The Reluctant Earl

by C. J. Chase

  “Yes, Kit.”

  So, he had known Alec during the war. And he knew a linguist? A picture began to form in Leah’s mind. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in this area before, Mr. Harrison. Where did you say you hail from?”

  A knowing smile gleamed in his eyes. “I didn’t.”

  “You must miss your home.”

  “Indeed. But I haven’t been gone long.”

  Only since Chambelston had decided to investigate the activities of Alec’s group?

  The soft crunch of carriage wheels on snow murmured through the stillness, accompanied by the occasional jingle of a harness. As the conveyance—the same one Chambelston had arrived in that seemingly long ago day—drew nearer, the glow of its lanterns emerged from the predawn gray. The driver reined the horses to a stop, jumped down from his perch and unlatched the crest-embellished door.

  Leah drew in a deep breath as she ambled to the vehicle’s side. She was entrusting not only her own future, but Alec’s life to Chambelston’s hands. She passed the coachman her belongings, then mounted the step. The coach pitched, then righted. Or was that her nervous stomach?

  Chambelston grabbed her hand and drew her into the dark interior. “After you, Miss Vance.” He gestured to the forward-facing seat.

  Leah sank into the soft cushion.

  “With your permission?” He hovered above the seat next to her.

  What could she say? It was his carriage, after all. She nodded rather than force words past the lump in her throat as her mind grappled with the ramifications of many intimate hours beside him.

  Chambelston lowered himself onto the velvet upholstery beside her. His broad shoulders occupied more than his fair share of the bench.

  She inched closer to the corner, away from the casual brush of his arm against hers. “D-did you have any difficulty finding my supplies?”

  “I didn’t know where to look for the brush. Fortunately Molly was already awake and at work, and she located the paints for me—without so much as a smirk to betray her assessment of my sanity.” A frown tugged down the corners of his mouth. “I only wish I could have clarified to Caro that I will return soon. I fear my absence will distress her.”

  “Did you ask Molly to convey your apology?” Leah fished inside her coat—under Chambelston’s greatcoat—for Alec’s note as Harrison joined them inside the carriage.

  “Yes, she said she would try to explain.”

  “My lord?” The coachman paused with one hand on the door.

  Chambelston tilted his head and peered at Leah, one brow raised. “Where would you like me to take you this time, if not Heckton?”

  “London.”

  His gaze held hers a moment longer, as if weighing her reasons for choosing that destination. “London it is, John.”

  The coachman secured the door, and the carriage rocked as he clambered to his seat.

  “Now let’s see if your cousin left us any clues, or if we have to scour the entire metropolis to discover their plans.” Chambelston retrieved the bottles and brush as Leah unfolded the missive.

  She glanced up and caught Harrison’s bemused scrutiny. “I believe you have some experience with these, sir. Would you like to...?” She offered him the paper.

  “You are the expert.”

  Oh, she highly doubted so. She pressed the note flat on her lap, blank side up, and chose the solution from two bottles Chambelston proffered. Her fingers quivered as she removed the cap and dipped the brush inside. She smeared a streak of the solution across the page.

  Her chest tightened around the air in her lungs as the purple lines emerged.

  Quickly she applied a thin veneer of solution until she covered the entire paper, then passed the wet sheet to Chambelston.

  He held the page to the lantern and read, “‘Oliver to attack Regent en route to opening of Parliament. Gone to stop him. Get help.’” The deep baritone broke off as he lifted his head and shared a look with Harrison.

  “At least we know what part of London.” Harrison leaned forward and templed his fingers against his chin. “Miss Vance, do you know this Oliver? I can’t say I’ve ever met him.”

  Leah searched her memories for the few clues her cousin had provided, but Alec had always been careful. Too careful, it now seemed. “I don’t think Alec ever mentioned him before—at least, not by name.”

  “An attack on the Regent. That would throw the entire government into chaos.” Chambelston returned the still damp paper to her. “We’ll find someplace safe to take you, Miss Vance.”

  “No! You need me.” And so did Alec. Especially Alec. “None of us know this Oliver, but I know my cousin. If we find him—”

  “There’s a good chance Oliver is nearby. Hopefully your cousin has the good sense to notify the authorities once he reaches London.”

  “I doubt they’d believe him—even if he can get anyone to receive him.”

  Chambelston expelled a deep sigh. “I fear you may be right.”

  “Then you’ll take me with you?”

  “Yes, Miss Vance. We’ll take you to London.” Chambelston tucked a lap robe around his legs, reminding Leah that she still wore his coat over her own. But he had already closed his eyes before she could offer to return it. “I’m too old to go gallivanting about the countryside all night long. You should also get some rest, Leah. We don’t know what the day will bring.”

  Leah nestled into the corner of the seat with one last thought whirling through her exhausted mind. Chambelston had used her Christian name again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Julian peered at the gray light from under heavy lids. Disorientation swirled through his mind while his sluggish brain absorbed the reality of midday filtering through carriage windows. He glanced at the woman beside him, her even breaths marking her as yet asleep.

  Relaxed, her face looked more youthful, offering him a glimpse of the young woman who’d entered his sister’s employ when she was scarcely past her own girlhood. If Elizabeth hadn’t cut her family from her life all those years ago, would Julian have met Leah earlier? Perhaps on a warm summer visit or over happy holiday merrymaking. Would he have appreciated the subtle qualities of her nature then? Would she have turned to him to ease the plight of a desperate friend—rather than resort to treason?

  The upholstery rustled as Harrison shifted on the seat across from Julian. “I trust you slept well, my lord?”

  “Not particularly.” Not if the cramp in his neck was anything by which to judge.

  “I expected to find you in your bed when I arrived. Instead, I encountered you—and then Miss Vance—on the road.”

  “Fortunately for you.”

  “Oh, I’d have found a way to contact you, even at that time of night.” Harrison’s eyes gleamed with humor.

  No doubt, given the man’s background. “Fleming died, shortly after you and I last spoke. Not of the injuries inflicted by the gang of hoodlums, but from poison.”

  Harrison whistled a soft note between his teeth. “Administered by someone at the Abbey?”

  “So it appears—his killer placed evidence suggesting Miss Vance’s involvement in Fleming’s chamber.”

  “You are certain of her innocence?”

  “Oh, yes. I saw her while returning to the Abbey after our meeting. According to the doctor’s estimate as to the time of the poisoning, she wasn’t in the manor when Fleming consumed the fatal dose.” Julian glanced at Leah again, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “She was with a man. The mysterious cousin, I presume. Of course my sister was most displeased when she learned of Miss Vance’s midweek venture beyond the manor and terminated her employment immediately.”

  “According to the rumors I heard, Fleming was a nasty piece of work.” Harrison folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the upholstery.

  “Yes, we have no shortage of suspects who might want the man dead.” Julian pulled the racing form from inside his coat and passed it across to Harrison. “The magistrate fou
nd this in Fleming’s chamber after his death. Something about it bothered me, so I grabbed it when I went back to the abbey for Miss Vance’s solution.”

  “Quick thinking, my lord.” Harrison tipped the page toward the window and squinted as he studied the words. “Are you certain this is Fleming’s handwriting?”

  “I can’t identify it as such, only that we discovered it with his effects.”

  “But you also believe someone wanted Miss Vance suspected—or even charged—in the murder. This could have been deposited in the chamber at the same time as the evidence against her.”

  “To implicate Miss Vance? I highly doubt she follows the ponies.”

  Harrison glanced at her still-sleeping form and grinned. “A penchant for wagering on the horses could explain her need for money.”

  So would a destitute friend. Julian tried to recall if he’d seen Leah’s writing. If she had been communicating with the radicals, Harrison might have had occasion to see notes from her. “Would you recognize her handwriting?”

  “I’ve never seen a message from her, so I can’t be certain. However, if I were to venture a guess, I would say this is not hers. A racing form is a rather subtle clue if one is trying to incriminate a governess. It probably belonged to Fleming.” Harrison returned his attention to the page. “Based on the formation of the letters, I suspect if we discover the creator of these comments, we’ll uncover the author of your anonymous note.”

  Excitement ricocheted along Julian’s spine. “Are you certain?”

  “Do you have the other message? The one about your father’s injury?”

  “Yes, it’s...” In the pocket of his greatcoat. The same coat currently shrouding Miss Vance.

  Julian leaned closer to her. A hint of lavender teased his senses, and a few wisps of hair escaped her chignon. He tucked them back in her bonnet, marveling as his knuckles brushed against the soft skin of her face. Her puffs of breath tickled his skin as he carefully extracted the note from the pocket. She stirred, then settled back to sleep with a sigh while Julian handed the note to Harrison.

  The former spy pursed his lips while he perused the message. “I can’t be absolutely certain, you understand. But a clever gamester would wager the same hand wrote both.”

  Julian contemplated the implications of two such disparate records being in the same hand. “Who would seek my involvement in the quarrel between the government and antiroyalist extremists? Most certainly not Miss Vance or her allies. Suggesting the radicals had killed my father would attach me firmly to the government’s cause.” And Fleming? By all accounts the man was a frivolous sort, too absorbed in pleasure to exert himself with the effort of politics. Exactly, in fact, the sort of man who would record his observations about the best betting options on a racing form.

  “Once we ascertain the answer to that question, we may unravel the entire plot.” Harrison handed the paper back to Julian. “Do you know when Parliament begins its session?”

  “Tomorrow morning. We have less than twenty-four hours to reach London and prevent a catastrophe. I didn’t realize when we left how momentous our journey would be.” Helplessness churned in Julian’s stomach. If only they had learned of the radicals’ intentions earlier. Even one day would have bought them more time to make the trip, notify the authorities and station men along the roads. Julian glanced toward the window and the clouds that muted the sun. All they needed was for the snow to begin again. “Do you think we’ll arrive in time?”

  “I think a few prayers are in order.”

  Prayers. Julian stiffened at Harrison’s overt proselytizing. “Then why not just ask God to stop this assassin before we get there?”

  “I’m afraid God wants our participation, my friend.”

  “Even though there is a good chance we will fail?”

  “Yes, our participation, our reliance and our trust—trust that He will use whatever happens for greater purposes than we can see with our limited perceptions.”

  “I suppose, given the prince’s ill repute, some might find his death to be God working for good.”

  “Well, the Bible does tell us God doesn’t wish for any to perish. But He can use what is meant for evil for good. For instance, my lord, but for your father’s death and the note you received, you wouldn’t be here right now making a madcap dash to London to save the prince’s life. Miss Vance would be alone on a dark, cold night with no place to go, if not hanged. And I would be hard-pressed to afford sustenance for my family.”

  Julian pulled his watch from his pocket, surprised to find the hands had climbed past twelve already and well into the first hour of the afternoon. “Speaking of sustenance, we must procure a meal. I don’t suppose you know of a suitable inn along our route?”

  “Not I. We shall have to make do with the first place we find.”

  “Yes, you are correct. Time is of the essence.” Julian sighed. Despite his sister’s initial hostility to his presence, she furnished a fine table—something many an innkeeper would be hard put to match in this winter of want.

  Harrison tapped his templed fingers against his mouth. “My lord, have you considered we shall arrive in London very late. You cannot take Miss Vance to your house.”

  “Why not? I won’t have time to be there myself. We have to notify the palace of what is happening, so the prince can make alternate arrangements for his ride to Parliament. It would be best if he sent his carriage along the usual route as a decoy. And then, if I have time, I thought to meet with some of the officers at the Admiralty so we can station men along the streets and hopefully capture our villain before he commits serious harm. A night at my house—with servants present and me absent—isn’t going to limit Miss Vance’s future employment any more than her dismissal from my sister’s household.”

  “I’m sure London has at least one inn with an available room.” The feminine voice cut into their quiet conversation.

  Julian shifted to meet the determined hazel eyes. He studied the proud tilt of her chin, so incongruous with the unruly tresses escaping from the sadly crushed bonnet. “A woman alone at an inn would be more unsuitable.” Not to mention dangerous.

  Harrison cleared his throat. “If I may suggest, Miss Vance is always welcome in my home.”

  “But as you already said, we will not reach London until well into the night. That is quite an imposition.”

  “My wife Alice has the gift of hospitality. If she were here, she would insist. Besides,” he winked at Miss Vance, “I’d like to think she’ll be so pleased I’ve returned that she will agree to any suggestion I make. For a day, at least.”

  Julian looked from one to the other. “Well, then, let’s hope the matter concludes quickly. In the meantime we must find provisions as soon as possible. Other than a few bites of bread and cheese, neither Miss Vance nor I have eaten since yesterday’s nuncheon.”

  * * *

  The worst of her hunger satiated and even hastily donned in a fresh—if wrinkled—gown from her bundle, Leah snuggled back into the familiar corner of the carriage as the driver urged the horses into motion once again. A few raindrops clinked against the window and then dripped along the outside of the glass. She let her eyes drift shut, more to save herself from having to converse with Chambelston, who sat mere inches away, than from any real fatigue.

  Besides, she could learn so much when the men thought her asleep. Such as Harrison’s contention that Reginald Fleming may have written the letter accusing Alec’s friends of the murder of Chambelston’s father. Why would Fleming even consider such a thing? He didn’t know anyone in their group. Unless he only sought to cause mischief—a sick joke to be played on a grieving family.

  Now that Leah could believe more than the idea of Fleming developing a sudden interest in politics or a sudden concern for the welfare of the nation.

  She peeked out from under her lids at the man beside her. He reclined against the seat, head tilted back, eyes closed, his hat shadowing his brow and his greatcoat once again shrouding
him from chin to boots. How had the events of the night changed their relationship? Did he still distrust her so, after she had put her life, and Alec’s, in his hands? And perhaps even the prince’s?

  The carriage skidded, lurched and tipped, tossing her against the side and hurling Chambelston atop her. The crack of shattering wood mingled with the coachman’s shout, then the entire conveyance toppled and jolted to a stop.

  “Miss Vance!” The muffled voice pierced the ringing in her ears as Chambelston scrambled off her.

  Leah pushed back the bonnet that had slammed across her face in the melee.

  The door flew open to reveal the disheveled coachman. “She slid off the road in the ice and broke the wheel, my lord. Are you injured?”

  “Not I.” Chambelston took Leah’s hand and assisted her from the floor. “Miss Vance?”

  “I’m fine.” Except for the wrench to her neck and the bruises she could already feel forming on her arms. Legs. Everywhere.

  Harrison crawled out of the carriage, then reached back in to help her out. Gingerly.

  Once they’d all safely exited, they slogged to the other side of the vehicle. The rain had soaked into the packed snow and created a heavy, miry mess that seeped through Leah’s worn, damaged boots to saturate her stockings. Tracks cut through the slush and ended abruptly at a rut littered with pieces of the carriage’s wheel. Her gaze slipped from the scattered remains to the carriage where broken spokes jutted out from the axel like a child’s sketch of the sun.

  “You might want to add this to your prayers, Harrison,” Chambelston murmured to the other man before addressing his coachman. “Any idea whether we would do better to return to the inn or take our chances on what lies ahead?”

  “Well, my lord, the last village was some ways back, and I suspect we are about halfway between posting inns. I suggest we continue in the direction of London.”

  Leah pulled her bonnet lower over her brow to shield her face from the cold rain. “Perhaps we’ll meet with a farmer or carrier with room on his cart for us.”

  Harrison accessed the carriage and retrieved his crumpled hat. He shoved it onto his head and surveyed the lonely stretch of road that extended in both directions. “The coachman makes an excellent point about our position. However, I am less optimistic than Miss Vance about our chances for a ride on such a day.”