An Earl for the Shy Widow

by Ann Lethbridge

‘As you know, I am determined not to marry again.’ She winced. ‘I do hope we can remain friends, but I think it would be better if we did not see each other again for a while.’

  Friends. As clinically as a surgeon with a knife, the word sliced something in his chest to ribbons. It was the oddest and most painful sensation he had ever known. Even more painful than his mother’s frequent rejections of him. As he had when he was a boy, he bore the pain in silence. He bowed. ‘As you wish, Lady Petra.’

  He walked away.

  Was that a sniffle he heard?

  Hardly likely. Perhaps she was laughing at him.

  * * *

  Heart aching so painfully she could scarcely breathe for the pain if it, Petra watched Ethan walk away. Had she really suggested they remain friends? It would not be possible. Meeting each other, even casually, would cause the utmost embarrassment for them both. She should have tried harder to express how honoured she was by his proposal, but truly, receiving such a cold offer was worse than knowing he had intended to marry an heiress for her money.

  She sank on to the wooden bench.

  What was wrong with her that the men she fell for could only manage a lukewarm affection for her rather than love? What was it Harry had said?

  I’m very fond of you, old thing, but this marriage was all your idea. I wanted a commission in the army. Once Pa realised he could be related to an earl, there was no talking him round. It was marry you or be kicked out on my ear. No one ever said anything about love. Besides, in our set no husband hangs off his wife’s sleeve. I’d be ridiculed.

  She’d loved him so desperately from the age of about fourteen she hadn’t realised it had been all one-sided. She’d been so angry at his words she’d told him he would make a terrible soldier. A few days later, he’d entered into that silly bet with her brother Jonathan and Neville Saxby and all three of them had gone off to prove their worth.

  All they’d managed to do was get themselves killed.

  Well, she knew better than to enter into that sort of marriage again. But, oh, she was going to miss Ethan. Somehow, turning down his offer of marriage this time seemed a whole lot worse than saying their lovely goodbye when they knew there was no choice for him but to marry an heiress. Likely because for a moment she had actually thought he was requesting her hand because he loved her.

  But he didn’t.

  And since she loved him, she’d be right back where she was with Harry. Watching her husband sneak off to make love to whichever woman caught his fancy and knowing that her love was not returned. Not to mention that now he had all the money he needed to set the estate to rights, he’d soon be dashing back to the war and his beloved career. No, turning him down was the right thing to do. For them both.

  She closed her eyes to ease their burning. When on earth had she fallen in love with Ethan anyway? It really should not have happened. It was meant to be a fling, nothing more. She really was the worst sort of fool.

  She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes and it came away wet. Dash it all. What did it matter that he didn’t love her? She had been perfectly all right before he came along, and she was perfectly all right now.

  She went back to her weeding. Unfortunately, she had no idea what sort of plant she was yanking from the ground. She could not see them through her tears.

  She didn’t care.

  * * *

  Petra walked alone to the village a few days later to discover her neighbours still abuzz with the news of the Vicar’s departure and the mysterious reappearance of their missing articles.

  ‘His Lordship said it was all a mistake,’ Mr Barker said, scratching behind his ear when he held out a small stack of mail. He tapped one of the notes. ‘Franked by Lord Westram, that one there is.’

  Petra smiled, though her cheeks felt stiff. ‘Thank you.’ She didn’t feel much like smiling these days, but Barker didn’t seem to notice the falseness. Nor did he release the letters.

  ‘Odd that. The Vicar going and the laundry reappearing, don’t you think, Lady Petra?’

  Gossip. The villagers loved gossip and conjecture. She had delayed going to the village as long as possible in order to avoid this kind of discussion, but Marguerite had been worried about the mail piling up and had been too busy to come herself. ‘I really have no idea.’ She tugged at the letters and finally he released them.

  ‘He said it weren’t the gypsies after all.’ He sounded doubtful.

  ‘I am sure he knows what he is talking about.’

  Barker shook his head. ‘Odd, I call it. Very odd.’

  Petra turned to leave.

  ‘Don’t forget your package, Lady Petra.’

  Why could he not have mentioned a package right away? She frowned. ‘I do not believe I am expecting a package?’

  ‘It is quite large. Shall I have my lad deliver it?’

  ‘How large?’

  He went behind his counter and pulled out a huge square parcel and set it on the counter. ‘Heavy it is, too.’

  ‘Who is it from?’ Marguerite often sent parcels out, but nothing so large and she had never had one in return.

  ‘From London. Sherman’s Antiquities and Fine Art.’

  It must be one of Marguerite’s pictures, then. ‘Thank you.’ She eyed the package. ‘I think I can manage it.’

  When she stepped out into the street, it was still raining hard and she tucked the package awkwardly under one arm while she opened her umbrella. Intent on getting out of the rain as fast as possible, she put her head down and started walking. She collided with someone coming the other way. The package slipped sideways. She grabbed for it and dropped her umbrella. Blast.

  ‘Why can’t you look where you are going?’ she said as she snagged the handle.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Lady Petra.’ A deep, rich and terribly familiar voice.

  Heat rushed to her face. The pain around her heart intensified. ‘Longhurst,’ she snapped and whipped the umbrella back over her head. ‘Good day. I am in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘Allow me.’

  He neatly extracted the parcel from under her arm.

  ‘There is no need,’ she protested, reaching for it.

  ‘There is every need.’ He tucked the parcel under his left arm and it fit there easily. He then held his other arm towards her.

  Short of giving him the cut direct there was little she could do. She rested her hand lightly on his sleeve.

  She raised her umbrella over her head and they walked in silence. Like an old married couple. And yet like strangers. She had burned her bridges with Ethan and this sort of reminder was just too much to bear.

  Finally, she could stand it no longer. ‘I can manage the rest of the way by myself.’ She sounded stiff and unfriendly.

  He did not break his stride. ‘I will see you to your door, Lady Petra.’

  Blast. If she had acceded to the offer of the postmaster to send his lad, she would not have had to suffer this.

  ‘Do you think it will clear up later?’ he asked in the most normal of tones.

  She glanced up at the sky. ‘I think it is set for the day. Marguerite said she was feeling a headache coming on.’

  ‘Ah. I wondered why you were walking alone.’

  She gritted her teeth in case she told him to mind his own business. She wasn’t angry at him exactly, merely the circumstances. But there was something she needed to say to him. ‘The villagers are putting two and two together with respect to the Beckridges’s departure and the reappearance of the missing laundry.’

  ‘I expected it, to be honest. I went to see Compton the morning after we caught her in the act. I decided that, as magistrate, he should be made aware of the whole. It is bound to come to his ears and better he heard about it from me. He suggested we let them work it out for themselves, so they do not continue to blame our gypsies.’
/>   ‘Our gypsies?’ she said, surprised.

  ‘My gypsies, I suppose, since they are on my land. I have spoken to their leader and told him what happened. I explained that as long as nothing else untoward happened during the course of their stay in Crabb’s Wood, then the villagers would understand that they were not to blame. He understood completely and then informed me that their plans had changed. They had received word of work from another band and had decided to move on after all.’

  ‘How ironic. Mrs Beckridge would have been so pleased to know that her efforts were successful.’

  ‘Though not in the manner she intended.’ He sounded amused.

  She glanced at his face and saw he was smiling. Unable to resist, she smiled back. ‘All’s well that...’

  ‘Ends well,’ they finished together and laughed.

  It was strange that they could be so in accord on some things and so on the outs with regards to others. Her heart gave a little pang. Regret. It was going to be a long time until she did not feel regret.

  He opened the front gate for her to pass through and followed her to the front door. Under the porch she closed her umbrella and stood it in the corner to dry. Fortunately, it was their maid’s day to work and she opened the door before Petra needed to search for her key. Longhurst handed her the parcel. Petra turned to face her escort and forced a bright smile. ‘Thank you for your help, Lord Longhurst.’

  ‘You are very welcome, Lady Petra. It was nice to be able to assist you for a change.’ His smile turned a little wry. He bowed and walked back out into the downpour. He didn’t so much as flinch when the rain beat down on his shoulders.

  Oh, mercy. What was she thinking? She should have offered him her umbrella. ‘Lord Longhurst,’ she called out.

  When he turned she held it out. He waved it off and continued on his way.

  She ought to have felt proud of how she had handled their chance meeting, instead she felt more miserable than when she had set out for the village.

  ‘I put the package on the dining room table, my lady,’ the maid said, helping her out of her coat and bonnet.

  Petra glanced in the mirror to straighten her hair. ‘Can you let Lady Marguerite know it has arrived?’ Whatever it was.

  ‘But it is addressed to you, my lady.’

  ‘Oh.’ She hadn’t as much as glanced at the name of the addressee. ‘What can it be? I haven’t ordered anything.’ Something from Red? Or perhaps from Carrie? She was a frequent correspondent, but Petra could not think what she could be sending that was so large.

  ‘You will have to open it and see, my lady.’ Becky bustled off.

  Petra wandered into the drawing room and inspected the parcel. It was indeed addressed to her. She untied the string and peeled back the paper. A painting.

  ‘Oh, my word!’ She sank down on to the nearest chair.

  The maid hurried in. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘I—No, nothing is wrong exactly.’

  ‘That is a nice picture, my lady. What place is that?’

  ‘Venice,’ Petra said faintly. He had given her the picture of Venice. She gazed at the signature, now easily visible since the picture had been cleaned. Canaletto. Out of curiosity, she had asked Marguerite about him on her return from visiting Ethan that day. She had gone on and on about the fellow, but at the time Petra had assumed Ethan’s picture to be a copy. This painting was worth a fortune.

  The maid gathered the brown paper up. ‘There is a note enclosed, my lady.’ She handed it over. It was from Ethan.

  I want you to have this.

  Without your help this picture and many like it would have been given away to an unscrupulous dealer.

  Keep it or sell it. It is yours to do with as you wish.

  Longhurst

  Oh, the wretched man. How could he? And he had carried it for her all the way home and not said a word. He must have known exactly what it was.

  The tears that she thought had been all used up burned the back of her throat and forced their way from beneath her eyelids.

  ‘You don’t like it, my lady?’ Becky asked worriedly.

  Petra wiped her cheeks. ‘It is not that. It was just the surprise.’

  And the generosity.

  And the foolhardiness.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘A package for you, my lord,’ O’Cleary said. ‘And your new bailiff, a Mr David Carter, is waiting in the hall.’ O’Cleary set the large square parcel on a chair.

  Ethan frowned at it. It couldn’t possibly be what he thought it was. ‘Show Carter in.’

  He got up and tore a corner of the paper. Yes. Unfortunately, it was. Damn it.

  ‘Good day, Lord Longhurst.’

  The young man standing on the threshold had been recommended to him by Lord Compton when he had visited him to discuss the Beckridge affair.

  Ethan shook hands with the young man and gestured for him to take a seat. He rang the bell for O’Cleary and gave him instructions as to what to do with the painting Lady Petra had returned.

  She wasn’t going to like his solution.

  ‘There is a great deal to do here, Mr Carter,’ he said, resuming his seat.

  ‘Yes, my lord. I took a bit of a look around before I came here. I can see that things have been let go for a while, but with a bit of work it will soon recover.’

  Petra would like this young man’s attitude.

  ‘Excellent. When can you start?’

  Carter looked surprised. ‘Don’t you want to see my references, my lord?’

  ‘Compton’s recommendation was enough of a reference for me,’ Ethan said. He himself was also a good judge of character. Most of the time.

  He hadn’t been too smart in regards to the art-dealer chap. But then he knew nothing about that sort of person. Fortunately for him, Lady Petra had an eagle eye.

  She would no doubt like the look of this young fellow.

  Damn it. Every time he thought about something, he tried to imagine what she would say, what she would think. Sometimes he even heard her voice in his head, laughing or teasing. He really would have to stop thinking about her. She had rejected his offer and that was that.

  ‘You should still take a look, though, my lord.’ Carter handed over a sheaf of folded references.

  Ethan went through them. They were all glowing. And all from men who were known to be honest.

  He put down the last one and raised his eyebrows. ‘So when can you start?’

  The other man blushed and smiled. ‘In a month’s time, my lord. My current employer has sold the property and the purchaser has his own bailiff.’

  ‘How very fortunate for me,’ Ethan remarked and entered into negotiations about terms and conditions and salary, based on yet more suggestions offered by Lord Compton.

  * * *

  ‘This has to stop,’ Marguerite declared. ‘This is the third time this painting has come back to us.’

  ‘I can’t accept it,’ Petra replied exasperatedly. ‘You know I cannot. What on earth would Red say to a gentleman offering a lady who is not related to him such a priceless object?’

  ‘I shall go and speak with him,’ Marguerite said.

  ‘No. I will go and speak with him.’ This time he would listen to reason.

  ‘What did his note say this time?’ Marguerite asked curiously.

  ‘If you don’t like it, sell it.’

  ‘That was it?’

  ‘A lot of nonsense about paying back a debt to me and his sincere gratitude. It isn’t seemly.’

  ‘It might have been more seemly if you had not bedded the man.’

  Petra stiffened. ‘That is not nice.’

  ‘It is the truth.’

  And it was the real reason the painting had to go back. They had been lovers. If Mrs Beckridge had not walked in on them, if the
re was no possibility of anyone ever learning of their affair, then she might have gladly accepted the gift in recognition of her help with his estate. But since the truth might one day come out, accepting the picture might well look like the spoils of a paid-off mistress. It was that she could not abide.

  She had loved Ethan, still did love Ethan, and despite that he did not love her in return, she did not want their relationship tainted by what could be perceived as some sort of commercial transaction.

  ‘It is too bad we cannot sell it, though,’ Marguerite mused. ‘It would solve all our financial problems.’

  ‘I thought we were out of the woods.’

  Marguerite pursed her lips. ‘They accepted three of the four botany pictures. I have not yet received another commission.’

  ‘What happened to the fourth one?’

  ‘They decided not to use it.’

  ‘Still, they will have paid you for the work, surely?’

  ‘I have already told you before, that is not how it is done.’

  Petra turned back to the package leaning against her chair. She hadn’t even bothered unwrapping it. She could not keep it, no matter what. It would hurt too much every time she looked at it. And she certainly could not sell it. ‘I will return it myself this time. Do you need the trap today?’

  ‘No. I am going to be working indoors all day.’

  She didn’t sound happy. Marguerite used to love her painting and drawing. ‘Don’t do it if it bothers you,’ Petra suggested. ‘We can find some other way to get income.’

  She’d had a million ideas when it came to Ethan’s property, but then there were a great many more opportunities to be had on a large estate like Longhurst Park. Their cottage had none.

  Marguerite smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I am being defeatist. I can do this. I know I can. Take Jeb with you to Longhurst, dearest. Please.’

  She didn’t need to be reminded to play the part of a proper lady, but she let it pass. There would be no more sneaking into Ethan’s home for her and if it made Marguerite feel better to play her part as the responsible elder sister, so be it.

  * * *

  Walking across the lawn, the sight of the little trap travelling up his drive both gladdened and saddened Ethan’s heart. An oddly disturbing mix of emotions he did not like to recognise. He certainly knew the purpose for the visit, however. He put down the chair he was carrying and waited for the trap to pull up.