The Earl's Revenge (11 page)

“Nonsense. The lad’s father is a smuggler if I ever saw one.”

“I doubt it,” murmured Mr. Jessup. “Not that it would matter much if he were.”

“I hear Mr. Graves has taken a turn for the worse,” stated Mrs. Sutton firmly, determined to turn the conversation lest the gossip work her way from one crime to another and set upon Bridgeport again.

“He’ll be gone within the week,” agreed Mrs. Hedges. “And just as well. We need a new sexton. The work is too difficult for one so old. He nearly killed himself digging poor Mr. Beringer’s grave, rest his soul.”

“The artist?” asked Bridgeport in surprise.

“I wouldn’t exactly call him an artist,” sniffed Mrs. Sutton. “He drew pictures for books and made some prints that he claimed sold well in London, but I never thought much of his portraits. Why the one he painted of Lady Penstoke made her look positively jaundiced.”

“She does,” Mrs. Hedges reminded her. “Never saw anyone so yellow – except Luke Pilcher, but he was far too fond of wine.”

“But a good artist makes sure his subject looks presentable,” insisted the squire’s wife.

“Even when she don’t?” scoffed Mr. Jessup. “I agree that a little touching up is good – deleting temporary blemishes, for example. But how can one perpetrate a fraud upon posterity by being portrayed as something one is not?”

“Do you really want your descendants to shudder at your oversized nose?” asked Mrs. Hedges bluntly, apparently switching sides.

Mr. Jessup glared, then deliberately turned to Bridgeport. “Will Tom Bennett recover without incident?”

The earl frowned a moment, trying to recall the name. “Ah, the man who was pitched over the cliff last night. Yes, it was a clean break and should heal well enough.”

“I heard the accident took place on the Manor grounds,” dared Mrs. Sutton.

“Indeed. I am having the groundskeeper check that path for other signs of erosion lest my daughter be the next to suffer.”

“I suppose you will have the fellow transported for poaching,” suggested Mrs. Hedges hopefully.

“Not at all.” Bridgeport stared at the woman until she shut her mouth. “He wasn’t actually on the grounds. That path has been a public thoroughfare for time out of mind, as I am sure you know.” His eyes were cold enough that Mrs. Hedges blinked, prudently deciding not to provoke him further.

What an unpleasant witch! Even if there was evidence of poaching – which there was not – he could hardly accuse the man. There had been no one in residence for fifty years. No one had even visited for at least twenty. How could he blame a poor farmer for supplementing his inadequate income? Prices had risen explosively since Napoleon’s aggression had destroyed the import/export business with Europe, and it was generally the poor who suffered the worst.

Before the party broke up, the earl managed to speak with Miss Becklin about Helen. She refused to move into the Manor, but agreed to provide instruction in her own cottage for four hours each morning. He promised to personally deliver his daughter the next day. It wasn’t as much help as he had hoped for, but at least it would give him a little time for estate business and solitude.

Elaine remained in her room until after Lady Helen arrived for her first day of lessons, not wanting to distract the girl. At least that was what she told Anne. The real reason was to avoid Lord Bridgeport. If he was trying to seduce her, then she wanted nothing to do with him. Was it to further his schemes that he personally escorted Helen for lessons? With the servant situation at the Manor, Elaine could not be sure, but she settled for prudence.

Once Helen and Anne were ensconced in the parlor, Elaine collected her sketchbook and wandered along the cliff path. Today she was looking for birds. There was a considerable colony of sea birds nesting in the cliffs just beyond Lookout Peak, and many others lived on the moor. It should be easy to find the inspiration she sought. Thornton’s verses danced through her mind as she walked, stimulating pictures she would try to capture with pen and ink.

Intent on the job at hand, she had not intended to take the side trail up the hill, but her feet had other ideas. It was another beautiful spring day, the fourth in a row. But beyond that, she needed time alone – to think, to absorb the shocks of recent days, and above all, to rest. Memories of the appalling confrontation at the squire’s dinner party had kept her awake much of the night. Mrs. Hedges had always been an inquisitive harpy who reveled in judging others, but never before had the lady lost her own control so badly. Elaine could only assume that it was Bridgeport’s title that raised the gossip’s hackles, but whether Mrs. Hedges despised the aristocracy or envied it, Elaine could not say.

Her feet abruptly stopped as she rounded the last outcropping of rock. The Earl of Bridgeport sat on her favorite boulder, apparently engrossed in a book. Before she could gather her wits to retreat down the hill, he turned, an odd wariness creeping into his eyes when he identified her. One hand dropped protectively over the page as if to guard the contents from contamination.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said politely. “Forgive me for intruding.” She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

“Stay a while, Miss Thompson. ’Tis a beautiful day. Keeping me company is surely a small price to pay for trespassing.”

She blinked, though in no other way did she betray her chagrin. “The hill is Treselyan property, of course, though the cliff path is, as you know, a public right of way. But aside from the grounds themselves, I fear no one considers ownership. The house has stood empty for decades. Forgive me.”

“Of course. I can see why you might enjoy the view from here, though it is bleak enough. The moor can be quite daunting,
all tenantless, save to the crannying wind
.”

“Byron’s
Childe Harold
,” she commented, identifying the volume in his hands. Perhaps his earlier gesture was meant to protect his reputation. Reading poetry – however modish the poet – did not mesh with his image.

“You know it?” he asked in astonishment. “It was published barely a month ago.”

“Sir Jeremiah brought us a copy when he returned from Exeter last week.”

“That carplike bag of bones who was making sheep’s eyes at you last night?”

“You insult us all with your London arrogance,” she snapped. “Shallow minds betray themselves by judging what they do not understand. And you are also wrong about the moor. It is crawling with tenants, as is the sea.” She gestured to a flock of gulls whirling just off the cliffs.

“Birds and beasts there may be in abundance, but they can hardly compare to people,” he said, gesturing to a nearby rock. She paused, then shrugged and took a seat, dropping her bag by her side.

“True,” she agreed. “Animals can offer hours of enjoyment in the watching, and they do not interfere in people’s affairs. One need never fear ridicule or repudiation, and animals never force their children or their friends into untenable lives.” Her voice had taken on a bitter note that surprised her as much as the words. Never had she uttered such sentiments, and she should certainly not have done so to Bridgeport. He was one of the tyrants who had threatened her own contentment. And still did.

Bridgeport was clearly startled, but he chose to ignore the pain she had revealed. “Why do the gulls circle the same spot? Are they playing in the wind?”

“It is possible, but as so many of them are dropping below the cliffs, I suspect there is a carcass bobbing in the surf that they wish to feed on. They are scavengers, you know.”

The earl’s eyes widened. “Carcass?”

Elaine laughed. “Probably a seal or school of fish. Or even a sheep. There have been no deaths recently enough to suspect a man.”

“You sound as if that were common.”

“You are a stranger to this area, Lord Bridgeport. Death at sea is an accepted risk in coastal villages. Survival depends on fishing, and accidents are common. It is not unknown to find victims washed ashore. Life is hard for all but the privileged few.”

“Life offers difficulties for everyone. They merely vary in detail. Nature is not the only scourge of mankind. Man himself can be far more virulent –
deceitful words of false-made friends
.”

“Thornton. But one must expect envy, jealousy, and toadying in your circle.”

“You know his works?” he asked in surprise.

“Of course. Anne has an impressive library, as do several of our friends. London is not the only place where culture and learning exist. She has broadened my horizons in ways I never envisioned. I owe her much for that alone.”

“You are a bluestocking?” His eyes narrowed.

“I suppose society would feel obligated to attach that very prejudicial label to me, but I enjoy learning about the world in which I live.
Curiosity is one of the permanent and certain characteristics of a vigorous mind
.”

“Samuel Johnson – not that he was referring to females. I am surprised that his writings have made it to this wild and windswept wilderness.”

“The typical London view – arrogant and insular. There is more to life than society shallowness and rakish pleasures.”

“You intrigue me. Most women have no character at all."

“Pope. But he also noted that
all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye
. Perhaps you have limited your acquaintance to the wrong sorts of women.”

Bridgeport laughed. “Perhaps, but I have no intention of discussing my friends with you.”

“Most improper,” she agreed, and he laughed even harder.

“Why did I never discover your intelligence earlier?” he asked, almost to himself. “Of course, in town you adhered quite strongly to the image of a shy young lady.”

“Not at all, my lord,” she replied, frowning at the disturbing memories his words raised. “I neither adopted attitudes different from my own, nor did I conform to what was expected. It was the most unpleasant experience of my life, and I can only agree with Shelley that
Hell is a city much like London
, though he objects only to the press of humanity and eternal smoky grime.”

Mark sat silent for several minutes, trying to reconcile his memories of Mary Thompson to the needle-witted, confident – and pretty – woman sitting before him. How had she changed so drastically? And why had he never suspected that she could? Even at five-and-twenty he had acquired a well-deserved reputation for judging others to the inch. He finally succumbed to a pressing desire to learn what had happened all those years ago. Was it actually London she had rejected rather than himself? “Is that why you jilted me?” he asked softly.

She shrugged. “Not really. I despised the life you offered, but the alternative would have been worse, so I had no choice but to go along with it. Until that last day. I discovered a third option that was more attractive than either.”

“Why did you accept me if you disliked my offer?” he demanded incredulously.

“I didn’t.” Seeing his eyes widen, she continued. “I spent five years in the care of an aunt whose teachings mirrored my father’s – absolute obedience to anyone in authority, and at least four hours a day spent in prayer and atonement for my sins.” She ignored his gasp of horror. “I arrived home on my seventeenth birthday, to be informed that Father had arranged a marriage to you. There was no discussion. I left for town two days later. London was a nightmare.”

“What?” He stared in shock. Her words contradicted his memories. His mother had arranged the match, of course. In the letter that accepted Mark’s formal proposal, Grimfield had stated that his daughter was honored by his magnanimity and had dedicated herself to upholding the dignity of her position and to carrying out her responsibilities with enthusiasm. That missive had been dated fully three months before Miss Thompson arrived in town.

She had misinterpreted his surprise. “Think, my lord. How could I possibly enjoy town? I was snubbed or ridiculed wherever I went. Only your mother’s consequence prevented direct cuts. But I could hardly blame them. My father never wasted a groat. With a betrothal in hand, he saw no reason to throw money in my direction. I was cursed with a ghastly wardrobe and had nothing in common with anyone I met, not even the training in manners and deportment that is expected of even the lowliest females. When I learned that I would remain permanently in the country, I relaxed, assuming all would be well.”

“Then why did you leave?” His anger burned brighter than ever.

“It rapidly became clear that I would be living with your parents. Your mother left no doubt about who would rule both the house and the nurseries. I was nought but a brood mare whose role would be reduced to that of her slave once the succession was assured. Still, it was a better future than I would have faced at home.”

“Which was?”

“A lifetime of incarceration on bread and water, my lord,” she stated calmly.

“You exaggerate.”

“You must not know my father. Disobedience is a sin. Sins must be punished. Repudiating a betrothal would leave me unmarriageable, demanding a lifelong punishment as I would be on his hands that long.”

“You would not have spent a day under my mother’s roof,” he told her coldly. “I would have taken you to Westron Manor in Yorkshire.”

“Oh?” She shrugged. “You never mentioned such a possibility, of course. And your mother claimed you had no resources.”

“She didn’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter, my lord. I’ve a more fulfilling life now than I would ever have achieved as your wife.”

“Retiring to this desolate spot?” he choked out, insulted. “Even if true, you could have at least shown me the courtesy of telling me that you were leaving.”

“I had no choice. Anne wrote to say that she had inherited a competence that would allow her to lease a small cottage in the country. She expressed a wish to see me again and mentioned that she was suffering from a debilitating bout of influenza. I left immediately.”

“Leaving me standing at the altar. You could have at least sent round a note.” His anger was unmistakable.

Elaine straightened in shock. “I had no idea! I mean, I had heard that expression, but I never thought for a moment that it was literal. Surely my father informed you when he found me gone in the morning!”