The Mysterious Heir

by Edith Layton

  A lady in pink declared that now the hostilities were over she hoped her dear husband would see his way clear to taking her to Paris—at last, she added on a sly note. Amid the laughter, and the service of a spectacular rainbow ice mold, Lord Kingston asked, from way down the table, if his host was soon to be off to Paris as well, now Napoleon was safely cooped at last. As the Earl began an answer, Elizabeth saw to her dismay that Anthony’s face was unbecomingly flushed, his eyes glittered, and he brushed away at a lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He seemed to be muttering something angrily to Lord Kingston, leaning ungracefully almost athwart his female companion’s dessert plate.

  “I think not,” the Earl said, taking no notice of the rising mumbles coming from Antony, “for I understand France is still in sad disarray after so many years of war. Rather I think I should prefer to remember it as it was, a graceful and fruitful land. I may go back in a few more years, when it is prosperous once again.”

  This time Elizabeth, as well as everyone else at the table, could catch some of Anthony’s remarks. “Once graceful and fruitful for a few,” was one fragment she heard, and “Never be prosperous until Napoleon’s safely back,” was another. Elizabeth grew white as the glazed angel-food cake the footman now bore in, so leached of color that Dr. Wood gave her a glance of purely professional interest. She hoped that Anthony’s slurring had obscured the words to those unfamiliar with his speech or his tendencies. She spoke up quickly, in a brittle, falsely gay voice, “But Italy—now, Italy is a land I hear is lovely, warm, and delightful.”

  “Still, Paris…ah, Paris,” Lord Kingston persisted, riding over the Earl’s answer to her comment. “Now that was a city of splendor. The nights alive with gaiety, the days with excitement. How I shall miss the Paris of old, and it is gone now, irretrievably gone.” He sighed.

  This time no one heard what Anthony mumbled, but it was clear to all present that he was extremely agitated about something.

  “What’s that you say, Tony?” Lord Kingston asked in puzzlement. “Didn’t quite catch it. Perhaps you ought to pass up that Moselle, my boy,” he said indulgently, with an understanding smile.

  “Aye,” Dr. Woods agreed, leveling a meaningful look at a hapless fellow across the table, “for nothing courts gout faster, eh, Fowler?”

  But now Anthony struggled upright and blurted clearly, “You heard me, Harry. I said, you’ve the right of it, Paris is gone. Gone to the dogs. And never will be right again until Napoleon’s back in his rightful place.”

  “I agree, young man,” the vicar called out, misunderstanding Anthony completely, “and I fear his proper place is not in this world at all. But rather somewhere below it,” he concluded, his own face flushed with his attempt at what he considered to be a slightly scandalous comment worthy of the exalted company.

  “His rightful place?” Anthony shouted, rising up on one elbow to thrust an empurpled face toward the offending vicar. “His rightful place is Emperor of all Europe! That’s his rightful place. And I tell you, nothing will go right until brave men everywhere”—and here Anthony swept out his arm with such force that the timorous young female next to him cringed backward as he overset a water glass—“brave men everywhere bear arms in his defense. They’ve sent him to an island, an island,” he entreated Lord Kingston, as though there were no other sensible creatures present he could convince, “a tiny island, when his proper domain would be this island, his proper kingdom, all kingdoms on earth!”

  “I say!” cried the squire.

  “For shame!” sputtered the vicar.

  And, “What sort of joke is this!” challenged another gentleman.

  But one landowner, a previously quiet fellow, leaped to his feet to declare ringingly, “Our brave Billy went off to fight the Corsican monster, and I can tell you, he still wakes screaming in the night at the remembered battles.”

  In the general uproar, Elizabeth scarcely saw the Earl rise effortlessly and signal two footmen. Then he made his way, amazingly swiftly for a man with halt gait, toward Anthony.

  But Anthony seemed oblivious of all that was happening about him.

  “That’s ’cause he fought on the wrong side, you see,” he said confidentially to the angry landowner as he gripped the tabletop with two hands. “Had he fought for Napoleon, you see, instead of against, why, then, you see, what a different story it would be. For Napoleon—” he began to go on, but stopped when he felt the Earl’s hand upon his shoulder.

  The Earl looked down at him with a pleasant smile. “Anthony, old chap,” he said softly, “I think you need some fresh air. That Rhine is deceptive stuff. It goes down like lemonade, and doesn’t announce its true nature till too late. A bit of air will clear your head.”

  “Don’t need air,” Anthony denied, trying to wrench his shoulder from the Earl’s seemingly light grip and failing.

  “Need Napoleon back. It’s what we all need, don’t you know?”

  The two footmen positioned themselves behind Anthony and at the Earl’s nod lifted him effortlessly to his feet. Then the Earl wrapped one long arm about Anthony’s shoulders and propelled him, still protesting, from the room. As Anthony left, no longer unwilling but rather dazed, his words floated back to the stunned company. “Don’t you see,” he said piteously, “that we’ve been all wrong? Oh, I know you must be angry about your leg, and all, but surely you must see the right of it?”

  When the last of Anthony’s mumbled plaints had faded, Elizabeth found herself sitting at a dinner table with her host absent, her cousin disgraced, and every other person present absolutely still. Then all at once, each person realized the situation, and all attempted to leap into the breach at once. A general babble arose.

  “Wine,” said the doctor sagely, patting Elizabeth’s hand. “Wine’s the culprit. Probably a very sane young fellow when he isn’t in his cups. Don’t worry, my dear. He won’t harm you. Auden’s got him under control.”

  “He is a very nice young man,” Elizabeth managed to choke. “He is my cousin.”

  “Wine,” repeated the doctor, looking darkly at the glass in front of him, as though it contained some murky poison. “Think I’ll just nip out for a moment to my carriage. Got just the thing in my bag for the lad. That is, if the housekeeper don’t think of hot soapsuds first,” he added mysteriously, and bowing, left the table as well.

  The dinner was in disarray about her, but instead of joining in the fevered attempts at normal conversation as Lady Isabel so correctly did, Elizabeth sat still. It was not until one large tear began to course its way down her cheek that she heard the Earl’s voice, low and level, whisper into her ear, “Hold up for just a little longer, Elizabeth. All will be well.”

  She mopped away the offending teardrop as the Earl, now standing at the head of the table, said brightly to the assembled guests, “The young man attempted to solve the age-old question of whether white, red, and pink wine can coexist in the same vessel. Alas, it is still true that they cannot.”

  A little wellspring of laughter greeted his comment.

  “He offers his apologies, but unfortunately, you will have to take my word for it, as he is undergoing Dr. Woods’s famous cure for such experiments right now,” he went on.

  A small groan went up and at least one gentleman laughed sympathetically. “If he survives that”—the gentleman chuckled—“he’ll live to a ripe old age.”

  “I’m sure he will join us, older and much, much wiser, later this evening,” the Earl agreed. “But for now, I think it would be a capital idea if we adjourned to the ballroom. Our desserts, obedient as they are to our every command, will follow. As will music, and if you promise not to tell the good doctor, more spirits.”

  Appeased, his company rose, and some of the charm of the evening seemed recaptured. The ladies went out on their gentlemen’s arms, and Elizabeth, scarcely believing her ears, heard no further comment about Anthony’s treasonous statements beyond a few whispers about how wine took some fellows.

&nbs
p; Elizabeth rose blindly and almost stumbled into the Earl, who stood behind her.

  “I must go to him,” she whispered.

  “You must not,” he said, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders. “Bev is with him, and the doctor as well, and all that went down is about to arise again. I hardly think Anthony needs you now, or, for that matter, would welcome your company. You will go and mingle with my guests and put it all out of your mind. And I shall accompany you and be sure that the others forget it as well. Come, Elizabeth, a little spirit, if you please.”

  Looking up, she saw a stern look flash in his eyes. She did not wish to anger him further than Anthony already had, so she placed her hand upon his arm and went quietly with him.

  Once they were inside the vast ballroom, almost the first sight to meet her eyes was that of Lord Kingston, once again urbane and cool, quite soberly holding forth to a group of gentlemen.

  “He is not with Anthony, no. I expect he had no wish to dirty his hands further. Or his clothes, for that matter,” the Earl said obliquely. “I cannot, alas, open the dancing,” he sighed, “but then, I have repair work to do. I shall ask you, Elizabeth, to do that honor with Cousin Richard. Now, come with me, and remember that it is not quite the end of the world. Or else our vicar would be much busier than he now is.”

  Somehow Elizabeth managed to begin the dance with Cousin Richard. He was, as usual, closemouthed. But two things that he did surprised Elizabeth even in her well of wretchedness. He told her immediately, with a rare smile, that as Anthony was only a young cub, no one would give the matter a second thought. And then he danced with her exquisitely. Soon the set was joined by others, and before long the four musicians were playing merry country tunes for several reeling couples.

  As soon as she could, Elizabeth left the dance floor, leaving a startled Lady Isabel to discover Cousin Richard’s unexpected grace. Elizabeth did as best she could to obey her host’s instructions. She commiserated with Mrs. Woods about the folly of marrying a doctor and thus spending every social evening alone whilst he found some occupation for himself. She agreed with a Mrs. Stanley that the cost of both butter and lace was prohibitive these days. As she felt it was the least she could do to make amends for Anthony, she listened to the initially offended gentleman tell her in lurid detail every one of his son Billy’s war-struck nightmares. After a while, she could not tell if it was that everyone was being exquisitely correct socially or if they had indeed forgotten the extent of Anthony’s comments and marked it all down to his intoxication.

  At length, when the evening was half gone, a pale but blotchy-faced Anthony crept into the room. Lord Beverly stood at his one side, Dr. Woods at the other. In the hush that had fallen upon his entrance, Anthony said wretchedly in a weak voice, “Terribly sorry. I had no intention of disrupting dinner. Beg forgiveness.”

  “Lad looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards.” The doctor’s wife sighed.

  “Of course you’re forgiven, lad. Just remember in future, wine and politics don’t mix.” The squire laughed.

  “Wine and rich food don’t mix neither, as he’s doubtless discovered,” one of the other gentlemen commented. Before long, almost every one of the assembled guests had walked over to Anthony to condole with him. The elder ladies clucked in motherly fashion and their daughters smiled in sympathy. The gentlemen made hearty jests about the power of spirits and recounted some of their own youthful indiscretions. After what Lord Beverly deemed a decent interval, he nudged Anthony rather forcibly in the ribs. Anthony grimaced, then made a wobbly bow and excused himself from the company.

  The musicians played on, the guests seemed to have forgotten the whole, but Elizabeth stood at the sidelines and despaired. Her self-imposed exile did not last. For Owen, who for once was not sleeping his dinner off, perhaps because the music was too loud, appeared before her with a plate of tipsy trifle. “This is awfully good, Elizabeth,” he said shyly. “Do have some. It is exceptionally good,” he urged.

  “Owen’s right,” the Earl said, looming up from the shadows. “It is awfully good. Thank you, Owen. I’m sure Elizabeth will like it. She had no dessert, you know.”

  “I know,” Owen said sagely, as though he well knew the lack of dessert accounted for most of the world’s sorrows. Then he made a stiff little bow and left to peruse the dessert table for anything he might have missed.

  The Earl put the plate down carefully, then faced Elizabeth. “Come. It’s all righted now. No need to castigate yourself. For he was far too far down the table for you to stop once he was in full spate. But it really doesn’t matter.”

  “The things he said—” Elizabeth began.

  “Were things that everyone believes to have been brought on by an excess of wine,” the Earl said quickly.

  She looked the Earl full in the face and blurted, “But they weren’t. It’s what he truly believes.”

  “He is very young,” he answered patiently, “and the ideas of our youth tend to be extreme. Were you never young, Elizabeth?” he asked quizzically. “Bev was used to dress all in scarlet and pink,” he mused. “The most shocking shade of pink. I used to think his poor father would have apoplexy when he saw his only begotten son decked out like a fortune-teller at a fair. And even Simon, the most levelheaded fellow once he got his growth, was enraptured of the idea of running off to sea in his salad days. And I… You well know how I covered myself with glory in my youth. So you need not blame Anthony, nor yourself. I think half the problem is how very seriously you have taken him. It is not wise to take young men too seriously. Or older ones, for that matter.” He laughed.

  “And, no,” he said, looking at her steadily, “he has not ruined all his chances. And,” he added with a small smile, “even that matters less each day.”

  Elizabeth could not quite understand his comment, and dared not try to understand further. She only smiled and felt her anxiety slip away. She stood wreathed in smiles, glowing dumbstruck, like a morning glory in the sunlight of his shadow. And then he turned away to chat with another guest, leaving Elizabeth alone to damn herself for six sorts of a fool.

  12

  The guests crept about the great house with unaccustomed stealth. Except for Lord Beverly, who, bereft of his boon companion, occupied his time with strolling in the gardens, occasionally moved by some inner thought to slashing the heads off intrusive flowers which called themselves to his wavering attention. Elizabeth, watching Lord Beverly from a window, was tempted to go outside and warn him of the danger of incipient murder that she had seen gleaming in the head gardener’s eyes as he observed Lord Beverly’s unorthodox method of working off his impatience. But she could not bring herself to stir from the house. For it was Anthony who was being interviewed by the Earl this morning, and fiends with hot pincers could not have budged her until the interview was over.

  The Earl had not seemed angry with his rash young cousin the day after the party, nor the day after that. Both Elizabeth and Anthony had breathed sighs of relief as things went on in much the same manner that they had before. But this morning the Earl had put down his coffee cup and gently interrupted Anthony in mid-sentence as he was outlining his plans to accompany Lord Kingston to Town to see to the acquisition of some new neckcloths.

  “Oh, pity,” the Earl had drawled. “I did hope that you might be free this morning, Anthony. For there were some things that I wished to converse with you about…alone.”

  Anthony had put down his buttered toast and given Elizabeth one stricken glance. Between the space of two heartbeats, Lord Kingston had said lightly, “Go ahead, Tony. The trip can wait, for it never was of prime import. And needs must when the devil drives, eh, lad?”

  Elizabeth could see Anthony struggling with his reply. He had come to think himself very much the man-about-town in his days at Lyonshall, and she knew he would have dearly loved to say something equally flippant and outrageous. She knew Anthony detested the idea of being thought as a supplicant for the Earl’s favors, especiall
y in front of Lord Kingston. But, she saw with blessed relief, Anthony was not blind to reality. He choked for a second and then said casually, “Harry’s quite right, Cousin Morgan. I’ve got a drawer full of neckcloths anyway. I’m at your service this morning. We can ride out tomorrow, Harry—that is, if it’s all right with you?” he added with a very youthful look of entreaty toward his new friend.

  “Certainly, certainly,” Lord Kingston said smoothly. “I shall not wear the willow, not with two lovely ladies present, at any rate.”

  Anthony had gone off like a sheep to the slaughter, Elizabeth thought, and the rest of the company trailed off in their own pursuits. But again, none went far from the study where the Earl and Anthony were met. Lord Kingston had initially tried to capture Elizabeth’s attention with light flirtation, quizzing her about life in Tuxford and her plans for the future. But even though a few scant weeks ago she would have been thrilled to receive the attentions of a gentleman such as he, now she had no thought of him.

  It was not only because she was nervously thinking about what was going forth in the Earl’s study. Somehow, Lord Kingston, with all his graces, made her feel uncomfortable. He was so pleasant, so charming, so very flattering, that he set her teeth on edge. For all his unpredictable behavior and for all his occasional thorniness, Elizabeth always welcomed the Earl’s company. Of course, she admitted to herself, that might well be only because of her personal feelings toward him. But, she thought further, perhaps it was also because the Earl treated all who came across his path, male, female, servant, or child, in the same manner. Whereas Lord Kingston treated only the ladies with unflagging courtesy and condescension.