The Revenge of Lord Eberlin (19 page)

Tobin tossed his brandy into the fire, watching it flare. He’d wanted his revenge for so long now that he scarcely knew how to think of it in any other way.

But his path to seeking it was becoming less clear to him.

The weather did not improve, and by week’s end, a lead gray sky had begun to spit a few anemic flakes across the West Sussex landscape. Mr. Joshua Howell, Tobin’s secretary, appeared at Tiber Park on a morning Tobin had chopped hedgerow. Tobin idly rubbed his forearm as Mr. Howell reviewed a tedious list of engagements, commitments, and correspondence needs. When they’d finished, Mr. Howell stood to go.

“One last thing,” Tobin said, his wet boots propped carelessly on the edge of the desk as he absently watched the bits of snow floating through the air. “I should like you to pen an invitation to Lady Ashwood to my winter ball.” He’d deliberately not invited Lily, for reasons that now made little sense. Now, he wanted her to see firsthand the influence he wielded here.

“Yes, my lord. Perhaps that will lift her spirits.”

Tobin shifted his gaze from the window to Howell. “What do you mean?”

“I have heard she is unwell, taken to her bed with an ague.” He picked up his satchel. “Seems she was caught out in the rain.”

Tobin’s heart skipped on a small twinge of guilt. “Pen the invitation. I’ll deliver it personally.”

“Yes, my lord,” Mr. Howell said and walked smartly out of the study, his satchel swinging at his side.

Tobin stood and walked to the window. He stared out at his holdings, recalling that sensual afternoon. Lily had been soaked to the bone. He put his hand to his abdomen. What was that he felt in his gut? Remorse? Highly unlikely. But he’d pay her a call all the same and assure himself that she would make a full recovery.

Tobin’s horse kicked up a powder of snow on the route to Ashwood. The snowfall was thickening. He would make a point of not staying more than a minute or two.

At the door, Lily’s butler eyed him with a perplexed look, as if he didn’t know whether or not Tobin was welcome. But as the snow was piling onto his shoulders, Tobin said, “If you would be so kind as to make up your mind.”

Linford stood back and bowed. “Please come in, my lord.”

Tobin strode into the foyer and looked at the magnificent
dual curving staircase, his father’s masterpiece. The few times he’d seen it since returning to Hadley Green, he’d been astounded by the craftsmanship. Every baluster was handcrafted. The twin railings had been carved with an ornamental vine and leaves. He could recall little things, such as his father’s hands, the sound of his laughter. But he’d not recalled the depth of his talent until he saw this wonder of wood and physics.

“May I have your cloak?” Linford asked.

“That is not necessary,” Tobin said. “I do not intend to stay long.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but her ladyship has taken to her bed.”

“So I have heard,” Tobin said as he handed his hat to Linford. “Will you please inquire if she will receive me?”

Linford set Tobin’s hat on the console. “If you will kindly wait here,” he said and walked to the stairs. He moved slowly up, his hand on the railing, his steps deliberate.

Linford’s footfall had just faded into the corridor above when Tobin heard a giggle, the unmistakable sound of a child. He glanced up. He could see Lucy Taft crouched behind the balusters, spying down at him. It was exactly the spot where Lily used to hide to spy on the adults below. “I see you,” he said.

He heard Miss Taft’s soft gasp and saw her shift.

“That does not help you. And as we both know that I see you, I should think you’d come down here and tell me how your mistress fares.”

Miss Taft stood up, her blonde head peeking up over the railing. “She’s unwell,” she said and draped her arms over the railing. “She has an ague.”

“And what is your prognosis, Miss Taft? Will she make a complete recovery?”

The girl mulled that over as she kicked one foot in and out of the space between the balusters. “I believe she will,” she said with a sage nod. “But she must not go out in the snow, and she must eat all her soup. Mrs. Thorpe says that soup is the best thing a sick person might eat. Mrs. Thorpe does not care for beet soup. I have never tasted beet soup but I have tasted
onion
soup, and I don’t care for it. I like duck soup the best. What soup do you prefer, my lord?”

“Brandy.”

“There’s no such thing as brandy soup! Did you come to see the countess?”

“I did.”

“I can take you to her, if you’d like. I’m allowed to sit with her and read to her. But I don’t read very well, and she said that she thought five readings of ‘The Rabbit and the Hare’ were
quite
enough,” she said, and twirled around for emphasis before hopping across the landing like a hare. “You may come up if you like,” she said, just as Linford shuffled back into view.

He passed Miss Taft without a word, took the steps very carefully down to the foyer, and bowed before Tobin. “Her ladyship will receive you now.”

“I’ll take him!” Miss Taft shouted.

“I rather think I should, miss.”

“But
I
want to do it.”

Linford glanced heavenward. “As you wish.” He spoke in a manner that suggested this was not the first time they had vied for the introduction of a visitor. “If you please, my lord, Miss Taft will announce you,” he said, and gestured grandly to the girl at the top of the stairs.

Tobin started forward. This would be the first time he’d stepped foot on those stairs in fifteen years. He put his hand on the railing, felt the deep groove of the meandering vine and the leaves of various shapes and sizes. The staircase was remarkable.

“We are to be quiet as mouses,” Lucy whispered loudly when he reached the landing. “Mrs. Thorpe says her ladyship cannot rest if you run up and down the corridor.”

“I have no intention of running up and down the corridor.”

“Then you must have a very good mother,” Miss Taft said as she began to hop down the corridor before him. “Mrs. Thorpe says I am as wild as a monkey because I have no mother, and mothers make certain that proper young ladies do not swing from the house chandeliers like monkeys. Did your mother tell you that?” She paused to look curiously at him.

“My mother is not alive.”

“Are
you
an orphan?” she asked excitedly. “
I
am an orphan. The countess is an orphan, as well, although
she had an aunt who very much wanted to be her mother. I think I might have a father, but I don’t remember if I do or not. Do you have a father?”

Tobin shook his head.

“Count Eberlin!” she said sternly, and slipped her hand into his damp palm without invitation. “I should think
someone
might have
told
you that you are an orphan. You are, you know, if you have neither mother nor father, and someone else must take you in and feed you and teach you proper keticut—”

“Etiquette,” he said.

“
Etiquette,
then you are an orphan.”

“Thank you for the clarification.”

“You are welcome,” she said, and let go his hand and skipped ahead to a door. She grabbed the handle with both hands and pushed the door open, then skipped inside. “I brought that wretched Count Eberlin to see you,” she announced loudly.

“Lucy!” Lily croaked.

Tobin strode into her bedchamber behind Miss Taft. “That wretched count at your service, madam,” he said, and bowed low.

“I beg your pardon,” Lily said and smiled apologetically as Lucy rushed across the room and plopped down on a window seat. “I am very surprised to see you, sir.”

Generally, Tobin had no compunction about entering a woman’s boudoir, but on this occasion, he felt awkward. The room was done up in soft pinks and
crème-colored walls, not unlike the private rooms he had enjoyed in Europe. But the paint was peeling and the carpets were worn. It appeared as if it had once been a grand estate, where the money had gone before the house.

As for the room’s mistress, Tobin was quite taken aback by how pale and drawn she looked, save the rosy spots of fever in her cheeks.

Miss Taft suddenly gasped. She climbed up onto her knees on the window seat and leaned forward into the deep window well, pressing her hands against the panes of glass. “It’s snowing! May I go out, mu’um? Please?” she asked, whirling around and bouncing off the window seat.

“What do you think, Ann?” Lily asked the maid attending her.

Ann leaned forward and looked out the window. “It does not seem too deep, mu’um.”

“Please?” Lucy begged.

“You must wear a proper cloak and mittens,” Lily said.

“And a bonnet!” the girl exclaimed as she hurried for the door, nearly colliding with Ann.

“You mustn’t stay out for very long or you’ll catch your death.”

“I won’t!” Miss Taft sang as she ran out of the room.

Lily smiled weakly at Tobin. Her black hair had been braided and was draped over one shoulder like a stole. She was nestled against a stack of pillows, wan
and bleary-eyed. “You came in the snow, my lord? Whatever for? Surely you do not care to risk contagion of the plague,” she muttered morosely. “Ann does not fear it. She stays by my side, quite unconcerned about my imminent demise.”

Ann laughed. “I do not think you are in much danger, mu’um.”

“Tell that to Dr. Trittman.”

“I heard you had taken ill,” Tobin said, feeling a tremor of worry rifle through him. He’d thought he’d find her reposing in her dressing gown looking a bit tired. Not like this.

“Do my ears deceive me?” she said with a wary smile. “Did you come to inquire after my welfare?”

He smiled and glanced slyly at the maid, who was folding linens across the room. “Well obviously I cannot ruin you properly if you are ill,” he said softly. “So I respectfully request that you improve.”

Lily made a sound that might have been a laugh, but it quickly deteriorated into a cough. “I shall endeavor to do my best,” she hoarsely assured him.

It had been a mistake to come here. Looking at Lily now—just days ago the very picture of feminine health—Tobin was reminded of his dying mother. She’d lain in her bed, her skin sallow, her hair gray and dull. Lily did not look as ill as that, but seeing her this way made him feel so uncomfortable that he could not help shifting his shoulders to try and shake off the feeling.
“Are you on the mend, then?” he asked as casually as he could manage.

“Dr. Trittman would have you believe that is not a foregone conclusion. It would seem I have a rather persistent fever. Yet I do feel somewhat better, although Dr. Trittman will not believe it. He says I look too sickly.”

“You look . . . remarkably fetching,” he said honestly.

Lily smiled gratefully. “Oh, Tobin. On occasion, you really are rather kind.”

“I am not a kind man,” he said instantly, yet Lily would not stop smiling at him, so Tobin turned away and moved to the window. The snow was falling in thick, fat flakes.

The maid puttered in and out of the adjoining room, smiling nervously at Tobin.

“Tobin?”

Tobin looked over his shoulder at Lily.

“I have lain here these last few days with memories falling into place. I must know.”

“You mustn’t tire yourself. Do not trouble yourself with this now.” He wanted nothing more from her at present than her regained health. He did not want to think about all that had happened in this house.

“I intend to look with or without you, you know,” she said stubbornly and tried to sit up. “It seems to me that if we work together, we might recall more. It might lead us to the truth—”

“It makes no difference to me,” he said curtly. “It is over and done, Lily. Finding the jewels will not change anything.”

“It makes a difference to me,” she said. “It could mean the difference between poverty and . . . oh, never mind.” She sighed deeply.

Tobin wanted to ask what she meant by that, but she looked so tired. “I did not come here to distress you,” he said and moved to her bedside. He held out the invitation.