Why Earls Fall in Love

by Manda Collins

  Thinking back to those first awful days after the final battle, when Napoleon’s troops had met Wellington’s for the last time, Georgie knew that she’d had no choice in the matter. “There was no time, I’m afraid. But I am quite pleased to see you here now.”

  “And so am I,” Mary said with a warm smile. “No matter how understanding my sister and her family try to be, they never quite know just how much of a change it is to be back in England.”

  Georgie couldn’t help but agree. She’d encountered the same sorts of difficulties when she’d returned to England. Some evenings, despite what she told herself about needing fresh air, she still slept with the windows open. “So you’ve been living with them, then?”

  Mary nodded. “Melisande and her husband, Tom, were kind enough to offer me a home with them here in Bath. I do not need to tell you just how much of a change it is to live in a thriving city, do I?”

  Though Georgie knew that compared to its past days of glory, Bath was a shadow of its former self, for someone such as Mary whose whole life had been lived in the tight-knit community of the army, Bath must feel like a bustling metropolis.

  “No, you don’t,” she agreed with a smile. “I hope you are pleased with your situation. I know we all used to daydream about just where we’d end up and what we’d do when the war ended. Have you gained even a modicum of that which you hoped for?”

  A crease appeared between Mary’s brows. “I cannot help but feel grateful that my sister’s family agreed to take me in. Jem had no pension and there was little I could do when I returned to keep a roof over my head. Nothing that would allow me to maintain my dignity, that is.”

  “Then I am grateful you had them,” Georgie said with a smile. “And do you get on there?”

  Mary shrugged. “I know that you will recall that Jem had certain … tendencies toward wildness,” she said in a voice pregnant with meaning. Jem Kendrick had been a sunny-natured but reckless young man with a proclivity for gaming. His inability to resist an opportunity for a wager had led the couple into more than one vocal disagreement, which often ended up being overheard by the entire camp. It was a negative aspect of living in such close quarters.

  “I do remember that, yes.” Georgie said, careful to keep her expression neutral. The last thing she wished to do was add to her friend’s shame over Jem’s problem. “But you can trust me, Mary. You know that.”

  “I do,” Mary said with a smile. “Your discretion was one of the few things I grew to rely on in those days.” Perhaps sensing the subject had become a bit too dark, she changed it. “You mentioned Lettice earlier. I cannot believe that our own Lettice is here in Bath as well, is she?”

  “She is, indeed,” Georgie said with a smile. “And just as dour as ever. Though she is a dear thing all the same. We visited an art gallery together only days ago.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mary said with a laugh. “I can only imagine what that was like.”

  “You were always hard on poor Lettice,” Georgie said without rancor. “She is a good friend for all that she can never see a teacup as half full instead of half empty.”

  “And you were always apt to take her side,” Mary said with a rueful smile. “You never could resist an outcast.”

  At this description of herself, Georgie shrugged. For some it might be seen as a criticism, but for Georgie it was a compliment. She’d rather give an underdog her support than to always be backing the top dog. It suited her sense of fairness. “I wouldn’t call Lettice an outcast,” she argued. “She was simply not the most popular among the other wives. That’s hardly the same as having no friends at all.”

  Mary shrugged. “I am hard on her, I suppose. But only because I am jealous that she’s been able to spend time with you while I have not.” She smiled across the table at Georgie. “I am so pleased for this chance meeting. Because I wanted to see you, of course, but also because I’ve needed to give you this.”

  Georgie watched as Mary opened the reticule at her wrist to remove a well-worn letter.

  “Please excuse the state it’s in,” Mary said, her eyes dark with concern as she proffered the missive to Georgie. “I have carried this with me from the moment I returned to England. For I had no notion of where you might have gone after the war. But”—she smiled—“unlike our Lettice, I live in hope and I knew somehow that I should see you again.”

  Gingerly, as if she expected the sealed note to contain some sort of pyrotechnics, Georgie took the message from Mary’s hand. Staring down at the writing that was as familiar to her as her own hand, she asked, “What is it?” But she already knew the answer.

  “The night before Waterloo, your husband and mine were engaged in a particularly high-stakes card game. And they were, as they often were, together. When the word came that they were to report for battle, I suspect your Robert took a few moments to write you this note.”

  Staring at her name inscribed on the folded page before her, Georgie asked, “But why didn’t I receive it then?”

  “I’m not sure how it came to be on Jem’s person,” Mary said with a frown. “I only know that when I found his body, this note was in his pocket. I guessed about why he wrote it. But since I found a similar note from Jem to me as well, I supposed they were together when they wrote them.”

  It made sense, Georgie thought. It was common enough for soldiers to write such missives before battle. Leave it to Robert to be so careless as to neglect to actually ensure she received it.

  “He may have given it to Jem thinking he would make sure you received it,” Mary continued. “But for whatever reason, it didn’t make it.”

  A thousand emotions gathered in Georgie’s chest. She was grateful to Mary, for bringing her the letter, but at the same time, she wished that she’d never seen it. She had just managed to regain some equilibrium. How like Robert to surprise her with a message from beyond the grave.

  “I thank you, Mary,” she said aloud, placing the letter into her reticule so that she could read it later when she was no longer in view of Mary’s avid gaze. She had forgotten just how inquisitive the woman could be. “I am astonished that you’ve carried it with you for all this time, but I cannot say that I am sorry for it. I always did wonder whether Robert had left me some last words, but always assumed there had been no time. Despite our differences I am pleased to know he was thinking of me.”

  The other woman squeezed Georgie’s hand. “I am simply pleased that I was able to give it to you at last.”

  Promising that they would plan an afternoon together next week which included Lettice, the ladies parted, but Georgie wasn’t altogether certain what was said. So aware was she of the note resting in her reticule that she barely recalled making her way back to Henrietta Street.

  * * *

  Con took a sip of the really quite passable ale served at the Angry Piglet tavern on the outskirts of Bath. He’d arranged a meeting here with the man he hoped would agree to conduct an investigation into the history of Colonel Robert Mowbray. He was astute enough to realize that there were some tasks that would be finished more quickly by someone who was familiar with the terrain. Besides, Con did not wish to leave Bath lest the man who was watching Georgina returned. And he most definitely was going to come back.

  “You have a knack for choosing the most absurdly named establishments, my lord,” Lord Archer Lisle said with a mix of exasperation and awe as he brushed off the seat of the chair opposite Con before lowering himself into it. Whispering conspiratorially, he added, “And I believe it would be wise to eschew the advertised pigeon pie, for I saw a few of those unhappy birds wandering drunkenly in the yard. The cook has probably lost his hunter and has taken to poisoning them.”

  “As I have no intention of consuming anything other than this surprisingly tasty ale,” Con responded, raising his tankard in appreciation, “I have little need of your warning, though I thank you for it, Archer.”

  The two men were a study in contrasts. The blond Lord Archer was as fastidiously attired
as the brunet Lord Coniston was dressed neatly but comfortably. And yet, for their differences, the men were friends.

  “I take it that you’ve asked me to visit you in this sterling establishment for some reason other than to recommend the ale,” Archer said, flicking a bit of fluff off the arm of his greatcoat before taking a sip from the tankard the barmaid had just set before him. “Not bad.”

  “I told you,” Con said with a grin. “And of course I have a reason to call you here. I would hardly drag you away from the side of your beloved without one.”

  Archer sighed. “I’ve asked you not to call the Duke of Ormond my beloved. Really, what will his wife think?”

  “You know damned well I’m talking about the duke’s sister-in-law, old man,” Con said with a sardonic smile. “Even if you aren’t willing to speak the truth aloud, I am.”

  “By what right?” Archer asked grimly. “You’re hardly in any position to throw stones.”

  “By the right of a former betrothed,” Con said, just as grim. “If you aren’t going to admit that you’re in love with her, the least I can do is say it for you.”

  It was an old argument, and both men had dug into their positions with the stubbornness that could only come from being born into the noblest houses in England.

  “So long as you refrain from saying it in front of her,” Archer said coolly, “then I suppose there’s nothing I can do to stop you. Though I’m dashed if I know why you are so determined to speak of it. I had hoped that we would have got past this by now.”

  “This is what happens when you allow your best friend to become engaged to the woman you love,” Con said with a shrug. “Especially when you don’t tell the friend until after he’s already asked her the question.”

  “It was none of your business,” Archer groused. “In fact, I never would have told you at all if you hadn’t dragged it out of me.”

  “If I hadn’t dragged it out of you I’d be married to her by now,” Con said with a shake of his head. “Do you know what a fiasco that would have been? Aside from the fact that the lady prefers you to me, anyway, there would have been the awkwardness of being the only person at my wedding who would have been happy about it. My vows would likely have been drowned out by the sound of you and Perdita weeping on either side of me.”

  “Only a little,” Archer said wryly. “I haven’t wept with any degree of enthusiasm since my old spaniel Greta died.”

  “I’d forgotten about that,” Con said. “You blubbered about that for weeks.”

  “She was a very loyal dog,” Archer said defensively. “And I was at Eton, for God’s sake. If one doesn’t cry once during his career there then he is made of stone.

  “Besides,” he continued, “I am not the one who wept when Bertie Fowlkes elbowed me in the face.”

  “He got me in the nose,” Con defended. “I’d defy the devil himself to keep a dry eye after a punch in the nose. He had very pointy elbows, did Bertie.”

  “There is that,” Archer said agreeably. “So, much as I enjoy being raked over the coals for failing to disclose the secrets written upon my heart to you, I believe you invited me here for some other reason. Yes?”

  Quickly, Con told his friend about Georgina, the man who resembled Colonel Mowbray, and the as yet unknown problem that still bothered her.

  “You should have said earlier that you wanted me to help Georgie,” Archer said, sitting up straighter. “She’s a dear. Of course I’ll do whatever I can.”

  Con stared at his friend. Of course Georgina knew Archer. She was the dearest of friends with Isabella, the new Duchess of Ormond and Perdita, the young dowager Duchess of Ormond. He felt his jaw tighten reflexively.

  “What?” Archer asked. “Why are you staring at me as if you’re trying to decide which ear to tear off first?”

  “Georgie?” Con asked his friend silkily, baring his teeth in the mimicry of a smile.

  “Yes?” Archer leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “She’s called Georgie by her friends. She’s given me permission to do so, as her friend. What’s the trouble?”

  At Con’s protracted silence, Archer began to laugh. “Oh, this is priceless,” he crowed. “I vow I haven’t been amused like this in quite a long time.”

  “What is so amusing about it?” Con demanded, failing to see the humor in the situation. He was hardly accustomed to wishing his oldest friend would take a long walk off a short pier. It was deuced uncomfortable.

  “Don’t you see?” Archer said, grinning widely. “This means that we’re even. I forgive you for trying to marry Perdita, and you forgive me for trying to … well, I suppose be friends with Georgie?” Archer frowned. “That’s not quite right.”

  “Whatever,” Con said, feeling magnanimous now that he remembered Archer’s affection for Perdita. “We are now even, and so long as you don’t declare your love for Georgina I am prepared to put this behind us.”

  “So, does this mean that you’re in l—”

  “Stop right there,” Con said sharply. “I am not in … that word you were about to say. I barely know the lady.”

  “That’s not quite right,” Archer said with the smile of a man who sees another fellow on his way down the same path as him. “You’ve known each other at least as long as I’ve known her. And you’ve been at various entertainments at Ormond House or Lady Isabella’s.”

  “Even so,” Con said, feeling a bit awkward at his friend’s scrutiny. “And all this is beside the point unless I can find out who the man watching her is.”

  “It is a coil,” Archer said, considering. “I wonder if Robert Mowbray is related to the Mowbrays of Cornwall.”

  “This is why I came to you,” Con said with some relief. He was hopeless at remembering which families lived in which county and whether the Dauntrys with a u were kin to the Dantrys without. Archer had an encyclopedic knowledge of a variety of subjects and he was just the man to figure out if there was a member of the Mowbray family with the means and motive to stalk Georgina.

  His mind occupied with the problem Con had presented to him, Archer nodded absently. “I’ll see what I can come up with by the end of the week.”

  “Excellent,” Con said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “You’re a good man.

  “I don’t suppose,” he continued, “you’ve made any progress with Perdita since we last spoke?”

  “I’d prefer not to talk about it,” Archer said, his normally sunny disposition turning cloudy. “Let’s just say that I have not yet found the right moment to press the issue.”

  “If it makes any difference,” Con said sympathetically, “I do not doubt that she holds you in great affection.”

  “Aye,” Archer said glumly. “It’s just removing the cloud that bastard she married left hanging over her that I worry about. She won’t see me as anything more than a friend until the bloody Duke of Ormond can be exorcised from her life like a demon.”

  “It appears, my friend,” Con said, lifting his tankard, “that we are both beset by the ghosts of husbands past. I propose that we drink to their quick dispatch to whatever hell they both deserve.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Archer said, clinking his own glass against Con’s. “And also to the high-and-mighty Lord Coniston’s succumbing to Cupid’s arrow—”

  Before Archer could finish, however, Con broke in. “Dammit, Archer, stop that.”

  The other man’s eyes widened as he tried and failed to look innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You, sir, are an ass,” Con said with feeling, frowning into his ale.

  “I’ve been called worse,” Archer said with a shrug.

  Six

  Once she was safely ensconced in her bedchamber, Georgie took a seat at her desk cum dressing table and, inhaling deeply, broke the seal on the letter and unfolded it.

  My dear Georgina,

  I go into battle soon, so there is not much time. I have not been the best of husbands. Forgive me for
the times I was too harsh. And for the ways I betrayed you—especially with those whom you called friend. It was a mistake—I see that now, but at the time I needed loving arms and yours were closed to me. If I had been a better man, or you a better wife, we might have made a happy match, but it was not to be.

  I have loved you in my way,

  Col. Robert Alan Mowbray

  How utterly like Robert to couch his apologies in an accusation, Georgie fumed, despite the tears sliding down her cheeks.

  “I needed loving arms and yours were closed to me.” She thought of the times she had denied him her bed—usually when she was recovering from some injury he’d done her. For all of his faults, Robert had at least been a gentleman about that. He had never forced her. But learning he’d broken their vows with another woman removed all approbation she’d heaped upon him for his consideration.

  “Especially with those whom you called friend.” That one—or more—of her friends had betrayed her was almost as painful as knowing her husband had done so. And given that Georgie had called most of the women in their camp friend, the guilty party could be any one of some hundred women.

  Pressing her fist against her mouth, Georgie bit back a sob. Just when she thought she’d finally come to terms with the hell Robert had put her through, he came back from the dead to punish her again. And this time it was no ghostly apparition, no look-alike playing at frightening her. No, this was Robert himself, and knowing he still had the power to upend her carefully ordered life like this was almost worse than the real thing. Because an expected pain was one thing, and surprised pain was another.

  She’d never been fond of surprises.

  * * *

  Con knew there was something profoundly wrong as soon as he saw Georgina listening attentively to his cousin Ernestine recount the details of her performance at the annual hunt at Coniston Grange last year. It wasn’t so much the subject that tipped him off. For all he knew Georgina was an avid hunter who couldn’t get enough of chasing foxes cross-country on horseback. It was instead the intensity of her attention. From the moment he stepped into the drawing room, he sensed her desperation. As if letting her mind wander just a fraction away from Tina’s story would result in some sort of calamity.