A Clandestine Courtship (2 page)

Amelia would make a perfect countess. She was sweet, kind, well-trained, and competent. The earl’s fortune was vast enough that her lack of dowry should pose no problem. With luck, he would visit Ridgeway Court soon.

Mary bit back a sigh over such air-dreaming. The problem of finding matches for her sisters grew more urgent every day. Amelia was already twenty, and Caroline eighteen. Despite her own dissatisfaction with marriage, she did not want them to dwindle into spinsters. Showing them to advantage was another reason for this gathering. Hopefully, Caroline could control her excitement long enough to impress at least one gentlemen.

 * * * *

James Underwood, tenth Earl of Ridgeway, motioned his friends to fall back so he could enjoy a moment of solitude. Not that he was bored by their conversation. He had deliberately sought their company to provide a distraction from his thoughts.

But for the moment he needed to be alone. He was losing control of his face, revealing too many private feelings. Let them think he was anxious for the first glimpse of his boyhood home. Let them conclude that he was moody and unpredictable. Their beliefs didn’t matter as long as they never discerned the truth: He dreaded this visit.

What was he doing here?

Ten years ago he had escaped along this very road, vowing never to return. Grief, shock, fury, and a pain he had tried to deny had accompanied him. It had taken years to banish those emotions, but he had done it, building a life he enjoyed and establishing a reputation he could be proud of. Setting the past behind him had removed its influence over his future. Or so he had thought.

Until John’s murder.

His first reaction had been rage. Not at the death – he and John had been too estranged to feel aught but relief – but because it forced him to break that vow and return home.

He choked.

Home. The word no longer applied to Ridgeway Court – if it ever had. Long before his actual departure, he had ceased belonging there. In the years since, he had called many places home – rooms in Paris, a palazzo in Naples, the house in Bombay – but his true home now lay in Lincolnshire. His estate might be smaller than Ridgeway, but it welcomed him as the Court never would. So he would be the first Ridgeway in centuries to live elsewhere.

But before he could return to the comfort of home, he had to inspect the family seat. It was not a task he could delegate to others. His steward was busy at the Haven. His man of business was trying to make sense of the Ridgeway financial affairs. His secretary was investigating John’s misdeeds in London. They were the only men he wholly trusted. So he must do this himself. And he could put it off no longer.

He had already visited the other Ridgeway properties. After correcting their problems, he had spent two months in London, pretending to search for a bride. Both activities had revealed horrifying accounts of John’s misuse of power. Even discounting half the gossip, he had to accept that John’s behavior had worsened in the last ten years. Every person he met looked at him askance, every eye holding the same question: Was he another John?

He had convinced most of them that he was not. Accomplishing that had given his London sojourn a purpose, but he could stay there no longer. The Season was drawing to a close, the most desperate matchmaker was plotting his downfall, and he had heard that Ridgeway’s tenants were in dire straits.

So he could no longer postpone this visit. Further delay would hurt innocent people and expose his fears and irresponsibility to the world. But facing the ghosts from his past would be difficult, which was why he had invited Harry and Edwin to accompany him.

They were not close friends – he had met Harry while inspecting a small estate in Kent four months ago and had met Edwin when he’d arrived in London – so they could not discern his thoughts. Nor would they see through his public facade. But they would provide company.

Or so he had thought. If his face was slipping before he even reached Ridgeway land, how was he to protect his secrets and hide his shame?

Somehow, he would manage it, he assured himself, shifting in the saddle as the road twisted uphill into the forest. And it should not be difficult. He had deliberately chosen companions who rarely questioned surface appearances.

At nine-and-twenty, Harry Crenshaw had made a name for himself as a carefree rakehell. He was a younger son whose fortune allowed him to enjoy life with willing women, good wine, and intriguing wagers – such as whether a man who had just consumed a bottle of brandy could stand on one foot for a quarter hour. Few knew Harry’s serious side – his work to abolish the use of climbing boys and his support of young mothers widowed by the war. James had stumbled across the information quite by accident and had never mentioned it. But Harry’s own secrets would keep him from prying.

Sir Edwin Stokes was Harry’s opposite. Though only six-and-twenty, he eschewed ballrooms and boudoirs in favor of books and music. While not serious enough to be considered a scholar, Edwin was fascinated by the Romans and was convinced that significant remains were buried on his estate. He planned to search for them once he returned home. In the meantime, his preoccupation blinded him to other men’s concerns. Even when he talked and laughed with friends, a portion of his mind remained with the Romans.

James nodded in satisfaction. A rake and a dreamer. Neither would pay attention to his moods. And the entertainment they provided would allow him to mask any unseemly emotions this confrontation with the past might raise.

“Is it true that you know Napoleon?” asked Edwin when James paused to allow their mounts to catch up.

“We have met, but I can hardly claim to know the man. I was in France during the Peace of Amiens ten years ago,” he added, seeing the question trembling on Harry’s lips.

Paris had been his first stop after leaving England – and the beginning of a Grand Tour few of his friends had managed. The remnants of the French aristocracy had welcomed the English flocking across the Channel, suppressing their doubts and hiding their woes behind determined celebration. The gaiety had pulled him out of his own pain and turned his eyes to the future.

France had offered delightful diversions, though even a cursory examination had convinced him that the peace could not last; Napoleon had been using it to consolidate his power, resupply his army, and enflame the populace into supporting new campaigns. But the memories could still make James smile. From there, he had traveled to Austria, Italy, Egypt, and finally to India, where he had acquired a fortune that made his inheritance seem paltry.

“How were the Parisian ladies?” asked Harry slyly.

“Sophisticated, but just as willing as that serving girl you ogled in the taproom last night.”

“I do enjoy a lusty wench, and she was certainly lusty.” Harry let out an exaggerated sigh, then burst into laughter at Edwin’s flushed face.

Though Edwin never openly criticized other men’s liaisons, he was a bit of a prude who blushed like a schoolgirl when embarrassed. It was not a reaction he could hide, for he was cursed with the pale, transparent complexion common among redheads, so he provided endless entertainment for his fellows.

“We are nearly there,” said James unnecessarily, to protect Edwin’s feelings. The lad was good-natured about his affliction, but James disliked jokes at anyone’s expense. He had been the victim of teasing too often to ignore the pain that usually accompanied it. His brother had been a master at using subtle barbs to undermine an opponent’s nerve or tarnish his reputation.

“Did you visit Rome in your travels?” asked Edwin.

“No, but I was in Naples for several months.” He saw the question on Harry’s lips, licked his own in appreciation, then described the Roman sites he had visited. Even Harry asked thoughtful questions, immersing them in antiquity and diverting his mind from his last day at the Court.

His description of the catacombs enthralled his companions as they passed the gates to Northfield Manor. His visits to Avellino and Benevento – where he had admired the Roman theater and the exquisite artistry of Trajan’s Arch – carried them beyond a dozen tenant farms.

But his reprieve couldn’t last forever. They rounded a corner and crossed a bridge. Ridgeway dust now swirled around his horse’s hooves and billowed behind the baggage carriage wheels.

Memories swept over him, making his hands tremble. Panic clawed at his chest, worse than he had expected, gripping him with an airless tension that would not dissipate. Evil eyes bored into his back.

He cursed under his breath, for his reaction made no sense. It was the people he had fled, not the place. And the people were gone. What evil could remain now?

The park gates stood open, offering an unlikely welcome, but the house was hidden behind its hill. Secretive. Furtive. Like so many of its masters. That had certainly been true of John. What would James find here?

He shivered.

Harry was again waxing poetic over the tavern wench, but James no longer cared. Memories of his brother lodged a lump in his throat. This was why he had procrastinated. He could not face Ridgeway without also coming to terms with his feelings for John Underwood, ninth Earl of Ridgeway, and his elder brother by ten minutes.

Their relationship had always defied description. He had wanted to believe that their shared blood was more than an accident of birth and that
family
meant something. Twins were supposed to be closer than normal brothers, able to read each other’s thoughts, willing to support each other against any threat. So he had made excuses, offered forgiveness, and ignored even blatant treachery for more than twenty years. When that failed, he had left, repudiating both blood and family.

Fool!

His unswerving trust had blinded him until it was too late. Now he was faced with cleaning up the wreckage John had left behind and with trying to understand what had gone wrong. The first step was to figure out why John had died.

What had he done to incite murder?

James closed his eyes in a futile attempt to quell a mounting headache. The question had too many answers. He had accepted John’s venality ten years earlier. Their shared blood tied him to a man he could never respect, tarnishing his own image and drawing suspicion onto his head that would never fully dissipate.

But despite that, he could not allow John’s killer to escape. So how was he to discover which vice had triggered the final attack? And how many new transgressions would he uncover at the Court? They would be legion – which was another reason he had postponed this visit; he had not been ready to face the worst.

John had never visited his other estates, so his orders there had merely inflicted general hardship as he milked the properties of every shilling. But his motives at Ridgeway would have gone far beyond his quest for wealth.

James shivered. He had already found evidence in London that John had used the power of his position to avenge perceived slights. Had he expended his fury at his twin by striking out at anyone James had cared for? It wasn’t an idle fear, for John had threatened to do just that.

Edwin was retaliating against Harry’s sexual braggadocio with a discourse on Roman viaducts that had Harry gnashing his teeth, but James hardly heard it. Traversing this road, seeing these hills, and hearing the stream boil over a rocky fall recalled every horror of his last visit.

He forced the memories away by scrupulously examining every tree and shrub in his path, but the battle to forget only increased his feeling of doom. He dreaded this return, dreaded facing the breadth of John’s anger and the ashes of his revenge, dreaded meeting tenants who would blame James for calling disaster onto their heads.

But he had no choice. He was now the earl, responsible for the welfare of Ridgeway and all its people. He could evade his duty no longer.

Rounding the hill, he led the way to the house.

CHAPTER TWO

Mary turned her horse along the shortcut through Ridgeway’s woods. She needed to visit one of the tenants, but first she must recover the poise her encounter with Mrs. Bridwell had shattered.

Her reaction had been stupid, she admitted as Acorn picked his way across a stream. The vicar’s wife never failed to find fault with her, and today had been no exception. She should not have let the spiteful words destroy her composure, for they meant nothing.

But they had caught her at a bad time. Between preparing for Justin’s arrival and fretting over her future, she was exhausted. Instead of turning the criticism aside with her usual bland comment, she had bolted, loath to reveal the tears pooling in her eyes.

She had overreacted. Today’s complaint was an old one – her habit of riding about the countryside unescorted. And the transgression was irrelevant anyway, for the woman only used it as a bridge to censure her other behavior and deride her low birth: A
lady
would travel by carriage with a footman in attendance; a
lady
would not dream of supervising estate workers, inspecting repairs, meeting with bankers, or issuing orders to the steward; and – horrors! – a
lady
would never foster doubts about her virtue.

Obviously the woman had never been to London.

Mary grinned and relaxed.

She had not visited London, either, seldom traveling beyond the market town of Ridgefield. But anyone who read the city papers would know that
virtue
was loosely interpreted in aristocratic circles.

Mrs. Bridwell’s opinion was annoying, but nothing would change it, and though Mary was her favorite target, she rarely had a good word for anyone. Perhaps she was envious that Mary had wed into the aristocracy. Or maybe she was naturally catty – she certainly lapped up the rumors, even those proven to be false. Or her pique might arise from guilt. Mary still carried out parish duties Mrs. Bridwell ignored. Everyone knew it, looking askance at the woman. They also knew that Mary’s unladylike habits had been dictated by necessity.

Not that she considered running the estate and raising Frederick’s siblings to be hardships. As a vicar’s daughter, she was accustomed to work and felt uncomfortable with nothing to do. Nor was she used to taking servants along on every errand. Besides, the estate could ill afford to hire a groom whose sole job would be to ride with her all day.