Yankee Earl (3 page)

      
“Why doesn't his father give him an estate to run for himself? Surely a duke has several to spare.”

      
“Heigh-ho, you've seen what a charming creature he is—would you gift him with aught before absolutely forced to do so?”

      
“You have the right of that,” Jason replied thoughtfully, feeling the future duke's eyes fasten on him with inexplicable hostility.

      
“Come, they're about to begin,” Drum said, moving through the press.

      
Jason was passing by Forrestal and his entourage when one of the duke-in-waiting's companions seized hold of his arm and said, “Wouldn't care to place a wager on Arless, would you? We have a purse-proud Cit over there who's taking all bets. Demned tradesmen don't know how to behave in the presence of their betters.”

      
Jason looked over the shorter man's head and met those disquieting yellow eyes, almost certain the future duke had put his friend up to this. “If you're wagering for Arless, I should like to place my money on his opponent. Say, one hundred pounds?”

      
Suddenly the conversation about them quieted as heads tilted in Jason's direction. Few men in the room were as tall as Beaumont, but he and Forrestal were of a height. The Englishman uncoiled his body from the wall and quite literally shoved his short, rotund companion out of the way.

      
“My, my, chaps, what have we here, hmmm?” He circled Beaumont like a shark, gliding smoothly in spite of his advanced state of inebriation. “Speaks like a foreigner.”

      
Beaumont felt Drum's cautioning hand on his arm but shrugged it off. “I was raised in America.”

      
One thin pale eyebrow arched sardonically. “Ah, you must be Cargrave's heir. The Yankee earl,” he said with a sneer.

      
Jason's patience was about at an end. “Do you take my bet or not?” he asked the short fellow, ignoring Forrestal.

      
Before his companion could reply, Forrestal purred, “Of course he will, and how about another with me? Something a bit headier…just to make it interesting. Say a monkey? That is, five hundred pounds…if you have it?”

      
“Oh, I have it. Unlike your father, my grandfather trusts me with the purse strings,” Jason replied with a wolfish grin. “Five hundred it is.” As he turned away, he was pleased to see an angry flush darken the Englishman's face. “I have the feeling that His Almost-Grace arranged for that fellow to waylay me,” he murmured to Drum.

      
“Perhaps. But Forrestal would resent any foreigner inheriting Cargrave's extensive titles. Xenophobic, don't you know?”

      
Jason chuckled. “What Englishman isn't? Arless' opponent had better be good or Grandfather will cane me for squandering six hundred pounds.”

      
“It was not politic to cross swords with Forrestal, even though he is a stiff-rumped lout,” Drum replied.

      
“I know little about politics—but I'm skilled enough with a sword.”

      
Drum harrumphed and corrected his companion. “Cutlass. Forrestal would cut you to fish bait with a foil.”

      
“Don't place any wagers on that,” Jason said softly as the exhibition began.

      
The two combatants were evenly matched, both highly skilled with foils, but Arless' foe began to steadily outpoint him. By the time the contest was over, sterling flasks of spirits were being upended all around the room in celebration or consolation.

      
“It would be wise to send a servant to collect your winnings on the morrow,” Drum advised.

      
“Recall, I'm not a politic fellow.”

      
Sighing, Drum followed his impetuous American charge. He did not like the glint in Forrestal's eyes when they alighted on Beaumont.
What the deuce put the bee in his britches over Jason?

      
“Ah, the Yankee earl come to collect his winnings,” Forrestal slurred, taking a long pull from a pocket flask embossed with his family crest. “Just like the rest of the tradesmen…crass moneygrubbers, the lot of you. But I forget myself. After all, you're to be excused, being raised in a land without nobility.”

      
"There are many definitions of nobility, sir. In America, one of those is a man who pays his debts without whimper."

      
Several of the Englishman's companions shuffled nervously, exchanging whispers behind their hands. Forrestal made a swift, cutting gesture with his arm and all fell silent. “Do you intimate that I would default on a debt of honor?” he purred to Beaumont.

      
Jason simply held out his open palm. Unsmiling, he said, “Do you whimper? Pay me.”

      
“I shall repay you, sirrah!” With that Forrestal raised his arm and delivered a resounding slap to Beaumont's cheek.

      
“As the challenged, my friend, you have the choice of weapons. I, of course, shall stand your second,” Drum said smoothly to Jason, then turned and handed Forrestal his card. “I shall discuss the particulars of this matter with your man on the morrow. Have him call at my residence. And please be civilized…no earlier than twelve.”

* * * *

      
Rachel had only been in London two days and already had heard more than enough about that American upstart Jason Beaumont. The maids at her father's city house sighed about how handsome he was, the footmen gossiped about his exploits among the demimonde, and even the dour cook chuckled about his wild colonial antics as if he were her own special charge.

      
Worst of all, Rachel's younger sister Harriet, now Baroness Widmere, insisted on reading aloud from the scandal sheets in which he was featured. A man as exotic as the Yankee earl, for that was what the broadsides had dubbed him, sent the baroness into fits of sighing. Although her baron was a pleasant enough young chap, he was very staid and deadly dull. Being timid herself, Harriet had chosen him for precisely that reason, but she loved to dream about dashing princes riding off with fair maidens.

      
Wed when she was but seventeen after a Season when no less than five young bucks offered for her, Harry was a pretty, plump little blonde, resembling their mother, who had been delicate and flighty in the same way. Rachel took after their maternal grandfather, a big, bluff man who spent his life working the land. If given her way, she would have done the same; but here she was in London, awaiting that accursed ball tomorrow night.

      
Her sister gushed breathlessly, “Can you imagine it, Rachel—they say he has lived with Red Indians in America.”

      
“Oh, I can well imagine it,” Rachel replied tartly.

      
“I wonder, are all Americans so impetuous? He's cut quite a swath in the card rooms and gaming hells. Also…ah, I should not mention it with you still unwed, of course…”

      
When Harriet's round little face pinkened, Rachel sighed and replied as her sister had hoped she would, “But of course you will tell me anyway, won't you, Harry? I do understand country matters, after all.”

      
“Well, you should never admit
that
,” Harry admonished. For a moment it appeared as though she were the elder, but her giggle quickly dispelled the notion as she warmed to her subject once more. “His reputation with the Cyprians is become legendary, and there have been rumors regarding a liaison with the Marchioness of Shrewsbury. He's only been here a fortnight, and already the ton is quite agog with his exploits. Imagine challenging Forrestal!”

      
“If you read correctly from the broadsheets, my dear, 'twas Forrestal who issued the challenge,” Rachel replied dryly, pretending interest in the array of ball gowns spread across the bed.

      
“Oh, bother the silly rules. The thing is that Falconridge was ever so brave. Forrestal has quite the reputation with foils,” she added worriedly, chewing on her plump lower lip. “He might have killed the earl.”

      
“So much the better,” Rachel replied.
It would certainly have solved one problem.

      
“Never say it!” Harry cried. “I thought you could not abide Forrestal. And the earl did make quite a cake of him. 'Tis rumored he studied under some French fencing master in America.”

      
The thought of the American slicing the shirt and pants from Forrestal's body was gratifying, even if he was only a shade less detestable than Etherington's heir. Rachel could not resist a small smirk.

      
Harry tittered. “I would love to have seen him with his clothing in tatters, holding up his unmentionables with one hand while trying to wield a blade with the other.” At that picture, both women burst into laughter, and it seemed for a moment that they were girls at home in the country once more.

      
Then Rachel sobered. “The Yankee has made a deadly enemy. He'd best watch his back. The next Duke of Etherington will never forgive such a humiliation.”

      
“You could have been a duchess,” Harry said slyly, moving across the room to consider the ball gowns on the bed.

      
Rachel shuddered. “And have to take Frederick Forrestal in the bargain? Let us not discuss men any further, Harry.”

      
“As the eldest, 'tis your duty—”

      
“Bugger my duty,” Rachel blurted out. “Oh, I am sorry, Harry. I did not mean to take out my frustrations on you.”

      
“Best not let Father hear such language, m'dear,” her prim younger sister said in a hushed voice. For all her addlepatedness, Harry genuinely loved Rachel and wanted her to be happy. For any proper English lady, that meant a husband. “You've been spending too much time in stables and not enough in ballrooms,” she scolded.

      
That has always been my choice, Harry. I want nothing more than to spend my life at Harleigh Hall, to raise livestock and crops.”

      
“Tis most unnatural, Rachel, which is why Father has done what he did. Although I may never forgive him his methods of handling things. Imagine, not informing me until the day you arrived! The whole of it has been much too sudden, and I worry about all the secrecy! What will our friends say? Why, the Dowager Duchess of Chitchester shall positively swoon with shock.”

      
Seeing that her sister was working herself into a fine taking, Rachel diverted her with the one foolproof method she knew. “No remedy for any of that, Harry, but I require your help now. Which of these gowns should I wear?”

      
“Well, you simply must look your best; that is for certain. Father—”

      
“I know what is going to happen,” Rachel said in grim resignation. “Now, let us dispense with further discussion of it and select the gown I shall wear to the guillotine.”

* * * *

      
The music of a twelve-piece orchestra lilted from inside the Cargrave city house. Outside, the press was quite magnificent with carriages queued up for blocks in either direction, each disgorging its elegantly attired passengers by turns. Footmen in Cargrave livery directed the flow of vehicles and assisted guests up the flower-strewn front stairs, where they were announced as they entered the ballroom.

      
Lords and ladies sparkled as brilliantly as the crystal chandeliers hanging from the arched ceiling. A rainbow of color and the babel of conversation filled the room. Gentlemen with stiffly starched cravats bowed over bejeweled ladies in softly clinging gowns of silk and mull. Flowers overflowed huge Meissen vases, blending their heady perfume with that worn by both men and women.

      
No one who was anyone would fail to attend when George William Beaumont, ninth Marquess of Cargrave, gave one of his exceedingly infrequent and always lavish festivities. Even the Prince Regent had promised to put in an appearance later in the evening. Rumors abounded regarding what had occasioned the gala, since the Season was almost over.

      
To add to the titillation, Viscount Harleigh's eldest daughter—who most considered already on the shelf—was to be in attendance. That alone was occasion for gossip. Rachel had always avoided socializing with the upper ten thousand, even going so far as to cut short her one Season and return to the country, leaving her father furious and several would-be suitors nursing wounded egos. She had returned for her younger sisters' Seasons. Both Sophie and Harriett had wed advantageously; and in short order Rachel hied herself back to Harleigh Hall, where it was rumored that she rode about the countryside like a hellion and grubbed in the dirt like one of her father's tenant farmers.

      
She made men nervous. No doubt about it. In spite of her striking looks, Harleigh's eldest was possessed of too much stature, too little decorum and far too cutting a wit. She looked men straight in the eye and said precisely what she thought. It simply was not the done thing for a young lady of Quality. These were traits more appropriate to the wild Cargrave heir, whom the scandal sheets were calling the Yankee earl. Was it not positively delicious that he was to be in attendance as well?