Redeeming The Reclusive Earl (HQR Historical)

by Virginia Heath

  He stepped aside and swept his arms out to encompass his painfully thin colleague who made no attempt to smile and stared at him down his long beak of a nose, his eyes drifting immediately to Max’s scars before he deigned to look him square in the eye. Openly judging him as men of supposed good breeding so often did and clearly of the belief he had every right to.

  It was exactly this which made Max instantly dislike him. Undisguised disgust at his deformity aside, he’d met many men of his ilk in the Navy. All usually sat behind an ornate desk at the Admiralty, making sweeping opinions and decisions about things they knew little about and refusing to budge from them no matter what the cost. Give him a man who had worked his way through the ranks any day over one who believed he was born only for the highest. ‘This is Francis Brighouse, the Marquess of Denby, and one of the society’s most active and respected Fellows.’

  Was it his imagination, or did Sir Percival’s cheerful smile suddenly look a trifle strained? The pompous Marquess merely inclined his head and didn’t bother to speak, so Max did the same, but made a point of smiling slightly as he did so to show the fool he wasn’t the least bit intimidated by Lord Denby’s superior title or attitude or blatant distaste. ‘Welcome to Rivenhall.’ It would be a cold day in hell before he tacked the words my lord to any remarks to this arrogant blue blood.

  ‘And beside him is our honourable secretary, Lord Whittlesey.’ Sir Percival’s smile was definitely pasted on this time, which was telling. ‘He was the one responsible for sifting your paper out of the plethora which find their way to us each month, so you have him to thank for our over-enthusiastic imposition.’ And doubtless was similarly responsible for returning all of Effie’s previous efforts unopened. Already loathing him and sorely tempted to just punch him and be done with it, Max shook his proffered limp hand and tried not to curl his lip in distaste as he did so.

  The bland man doffed his hat and inclined his beige head, his eyes latching on to Max’s cheek like a limpet and not leaving. ‘Lord Rivenhall.’

  This was all as hideously awful as he had expected and he felt his toes curl in shame inside his boots while the angry acid churned in his stomach. ‘Lord Whittlesey.’

  ‘We are all three of us thoroughly thrilled to be here to see it all!’ Although only Sir Percival looked thrilled, Max noted. The other two now looked fashionably bored and vaguely suspicious, as if they had no intention of gushing about Effie’s magnificent discovery until they had clapped eyes on it themselves and satisfied their own sanctimoniously superior eyes it was not a big sham. ‘It is jolly decent of you to have invited us. Can we visit the site today? I am beyond eager to get started.’

  Max responded with a bland smile. As much as he wanted to contradict the man and explain they had been dragged here under false pretences—or at least under a twisted version of the truth—he would not humiliate Effie by doing it out here in front of the servants.

  ‘I, for one, am eager to see how one can accurately discern wooden post holes when the said wood is allegedly two thousand years old and will undoubtedly have rotted away centuries beforehand.’ Lord Denby smirked at Lord Whittlesey and in that instant he realised these two sanctimonious nay-sayers were here solely to find cause to discredit Effie’s work not celebrate in it as it was due. They were the brakes on Sir Percival’s enthusiastic carriage and unlikely to give her a fair hearing no matter how well written and researched her paper was or how vociferously he supported her cause.

  Which did not bode well. For either her or him.

  ‘They are quite discernible—I can assure you. If you know how to properly discern them, that is.’ He could look down his nose, too, especially as he topped the skinny windbag by a good four inches and was probably twice as wide. ‘I suppose that is what makes this discovery so unique. To an amateur’s eye all mud is merely mud.’ Max smiled to soften the edges of his blatant insult, pleased that the buffoon bristled regardless. ‘It takes real skill and intelligence to find what nobody else has managed thus far. Wouldn’t you say, Lord Denby?’

  ‘I shall reserve judgement until I see it.’

  Max felt his eyes drawn to where she still stood rooted to her spot behind the pillar, saw her defeated posture and miserable expression as she stared down at the floor awaiting his judgement. It tugged on his heart as her reality slapped him in the face. If it was this hard for a man to be taken seriously, and he was already beyond frustrated by the lofty lord’s scepticism, then he couldn’t imagine what each day was like for Effie. Each knock back. Each disparaging dismissal because a woman wasn’t supposed to succeed in a man’s world.

  And there I was, thinking you were different from everyone else!

  Her words, spat in anger, came back to haunt him because he suddenly realised he, too, was no different from the men currently looking down their noses. How could he possibly be any different if he actively lent a hand to scuppering all her dreams as well? When he knew more than anyone how unbearable it was to lose all hope and all purpose. All she wanted was to see her work published. How could he not help her do that?

  ‘And see it you shall.’ Although doubtless he would bitterly regret the decision in the coming days. ‘But not until tomorrow—’ out of the corner of his eye he saw Effie’s head whip up in confusion ‘—as we have been plagued with a week of rain and the ground will need at least another day to dry out. Tonight, you may examine the artefacts we have found thus far instead and marvel at our magnificent discovery.’ Without thinking he threw out his palm to encompass Effie, hoping she would come to his aid.

  ‘We?’ Sir Percival followed his gaze and suddenly beamed from ear to ear.

  ‘Yes... We...’ He was thinking on his feet now, lost in the ocean with no compass to guide him, but certain he needed to change course. ‘Allow me to introduce you to my...um...’ He turned to her, smiling, hoping she could see the panicked message in his eyes and nobody else could. Hoping her quick brain would come to both their rescues because his was floundering. ‘Miss Effie...’

  ‘Jones!’ She stepped out of the shadows and slanted him an odd glance. ‘Miss Effie Jones. Lord Rivenhall’s assistant.’

  ‘You have a female assistant?’ Lord Denby seemed affronted by the idea and he addressed Max rather than acknowledge her. Something which made his blood boil until the fool spoke again and vaporised it into shooting steam. ‘I have never heard anything so ridiculous! Is there a shortage of good manpower here in Cambridge?’

  ‘It is her talented hand which drew all the sketches.’ He would give Effie as much credit as he could without arousing their suspicions, just to vex this arrogant arse. ‘I am afraid I cannot draw for toffee.’

  ‘Still—with the finest university in the country practically on your doorstep, I fail to see...’

  ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Jones.’ Sir Percival stepped into the breach. ‘And may I say, what magnificent sketches they were, too...’ He wasted no time bowing, clearly thoroughly attracted to Effie, and took his time over kissing her hand. Something which filled Max with irrational jealousy, which he covered by turning to his stony-faced but rapidly blinking butler.

  ‘Smithson, fetch my sister, will you? As I placed her in charge of getting the rooms ready.’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’ Smithson nodded slowly. ‘But first I shall have the tea and sandwiches sent to the drawing room immediately... Or perhaps something stronger to revive your guests after their journey while their baggage is brought in and I speak to Mrs Baxter?’

  In that moment he could have hugged his astute butler. ‘Yes Smithson. See to that immediately... Gentlemen—if you will kindly follow me.’

  * * *

  Effie wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but certainly wasn’t about to contradict Max when he had apparently had a last-minute change of heart. She was trailing after the men to the drawing room when a very flushed and slightly out of breath Smithson inte
rcepted her. ‘If I could borrow you for a moment, Miss Jones?’

  ‘But of course.’

  Regally he closed the doors with a bow, sealing the gentlemen inside and then dragged her by the arm down the hallway and into the library where Eleanor was impatiently waiting.

  ‘Well, this is all unexpected, isn’t it?’ Although Max’s sister did not look the least bit fazed. ‘But exciting, no? Some emergency covert machinations are required while Max keeps them occupied in the drawing room. Fortunately, the spare rooms were only cleaned yesterday after my family left, so it shouldn’t take the maids long to put fresh linens on the bed. I shall tell Cook we are four more for dinner tonight and pray she can rustle something suitable up at such short notice. If she can’t, we shall ply them with wine and brandy and hope they don’t notice.’ She paced as she thought, ticking things off on her fingers.

  ‘Smithson, you sort out the tea and inform my brother I shall be with him as soon as possible. I shall assist him in stalling them with small talk until we can dispatch them to their bedchambers to rest before they dress for dinner. And, Effie—you need to dash home and gather up all your artefacts and I’ll have them all laid out in here as if they have always been here. This room will make a better museum than the study. I shall have the carriage dispatched to meet you there, as I suspect that will be quickest, and then you can bring it back and sneak it all in while the gentleman are safely ensconced in their rooms.’

  ‘Good idea!’ Effie was about to bolt out the door when Eleanor stopped her.

  ‘And if you are to be Max’s assistant, you should pack a bag, too, and I’ll have another room prepared for you.’

  A prospect which made her panic far more than lying to the antiquarians did. ‘There really is no need when I only live across the pasture...’

  ‘There is every need if we are to convince them of this ruse! You are the expert, not he, and my brother is bound to come unstuck left alone with them for three whole days! It will be much safer if you are staying here—at their beck and call and ready to intervene at a moment’s notice. I fear you must be his shadow, Effie. Because Max is doing this all for you now, isn’t he?’

  There was no arguing with that, because the logic was entirely sound, but logic did nothing to calm the enormous butterflies now flapping in her tummy or the nerves which were bouncing all over the place. But as sound as it was, it still did not explain Eleanor’s brother’s sudden and unexpected about-turn. ‘I suppose... Although I should really speak to Max first and see what he—’

  ‘There’s no time for that! I shall apprise Max as soon as I have dispatched your guests to their rooms while you go and fetch absolutely everything you think he might need to convince them he is not an impostor.’ Eleanor steered her to the door and practically pushed her through it. ‘And, Effie—make it a big bag as you will need both your digging clothes and suitable attire for dinner each evening. Something pretty and formal. That oozes all your feminine wiles... Like that lovely coral silk you wore to our first meal together? That is very becoming and guaranteed to distract them from asking too many questions.’

  ‘Do we want to distract them?’

  ‘We do until we have a proper plan!’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dig Day 802: be careful what you wish for...

  A little over three hours later, and entirely flustered, Max’s packed carriage finally turned towards the Rivenhall stables. Having no idea which artefacts to bring, she had brought them all and the tightly packed trunk contained enough clothes for every eventuality and far too many for just three days.

  Not wanting to cause a scene or inadvertently put her foot in it, she intended to creep back into the house through the kitchens in search of her bafflingly changeable host or his sister so they could brief her on the plan. She hoped to God there was one, because with all the excitement and the packing and the panicking, she certainly had no clue what to do next and no earthly idea what exactly Max thought he was playing at. One minute she was the devil incarnate for taking his name in vain and the next she was his assistant and about to move into his house.

  But as the carriage slowed, the man himself was waiting for her, looking more anxious than she had ever seen him. It was Max who opened her door, his expression thoroughly relieved.

  ‘Thank the Lord! Blasted dinner is in an hour and I am in over my head here.’ His big hand engulfed hers as he helped her down, then remained clasped around it, sending her already racing pulse galloping at the contact. ‘We need to talk, Effie. Urgently.’

  She certainly agreed they did. She had absolutely no idea what was going on.

  He tugged her to the quietest corner of the yard.

  ‘The first thing you should know is your antiquarians are happily settled in their rooms and have been for the last few hours...’ He glanced down at their intertwined hands, appeared startled that they were indeed intertwined and hastily severed the contact.

  ‘The second thing you need to know is I think I’ve managed to convince them that I know what I’m talking about when I really haven’t a clue. Although that is more to do with Eleanor’s gift of the gab and ability to charm the birds from the trees than my solid grasp on antiquity. It might also have something to do with Smithson’s liberal hand with the brandy. But...’ He huffed out a breath and ran a very agitated hand through his long hair, looking thoroughly mortified.

  ‘But?’

  ‘Lord Denby is the worst kind of snob and took real issue with me having a female assistant. In fact, it seemed to cause him a great deal of consternation and he simply would not let it lie... I’m sorry, Effie...’ His dark eyes were filled with remorse on her behalf.

  ‘All par for the course in my world, Max. Women are supposed to be decorative, not intelligent...’ Something about the way he stared down at his feet made her panic. ‘Do I need to leave?’ Because that would be the absolute icing on the cake. Not only would she be denied the recognition for the discovery—something she had resigned herself to the second she had signed his name on the letter—but now that Max had relented and was apparently going to play out the façade created by her poorly considered pseudonym, she was to be denied the opportunity to witness it even as a spectator. ‘Is the prospect of a woman at the dig so abhorrent to him?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s worse than that.’

  Worse! Oh, dear.

  ‘Thanks to Eleanor...’ He cleared his throat, his eyes darting to hers, then flicking away. And behind the curtain of hair he was suddenly hiding behind, she was almost certain she detected what looked a lot like a blush.

  ‘I am really not sure how to tell you the next bit, so I’ll just say it straight out... In view of his persistent and fixated outrage at your involvement with the paper...she told them you were my fiancée.’ He winced as he said it, as if he was waiting for her to hit the roof and seemed genuinely surprised when she neither said nor did anything beyond blink. Because frankly, after the million and one thoughts, questions and scenarios to careen through her mind these fraught past few hours, that certainly had not been one of them.

  His next words came out in an embarrassed tumble. ‘To be fair to Eleanor, it did seem to do the trick and Lord Pompous backed off and immediately directed his over-active scepticism elsewhere.’

  ‘I am to play your fiancée now?’

  ‘Obviously, I demanded to know what the hell she thought she was about when I finally got her alone and she quoted you as the inspiration for her spur-of-the-moment solution, stating that men like Denby would not question a lady’s diligent support of her betrothed and would be seen as natural because... Er...’ He was delightfully awkward now and most definitely blushing. Which was a first. She had never seen him so flustered or uncertain. And she had never heard him stammer. ‘Because in his eyes, as my fiancée, your place should be by my side regardless... What with women being chattels and all, with no thoughts beyond those
fed to them by their biologically superior menfolk and no desire above...um...administering to his—or in this case my—whims.’

  Her words. Almost exactly.

  ‘And that worked?’ She found herself smiling at Lord Denby’s utter stupidity as well as Max’s charming awkwardness. ‘He can cope with me assisting you as long as we are engaged—but not because you engaged my services as an assistant?’

  ‘That is the long and short of it, yes.’ He slanted her a wary glance. ‘Eleanor has appointed herself our chaperon... For appearance’s sake, of course, rather than... Are you angry?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. Thank goodness Eleanor thought of it.’ She watched the tension dissolve in his broad shoulders and suppressed the sudden urge to run her hands over them. ‘Are Sir Percival and Lord Whittlesey similarly placated?’

  ‘As Lord Whittlesey’s sole purpose, as far as I can make out, appears to be to agree unquestioningly with everything Disapproving Denby says and as Sir Percival seemed crestfallen to learn that you were spoken for, I’d say so. He seems to have taken a bit of a shine to you, by the way.’ Max seemed to be watching her reaction to that intently.

  ‘It will tarnish. It always does.’ She hoped her words sound blasé rather than bitter because Max was being nice. ‘What is our plan for tonight?’

  ‘We’ll eat, then show them the artefacts. I shall propose a very early night so that we can head to the ruins early.’ His gaze suddenly swept the length of her and he winced again at her now thoroughly crumpled day dress. ‘Eleanor is insisting it is to be horrifically formal, so you’ll probably have to change. Once the carriage is unloaded, it can take you back home to do so.’