Wicked Earl Seeks Proper Heiress (6 page)

The sharp knock on the door made her jump, and then grimace with pain. “Come in,” she called, thinking it was the maid with her washing water and morning tea.

Instead Beth poked her head around the door, still wearing her lacy nightcap that always made Averil smile. “My dear, are you awake?” Then, seeing Hercules seated, panting on the rug by the window, “What are you doing in here, you beast? Go on, out. Out!”

Offended, Hercules removed himself in dignified silence.

Beth came into the bedchamber and closed the door. She was frowning, and there was something about the expression in her eyes that caused Averil to grow wary.

“That man of Doctor Simmons’s is at the door, Averil. Jackson. He says you owe him money.”

Averil’s mouth dropped open. “H-he what?”

Beth nodded, moving closer, and her gaze slid over Averil’s underclothing and messy hair, moving to the pile of clothing and the muddy boots lying on the floor by the bed. “He tells me he took you to a place called The Tin Soldier last night to find out about your sister, and then you vanished before he could bring you home. You also neglected to pay him.”

“You haven’t given him any money, have you?” Averil blurted out. “I
did
pay him. And he abandoned me for Lord South . . . that is, he left me there and I had to find my own way home.”

“Lord who? And no, I did not pay him, you know I don’t trust the man. I can’t believe you went off in the night without telling me! Averil, if your father’s solicitors found out they would replace me immediately, and I wouldn’t blame them.”

Averil sighed, repentant. “I’m sorry, Beth. I knew you wouldn’t approve and I so wanted to go. Jackson isn’t nearly as bad as you think, and I was perfectly safe,” she added, aware that it was not strictly true.

She tried to maintain eye contact while she said the last part, but Beth saw through her. “You’d better tell me everything,” she said in a milder tone, and sat down on the bed.

However, when Averil was finished she wasn’t feeling so mild.

“Lord Southbrook! Averil, that man is not someone you should be associating with! Really, if anyone finds out he was here, in your bedchamber, then you will be ruined. Utterly and completely ruined! What if he tells people?”

“I don’t think he will,” Averil replied. “I think he has secrets of his own, Beth. And besides,” she added wryly, “I am the Heiress, remember? There will always be someone willing to marry me, no matter how badly I behave.”

“You do yourself a disservice, Averil. You are beautiful and kind, and . . . well the money is a secondary incentive. As for Lord Southbrook . . . he might have been a gentleman once, and I admit his breeding is of the best, but all that means nothing when he is no longer received by society.”

“I suppose not,” Averil said, and tried not to sound disappointed. For all his dangerous reputation and appearance, she had found something refreshingly honest about the wicked Earl of Southbrook.

Anxiously Beth inspected the young woman’s knee, clicking her tongue. “I will send at once for the doctor. What if you are lame for the rest of your life, Averil? What if you never dance again? I know how much you enjoy dancing.”

Averil’s eyes stung with tears. “What if my sister . . . what if Rose is worse than lame, Beth? What if she is dead? I don’t think I could bear it.”

Beth gave her a hug. “My dear child, you don’t know she is dead. This place, St. Thomas’s? We will go there and ask some questions, and this time we will go in the daytime.”

“Yes, Beth.”

“Good.”

“What about Jackson? I must speak to him.” Averil’s eyes narrowed as she contemplated the dressing-down she was going to give the man.

Beth eyed her disheveled appearance and shook her head. “No, I’ll do that. Leave it to me. First Jackson and then I’ll send for the doctor.”

One more hug, and Beth went out with purpose.

Unfortunately Jackson had gone so there was no dressing-down done. By the time the doctor had come and examined Averil’s knee, and declared it badly sprained but nothing that a rest and the use of a cane wouldn’t cure, the day was half over.

“Next week you have the champagne supper at Baroness Sessington’s,” Beth reminded her. “Do you think you can still attend?”

“Of course. Gareth needs me there to help persuade the guests to donate their money to his cause. I can’t let him down.”

She also didn’t want to let down the Home for Distressed Women, which she passionately believed in. Not just for the sake of her mother, who had died so tragically, but for all the poor and unfortunate women she had met in her search for her sister.

Beth fussed around her, making sure her knee was raised up on cushions on the sofa where she lay.

“I so wanted to go to St. Thomas’s, Beth,” she said wistfully.

“Write a letter to the superintendent. I will see it is taken at once,” Beth offered. “At least then you’ll know if they are aware of your sister.”

It was the only course of action available to her. Averil wrote a carefully worded letter and Beth sent if off with one of the servants.

What if the superintendent knew where Rose had gone, or even if she was still there? But no, that wasn’t possible. Rose must be eighteen and she would have left the orphanage by now, perhaps found work as a maid or a companion. Perhaps she was married and happy somewhere.

Averil closed her eyes and hoped very much that was the case.

T
he champagne supper fund-raiser was held at Baroness Sessington’s house in Bloomsbury. The baroness was an enthusiastic supporter, sometimes rather too enthusiastic for Averil’s tastes, but she couldn’t say so. Dr. Gareth Simmons frowned upon those who spoke ill of his patroness—come to think of it, there were a great many things Gareth frowned upon.

Despite her injured knee, Averil had been determined to attend and do her bit. Besides, the knee wasn’t so bad anymore, and she had her ebony cane to lean upon. Looking about her, Averil was pleased to note that so far their guests included a duke, a marquis, and four honorables. Surreptitiously she patted her fashionable curls, which were caught up on her crown with a wreath of waxed flowers, checking to see if they were still in place. Her hair did not curl as prettily as other girls’ hair; its weight eventually caused all its manufactured curls to fall out. By the end of the evening it was always hanging as depressingly straight as a horse’s tail.

Gareth was greeting some late arrivals, his caramel-colored hair brushed neatly forward over his brow.

To hide his receding hairline?

Averil smiled fondly. Gareth was a little vain sometimes when it came to his appearance. Not quite the unworldly saint he liked to portray himself as.

Someone else was watching Gareth.

Averil’s gaze crossed with that of Baroness Sessington, who was standing by the supper table. Knowing that Gareth would not like to see his patroness being neglected, she hurried to join the other woman before he could notice.

The baroness was prone to simpering, and Averil found her mannerisms and giggles sometimes difficult to bear, but she was Gareth’s patroness and so she did her best.

“We are serving a very good quality champagne,” the baroness pronounced, lifting her eyeglass to ogle the bottles. “Not French, but I’m certain half of the guests won’t know the difference.”

Averil forced a smile. She did try to like the baroness, really she did. For Gareth’s sake.

He was currently a guest in her house in Bloomsbury, and as for those who whispered that for a single gentleman to be living in the baroness’s home was most unseemly, well Averil didn’t believe for a moment that there was anything untoward about it. Gareth was not a wealthy man and his practice as a doctor was not well-paid. He treated the poor for what they could afford to pay—which was nothing usually. And besides, the baroness was sixty. At least!

Averil’s thoughts had been drifting, but luckily Gareth arrived at that moment and took the baroness’s arm, leading her away toward the crystal glasses and the champagne.

With a sigh, Averil hobbled across to share the chatter around the supper table, heavy with silver trays of food, and heard her stomach rumble discreetly as the strawberry-adorned cream cake was cut. Averil took a small slice, telling herself she deserved it, and tried not to think about her generous curves.

I find your proportions exactly to my taste.

The earl of Southbrook’s deep, velvety tones echoed in her head. She felt her cheeks warm at the memory. She’d thought of the earl a great deal since their encounter at The Tin Soldier. A great deal too often, if she were honest. He might be someone who lived on the fringes of society, he might be considered dangerous and wicked, but there was something about him that struck a chord with her. Perhaps it was that she, too, had a past, a shadowy secret that she kept to herself. Averil knew that she, too, could easily have become a person cast out of society because of her mother’s behavior.

What had the earl done to earn such condemnation? What was his secret crime? Or was he, like her, simply suffering from the ill-conceived behavior of some member of his family?

The string quartet began to play again and Gareth was back at her side.

“You do look very well tonight,” he said, and for the first time his gaze took in her rose silk dress with its daringly low neckline. “Although perhaps something a trifle more modest next time?”

“Gareth, you told me to wear this! You said that when General Bunnington saw me he would be sure to give a generous donation.”

Gareth appeared perplexed, a man with a great deal on his mind. “Did I? General Bunnington does give generously whenever you are at one of my evenings, Averil, but surely I did not suggest you dress immodestly?”

Immodestly!
“You are very forgetful, Gareth,” she said sharply.

The members of the string quartet took their bows and began another piece. The music drifted pleasantly over the gathering and Averil let her thoughts drift with it. There was no word back from St. Thomas’s orphanage yet and she was keen to pay a visit as soon as possible. Tomorrow, perhaps, if she could persuade Beth. Now that her knee was getting better surely her companion would have no objection? Averil knew it wasn’t rational—after all it had been fifteen years since she’d seen her sister—but she felt as if there wasn’t a moment to lose. She’d planned to meet with Jackson at the Home for Distressed Women—he worked there for Gareth, although exactly what he did Averil wasn’t sure—but lately she hadn’t been able to visit there either because of her knee.

At her side, Gareth interrupted her fretful thoughts. “Averil, are you listening to me? Lady Jane Viney hasn’t arrived.” He was casting anxious looks over the crowd. “She promised faithfully. And what about Mrs. Mulgrave? I know for a fact she is in town this week. That is two guests who haven’t turned up. Two donations we desperately need.”

“Three,” said Averil automatically.

“Three? Who else . . . oh, the Earl of Southbrook!”

Averil started and stared at him with wide gray eyes. “What do you mean? Sir Stephen was the third guest. The earl isn’t invited!”

“Now there you’re wrong. He wrote asking if he could be of assistance and I sent him an invitation. I hadn’t thought the earl the sort to be interested in charitable works but one never knows. Besides it was too good an opportunity to miss.”

Averil wasn’t listening. She was feeling curiously light-headed. Lord Southbrook was coming here? Why? It made no sense. As Gareth said, he had never shown an inclination for charitable works. And despite her memories of their encounter, memories she liked to relive in the privacy of her room, she wasn’t sure if she ever wanted to see him again, not in the flesh.

Liar,
whispered a voice in her head.
Seeing him in the flesh is all you think about.

“Does the baroness know?” she asked, slightly breathless. “His reputation, Gareth . . . she won’t be pleased, and neither will your guests.”

Gareth’s face took on a mulish expression. “I do not judge people by their reputations, Averil. If the earl wants to come here and help us then I will welcome him with open arms.”

And he would, too, she thought darkly.

Could this be all her fault? When she’d told her friends at Miss Debenham’s that she was going to marry the earl, had the words been ill-omened? By saying them aloud had she invited some dreadful calamity into her calm, quiet life? Well, certainly a little more excitement than she was used to. And surely that was no bad thing?

For a moment she saw again his dark, piercing gaze and scarred face, as he carried her upstairs to her bedchamber. The Earl of Southbrook in her bedchamber! Well, his son, Eustace, had been there, too.

“How did . . . his face . . . how did . . .?”

Gareth got the gist of her clumsy question. “The scar, do you mean? No one knows. He never speaks of it.”

“I thought perhaps a duel or . . .” She stopped herself before she repeated any more of her friends’ silly explanations of the earl’s injury.

“A duel?” Gareth smiled and shook his head at her. “Dear me, what a very romantic view you have of the world, Averil.”

Stung, Averil’s retort was louder than she meant. “I am the least romantic person I know!”

Just then a hush fell over the drawing room.

She followed the turning heads.

“Southbrook! Southbrook . . .” the whispers went around the room. Because there in the doorway stood the dramatic figure of the earl. He seemed to fill the space with his broad shoulders in a dark, tailored jacket over a white silk shirt and a waistcoat of teal blue.

Oh, he was devilishly attractive. There was no doubt about that. The earl of Southbrook would turn heads in any crowd.

But the guests in Averil’s drawing room weren’t staring just because he was striking. They were staring because the earl had not bothered himself with polite society for years, since some scandal—and Averil wouldn’t mind knowing what it was—had barred him from its doors. Some of them, Averil was certain, would have refused Gareth’s invitation if they’d known the earl was coming tonight.