The Dragon Earl

by Jade Lee

  Evelyn's eyebrows rose. "And by English, you mean your tide. And me."

  "More than that. English clothes. English food." He shrugged. "Everything."

  From the side, Grandmother beamed with delight. "Why, that is most excellent. Your abbot sounds like a very smart man."

  "He is a blind man!" The words boomed out of him like thunder, an unfortunate display of temper. Jie Ke tightened his fists and mentally beat the emotion down, down, down and away. "My abbot has been searching for an excuse to make me leave the temple. He does not wish to have a white monk."

  Evelyn arched a brow. "So, he is not a very holy man."

  "No," Jie Ke replied in a softer tone. "He is extremely holy." How odd that this woman had immediately figured out his dilemma. "In this one aspect, he seems prejudiced beyond reason. I have chosen my path: I want to be a monk. But he insists that I embrace my white heritage before I set it aside."

  Again, Grandmother beamed her approval. "But that is exactly what you should do! You have been away from England so long, you have forgotten—"

  "I have forgotten nothing!" He exploded off the settee and began to pace. Unfortunately, that brought him within her powdery sphere, and abruptly he began sneezing again. It was ridiculous! England and his own grandmother made him sneeze!

  But it was what it was, and so he stepped away from his rel­ative to kneel before his future wife. "I don't want to marry you. I don't want to be in England. And I certainly don't want a tide or the responsibilities that come with it."

  "Well, at least you acknowledge that there will be respon­sibilities," she drawled. Then she pressed her lips together as if to hold back the rest.

  She needn't have bothered. He remembered the rest. "That is more than my father did," he finished for her. "Yes, young as I was, I still remember the arguments between Father and Uncle."

  He watched her eyes widen in surprise. Apparently, she still didn't quite believe he'd once been Jacob.

  "I don't care what you believe," he said with enough vehe­mence to surprise even himself. "All I care about is that Zhi Min see me try to become English."

  "But—" began Grandmother.

  Evelyn held up her hand, silencing the elderly woman.

  "You want to pretend to be English so you can prove to your judge that you tried."

  He smiled, excruciatingly relieved that she understood. "Yes."

  "But you are doing it for real. You have ruined my wed­ding, challenged the earl for the tide, and have thrown my life into chaos."

  "All to show Zhi Min and the abbot. My final task, and then they will be forced to allow me to take vows." He tight­ened his hands. "It is for show, not for real."

  She stared at him, her eyes narrowing into tiny blazing points of fury. "It is very real to me."

  He sighed. "I know it is, and I am sorry. But if you want me gone, if you want this over, then you have to help me prove myself to Zhi Min."

  "How?"

  "Help me dress English. Help me be English." He took a deep breath. "Help me court you."

  "No."

  "We would not need to marry. I have told him how cruel that would be to you."

  "No."

  He grabbed her hands for fear that she would run. "I swear to you by all that is holy that I will not ruin you or the tide. I will abdicate it so that Christopher will someday inherit. I will hand you over for the wedding and marriage you want. But I can only do that if I prove to Zhi Min that I have remembered everything it is to be English, and that I truly do not want it."

  She shook her head, but her words said something entirely different. "And if I agree, what then? How long will it take?"

  "I don't know, but it shouldn't be long. A fortnight. Enough for Thomas Grayson to fail in my petition to reclaim my tide. Enough for Zhi Min to see that I have eaten boiled potato and compressed my neck with your ties." He tightened his grip on her hands. "That I have wooed and won my wife. That is essential. That is most essential, because it will show that I have the one thing that tempts men away from the tem­ple: a woman and a possible family. And once he believes that I have her—you—then I can tell him that I don't want any of it. Then I can leave and never return."

  He took a deep breath, trying to impress upon her the im­portance of her answer. She had to know that without her help, neither of them could have what they wanted. But if she saw things his way, then everything was within reach. Everything.

  She was silent a long moment as she searched his face. Long enough for Grandmother to huff in disgust. Long enough for the tea service to arrive with a discreet knock. Long enough for him to open the door to the servant and stand silently by as tea was laid out and poured.

  Only after she had served both Jie Ke and Grandmother did she face him. "A clever scheme," she said softly. "A clever story to enlist my aid against my fiancé's family."

  "It is no scheme!" he shot back.

  "And after I help you, you will suddenly change your mind—"

  "Never!"

  "And then you will have everything you want: tide, wife, and money."

  "I have no need for money! I am a monk."

  She slowly pushed to her feet, facing him from across the tea table, her eyes infinitely calm. "You are not a monk, and you are not an earl. You are not English and yet you are not Chinese, either. In short, sir, you are nothing but a clever thief, and I will never, ever help you."

  And with that she stood and swept from the room.

  Chapter Six

  The nerve of the man! Evelyn fumed as she swept from the room, not really knowing where she was going, so long as it was away. Unfortunately, there were eyes everywhere.

  She'd gotten rid of Lord Greenfield and his wife, but more guests were around every corner watching every move she made. The strain of this morning had sent Mama to bed, which left Evelyn alone to stem the tide of demands that came from their guests' gossip-hungry hearts.

  She looked outside, thinking to escape into the middling-fair day. Just a few moments peace and she would be able to function again. She had just stepped through the doorway when she spotted a group of women walking up the lane. Mrs. Whitsun and her three daughters. More gossipmongers. Evelyn quickly spun around and shot back inside . . . only to run smack-dab into a hovering footman.

  "So sorry, miss. Is there something—"

  "Mrs. Whitsun and her girls appear to be walking up the lane. Show them in, give them tea, and then come looking for me."

  "Of course, miss—"

  "But don't you dare find me!" she added on a hissing whis­per. "In fact, ask Lady Greenfield to fill in as I'm ... I don't know, indisposed somehow. Think of something plausible."

  "Of course, miss." Then he glanced significantly over her shoulder. "Better hurry. They're almost here."

  She nodded and prepared to dash upstairs, only to be stopped short when the footman did some hissing of his own. "I wouldn't suggest your painting parlor, miss. The Countess of Warhaven is up there."

  Bloody hell! She couldn't even retreat to her private stor­age room. She called it her painting parlor because she'd once claimed she would repaint the walls. She never had. Mostly it was a very cluttered top-floor retreat with light and books and all manner of furniture that couldn't be placed anywhere else. And yet, somehow, her future mother-in-law had discov­ered how very soothing silent clutter could be.

  "How long has she been there?"

  "All morning miss. Betty said she heard crying, and the lady wouldn't even open the door for her son."

  "She wouldn't see Christopher? My goodness, he must be beside himself. . . ." Her voice faded away. Christopher's emo­tions were not something she wanted to dwell on just then. "She was crying, you say?" Guilt ate at her. As hostess and fu­ture daughter-in-law, Evelyn really should see what was the matter. And yet, another woman's dramatics were not what she wanted just then. Not when she felt besieged on all sides. There had to be somewhere else she could go. She glanced nervously outside. Mrs. Whitsun and company were mome
nts away. "Very well," she abruptly decided. "I'll go to my room. Try to delay people from finding me too quickly."

  She mounted the stairs, but one glance there showed two maids tidying her room while they giggled over something— her aborted wedding, no doubt. Unwilling to face yet more gossipers, even if they were her own servants, she turned and headed for the back stairs. But where would she go? Her thoughts returned to her painting parlor. Why was the count­ess so upset and closeted there? It wasn't her wedding in shambles. True, the possible loss of tide would be upsetting, but the woman wasn't of a delicate nature. So why the water­works?

  Evelyn didn't really care. If the countess felt the need to hide herself away and sob, so be it. But did the woman really need to do it in Evelyn's private sanctuary? Without another choice, and with the sound of the front door knocker bang­ing ponderously behind her, Evelyn dashed up the back stairs. Rounding the corner, she rushed down the hallway to stop short beside the tiny closet that she alone ruled.

  No sound from inside. Perhaps the countess had left. Eve­lyn was about to knock when she heard footsteps. Someone was climbing the back staircase. Bloody hell, was there nowhere she could escape? She quickly reached in her pocket and pulled out her key chain. The lock was quickly undone, and Evelyn spared no time in pushing through, silently shutting the door behind her. Then she leaned against the frame and closed her eyes, breathing a full, deep inhalation of solitude.

  "Evie, my dear! Oh Evie!"

  The countess's words spun her around, and Evelyn peered through the shadows to find the woman. The room was sunny, filled with light from two windows, but there was fur­niture stacked every which way, and the countess had shrunk into the dark behind an armoire.

  "Countess?" Evie said as she picked her way around four stacked chairs. "What are you doing in here?"

  "Sitting, my dear. Just sitting." She didn't look at Evelyn when she spoke, but watched her hand where she stroked idle designs in the dust atop a small table. It was a game table, in­timate enough for two, and had a shallow cabinet built into the sides for holding chess sets or children's toys. It had once been her favorite nursery table, but was now relegated to this upstairs repository of lost furniture. Odd, but the countess looked appropriate here. Though gowned in rich amber and Perfectly coiffed, she still fit the shadows and dusty, lost pieces of another time.

  "Evie, dear, how are you faring? When the maid came to clean my room, I tried to force myself to go downstairs and help you, but I wound up here instead."

  "Why, thank you, my lady. You are so kind to think of me." The words came by rote, spoken sweetly, as all polite lies are. She sincerely doubted the countess had thought to help with any tasks involved with a household overflowing with guests. Something else weighed heavily on the woman, and it had nothing to do with whether Evelyn managed to duck away from the Misses Whitsun or not. "Is there something I can do to help you?"

  In fact, her question was also insincere. She had no interest in helping the countess, and yet, as hostess, she felt obliged to offer. She actually resented the fact that the countess had made her worm through boxes of moldy linens and past an old hobbyhorse to get to the back of the room. There was space of a sort on the opposite side beneath the near window. Evelyn's private retreat was there, and it included a comfort­able chair, a desk, and a stack of books set inside a cradle. But the countess had managed to maneuver her way to the back shadows where no one had been in years.

  Evelyn pushed the boxes sideways, then sneezed at the dust. "I really need to do something about those," she murmured.

  "Do you know that I used to gather round this very table with my two dearest friends? All three of us had children by then. You were too young, of course. I used to hold you on my lap. The boys would play at being horses or whatever around our feet. We would talk and watch the children and have such a wonderful time."

  Evelyn nodded. She knew the story. The women had been the best of friends: Christopher's mother, Regina; Evelyn's mother, Jane; and Stephanie, Jacob's mother. Then Stephanie and Jacob's entire family was declared dead. Regina had be­come the new countess, and suddenly duties prevented her from visiting. That was the kindest interpretation. In Mama's darker moments, she claimed that Regina simply became too lofty to bother visiting less-tided old friends.

  "I know Mama enjoyed your visits immensely. She missed them terribly when I grew older." That was as close as she could come to criticizing the countess. After all, the woman was supposed to be her new mother-in-law.

  "I missed her too," the woman murmured, her gaze ab­stract. One finger continued to toy with the dust on the table. "I should have visited you here, but Frank insisted you come to us. He believed you would not learn your proper place when surrounded with less rigid society. And so you came to us in London and your mother stayed here in the country."

  "You should tell that to my mother," Evelyn said. "Begin to mend fences—"

  "Run to Gretna Green."

  Evelyn blinked. "What did you say?"

  "I have money. Hire a carriage, grab my son, and leave." She gathered her skirts and made to stand, but Evelyn stopped her.

  "Countess—"

  "Do not call me that!"

  Evelyn reared back, stunned by the vehemence of those words. "Um . . ."

  "I was your Aunt Gina once. Don't you remember? Frank hated it. He said we weren't related by blood and so you shouldn't call me 'Aunt.' But I liked it. Don't you remem­ber it?"

  Vaguely. Everything about this woman—memories inclu­ded—seemed vaguer lately. Except for her fever-bright eyes.

  "We are women," the countess continued. "We cannot control what men decide regarding the tide. We can only snatch at what happiness there is."

  "Please, calm yourself, Aunt Gina." How odd those words felt in her mouth. The woman had been the countess for so long now that Aunt Gina was long gone.

  "You will make Christopher an excellent wife. He is a good man who will be a good and steady husband." She abruptly leaned forward, grabbing Evelyn's hands in a clawlike grip. "You care for Chris, don't you? Maybe even love him?"

  "Of course," she answered without thought. It was what one said to one's future mother-in-law.

  "And I know you are dear to him. It is an excellent basis for a marriage, tide or no."

  "But. . ." She steeled herself to not shrink away from the woman's painful grasp.

  "Listen to me!" The countess's face came alive, but in a way that was frightening in this place of dust and shadows. Her eyes burned bright, and her white lips pulled starkly back from her teeth. "Why do we rely so heavily on men to make decisions for us? Did they consult any of us when you were betrothed to Jacob? Of course not! It was about the dower property, and you were merely the means to absorb land into the tide."

  Evelyn knew it was true. She'd once even resented that fact with every fiber of her being. But as her mother had told her over and over again, there were worse things than becoming a countess. And even more, Evelyn had grown to love Christopher.

  "Do not rely on men for your happiness!" the countess hissed. "Take what you want now while there is still time."

  Evelyn hadn't wanted to think it was true. She had blocked the possibility from her thoughts, but it had remained there, a constant nagging fear. "You think this Chinaman really is Ja­cob, don't you?"

  The countess dropped Evelyn's hands, denial in every part of her body. "He is dead. Jacob died with the rest, and there isn't a day that I don't mourn them all."

  Evelyn tucked her hands into her skirts, surreptitiously wiping the woman's touch away. "They why rush to Gretna Green? Why not wait until the men return from London?"

  "Sssss." It was a hiss of disgust and disapproval. Evelyn had not heard the sound often, but when she did, she knew the countess was at the limits of her patience. "You are not listen­ing! What do you want, girl? Do you want to be bartered like a bale of hay? Do you want other people to decide who you wed or why?"

  Evelyn clenched, stunned to hear
these words from the very woman who had drilled her on proper behavior. One month out of every three had been spent in London learning how to be a countess. And now she dared suggest the most improper act of all? "You want me to run away with complete disregard for my family's wishes? You suggest I incite gossip that would follow not only myself but my children for the rest of our lives?" Evelyn stepped forward, anger burning her throat. "From the moment I was born, I have been told who I would wed and why. This was decided for me long before—"

  "Take it back! Decide for yourself!" The countess abruptly pulled out a heavy purse from the depths of her skirt. She half handed, half threw it at Evelyn, who caught it rather than allow the coins to spill wildly over the floor. "Do you want my son? Do you want happiness? Then take the money and go! Gretna Green is not so far away."

  Evelyn stared at the purse. She didn't even want to open it, but she knew from the weight that it held a great deal of money. Enough, certainly, for an elopement to Scotland. "Christopher is too honorable to agree."

  "Then convince him. Bed him, Evelyn! You are a strong girl, stronger than I ever was. Forget what you have been told. Forget the tide, the money, and the life you have always lived. Think only of the man. You want Christopher, so take him. Seduce him!" She abruptly straightened then began pushing Evelyn to move for the door. "I will take care of your duties. Just go!"

  The woman was in such agitation that Evelyn could not refuse. If only out of concern for the elderly woman's heart, Evelyn nodded her agreement and quickly wended her way out of the attic hideaway. But by the time they had stepped out of the room, Evelyn had found something to say. She turned around and took the woman's hand.

  "Please, Aunt. You have been a second mother to me, showing me the duties and deportment required of a count­ess. Surely an unseemly dash to the border is too rash a move. You are just feeling unsettled."

  The countess raised her hand. For a moment, Evelyn thought the woman was about to strike her, but in the end she simply touched Evelyn's cheek. "You have been taught from your first breath to obey. Your demeanor is that of a woman leader of England, your steady deportment as vital a trait as your beauty. But no one has ever told you to think for yourself."