The Substitute Countess (15 page)

If mere sex could grant that, he would have found out years ago. But he knew from his experience before meeting Laurel, that was not the answer. She had become the balm to his soul, the one person he had ever known who had that effect on him.

Bedding her was not all that he missed. The peace she granted and he craved didn’t fully account for his sense of loss, either. He needed her by him, always. It was as simple as that.

He had begun to fear she would keep on the way she was doing for the rest of their lives. How many times had he kicked himself for offering to leave her alone for as long as she wanted? Maybe she still wanted that, but he was about to retract his offer and use that little wave of hers as his reason.

He hurried upstairs to change.

When he entered his room, she was standing there in the middle of it, hands clasped in front of her. He stopped, uncertain whether to approach, to speak, or wait for her to say something.

She settled it. “I have been thinking,” she said, then cleared her throat and turned her gaze from his. “Perhaps you were justified, or at least believed you were.” She paused. “And of late, I have behaved in a very childish manner, costing us greatly in every way.”

He noted she did not ask his forgiveness. Imp. That made him smile. “So have I, Laurel. Shall we put all of this behind us? Perhaps start over as adults?”

She shrugged, obviously still a bit uncertain. “Perhaps we should.”

He crossed the room and held out his arms. “Everything else in the house is brand-new. Let’s make it complete with a new beginning.”

She stepped into his embrace and he heard her sniffle. “It’s all right, Laurel.
We
will be all right now, I promise. No more lies of omission, no deception of any sort.”

For the longest time, he held her close, caressing her back, kissing the top of her head, breathing in her scent, just loving her quietly. Something melted within him, creating a softness he thought might stay forever.

“Folks will call me the Earl of Mush,” he muttered into her curls.

She lifted her face. “What?”

He laughed and dropped a kiss on her nose. “I love you so much it turns my insides to porridge.”

She sighed. “Well, I do like porridge.”

* * *

Laurel congratulated herself hundreds of times within the next week. Jack had settled so delightfully in his role as earl and as husband. He swore she was responsible. Marriage to her had made him a different man, so he said, but she knew better.

He would react the same way he had the first day she met him if she were ever threatened by anyone. The firmness he employed when directing everyone to mind their duties still spoke of the ship’s captain within him. All that had changed about him was the constancy of his overabundant energy. He slept very well and seemed able to relax at will.

One evening as they lay abed after loving, her head on his shoulder, fingers entwined, he mentioned it again, thanking her.

“What was your life like as a little boy?” she asked.

“Errands for Mum,” he replied with a lazy smile. “I recall dashing up and down the street, in and out of shops for a loaf of bread, cord for wicks, this and that.” He sighed. “That’s how she kept me busy and out of mischief.”

“Perhaps your hurrying then and the necessity you felt for helping her in your father’s absence could have caused you to form habits early on,” she suggested. “Those habits, combined with a young boy’s natural excess of energy, might have set you on this course of perpetual motion.”

“You really think so? What an odd idea, but it makes some sense.”

She played with his fingers, tracing his nails. “How was it after you went to sea? Your mother said once she could not imagine how you dealt with the inactivity aboard ship.”

He laughed as he drew her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. “Inactivity? You saw the crew and how busy they were when we sailed to England? Double it and you have the chores of a cabin lad.”

“You had time for lessons,” she reminded him.

“Taught on the fly for the most part.” He brushed her hand against his cheek and let it rest there. “You could be right. Habits formed in my youth. Still, I cannot account for how something inside me slowly shifted as I came to know you. I pause more to think and plan than before. And now, this stillness...”

She hummed. “You make me out a placid cow.”

“Taming the bull,” he said, laughing suggestively as he tickled her bare ribs. “The snorting, pawing,
randy
bull...”

Laurel loved this side of him most of all, the playful silliness he let show when they were alone. She loved everything about him, really. Life could not be sweeter than it was at that moment and she savored every second.

She hoped it never ended, the happiness she had discovered in her marriage of convenience that had turned into a love match. Laurel decided she must be vigilant against any threat that might destroy it.

Chapter Fifteen

C
ompany arrived the next afternoon. Jack had agreed it was time for them to begin entertaining on a small scale so that Laurel could practice her role as hostess. He suspected she wanted to show off her new gowns to other than himself, Hobson and the staff. He didn’t blame her in the least, for she was like a beautiful butterfly just out of her cocoon, spreading her colorful wings.

He was as proud of her new assertiveness as he was of her appearance. Laurel was coming into her own and he felt a bit responsible for that. She felt confident, loved and appreciated, and that showed in her every expression.

The evening meal took on the air of a party and Laurel had carried everything off with expertise. Jack watched as she signaled the servants without anyone else noting it, directed conversation so that everyone was included and enjoyed herself in the bargain. He rarely relished meals with numerous courses that required lingering at table, but this night had proved different. He actually regretted it when supper was over and the women left the dining room.

Jack and the gentlemen soon finished their after-supper port and repaired to the parlor to join the ladies. They had invited his mother, stepfather, Miranda and Neville to stay the week. Laurel had insisted on inviting Lady Portia to supper and had sent a trap to fetch her, but she had not come.

“We plan to have a great harvest festival and we would love you all to come for it,” Jack announced as they crossed the atrium.

“Ah, the country life! How do you stand the excitement of it all?” Neville asked, slapping Jack on the back.

“You should try it before you belittle it,” Jack retorted.

“Oh, I have. We go often to my cousin Caine and his wife, Grace, at their country house. We’re going there from here, in fact, to be there for the birth of their child. Could be weeks yet.”

“Careful you don’t get
too
countrified,” Jack said, laughing.

“Not much chance of that. Even with these visits, rustication’s still a real novelty for me. I’ve been a cit, traveler or foreigner all my life.”

“So have I,” Mr. Ives agreed. “Your mother and I will be here for your festival. I’ll have someone tend the shop for a few days.”

“That’s good of you, sir. And, Neville, perhaps we could persuade Captain Morleigh and his wife to come for the celebration as well if she’s able. We know so few people and should be cultivating new friends,” Jack said as they entered the parlor.

“Ah, here are our lovelies, waiting for us to entertain them!” he said by way of greeting the women.

“I’ll play first,” Neville said, taking a seat at the pianoforte and executing a quick run up and down the keys.

“You’ll play last, as well, unless Miranda or Mr. Ives know how,” Jack said with a laugh.

He was thoroughly enjoying himself and saw that Laurel was in her element entertaining. How lovely she looked in a gown the shimmering, ever-changing color of the sun on the sea. The swell of her breasts above the nearly immodest cut of her bodice made him wish to abandon their guests and take her upstairs for a while. Her upswept hair gleamed like spun gold in the light of so many candles. Anticipation added to his pleasure in an evening that seemed absolutely perfect. This was how life should be.

The butler appeared in the doorway, only to be shoved aside by Lady Portia. “Never mind announcing me,” she ordered, striding in as if she still ran the house.

Everyone stood. She marched straight over to the divan and plopped down with a sigh. “I ate at home.”

Jack bit back a smile. “Lady Portia, may I present Lady Miranda and her husband, Mr. Morleigh.” He indicated who was whom with a gesture of his hand. “And Mr. and Mrs. Ives, my mother and stepfather.”

She merely nodded as they bowed and curtsied. “I’ll have a brandy,” she demanded.

Jack rolled his eyes and turned to the butler. The man bowed and went to fill the order.

When Jack looked back, the dowager was standing again, staring openmouthed at Laurel, who had turned aside to speak to his mother. Lady Portia’s shocked gaze swiveled to him. She still gaped, her lower jaw moving as if she couldn’t form words.

“Ma’am, are you all right?” he asked, worried that she was having a fit of some sort. He rushed over and took her arm. “Lady Portia?”

She blinked. “Who...who is she?”

“Who?” he asked. “My mother? Hester Ives.”

Her head was shaking frantically as she grasped his arm. “This...this was wrong of you! Wrong!”

Jack looked helplessly at his wife and mother. What was he to do with a woman suddenly bereft of her senses?

“Take me home!” the dowager commanded, virtually dragging him with her as she headed for the door.

He shrugged and said over his shoulder. “I’ll be back shortly.”

“You hope,” he heard Neville say in his usual dry tone.

Jack hoped so, too. Lady Portia had a death grip on his sleeve. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?” He motioned for the footman to bring the trap around again.

She harrumphed. “I’m angry, that’s what I am! It was bad of you, Elderidge! Very,
very
bad!”

He had no idea what she meant, or whether she even knew. He escorted her to the buggy and handed her up. “You take me! I have a few things to say to you, you jackanapes!”

Jack might have declined if he hadn’t been so curious. And if he knew she was only angry and not gone completely mad. He climbed up and took the reins, slapping them lightly as he clicked his tongue. They were off down the moonlit, graveled drive to the dowager house.

“I’m sure I don’t know what’s upset you so, ma’am, but it can’t be good for your heart. We’ll send for your physician as soon as we get you home,” he declared.

“Look at me!” She met his gaze and studied him for a moment in the flickering light of the carriage lamps. “You don’t know?”

“Know
what?
” he insisted, his patience waned to nearly nothing.

She looked away and exhaled a gust of frustration. “Send for the midwife instead then,” she suggested in a snide voice. “If you don’t know what I’m speaking of...”

“I have no way to know if you won’t tell me!”

“Was this ruse of yours to punish me further? Something you and Hobson arranged? Tell me the truth!”

“Ma’am, I’m at a loss here, and that’s a fact. You must explain yourself or let go this questioning.”

She exhaled again in that noisy way she had. “We’ll get the midwife to come then. You’ll need her word because I know you won’t accept mine.”

“Midwife?” Was this some woman’s malady that had driven her barmy of a sudden?

“She’ll confirm what I tell you,” the dowager declared emphatically.

“What will you tell me then that I won’t credit?” Jack demanded, his patience at a definite end.

“That the woman you claim is my husband’s daughter is no such thing! She is an
imposter!
”

Jack could only shake his head. This woman must glory in stirring up trouble. “Interesting that you chose tonight to inform me of it. Was that your sole purpose in joining our party or was it just an afterthought to spoil it once you got there?”

“No, I had no idea until I saw her back,” she stated emphatically. “You will see what I mean. Find the midwife. She will tell you that the infant born to that lowborn hussy and my husband possessed a very large port-wine stain. I saw your wife’s clear-skinned, unmarked back tonight for the first time since I met her. If you truly are in the dark about this, then she has fooled both of us, Elderidge.”

“Birth spots fade,” Jack declared.

“Not one that is raised and dark purple in color,” she retorted. “No one knew of the devil’s mark except my husband, the midwife, the child’s nurse and myself.”

Jack sensed a conspiracy against Laurel. “So you and this midwife have discussed the matter and decided to come forth with the news?”

“Of course not! I told you I only realized the deception tonight when your wife wore that revealing gown and had her back to me. As for discussing it, I have not seen the midwife for nineteen years, soon after the child was born. We can only hope the woman’s still alive, lucid and residing where she did before.”

“Nineteen years? My wife is nearly twenty-three!”

“Further proof,” Lady Portia declared with a succinct nod.

“Where would we find this woman?” Jack asked, determined to put this lie to rest before he returned home.

“She used to live in the cottage just north of the vicarage. I have had no reason to keep up with the doings of the villagers. If she’s no longer there, we shall ask the vicar.”

Jack didn’t reply. He simply drove past the dowager house, straight to the village of Elderidge Close. He thought perhaps the lady would protest, but she remained silent, lips prim and hands clasped in her lap.

“Say nothing,” Jack ordered as he stopped in front of the midwife’s house. He got down, rounded the trap and lifted Lady Portia from the seat.

Light emanated from the front window. Jack strode up the walkway and rapped on the door. “What is her name?” he asked Portia.

“I haven’t the faintest idea, nor do I care,” she replied.

A stout woman who looked to be around seventy years of age opened the door. “Who’s needin’? she demanded.

“I am Elderidge,” Jack stated. “May we come in?”

She backed into the room, a question in her rheumy blue eyes.

There was nowhere for all of them to sit, nor did he want to. This was best kept as brief and to the point as possible.

“Tell me of the child born to Lord Elderidge and his first wife,” Jack demanded.

“I brought her, a healthy babe,” the midwife said with a lift of her chin.

“When? Be exact, for I can easily disprove it if you lie.”

“No call to lie about it, sir. It’s in the church records.” Gray head cocked to one side, she thought for a moment. “Back in ninety-nine, it was. November. My last birthin’ of the century, as I recall.”

“Describe the child. In detail if you please. Any unusual thing you remember.”

“Was told not to,” she replied. “Not ever. Gave my word and was paid.”

“You will tell me now if you wish to remain in this village,” Jack warned. Expulsion was the only thing he thought she might consider a threat.

She inhaled and crossed her flabby arms over her ample chest. “Well now, she had a head full of red hair like her ma.”

“Other than that,” Jack prompted.

The woman’s lips quirked to one side. “Well, she were mighty large and well formed for only six months in the womb. A hefty one for certain.”

“What
else?
” Jack demanded, giving her his most intimidating glare.

The midwife paused and frowned down at the floor as if coming to a hard decision. “She were marked if that’s what you’re wanting to know. A purple stain, large as the babe’s hand.”

“Where?” Jack asked, feeling ice pool in the pit of his stomach. Could this be true?

“Middle of the back, just below her neck. Shape of it a mite like a hand, it was.” Now that she had given up what she’d sworn to keep secret, she became loquacious. “His lordship said none was to know of it. Shamed, he was, and rightly so!” She looked at Lady Portia. “You seen it, ma’am?”

Portia nodded.

Jack turned and left, unwilling to hear any more about this until he’d had time to think what the implications were.

They rode in silence to the dowager’s house. He helped her down, escorted her to her door and pushed it open for her. She stood on the threshold, limned by the lamplight from within.

Jack asked, “How is it you saw the mark? You were not there for the birth, surely.”

“No. Elderidge and I were married three months later. He expected me to bring her up, so he had to include me in their secret. He had kept the child hidden from view so she was never christened.”

“Because of a birthmark no one could see if she were clothed?”

Portia shook her head. “Not entirely. Because his family and friends were appalled by his first marriage and avoiding him. Because he feared someone would remark on the size of a baby that was supposed to be premature, but was obviously full-term.”

When Jack said nothing, she added, “The disfigurement bothered him the most, however. He felt it was the mark of sins he had committed with the mother.” She had the grace to look ashamed. “I confess I used his superstitious nature to convince him to send her to the nuns and have nothing more to do with her.”

“You had no compassion for that motherless child,” he said, disgusted by her act of unkindness.

“Unforgivable, I know. But even as a babe, she was the image of her mother. I wanted, needed, Elderidge to forget them both. Of course I know now, and felt even then, how wrong it was to punish the child.”

“The child had a name, Lady Portia. You cannot bring yourself to use it, can you?”

The woman dropped her chin to her chest. “No, Elderidge, the poor mite was given no name, not an official one that is. The nurse called her Pippin, I think. Everyone else simply referred to her as The Child when they spoke of her at all.”

Jack stared at her for a long moment, wondering if her regret was sincere or only for his benefit. “I see. Not a word about this to anyone, do you hear?”

“Wait!” she said, grabbing his arm. “One thing you must tell me when you find out.”

Jack waited for it, knowing it would be precisely what he was thinking himself.

She looked toward the mansion and back at Jack. “We must learn what happened to the child I had sent away, the real heiress to Elderidge’s fortune.”

He left her standing in the open doorway and walked woodenly back to the trap. How was he to return to the house and his guests and act normally? Who was he to turn to in order to find the truth? Hobson, of course. Hobson must have been a party to the deception, if indeed there had been a switch in children.

And there must have been. Laurel was not a nineteen-year-old girl. She said she was almost twenty-three. If the earl’s child had died and the nuns had substituted another in order to keep receiving the support funds, surely they would have chosen one of the same age in the event someone should visit her in those first few years. Foundlings were not that hard to come by.