Wicked Earl Seeks Proper Heiress (8 page)

Rufus had also begun to take an interest in his title and his estate, in being a good landlord, in repairing some of the mess his father and
his
father had left behind. No one had really taken an interest in Southbrook Castle for years, and Rufus decided that he would be the member of the family to turn things around. The reforming earl, that was what he would be known as.

And then fate had come along and, as if to mock at his honorable pretensions, lumbered him with a debt that was likely to crush them all.

Unless the Heiress agreed to marry him.

He shook his head. Averil, not the Heiress. This was a real woman, a beautiful woman, who looked directly into his eyes as if she wasn’t in the least afraid of him. She should be, he knew she should be, and he should warn her away. Or better still, take himself off somewhere and never cross paths with her again.

But he already knew he wouldn’t. He was enjoying being in her company as he hadn’t enjoyed a woman’s company for years. Was it because she had her own secret past that he felt a connection with her? James had told him about Averil’s mother, who’d bolted with a lover and left her daughter behind, and then given birth to another girl and promptly died. Of course, Lord Martindale had managed to avoid scandal by cutting all ties with his wife, and Averil was therefore considered a perfectly respectable member of society.

Unlike him.

He admitted to himself that the idea of finding the sister, of doing what he once did so well, appealed to him. It would certainly take his mind off his troubles, but it was more than that. Rufus always enjoyed his work with The Guardians and was sorry when it ended, although at the time he knew he had had enough of political shenanigans. That was the thing when you were working for the government, somehow politics always reared its head, and he’d found himself on assignments where he didn’t consider his true talents were being used.

Perhaps they could be friends?

Rufus gave a loud crack of laughter. He wasn’t after friendship. He was planning to cold-bloodedly use her secret sister to worm his way into her life, into her heart, and then pounce. He was worse than anything anyone said about him, a creature to be reviled, but it was too late now. He couldn’t go back. Southbrook Castle was depending on him, and Eustace and James, too. They would lose their home. He couldn’t go back.

One way or another Rufus had set his sights on marrying Averil.

A
veril wrapped her shawl about her nightgown and made her way a little reluctantly to bed. She had so much to think about and she knew she wouldn’t sleep while these questions were running around in her head.

“Averil? Are you asleep?” Beth, in her lacy nightcap, peered around the door.

“Far from it,” Averil sighed.

Averil smiled as Beth sat next to her on the bed and made herself comfortable. Beth, as well as a friend and companion, had come to take the place of her mother. She had only very vague memories of Anastasia. A scent that was perhaps a little too exotic, a warm embrace that was perhaps a little too tight, a smile that was perhaps a little too bright.

Instead it had been to Beth’s arms she ran on those stormy nights when the lightning flashed outside and she woke, terrified. She’d always been afraid of storms, as long as she could remember. Had there been a storm on the night her mother ran off with her lover? She would never know now; there was no one left to ask. The one time her father had spoken to her about the matter, his voice stiff with repressed emotion, he had not mentioned a storm.

“What happened? Was it not a pleasant evening?” Beth was eager to hear about the baroness’s supper.

“It was pleasant enough.” Averil wondered whether Gareth had received as many pledges as he’d hoped for, after the earl arrived. Many of the guests left in haste and others did not seem very happy. All the more reason, she supposed, to make sure that the earl gave them a nice sum tomorrow.

“And yet something is worrying you.”

She didn’t want to mention the earl to Beth, but she knew that her cousin would. “The earl of Southbrook was there. Gareth invited him.”

Beth goggled at her.

“He wants to be shown over the Home for Distressed Women tomorrow and plans to make a generous donation.”

“The man is not seen in polite society for years and now suddenly here he is, after bringing you home the other night, turning up at Doctor Simmons’s champagne supper. Averil, I don’t like coincidences. I hate to remind you yet again, but one day soon you will be a very wealthy young woman.”

Averil was startled into a laugh. “You think the earl wants me for my money? I think you’re doing him a disservice. He tells me he’s using me as a distraction.”

Beth’s other eyebrow went up. “So you do not feel he is making up to you, Averil? He’s not giving you lovelorn looks?”

Averil couldn’t help laughing again at the very thought. “He says he used me to warn his son against going out at night in London. A sort of cautionary tale.”

Beth pursed her lips. “I agree, it doesn’t sound as if he’s fixed his attentions on you. But be careful, my dear. He has a reputation.”

“Beth . . . what happened to him? Why is he no longer invited into society? Why is he so wicked?”

Beth looked uncomfortable. “Something about his wife, I think, and the manner of their marriage. And then when she died there were questions asked. I’m sorry but I don’t know the details, Averil. The earl has never been a leading light in London society. I did hear he worked for the government for a time, very hush-hush.”

The earl had mentioned something about that, and that he was very good at finding missing people. So it was true then? He might well be able to find Rose. Averil felt a surge of excitement. Perhaps at last she was on the verge of discovering what had happened to her sister.

Beth maneuvered the conversation on to some of the other guests and Averil mentioned the baroness.

“Horrible woman, I don’t know why Doctor Simmons cozies up to her as he does,” Beth said.

“Cozies up to her?” Averil repeated. “You make it sound as if he and she . . . as if . . .” Her eyes grew big.

Beth’s gaze avoided hers. “There has been a great deal of gossip, my dear.”

“But she is so old!”

“You will find, Averil, that necessity makes strange bedfellows.” She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, now I’ve made it worse, haven’t I? Tell me about General Bunnington instead.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong,” Averil said primly, before doing as she asked.

When Beth had gone to bed, Averil lay thinking in the darkness, going over matters in her head. Beth was worried that the earl would ruin her reputation and that he was after her fortune, that he was using her, but Averil rather thought the shoe was on the other foot. She was in no danger from Lord Southbrook. It was she who was using him, to help her find Rose, and she was willing to risk a great deal to achieve her aim.

B
eth couldn’t sleep either.

She was very much aware that Averil found the earl of Southbrook exciting. He was unlike anyone else of her acquaintance, and quite how quickly he had inveigled his way into her life, Beth found unnerving to say the least. She hadn’t told Averil everything about the earl’s scandalous past. She didn’t know everything, but she knew enough. He had run off with a woman far beneath him in status, but not before he had gotten her with child. Then she’d died in circumstances that were, if not suspicious, then certainly odd.

Had the earl, wishing his wife dead, gone one step further?

Elizabeth Harmon, known all her life as Beth, knew something of life—she was no sheltered flower. The eldest daughter of a pastor, she had several younger sisters and a mother who, while perfectly adequate at producing children, was never very interested in them afterward. Beth took on motherly duties from the age of six, and by the time she was ten years old, the nanny was dismissed and Beth found herself a full-time carer of the children.

She expected to look after her parents when her sisters left home—that was what happened to capable unmarried daughters—but she secretly dreamed that perhaps one day she’d have enough money to buy a little cottage in a little village somewhere and be herself.

Whatever “herself” was, she’d never really had the chance to find out.

Suddenly, when her youngest sister was seventeen and already engaged, their father was killed by a falling tree while riding to see a parishioner during a storm. Instead of being needed to look after aging parents, Beth found herself pushed out of the nest. Much to her surprise, her mother decided to go to live with her middle daughter, who had just given birth to twin boys and was asking for her mother’s help. Beth had no idea how her mother would be of any help, but since the family home must go to the new pastor, suddenly she was in the position of being without anyone dependent upon her and without a home.

It was the family lawyer who suggested it. A friend of his in London knew of the opening—a young girl whose father had died needed a full-time carer and nanny, and later on a companion. Beth seemed eminently suitable, and jumped at the chance to live in London. Looking after one child would be a simple matter after all of those sisters!

What she wasn’t expecting was to love that child from the moment she saw her—four-year-old Averil, with her thick blond hair and her anxious gray eyes. They had been together now for sixteen years. Averil had grown into a fine young woman, and Beth had time for herself, to visit plays and operas and museums. All in all, Beth had had a wonderful second chance at life. But just recently she’d begun to wonder once more what would become of her when Averil no longer needed her.

There was marriage, of course, and she wasn’t too old to find a nice widower somewhere. Beth knew she was no great beauty. Slight of build, with hair a mousy brown and eyes to match, she wasn’t much to look at really, and yet her sweet nature drew gentlemen to her. Beth knew that Averil would like to match her with Dr. Simmons, but she was going to have to disappoint her. Gareth Simmons did not appeal to her in the least.

The truth was, she had no desire to be anyone’s wife. The little cottage in the little village no longer held much appeal either; she knew she’d miss her busy life in London too much. Her future was a niggling concern that came to her in the middle of the night, and one she’d so far managed to dismiss. But when Averil turned twenty-one it was quite likely she would want her independence from a companion, and certainly if she were to marry then she would no longer need Beth.

In the meantime she had enough to worry about, with Lord Southbrook’s pursuit of Averil. Despite Averil’s instant rejection of the idea, that was what it looked like to her. Wrangling an invitation to the baroness’s champagne supper? Averil being thrust into his company by Gareth Simmons, who should have more sense?

Beth decided that the darkly fascinating Lord Southbrook needed to be watched. Watched very closely indeed.

B
loomsbury was asleep, and within the town house of Baroness Sessington, Gareth was making his way toward his room. He and the baroness had returned home hours ago, but he had reports to write. There was a great deal of paperwork justifying his expenditure on the Home for Distressed Women. He didn’t normally sit up till all hours with bookwork but it had occurred to him that the earl of Southbrook—or more likely his bankers—might wish to see that the home’s finances were in order.

There was also the question of Jackson. Gareth had met Jackson some years ago, when he was first trying to get his Home for Distressed Woman up and running. Jackson worked for him, off and on, performing tasks that Gareth himself was too squeamish to perform. The man went deep into the worst slums of the East End, seeking out girls in need, and often informing Gareth if they were genuine or not. So many of them were not. They wanted nothing more than to eat their heads off and then make a run for it. Jackson knew this world, he knew these women, and for his help and advice Gareth paid him a large retainer.

Not everyone would understand and it was not something he wanted appearing in the books.

As for what else Jackson did, when he wasn’t working for Gareth, he didn’t want to know. As he told himself, the man was a necessary evil and by employing him he shouldn’t feel he was doing anything wrong. Sometimes one had to get one’s hands dirty—or at least Jackson had to get
his
hands dirty—in order to sort out those who genuinely needed help from those who were quite content to loll in filth and depravity.

On the landing the clock struck the hour, making Gareth jump, and at the same time a voice called out his name.

Gareth cursed under his breath. Speaking of necessary evils! He listened again, thinking that perhaps the baroness was talking in her sleep . . .? But no, there she was again, and louder this time. This had only begun to occur lately and Gareth didn’t know quite what to do about it. He’d thought of moving out of the Bloomsbury house, but where would he go? And there was so much good work still to be done. So many women needing his help. Baroness Sessington had been so generous in her support of his projects.

With a deep sigh, Gareth turned around and headed toward his patroness’s bedchamber.

“Gareth, where are you?” the baroness called again, and Gareth could see her now, standing in the doorway to her bedchamber. With her wig askew over her sparse gray hair and her bed robe clutched to her skinny chest, she looked so much older.

He fixed a smile on his face. “I’m here,” he said brightly. “What are you doing up so late?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Shall I make you a cup of warm milk?”

She made a moue. “Very well,” she said with a hint of petulance.

Gareth smiled again and went to get the milk. She would make excuses for him to stay once he’d brought it but he would yawn and pretend he was very tired. How long could this charade go on? The woman wanted more from him than he was prepared to give and it was getting very awkward. He knew there would come a point when she would demand he climb into her bed and he would either have to say no or . . .