humbled him to realize that it was the first time that anyone had put faith in him. And he found himself wanting to prove her right.

  After nearly an hour, Mrs. Marlock led him up to one of the garrets, far away from the household. She’d also warned that she intended to lock the door behind him. “So ye won’t get it in yer head to come and rob us blind whilst we sleep.”

  It reminded him of a twisted fairytale, one with the earl locked in the tower. All he needed now was a princess to come and rescue him.

  To be sure, it had been the most trying day he’d ever had. Iain had attempted to keep his irritation under control—for his hosts were wary enough of him as it was—but now that he had a moment to consider his circumstances, he could no longer deny his frustration. Nothing had gone as planned, curse his damned servants and Niall. Without a coach and a traveling staff, there was little he could do about it.

  And now what? Lady Wolcroft was not in residence, and his letter of introduction was missing, along with his signet ring. The others might have believed his story, if Lady Wolcroft had alerted them of his impending arrival. As it was, no one thought of him as anything other than a well-spoken beggar.

  Iain lit a candle stub and studied his surroundings. It was a far cry from his estate at Ashton. His father’s house boasted twenty-seven rooms, and his own bedchamber had an enormous mahogany bed.

  This bed was currently occupied by a cat who did not look eager to surrender his place. The feline yawned, stretched, and sharpened his claws upon the bedding. So be it. It would only be for this night, possibly one more, at worst. And it was a far cry better than the stables.

  Iain removed his coat and shirt, then sat down beside the cat to remove the shoes Mrs. Marlock had loaned him. Although he had washed in the trough, he rather missed the simple necessities of soap and warm water. But she had given him another crust of bread with a bit of cheese for his supper.

  After he’d eaten, the cat crawled on his lap. Iain rubbed the feline’s ears for a moment, and the sound of low purring filled up the empty space of the room. There was no fire lit in the hearth, but the room was warm, if a bit dusty. Iain guessed he could cross the room in three long paces. The candlelight cast shadows against the wall, and he saw a stack of old paintings on the other side of the room, half-covered by a white cloth. The remaining contents of the tiny room were brooms and tin buckets.

  Iain stripped off his shirt, and he leaned back on the narrow cot. He tried to think of how he could prove his identity. Either he had to find out which of the boys had stolen his ring or he had to rely on Lady Wolcroft to help him. He needed to question Beauregard once again. He’d tried earlier, in the stable, but the lad had refused to speak at all. In time, Iain intended to get back everything that had been stolen.

  He lay awake, trying to hold back the darker memories of famine. After the first failed crop of potatoes, he had quietly begun hoarding food for his family and the tenants. Careful rations had helped them to survive, but they needed more.

  He tried to envision Ashton with green fields and prosperity, refusing to dwell upon the past—only the means of atoning for it. And he had promised Michael that he would see it done.

  His mother, in contrast, had fled Ireland, claiming she would never return. She didn’t believe for a moment that Iain would succeed, and he suspected she would spend her energy trying to wed her daughters to American millionaires. He hadn’t spoken to her in half a year, and rather doubted he would see her again. She loathed the sight of him, and he’d never really understood why. Michael had been the golden saint who could do no wrong—whereas Ia
in had been the black-hearted sinner.

  His mother would find it fitting that he’d fallen into the ranks of the servants in this place. But not for long. He was rather looking forward to seeing Lady Rose’s reaction when she learned that he truly was an earl.

  He did find her entertaining, and he’d enjoyed her company on the ride. After they had brought Beauregard home, Lady Rose had drawn her horse into a slow walk, taking the time to enjoy the night moments.

  It occurred to him that this was her only means of moving about. He hadn’t seen a Bath chair anywhere and wondered why she chose to rely on servants to carry her. Earlier, in the garden, she’d attempted to stand and failed. Was she avoiding the chair because she did not wish to feel imprisoned by it?

  Though he had been partly teasing when he’d suggested that they wed, it wasn’t entirely out of the question. Lady Rose intrigued him. She was lovely of face, and he also liked her wit. But then, if she was already spoken for, he would respect her wishes. It was entirely possible that they could become allies and help one another, however.

  He let his mind turn over the idea as he lay back on the thin mattress and listened to the sounds of the old house. Outside his door, he heard a slight sound of someone walking up the stairs. He tensed, waiting for a knock.

  When none came, he got up and walked to the door. “Who’s there?”

  Again, nothing.

  He didn’t bother to put on his shirt, but pushed on the door handle and was surprised to find that it opened easily. Mrs. Marlock had put the key inside, but either she’d neglected to lock it, or she’d only pretended to do so.

  Iain pushed it open softly and saw a figure dressed in gray, walking down the narrow staircase. Quietly, he shadowed the person, keeping his footsteps light. It soon became evident that Lady Penford was walking in her sleep.

  “Are you all right, Lady Penford?” he asked softly, hoping to gain her attention. She swayed a little, but did not appear to hear him. Slowly, she continued walking toward the second-floor landing. There was a balustrade at the end and the staircase continued down. She lifted one leg up, attempting to climb over the railing.