The Reluctant Earl (9 page)

Much as she appreciated his timely intervention, she feared his uncanny perception. “Thank you. But don’t let me divert you from your business.”

“You are my only business today.”

“Me?” Had he a suspicion of Fleming’s plans and followed him? Or had he sought out her in particular?

“You have a job to do for me.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

Lord Chambelston hesitated for interminable seconds, then swung down from his seat on the horse. The cloak swirled around him as he moved unnervingly nearer. “You are bleeding.” Golden flecks of compassion glittered in the eyes of brilliant blue. He tugged off his glove and stroked her cheek, his bare fingers soft against her skin. Not even the sting of the scrape protected her from the disquiet of his gentle concern.

“’Tis only a scratch.” Heart pounding, she brushed his touch away.

“Come. It grows late.” He held out a hand to her.

Ignoring his offer of assistance, she stepped forward. Pain shot up the length of her leg and her knee buckled, plunging her toward the snow.

Chambelston swooped down and caught her before she reached the ground. His arm wreathed her shoulders as he held her erect. “You are injured.”

Warmth invaded Leah’s heart, and the tang of wool and leather teased her senses. “The horse trod on my foot. I shall be fit enough presently.”

He cast a skeptical eye toward the low-hanging sun. “Not soon enough, I’ll warrant.” He hefted her onto the horse, his hands strong and dependable around her waist. Safe.

And so very unlike Fleming.

Leah struggled to find her balance, unaccustomed to the awkwardness of sitting sideways on a man’s saddle. The movement shifted her skirt and revealed a slash in her boot where the bay’s iron shoe had sliced the brittle leather. New soles would be of little use to her old boots now.

A splotch of gray against the trampled snow drew Leah’s attention. “My glove!”

“I’ve got it.” Chambelston retrieved the article and passed it to her. His palm brushed hers and propelled a fresh torrent of emotions swirling through her. Then he gathered the reins and led the horse along the path at a sedate walk that allowed her to keep her seat.

“So, this job. What would you have me do?”

“I made inquiries while in London. The right money to the right people... I think I’m closer to finding out what really happened at the riot.” He stared ahead at the horizon, his square jaw rigid.

She thought back to the anonymous note in his pocket. “The riot where your father was injured?”

He gave a single, curt nod. “I want you to inform your friends.”

“I’ll see to it tonight when we return.” Leah hesitated, then decided sharing Alec’s news harmed no one—and might even help her cousin and his confederates if it triggered Chambelston’s sympathy. “I heard—overheard, that is—two people talking about your father.” One being her.

He tilted his head and studied her from under the brim of his hat. “Oh?”

“They claimed your father supported the people.”

“You are suggesting my father allied with the rebels?”

“No, only that he empathized with the people’s suffering—that he acted as an intermediary between the government and those with grievances. I deduced he was much admired.”

Silence descended over them for several minutes. “Thank you for those kind words.”

Did he believe her? She parsed his words and tones for any sarcastic edge, but found none. “You’re welcome.”

“My niece told me you typically spend your Sundays away from Rowan Abbey, Miss Vance.”

Suspicions prickled along the nape of her neck at this abrupt change in subject. “I visit a friend.”

“Anyone I should know about?”

“Only if you have an interest in invalid females.” The horse faltered through a dip in the path. Leah grabbed for the animal’s mane to prevent herself from sliding out of the saddle. “My friend is much too ill to concern herself with politics.”

Chambelston’s grip tightened on the reins, the drifted snow reaching nigh to his knees. “I’m sorry to hear of your friend’s distress. Has she suffered long with this affliction?” He climbed out of the deep drift and tapped the snow from his boots.

“Ten years. But surely you don’t wish to hear any more.” And she most especially did not wish to discuss more. Should any discover proper governess Leah Vance had a sister with an unsound mind... “I can think of few subjects more tedious than a stranger’s ailments.”

“Unless, of course, I am similarly plagued and desire information on effective remedies.”

“I doubt you would benefit from her treatment.” Although locking him in a cell and rendering him senseless with laudanum might profit Leah. And perhaps Alec. “Besides, with your superior resources, I’m certain you’d find a better situation than the ones available to her.”

“Do I detect resentment, Miss Vance?”

Oh, yes. But it would never do to antagonize this man.
“I’m sorry. Blame the fatigue—and fear. I try to help as best I can, but...”

“But a governess has limited means. I’m sorry your friend doesn’t have the wherewithal for the very best of care, Miss Vance. I do have superior resources, as you call them—but they do not shelter me from all hardships. I must confess I had another reason to seek you out today. I asked my niece where I might find you because I have need of your expertise.”

Or because he didn’t trust her? “You find yourself in need of an embroidery stitch after all?”

A chuckle bubbled in his throat and mitigated some of the tension that swirled around him. “Not exactly. I brought my youngest sister with me. Perhaps you have...heard about her?”

Leah searched her memory for any tidbits of gossip about Lady Sotherton’s family. Wasn’t there one who was...not normal? “I believe so.”

“I brought a nurse to care for her, but I question whether we have done Caroline justice in her education. I suspect she might be capable of learning more than we have credited her. You have some experience with teaching young ladies. I thought perhaps you would observe her and give me your opinion.”

Surely Chambelston’s family had already consulted the best doctors and teachers. “I doubt I can offer more than anyone else, but I would be willing to meet your sister.”

“I’d be grateful for anything you can recommend. Teresa plans to ride tomorrow with her cousin. Perhaps I could bring my sister then.”

“She’s going riding with Fleming?” Leah glanced over her shoulder, but her nemesis had disappeared from view. Had he discovered Alec? As she faced forward, she caught Chambelston’s frown.

“You seem troubled at the notion, Miss Vance. Has Fleming importuned upon you on other occasions when you traveled beyond Rowan Abbey?”

The stone fence denoting the easternmost boundary of Sotherton lands edged the path. What new torments would Reginald Fleming plot upon his return? “Not recently.” Not during the three years he’d stayed away.

“Fleming spoke of another in your company.”

“My invalid sis—friend’s cousin also called upon her. We were going in the same direction, so he escorted me part of the way.”

“A man who visits his invalid cousin? Are you certain he went to see his kinswoman and not her guest?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She aimed her stern-governess expression at him, the one she had used long ago when an attention-starved Teresa resorted to disobedience to secure notice. Alas, such machinations had only widened the chasm between mother and daughter. “He is only a local man, made poor by war and adversity.”

“I yield to your superior knowledge about men in general and this one in particular.”

“I’m not so ignorant as to the ways of men as you believe. I once had a brother.”

His gaze sobered and the derision twisting his lips softened. “You speak in past tense, Miss Vance.” He patted the horse’s neck, his hand disturbingly close to where she threaded her fingers through the animal’s mane.

“He died during the war.”

* * *

That French shell she’d mentioned. Julian stared across the rolling miles of white, like an endless sea of snow all around him. Sympathy and understanding washed through him and fed a spark of hope that someone so personally impacted by the war wouldn’t have sold state secrets to the enemy. “You have my condolences. I lost a brother myself but two years past.”

“And then your father recently.”

“Yes.” A gust of wind tugged at his hat. “But Gregory’s death was a surprise. He was only five years my senior. I suppose to a degree we all expect to outlive our parents someday even if that day oft comes too soon.”

“Was your brother killed during the war?”

“No. Perhaps that contributed to my shock. I spent twenty years in the navy, most during wartime. And I survived—only to watch my brother die of disease. How degrading, to see his once vigorous form waste away. I own I would rather endure a quick death via combat.”

“He was firstborn—the heir before you. Were you ever jealous of him?”

“Like Fleming and Killiane, you mean?” He glanced over his shoulder to see if the younger man had returned to pursue them, but saw only their own long shadows that marked the end of the day. “Shamefully, yes. My parents sent me away at thirteen while Gregory remained behind to get his education and take his place as heir. Like most men I compared my lot to Gregory’s and concluded I had the more difficult road.”

“Perhaps you did.” The breeze tossed escaping tendrils against her face. The askew bonnet and disorderly hair softened the usual severity of her appearance and the uncertainty in her expression relaxed the sternness of her manner. “Thirteen is very young to leave home—especially to go to war.”

“I am only now appreciating all Gregory did for the Chambelston tenants—thankless work, acknowledged by few. My work contained danger, yes, but excitement and admiration also. Every young man craves excitement and purpose and dragons to slay.” A smile slipped out as he remembered a childhood of searching for buried treasure and chasing imaginary pirates. “Consider Mr. Fleming. Unlike me, his parents didn’t provide him with an occupation. Idleness breeds mischief.”

“Or in Mr. Fleming’s case, malice.”

Once again Julian recalled her words about evil and power, this time in light of Fleming’s violence against her today and his earlier provocation at the piano. A long-standing problem for Miss Vance? “Would you like me to speak to Sotherton?”

“No!”

And a word to his sister would probably exacerbate the issue. Another twinge of sympathy pricked his conscience. If Miss Vance had been his sister—an uncomfortable thought—no man would have dared vent his spite on her. And yet her plight was typical for a woman of her situation. “Was your brother in the army?”

“No, the navy.” The new softness about her extended to her mouth, which curved in a faint smile of remembrance. That charming dimple reappeared on her cheek, and Julian vowed to see it emerge again, and often. “David was four years my senior. He pulled my hair, teased me mercilessly and saw I took the blame for his misdeeds. He was everything an older brother should be—clever, courageous and oh-so-handsome in his midshipman’s uniform. My parents had such hopes for him.”

And then it all came to an end. Julian had seen the same tragedy again and again, in bloody battle after bloody battle. How different her life might have been if her brother had lived. Perhaps he would have earned enough prize money to provide her a modest income—at least, enough to save her from an impecunious governess’s fate. “Do you have sisters?”

Her eyes darkened, brown swallowing the green. “I had one. She suffered a grievous injury.”

“I’m sorry. When was this?”

“Ten years ago.”

Shortly before she became Teresa’s governess. Was there a connection between the two events? “Younger or older?”

“Younger.”

“Ah, so you were an overlooked middle child—like me?”

“I cannot imagine you allowing yourself to be overlooked by anyone.”

“If that is your polite way of suggesting I executed wicked deeds to attract attention, you are probably right.” During the difficult period of his parents’ marriage, even the DeChambelle children had felt the strain—and he had acted accordingly. And then his parents had sent him off to the navy. Perhaps those dark days explained the change in Elizabeth from the merry sister of his earlier memories. “I fear I shared all your brother’s hair-pulling, sister-teasing faults with none of his virtues.”

Miss Vance eyed him dubiously from under her bonnet, a frown drawing her brows together above her narrow slice of nose. “I’ll grant you bedevil me even more than he, but I question your assertion that a man who rose to your rank possesses neither intelligence nor daring.”

The path wound through a grove of snow-encrusted hawthorns, their berries glittering in the last rays of daylight. “I notice you didn’t include an assessment of my appearance in comparison to your brother’s.”

Their gazes met. Locked. Held for interminable moments while the horse stumbled and tossed Miss Vance to the side—like the shift in his world. Julian clutched her arm to steady her, adding a physical dimension to the connection. Despite the afternoon’s deepening cold, warmth washed through him.

She maintained her stare for several more seconds, her eyes wide with uncertainty, longing, fear. “Thank you, but I have—”

A shot shattered the stillness and tore branches from a nearby bush.

Chapter Six

L
eah’s fingers tightened around the horse’s mane. Too late. The animal lurched, jerked and reared. Perched sideways on a man’s saddle, Leah’s precarious balance failed and she surrendered to gravity. At least the snow cushioned her fall. Mostly.

“Whoa!” Above her Chambelston hauled on the flailing horse’s reins. He glanced over his shoulder, and Leah realized that not only did he seek to protect her from the thrashing hooves, he’d also maneuvered the animal between her and the origin of the gunshot.

Despite her fear—and pain radiating from her newly sprained knee—warmth kindled inside her at his gallantry, then mingled with her concern for him. Words bubbled in her throat, a rusty plea for help, protection. But would anyone—the One—hear her or heed her? Using her arms as leverage, she pushed herself up to see if she could identify who had fired the gunshot.

“Stay down until I say!” Chambelston scrambled into the saddle Leah had unwillingly vacated.

Down? Where she might be trampled—again? The horse reeled, and Leah obediently dropped back onto the ground. Snow sprayed against her cheeks and stuck to her eyelashes. She tensed as nerve-racking seconds ticked by. No second shot. Had their assailant reloaded? Or had the entire episode been an accident, a wild shot from an overzealous hunter?

Chambelston dragged on the reins until the animal’s agitation diminished to a mere tossing of its head. “Now!” He leant over, one hand stretched down to her.

Leah popped up and clutched his arm, holding onto its steel strength as he pulled her onto the horse. He settled her in front of him, all the while still using his own body as a bulwark against further attacks. Then he urged the horse into a gallop. The skittish animal needed little encouragement to make haste. Leah shivered—from their near escape, the horse’s speed, the cold or her proximity to one Lord Chambelston?

His arm still circled her, pressing her against the fine wool of his coat so that every breath infused her senses with him.

She struggled to gain a little space, a little poise. “Did you see who fired the shot?”

“No. My only concern was a swift retreat. And your safety.” His deep voice rumbled in his chest and vibrated against her ear. “The first rule of battle is to avoid a fight unless you know you are the better armed.”

“But it may have only been a hunter—”

“On Sotherton’s lands? At dusk?”

“A poacher, then. A tenant trying to feed his family this winter.”

“He would be a very inefficient one in that case. My dear Miss Vance, that shot was fired from a pistol, not a rifle.” And Chambelston, a man who’d spent years at war, would know the difference, of course. “Besides, I doubt even a blind poacher could mistake us for a rabbit.”

Leah’s turmoil and fear began to modulate into a new, more disturbing worry. Who would shoot at them? Fleming? Or had some of Alec’s compatriots guessed at her perfidy? The cold began to creep through her coat to her heart.

Unless the shot was meant for Chambelston. Could he be right that his father had been murdered?

“Your friends?” His voice echoed her thoughts.

“Or perhaps your enemies.” Relief speared through her as she spied Rowan Abbey through the deepening gloom. Candles gleamed a welcome glow through the windows. “Besides, as I told you, the radicals are not my friends.”

“Ah, yes. Your only friends are invalid females and their exemplary relatives.” Chambelston steered the horse toward the stable. “Do all your visits end with such excitement?”

“Not until I met you.”

“As soon as the groom takes the horse, I’ll assist you to the house.”

The groom! Wetherel would have known about Leah’s absence and Chambelston’s ride. Had he become suspicious after seeing them together last week? Suspicious enough to fire a warning? Their arrival together on the same horse would feed speculations.

Chambelston drew the horse to a halt beside the building and swung down from the saddle. He was reaching for Leah as the groom came out of the stable. “Ah, there you are. As you can see, Miss Vance suffered a fall on her outing today. Fortunately I encountered her on my ride and was able to assist her.”

Wetherel eyed the gelding’s lathered state, a frown drawing down his mouth. “I hope Miss Vance will recover.”

“I’m certain she’ll be fine with the proper rest.” Chambelston gathered her in his arms and lifted her off the horse.

Leah fought the urge to protest. She wanted to walk—flee even. But what with both her foot and her knee, she feared such an attempt would make even more of a spectacle than the sight of their esteemed visitor carrying the governess to the house.

Pressed against his chest—one arm around her back and the other below her knees—Leah kept her gaze focused outward, afraid he would intercept so much as a glance should she chance to look up. If he noticed her awkward silence and taut muscles, he graciously refrained from commenting. Her skirt cascaded over his arm to reveal the slice in her boot. The foot inside continued to throb. Tomorrow she would sport an ugly bruise. Or worse.

“Upstairs?” he asked once they had reached the narrow staircase that wound through the rear of the manor.

“Yes.” The dark passageway magnified the even rasps of his breaths and added another layer of uncomfortable intimacy to her predicament. Fortunately they didn’t encounter any of the servants, not even the prescient Molly and her uncanny ability to find Leah at the most inopportune times.

At the top of the stairs Leah tapped on Chambelston’s shoulder. “Thank you, my lord. I can manage from here.”

He lowered her feet to the bare plank floor—but kept his arm around her shoulders. At least the pain in her knee had mitigated to a twinge. “You should be careful with that foot until you know if any bones were broken. I’ll explain to Teresa.”

She shuffled to the closed door of her humble chamber. “Thank you for all your assistance today.” Especially for the rescue from Fleming. She waited for him to leave.

He didn’t. “Aren’t you going to invite me into your chamber? It seems only fair. Besides, we wouldn’t want you to further injure your foot.” That sardonic smile flashed in murky darkness.

“I believe you enjoyed teasing your sisters all those years ago.”

“And pulling their hair.” He tipped back her bonnet and gave a stray strand of her hair a tweak. She stared into his eyes, her heart accelerating.

Footsteps tapped against the floor. Leah jerked back and bumped her head against the door of her own room.

“Ah, Molly,” Chambelston greeted the maid who strode toward them. He knew her by name? “Miss Vance suffered a serious fall today. Would you bring her a tray so she doesn’t have to navigate the stairs?”

“Of course, my lord.” Molly gave him a curtsey and Leah a smile.

“And Miss Vance, I’ll bring my sister Caroline to see you in the schoolroom tomorrow. Good night.” He whirled and strode to the steps, leaving Leah full of disquiet and questions.

Just why did an earl know his sister’s maid by name? Uncommon consideration, romantic interest, or...additional reconnaissance?

* * *

Julian paused in the doorway of the schoolroom. Morning sunshine filled the chamber with cheerful brightness. A flood of memories cascaded over him as he examined the tidy battalion of books that marched across shelves, the neat arrangement of papers that garbed the desktop, the childish sketches of local landscapes that adorned the walls. How long had it been since the schoolroom at Chambelston House had heard children’s laughter?

Not since the death of his brother Gregory’s son in the same epidemic that had taken Julian’s older brother.

Responsibility once again gnawed at him. He would have to marry, produce children—if only to provide reassurance and a promise of stability to the people on his estate, those whose lives and livelihoods depended on him and his family.

At the desk Teresa and her governess sat with heads bent over a book. Suddenly his niece glanced up and caught him lingering in the doorway. “Uncle Julian! Oh, and you’ve brought Aunt Caroline. How delightful.”

Miss Vance rose from her chair—slowly, her movements stiff and jerky. She had her hair pinned back in her usual straight, severe style. And yet he imagined a new softness in the wide hazel eyes that met his. Held.

Caro tugged on his hand.

“I hope we’re not interrupting.” He guided his younger sister into the room.

“Only in the best way. Miss Vance is valiantly trying to correct my atrocious French. A hopeless cause, I tell you.” Teresa swept forward and circled an arm around Caro’s shoulders, drawing her from Julian to her governess. “Miss Vance, this is my Aunt Caroline.”

“How do you do, Lady Caroline? Do you like stories? I thought perhaps we could read together this morning.” A smile touched Miss Vance’s lips and triggered the dimple in her cheek, transforming her face from plain to...something else. Julian’s breath caught in his chest.

Caro glanced uncertainly over her shoulder at Julian. Strange situations and new people always made his sister apprehensive. “It will be all right. Anna will bring your luncheon here later.”

“Then go home?”

“Not today—but soon.” Maybe. Julian surveyed Miss Vance over the top of Caro’s head. “How is your foot today?”

“Bruised and a bit swollen, but nothing broken, I think.”

“That’s good. I’m sorry to disrupt your day.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.” Teresa tilted her head at a jaunty angle. “I’m hopeless at French—I haven’t the ear for it. I only consented to learn the language so that in the event I ever meet Napoleon, I can tell him what I think.”

“And because your mother insisted.” Fondness laced Miss Vance’s words. “Although should you ever have occasion to speak to the little tyrant, no doubt he will find your accent his most severe punishment.”

“You see?” Teresa looked at Julian with a smug nod. “Hopeless.”

Julian let a smile escape. “My mother was raised in France.”

Teresa’s eyes grew wistful. “I know. I wish...”

“We’ll make it happen.” He didn’t know how he would convince Elizabeth to let Maman meet her oldest grandchild, but he would. Teresa needed her family. And so did Maman.

“I imagine you have excellent conversational skills in French, Uncle Julian.”

“Not exactly. My brother Kit—Christopher, that is—is the linguist. I excelled at mathematics. And teasing my sisters. That’s the reason our parents sent him to the university and me to the navy.”

“Perhaps you should stay, then.” A mischievous grin curved the corner of Teresa’s mouth. The matchmaking minx. “I’m sure Miss Vance would teach you French. And perhaps read to you also.”

If only he could read Miss Vance—her motives for her actions, her potential for betrayal. Would she yet deceive him? More and more he hoped not, believed not. Her real, and returned, affection for her charge suggested one who cared deeply for others. An image formed in his mind of a governess frantic to save an impoverished and invalid friend—enough to commit treason even? Was her crime borne of desperation rather than greed? “I’ll be out for a while, but I shall return this afternoon.” He intended to investigate the local pub. Not that he expected to learn much, but one should at least know the lay of the land. And since Miss Vance had informed the radicals of his presence in the neighborhood, he’d let them have a look. “Will you be staying?”

“Only for another hour or so. I’m to ride with Reggie this afternoon.”

A frown wiped away Miss Vance’s dimple. “Don’t ride too far.”

So she disapproved. Of a certainty the man had behaved dreadfully toward her, but surely she didn’t believe Fleming would abuse his cousin, did she?

Would he?

* * *

Leah held up another picture card for Lady Caroline. “What is this?”

“Dog.”

“Very good.” She looked into the uptilted eyes whose lids had started to droop. “And what does a dog say?”

“Woof.” Caroline touched the sketch—Teresa’s work, of course. Not Leah’s. “Like Henry.”

“Is Henry your dog at home?”

Lady Caroline nodded, sadness mingling with exhaustion in the wide blue eyes. “Miss him.”

“And I’m sure he misses you just as much.” Leah gave the girl’s narrow shoulders a squeeze.

Memories washed through her mind and yielded an unhappiness that matched Lady Caroline’s. Two decades ago, Leah had shared similar afternoons with her younger sister Phoebe. And afterward with a young Teresa.

Loneliness settled in her soul as she contemplated the future. And from here, where?

The door squeaked open and Leah shoved the melancholy images away. “Molly—” She stopped as she identified the handsome face and broad shoulders that entered the room.

“Jules!” Lady Caroline leaped from the chair and flew to her brother.

Leah’s heart began to pound at an accelerated rate despite her stern admonishments to herself. How ridiculous to develop a tendre for a man so far beyond her reach. And at her age, no less. A man who held her life—and her sister’s—in his hands. Pride straightened her spine lest he perceive her folly. “Can we help you, my lord?”

“I came to see how Caro fares.” Chambelston wrapped an arm around his sister.

Leah fought back the momentary spurt of jealousy at Lady Caroline’s good fortune. At least she—unlike Lady Caroline or her sister Phoebe—had the ability to provide for her own needs, no matter how onerous she found the task. Or rather, the employers. “I enjoy Lady Caroline’s company.”

“But is she too much extra work for you? That is...” He glanced around the room, a frown tugging at his mouth. “I don’t see Anna.”

“I sent her to manage Lady Caroline’s wardrobe.” Leah folded her hands and stared at him from over her fingers. “Anna is... That is, I think perhaps her talents would be better served as Lady Caroline’s maid than as her nurse.”

“Yes, I’ve become aware of her shortcomings.” Sorrow darkened his eyes. “Our nurse in Somerset is too old to travel such distances now. Indeed, my mother is Caro’s primary caretaker.”

His mother? The Countess of Chambelston?

A bit of his grief lifted from his face. “I see you are shocked at the notion of a mother caring for her own offspring.”