Ethan: Lord of Scandals (16 page)

“You own land in all those places?”

“They all make very good cheese, the German states have access to terrific stores of lumber, the Danes sail to every known port, and I’ve a little vineyard of my own in France, though I’m thinking of converting it to peaches.”

“Peaches?” Nick looked impressed. “Just how wealthy are you, Ethan?”

Ethan looked around uncomfortably but saw his sons were engaged in a rousing argument, and named a figure.

“More or less.” He shrugged. “Values are always fluctuating.”

Nick gave a low whistle. “My brother is a bloody cheese nabob.”

If they were boys—and they would never be boys again—that epithet would have become Ethan’s moniker for at least a span of weeks.

“When one hasn’t much else to do, and one is willing to travel in times of war, profit seems to happen. I didn’t mention my holdings to impress, Nicholas, but to point out that between us, we could keep a foreign agent busy more than full time. And George is acquainted with several languages.”

“It’s a good idea. A very good idea, in fact. I’m guessing Lady Warne might put him to use too. She has holdings of her own.”

“I’m to see your grandmother this weekend,” Ethan said as they approached the village green. “She’s to be my dinner partner at Heathgate’s on Saturday.”

Nicholas’s blond brows drew down in an expression much like Joshua’s fleeting bouts of thoughtfulness. “Give her my love if you have to admit you’ve seen me. Let’s get Buttercup a drink, shall we?” Nick swung down and led his mare to the communal trough on the village green. It was an excuse to prolong their parting, but Ethan was grateful for it. He’d said good-byes to Nick before, and even a few in the recent past, but this one felt more… personal.

Nick turned to his nephews, who sat on their ponies looking uncertain. “You gentlemen will behave for your papa and Miss Alice. You will build a tree house or two and send me sketches of them. You will take your baths and eat your vegetables and go to bed when you’re told, so you grow up as big and strong as I am.”

“I only want to be as big as Papa,” Joshua said, “but I don’t want you to go.”

“Joshua Pismire Grey,” Nick intoned sternly, “if you make me cry in front of my older brother, I will tickle you silly.” He feinted with his fingers, causing Joshua to giggle and curl away. “That’s better.” Nick carefully hugged his smallest nephew then turned to Jeremiah.

“You have a special mission,” Nick said, leaning down and whispering something into Jeremiah’s ear. “You can tell Joshua when I’ve left. You’ll need his devious-little-brother assistance.”

“Don’t worry, Joshua,” Jeremiah assured him. “It’s something good.”

“And you.” Nick turned to his brother, who’d dismounted to watch the partings. “Come here, Ethan Grey.” He held out his arms, and Ethan stepped into his embrace. “Don’t be a stranger.”

For the first instant, Ethan endured the embrace. This was a skill learned of necessity, an ability to temporarily vacate whatever aspect of the mind catalogued and experienced bodily perceptions: the sandalwood scent of Nick’s soap, the soft thump of a leather-clad hand between Ethan’s shoulders, the exact contour of his brother’s muscular body.

And then something… let go. Something emotional sighed along with Ethan’s body, and the endured embrace became a quick, shared hug.

“My love to the ladies,” Ethan said, stepping back, “and safe journey home, Nick.”

“Thanks for the hospitality, and look after my nephews.” He was on his horse and cantering away before Ethan could say anything more, and really, that was for the best. The morning air had put the damned tickle back in Ethan’s throat.

“Will you miss him, Papa?” Joshua asked.

“I’ll miss him silly,” Ethan said. “I can still see him”—could still feel the echoes of that hug—“and I miss him silly already.”

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

Argus did not miss Uncle Nick, silly or otherwise, and reminded his owner of that by tossing his head so Ethan almost lost his grip on the reins.

Ethan scowled at the horse. “Bad pony. Spoiled rotten, you are.” He was in the saddle before Argus could comment further. “Gentlemen, shall we let them stretch their legs?”

“You mean trot?” Jeremiah asked.

“Canter?” Joshua’s tone was hopeful. “Gallop?”

“We’ll play master and field,” Ethan said. “Joshua, you’re the master, and we’ll follow you. You can’t go anywhere Argus can’t follow, so no low-hanging branches, and mind you don’t lead us into danger. We’re silly, drunken gentlemen out from Town for a little hunting, and we can hardly sit our horses, because we’ve had too much of Mr. Grey’s famous peach brandy.”

Both boys looked fascinated at this spate of paternal nonsense. In the distance, Ethan heard Buttercup’s hoofbeats fade away.

“I can decide how we get home?” Joshua clarified.

“Anywhere on the lanes and paths,” Ethan said, “or on Tydings land. Take us across a planted field, though, and the steward will want me to thrash you.”

“I know that,” Joshua scoffed. “Hey, Jeremiah—remember when we were chased by pirates?”

The next thing Ethan knew, he and Argus were watching eight little pony hooves disappear at a furious gallop. Ethan let Argus bring up the rear, glad the horse seemed to understand his job was to trail the ponies. Joshua led them over stiles and banks, across ditches and logs, over the stream, back over the stream, and into the bridle paths crisscrossing the woods.

“Hold up!” Ethan yelled to his sons, but they’d seen Heathgate’s mare as soon as he had, and pulled up so hard their ponies were practically sitting. Heathgate had angled the mare right across the path, but turned her when he saw the ponies come to a stop.

“And here I thought I was saving a couple of runaways,” the marquis drawled. “Fancy riding, gentlemen. My boys would be envious. Morning, Grey.”

“Good morning, your lordship,” the boys replied politely enough.

“We were out riding with Papa,” Joshua added helpfully. “I was the master, and he and Jeremiah were the field.”

“I see. My compliments, Grey, for I’ve neglected to introduce my children to that particular means of scaring the hair off a parent. Shall we let your horses blow a little?”

“Papa?” Jeremiah looked uncertain.

“His lordship means to walk them,” Ethan said, “and since your ponies are heaving like bellows, it’s a good idea.” Even Argus had settled down over the course Joshua had chosen. Ethan let the boys pass him, then fell in beside his neighbor.

“I almost didn’t get my ride in this morning,” the marquis began. “Too much peach brandy. You’ll want to provide a few flasks to the Regent and get his imprimatur on it. Have you considered what I told you last night?” Heathgate asked, quietly enough not to draw the children’s notice.

“Not much. Hart Collins is a subject of the Crown. He was bound to return to England someday.”

“You could bring charges,” Heathgate suggested.

“Right. And have the whole world know I was incapable of defending myself? Only to have one of his cronies testify I enticed the man, or Collins was nowhere in the vicinity, and as I was facedown over the top of a barrel, how could I know for certain who was violating my person?”

Discussing the matter in the pretty summer morning seemed blasphemous, but the topic had lingered in Ethan’s imagination—a reptile lurking in the muddy marshes of his memory—since the moment Heathgate had called him aside the previous night.

“You bring the charges,” Heathgate said. “You don’t expect to prosecute them.”

“He’s a member of the bloody Lords, Heathgate.” Ethan spoke tiredly. “I’m a bastard who married my mistress. Bringing charges would be a joke, and as far as my family is concerned, a joke in poor taste.”

“It’s your choice, but you will likely run across him sooner or later, or Nick will, because he’s a member of the bloody Lords too—as am I, come to that.”

Ethan shot Heathgate a look, but the man was impossible to read. “No offense intended.”

“Likewise. I thought you should know he’s back.”

“My thanks for the warning.”

“You never told your family, did you?” Heathgate pressed. “Not even Nick.”

“Especially not Nick.” Heathgate had kept his peace on this most unfortunate subject for nearly twenty years. It was a relief, in a way, to have it in the open, but the old humiliation was there as well.

“Why not? He’s your brother, the head of your family, and he loves you cross-eyed.”

“He loves me. I love him.” Hence Ethan would never bring up at least two very personal subjects with his brother.

“If I had a bottle of whiskey for every time I’ve heard him brag on you or reminisce about his perfect childhood with you, I could get the Royal Navy drunk.” Heathgate paused and eyed the children.

“Your point?” Ethan inquired,
very
politely.

“You are trying to protect your brother,” Heathgate said gently, “because it will hurt him to know what you’ve suffered. It will hurt him more you didn’t think him worthy of your confidence. I have a younger brother, you will note, and speak from experience.”

Ethan sighed, not sure if being a marquis gave one the right to divine minds or hearts. “The incident in question left me more deeply ashamed than I care to discuss.”

Heathgate watched the ponies before them. The boys were concocting another scheme involving pirates on horseback. “Do you have any idea how much shame a man can build up when he has the wealth and the temper to pitch a nine-year-long tantrum? There were times I got some toothsome, titled young idiot drunk and indulged in all manner of foolery on a bored whim. Or I’d take women to bed, knowing they would not guard their hearts, and liking it better for being able to strike at them that way. I won fortunes from men too drunk to hold their cards and was only too happy to collect on their vowels, regardless that it would beggar them and put their women on the charity of relatives.”

“This recitation doesn’t flatter you, Heathgate.” Ethan could not take his eyes from his horse’s neck. “Why burden me with it?” Though Ethan suspected he knew—there were many situations in life that yielded a harvest of regret and shame.

Heathgate let out an exasperated sigh. “I have lifetimes of regrets I should be ashamed of, and I am. But you are ashamed of being a victim. If somebody did to your Joshua what was done to you, would you be disgusted with Joshua? Would you want him to be ashamed of himself?”

“For God’s sake, don’t be ridiculous. He’s just a boy, and of course I would not want him ashamed of being the victim of a crime.”

“You were fourteen,” Heathgate said, “and set upon by six boys older, bigger, and stronger than you. They laid in wait, they plotted this violence, and they carried it out against you, knowing you had none to aid you. And yet you don’t feel compassion for the boy you were. You feel ashamed of him. One can only wonder, Ethan Grey, what your own father might have done had he learned of your fate.”

Heathgate urged his horse forward, having mercifully had his say. He engaged the boys in a pleasant discussion of foxhunting, climbing trees, and what it must be like for poor young Lord Penwarren to have a twin sister. Ethan was so lost in thought he didn’t hear his children laughing at something Heathgate said, or realize his horse was for once being docile, until he was almost hit in the face with a low-hanging branch.

“It’s an interesting mix of news,” Benjamin Hazlit reported as he lounged in a comfortable chair in the Marquis of Heathgate’s library. His arrangement with Heathgate, as with most clients, was that nothing was written down. For the sake of security, his reports were made in person, except under rare circumstances. This meant his clients had to meet with him face-to-face, and usually in their homes, since most of them would have been loathe to be seen calling on him.

And meeting them face-to-face gave Benjamin all manner of opportunity to learn about them and placate his own well-hidden curiosity.

“Well, don’t beat about the bush, Benjamin.” Heathgate paused while a footman brought in a tray. “Lemonade, cider, or something stronger?”

“Cider.” Heathgate’s version of something stronger was usually a whiskey too smooth and rich to be profaned by business conversation.

Heathgate passed him a tall glass. “I’ll send a little something else along for your private delectation when we’re through.”

“I won’t refuse.” Not that sane men refused Gareth Alexander, Marquis of Heathgate, much of anything. “And now that you’ve impressed me with your manners, here’s what we know: Hart Collins has been traipsing about the Continent since Waterloo. Before that he was holed up on some Greek island. But to pick up the story closer to the beginning, you need to know, after leaving Stoneham—one of several institutions to send him down—he finally made a try at Oxford, where he lasted not one term. Cambridge flat wouldn’t have him, so he took himself back north to Papa’s barony and seemed to make an effort to grow up.”

“A successful effort?”

“Hardly.” Benjamin paused to rein in his disgust. Heathgate needed information, but not every fact in Benjamin’s head was pertinent to the marquis’s inquiry. “He was engaged to the local equivalent of the darling of the shire, an earl’s daughter, but the engagement ended amid some hushed scandal, and then he was off. Scotland first, Scandinavia, even the Americas, before returning to Europe. He pops back to England from time to time, but never for long. One can live cheaply on foreign shores, but Collins hasn’t acquired the knack.”

“He comes back when he’s out of funds?” Heathgate’s expression gave away nothing, but Benjamin knew the man well enough to sense heightened interest. “Too bad I’ve not set foot in a hell for years. I could probably ruin him in a single night of hazard.”

Heathgate’s tone said he’d enjoy that evening’s work a bit more than a night at the opera.

“Doubtless, you could, and you need to get out more, old man.”

“You should have a wife and children,
old
man
. Except then you would not be available for my little queries and investigations. What else do we know about Collins?”

Benjamin met glacial-blue eyes, knowing his lordship might well be planning that outing to the gaming tables. The notion appealed to a protective older brother’s instincts mightily.

“He came into the title about five years ago, and his papa did what he could to tie up the unentailed wealth. Collins is back now, wrangling with the solicitors and getting nowhere. I have personal reasons to keep tabs on the man, particularly if he should malinger in the vicinity of the family seat.”

Heathgate refreshed their drinks. “For once the solicitors are of use. And what of Collins’s accomplices?”

“Two are dead. Both soldiers who didn’t come home. One has emigrated to America, another has the living at some obscure little crossroads in Derbyshire, and the fifth is in the hulks.”

“Can we buy the clergyman or the debtor?”

“The debtor, of course.” Benjamin named a sum Heathgate’s marchioness might have spent on a single entertainment during the Season. “And the arrangements have been made.”

“Benjamin, you are frighteningly thorough. What of the clergyman?”

“Has his eye on a more lucrative living,” Benjamin replied. “I’ve not approached him. The element of surprise would be in your favor.”

“Best send someone to deal with him. Have either the debtor or the clergyman been in touch with Collins?”

“The clergyman. Collins had him invited to some house party, and the man dropped the Lord’s pressing business and came by post.”

“So Collins has something on him. What we have is worse, I’m sure.”

“Conspiracy to commit a felony is serious. I must point out you’re doing this all on your own initiative, and I can’t help but wonder if Mr. Grey would appreciate it. He seems to have moved on with his life.”

Or with something. Benjamin wasn’t sure exactly what, though Alice appeared to be in better spirits for it.

“Hmm.”

The tone of that syllable piqued Benjamin’s instincts. “Heathgate, you can’t play God. An incident like this would have been the undoing of a lesser man, particularly when Bellefonte was no help to his son whatsoever. It’s only with the old earl’s death Mr. Grey has managed some sort of rapprochement with his siblings. Besides, my sister is half in love with your Mr. Grey, and that makes me a little protective of the man.”

Heathgate looked unimpressed. “She’s governess to his boys.”

“She’s his social superior,” Benjamin countered, an edge lacing his voice. Heathgate might have resented the title years ago, but he understood the order of precedence well enough. “She’s lovely, well damned dowered if she’d but allow it, and deserving of only the best. If she’s chosen him, then I will respect her choice, and I will not let you bring the man grief.”

Heathgate’s eyebrow swooped aloft. “You come close to threatening a peer of the realm, Benjamin. I’m impressed.”

“Stow it.” Benjamin snorted. “If I thought your intent was contrary to Mr. Grey’s interests—or my sister’s—I would never have undertaken this task.”

“And here you work so hard to create the impression you have no loyalty, save to coin of the realm.”

Benjamin sipped his drink placidly. “Don’t be tiresome,
your
lordship
.”

“My intentions are not contrary to Mr. Grey’s interests, but this moving on with his life you refer to does not comport with either his brother’s or my impression of the man. He does not socialize, he does not belong to a club, he does not ride to hounds with the locals except for the informal meets, and he does not attend services. Until recently, I’m not sure he knew which son was which. He sits, like a spider, in the middle of a financial web and spins money at a rate that impresses the Regent.”

“And this is a crime, to do what one does well?”

“To let life go by in every sphere save one is a tragedy. My marchioness says we have neglected our neighbor, and my conscience has agreed with her, as it is wont to do. He has not moved on with his life, Benjamin. I know when somebody is mired in their past, because I’ve been in the same slippery ditch myself.”

“It still isn’t like you to interfere, conscience or not.” Personal disclosures were not like Heathgate either, much less unflattering personal disclosures.

“I won’t interfere. I will simply ensure Mr. Grey has the information necessary to make prudent decisions in a timely manner. He does that well in the commercial realm, and if your sister’s affections are returned, he should be motivated now to do so regarding personal matters as well.”

“I would not want you for an enemy, Heathgate.” Benjamin rose and set his empty glass aside.

“My sentiments as well.” Heathgate set his glass aside too, his face creasing into a startlingly charming smile. “Now that we’ve covered my neighbor’s situation, come to the nursery with me. James, Will, and Pen will want to see you, and Joyce will want to see me.”

“Your marchioness will want to see you.” And to his credit, Benjamin managed to sound not the least envious as he made that observation.

***

The anniversary of Barbara’s death came and went, and when Ethan realized he noticed the significance of the date only in hindsight, he had to consider he was putting Barbara’s death behind him. For the previous two years, his mourning period completed, he’d gone off to hunt grouse in Scotland or Cumbria—or to pretend he was hunting grouse.

He’d consider it sport when the birds were given guns to defend themselves, though he’d never dare express such an opinion to another.

He continued to meet up occasionally with Heathgate on the bridle paths, and sometimes with Lords Greymoor and Amery as well, all of whom were fascinated with their offspring’s every peccadillo and sniffle.

This would have been a trial, except Ethan was fascinated himself. His children entranced him, with their funny little opinions, their odd fears, and their willingness to be silly over nothing. He liked the way they’d argue fiercely with each other one minute, and then be off to whisper in the corner the next. He liked the way each boy understood the other, and even in the midst of pitched battle, would tread lightly in certain areas.

He liked that they were affectionate, particularly since Uncle Nick’s parting admonition to Jeremiah had been a whispered order to tickle Ethan at least every other day. That wouldn’t last—boys grew up and acquired dignity—but it had given Ethan a pretext for hugging his children and wrestling with them in the grass from time to time.

And if the children weren’t thawing years of reserve, Alice certainly was. She was shy of her own body, but eager regarding Ethan’s. She’d touch him in little ways throughout the day if they were alone—smooth his cravat, take off his spectacles, squeeze his hand—and she was something else entirely at night.

Scholars were a curious lot, and Alice was inherently a scholar. She took off his clothes and studied him. She touched and tasted and even listened to his body, pressing her ear over his heart or lungs and then, satisfied he was quite alive, over his belly.

“It’s how you diagnose a colicky horse,” she’d said, frowning up at him.

And then she’d listened to him laugh.

They hadn’t made love—yet. Not in the traditional sense of the phrase, anyway. Ethan told himself he was giving her time to change her mind, but in truth, he wasn’t ready. He blamed his unreadiness on Gareth Alexander, Marquis of Heathgate, neighbor and Inconvenience at Large.

Since Nick’s visit, Ethan had felt the presence of neighbors in his life, and not just on his bridle paths. Twice, the boys had been invited to Willowdale to play with Heathgate’s children. Twice, Ethan had been to dinner, once at Heathgate’s, once at Greymoor’s. They were an informal, affectionate lot, even when the children were not in evidence. The only one of the group with whom Ethan felt truly comfortable was Amery, the quietest one of the bunch.

The hardest shock to bear was that these people touched him, physically. The ladies kissed his cheek and took his arm as if he were a long-lost cousin. The men were forever cramming themselves together on sofas and settles, sipping their drinks at the end of the day. They teased and fell silent, alluded to the occasional problem, and laughed gently at one another. It puzzled Ethan to be included in such goings-on, and he was growing to tolerate it better than he would have predicted.

Growing almost comfortable with it, except every time he began to lose track of his separateness, he’d look up to find Heathgate watching him. The marquis’s eyes held the same questions he’d battered Ethan with the day Nick left: Why don’t you feel compassion for the boy you were? Why do you feel ashamed of him?

And Ethan wished, as the air began to take on a hint of autumn, he could talk to Nick. Now, when Nick was busy with his earldom and his new wife and six other siblings, Ethan let himself miss his brother. He didn’t want to burden Nick with superfluous confidences, but he missed his brother.

He just… missed him.

***

“Miss Alice?” Joshua was preparing for a midafternoon nap, which was unusual. That he was accepting the need without protest was more unusual still.

“Joshua?” Alice sat on his bed. He looked a little pale, but then, he was an Englishman’s son, and Alice had never seen his color high.

“If you said you wouldn’t tell a secret,” Joshua began, “but then something else happened, so you had not just one secret, but two, does the first promise not to tell mean you can’t tell the second time either?” Alice frowned and tried to puzzle through the riddle that was part logic and part little-boy inquiry into the heady topic of manly honor.

“Give me an example.”

Joshua’s brow puckered in thought. “If I saw Papa up reading past his bedtime, but I promised not to tell, then I saw him doing it again, should I tell?”

“Before you tell, you should confront him directly and give your papa a chance to explain, unless you think it isn’t safe to do so.”

Joshua fingered the hem of his coverlet. “Papa doesn’t hit. Why wouldn’t it be safe?”

“I don’t know. I once didn’t tell my brothers something, because I was afraid they’d go try to beat up someone for me, and I didn’t want them taking that risk.”

“Are your brothers as big as Papa?”

“Not quite, and they were quite a bit younger at the time. Now close your eyes. Do you want me to read to you?”

“Yes, Miss Alice.” His yawn was genuine, and before Alice could select a soothingly familiar story, he was asleep.

“Is he all right?” Jeremiah’s voice was laced with anxiety.

Alice smiled at the boy hovering in the doorway. “I think he’s just worn out from trying to keep up with his brilliant older brother. He’ll be fine.”

Jeremiah came to stand beside her, looking down at his younger brother. “I heard him ask about secrets.”

“It was a good question.”

“Did you ever tell your brothers?” Jeremiah asked, still frowning at Joshua’s sleeping form.

“I did not,” Alice said, wondering what mysteries were churning in Jeremiah’s too-busy little brain.

“Maybe you should. I think I’ll take a nap too.”

“You don’t have to,” Alice said. “If you’re not tired, it can just make it harder to sleep at night.” And God knew, the last thing she wanted was for the little boys to be up wandering around when she was misbehaving with their father at night.

***

Ethan slipped behind Alice in the library and wrapped his arms around her waist, feeling her curl back against him on a sigh. “Can I ask you something?”