Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (16 page)

“Wait.” She held up a hand to stall him. “I make my offer with one exception.”

“What’s that?”

“I work for you a few hours a day and then am allowed to pursue my painting as originally promised.”

“Done.”

She sighed in relief, a giddy happiness filling her. Lord Greenwich clasped his hands behind his back and peered down at her. She appreciated his decisiveness in the matter, yet he gave the impression of an exacting headmaster the way he stared at her, albeit a young, brooding headmaster. Then the earl put his hand at her elbow and steered her quickly toward the door.

“Your happiness may be short-lived.”

“Why’s that?” She glanced up at him, their heels clattering echoes against the high ceiling. “And why are we leaving the portrait gallery?”

“If you displease me, I’ll exact payment in the form of my choosing.” His hand on her elbow tightened. “And we’re leaving so you can get a good night’s sleep. I need you refreshed and ready to work hard. For that matter, I need sleep. I had so little last night.”

As Lord Greenwich led her down another hallway, she was sure he muttered, “You’ve been enough of a distraction.”

They took the familiar vermillion path past a blur of exotic blooms she recognized from his greenhouse, and Lord Greenwich halted outside her door. She faced him, about to protest. With her back to the portal, he leaned close, his velvet-clad arm brushing hers as he touched the brass doorknob. More blond hair tugged loose from his queue, framing his face.

“I’m not an easy man by any stretch. I’ll have my due one way or another.”

Ten

What is madness?

To have erroneous perceptions and reason correctly from them.

—Voltaire

The silver tray hovering at nose level could not be the harbinger of good news. Lydia sat up amongst a soft crush of pillows and hooked a tangle of hair behind one ear. From her upright angle, she recognized the familiar script, and lurking dread chased away the morning’s heavy drowse.

“Good morning, miss.” Tilly, the young, practical maid who’d helped her dress the night before, stood beside the bed, polished salver in hand. “This came yesterday with your things. Got lost in the mix with his lordship’s correspondence. Sorry for the delay.”

Lydia lifted the heavy brown paper from the tray—a message from her mother. She hoped all was well in the wake of her hasty departure, without even the chance to say good-bye. The maid held the tray, extending a slender mother-of-pearl penknife to open the missive. Another welcome side effect of nobility, someone waiting with a helpful convenience.

The letter crackled in her hands, written on unused brown butcher paper, the commoner’s stationary to sidestep the paper tax. Lydia grinned at her mother’s thriftiness and replaced the penknife with a quiet clank.

She sat bolt upright.

In between messy splotches of ink, her mother’s alarming words jumped off the page.

Dearest Lydia,

Don’t do it! Do not marry in haste, or you’ll invite unhappiness on your head and live with regret as I have. Too many women, in search of false security, make terrible mistakes with men, and they pay for it in misery the rest of their lives.

But I’m afraid my letter bears only dismal tidings.

George and Tristan disappeared. Gone to the Colonies for good, I hear. To George, I say good riddance! But I will miss Tristan so very much. The path he’s taken these past few years breaks my heart. I had such hopes for him.

I’m leaving to stay with Sarah, at least as long as she and Virgil will have me. Creditors have come knocking more and more of late. I’m not sure what I’ll do, but it’s high time I figure out what I should’ve done long ago—learn how to live as an independent woman forging her own happiness instead of believing it comes from a man.

In your case, sacrificing yourself for Tristan’s and your stepfather’s errors goes far beyond family duty. Don’t worry about me.

Save yourself. Return to Wickersham immediately!

With all my love,

Mother

Hands and sheaf slumped to her lap. She flopped into the bank of pillows and set a hand over her mouth, digesting the news. The weight of her mother’s worries pressed her shoulders like a palpable burden. That George ran away was not so much of a surprise. But to leave her mother to answer what were likely
his
creditors? Just how much debt did he leave behind?

How like the blighter to leave her mother holding an empty purse, with creditors calling.

And what about Lord Greenwich? Her hand slid to the top of her chemise, clutching the fragile fabric. When he discovered this turn of events, the disappearance of George and Tristan, would this change matters? Certainly the earl wouldn’t exact so-called justice on an innocent woman old enough to be his mother, when the true perpetrators had vanished. In the priority of things, his lordship struck her as wanting his heir much more than any repayment of thievery or debts. But did she truly know the lay of his mind on that score?

Lydia refolded the letter and placed it on the nightstand. She looked across the room where Tilly had already set up a tray of breakfast foods and was in the act of opening the gaudy wardrobe.

“Is his lordship up and about?”

The energetic maid stepped back, a plain leaf-green dress with underskirts and brown shawl in one hand, shoes in the other. She snapped the door shut with her hip.

“He was up with the sun, as usual, miss. In his study, he is, going over some business.” She laid out the dress and tipped her head at the tray. “He instructed me to bring your breakfast up now, and said something about both of you needing to work in the greenhouse.”

Lydia hopped out of bed, prepared to take advantage of a ready breakfast. Her mind reeled as she tried to digest her mother’s letter. She picked up a slice of toast and dabbed a corner in the cup of jelly. She closed her eyes and savored her first bite—delectable rose-petal jelly—a luxury she could get used to enjoying. If her mother was at Sarah and Virgil’s, she’d be safe for now. Lydia chewed the toast, ideas of how to approach Lord Greenwich rolling around her head as she crunched.

The carrot-haired maid stood by the dressing table, her hands folded demurely in front of her. “Will you be wanting me to fix your hair this morning, miss? Or do you want to take care of things, like yesterday morning?”

Her mind raced. She couldn’t wait for eight o’clock. Surely his lordship wouldn’t mind an interruption? She had to talk to him about her mother. Did he know this latest turn of events?

What if Lord Greenwich went back on his word about her mother now that George and Tristan had left England? This morning’s missive was most unusual for her cautious mum. She’d put a lot of weight and trust on a single day and night with the earl; more of that indelicate pressure strained against her.

“I just need you to help me dress.”

Genteel poverty made her self-sufficient about getting dressed, but the help of a maid would get her downstairs twice as fast. She dropped the half-eaten toast on the plate and swigged some hot, black coffee, then availed herself to Tilly for a quick dressing. The maid went about making the bed while Lydia splashed her face with bracing cold water and cleaned her teeth. A few rapid brush strokes to her hair, and she swept the mane into a hasty knot on the back of her head. Pins scraped her scalp; long wisps dangled for an imperfect mess.

She pinched her cheeks while speaking to her reflection. “This will have to do.” Tucking her mother’s note into her pocket, Lydia grabbed her favorite winter shawl and charged out the door.

She sped down the carpeted corridor and flew downstairs, seeking the earl’s study. The door was wide open, jutting out into the walkway. As she approached, voices emanated from within. Lord Greenwich was with an obviously upset woman.

The housekeeper, Miss Mayhew.

Lydia jerked to a stop just short of the portal. Her hand lightly pressed the wooden door as she stayed out of view.

Lord Greenwich spoke in soothing tones. “I can’t believe you’d ask such a thing, Claire.”

Her voice rose with emotion. “
Why
not?
”

“Shhhh, calm yourself.”

He could be steadying a restless filly with the tenderness she heard.

“A lot of good this does for me now. Please. Take it. I can’t bear to look at it anymore. It serves only as a reminder to painful memories…of love…” Miss Mayhew’s voice choked, and she broke down.

“Claire…Claire…” he soothed.

Lydia’s whole body froze from the shock of what she heard.

Memories
of
love?

She clutched her stomach, a strange sick feeling settling there. Worse yet, unwelcome possessiveness crept in hotly. Her most dire fears proved right about the earl and his housekeeper. She squeezed shut her eyes. What to do? Turn around and go back upstairs, pretend she never heard? Her shoulder pressed the cold wall. There had to be some kind of explanation.

Lydia peeked around the doorjamb to see Miss Mayhew’s head on the earl’s shoulder. One of his arms draped high across her shoulders, and the other rested on her upper arm, where a dazzling necklace, an array of bright blue baubles, hung from his hand. One of the precious stones was robin’s-egg big. The necklace could feed half of Wickersham for a year and a day.

She turned from the scene and rested the back of her head on the wall as her mind tried to register what she’d seen and heard. Her eyes stared straight ahead, unseeing. These nobles played with lives the way neglectful children played with pets, showering treats and affection one moment, then moving on to another interest. From within, Miss Mayhew’s voice near sobbed.

“Oh, Eddie, you know I must leave. Everything’s different now. You’re to be married and—”

“Don’t worry about Miss Montgomery,” he said in that soothing voice again. “I’m sure she’ll understand.”

Don’t worry about Miss Montgomery?

A hot bolt of anger stiffened Lydia’s spine. And just what exactly was she supposed to understand? She wanted to storm into the study that moment. But what was he all about last night, with his lordly innuendo and flirtation? Why bother to bring her here to act as broodmare, when a gorgeous woman stood at the ready, throwing herself into his arms, no less? The notion that he was one of those men who liked to play multiple women falsely, rang hollow and untrue. But what was this all about? A horrible pang churned in her stomach, the pain so sharp her hand fluttered over that spot.

The housekeeper gave in to sniffles and a woeful tone. “No, it’s time. You’re to be married, start a family”—at this, Miss Mayhew’s voice broke, but she collected herself—“very soon. I must go.”

“Don’t go. Greenwich Park is your home.” He paused, and the cadence of his voice changed. “Besides, these jewels belong to you. Do with them as you see fit.”

“I’ll…reconsider.” She sniffed again. “I’m not even sure what I’d do or where I’d go.”

“One more reason to stay, don’t you think?”

Lydia had to peek through the sliver of space between the door and the doorjamb. Lord Greenwich grasped the housekeeper’s hand and tenderly placed the necklace in it. Twinkling blue stones spilled from her palm, and he closed her fingers over the jewels. Lydia’s forehead touched cold wood; her heart sank to a new low.

“Thank you, Eddie.” Miss Mayhew reached up to kiss the earl’s unscarred cheek. She jammed the outrageous jewelry into her pocket and dabbed at her wet cheeks. “I’m a mess, aren’t I? Everyone will know I’ve been crying.”

Lydia couldn’t stand to hear any more of the audience that she was never supposed to hear in the first place. Painful disappointment pressed in on all sides like a jostling mob out of control. The Earl of Greenwich had just painted himself with the same self-serving, womanizing stripes as other males of his class. A scene from her painful past flashed across her mind. No, the same was true for men of all ranks and societal stature. She’d bolt from Greenwich Park this second, if it weren’t for her mother. Lydia wrapped her shawl tightly about her shoulders, swallowing hard.

How could she ask him for help with her mother’s creditors now? That’d put her even more at the mercy of his good graces, which was as appealing as chewing spikes.

Numb in body and soul, Lydia stared at the floor and put one foot in front of the other. Somehow her feet moved away from the study door, and for whatever reason, she sought the greenhouse.

***

Edward heard footsteps tread the hallway. A servant, perhaps, retreating with discretion to Claire’s upset. Claire dabbed her eyes and smoothed her snowy-white apron. After she collected herself, she gave him a bleak smile and exited the room, back into the safety of proper stiffness and decorum as Greenwich Park’s housekeeper. He scrubbed his face with both hands…so little he could do. Painful history could not be undone.

He pulled his silver timepiece from the pocket of his breeches. The cracked watch ticked vivid reminders of the last Earl of Greenwich. His father was the steady hand in life’s storms. Would the late earl be sorely disappointed with his son’s job at the helm of all that was Greenwich substance? Edward returned to his desk and worked on his correspondence.

One letter in particular to his solicitor demanded his immediate attention and could not be delayed. The quill moved across the page with firm, cursory instructions. He finished the last of that morning’s work, and rang for Rogers as he sealed each missive.