Yankee Earl (8 page)

      
Jason shook his head in weary amazement. “I will never get used to the way you English speak of marriages as alliances or arrangements. Sounds rather like politics or high finance to me.”

      
“Or war,” Drum replied with a chuckle.

* * * *

      
The scandal sheets went wild the following morning with reports of the debacle at Cargrave's ball. By that night there was scarcely a soul in all of London who had not heard about the betrothal and Rachel Fairchild's reaction to it. Not that her prospective husband had appeared much happier when he strode from the room. And was it not most intriguing that earlier they had danced together with seemingly perfect civility four times? After all, if a lady allowed a gentleman to partner her more than twice during the course of an evening, gossip always ensued if they were not betrothed. Would she defy her father's wishes and reject the Yankee earl?

      
Inside their private coach en route to Harleigh Hall the following morning, Rachel's sister Harry was determined to have an answer to that very question. “You have not said more than three words since we departed, Rachel. We simply must talk, sister to sister.”

      
“I do not feel like making idle conversation,” Rachel replied dismissively.

      
“How could you do such a despicable thing to the earl? To Father and the marquess as well! Why, poor Papa was pale as milk. 'Tis a wonder he did not collapse in a fit of apoplexy after the hoydenish display you put on at your own betrothal. Whatever could Falconridge have said to so overset you?”

      
“As I told you this morning when you arrived, I will not discuss the earl.”

      
The mulish tilt of Rachel's chin indicated all too well to Harry that she would gain no further satisfaction from her sister for the time being. However, like their father, the baroness was infinitely patient and doggedly determined. “I rather thought he was handsome...in that bold, reckless manner American men seem to possess.”

      
Rachel snorted. “And how many American men have you in your acquaintance?”

      
“Well, I have heard stories…”

      
“You've read the scandal sheets, most especially the adventures of the infamous Yankee earl. Give over, Harry. I do not wish to dwell on him.”

      
“But you
must
many him, Rachel. Better to talk about any…difficulties you foresee now.” Harry's cheeks pinkened, and she fidgeted nervously with the drawstrings of her bonnet as she worked up courage to ask, “Did he whisper something…suggestive to you before you threw the champagne at him? I mean, I could understand your behavior if he was licentious or attempted to treat you like one of the demimonde.”

      
As she warmed to her topic, Harry's self-consciousness gave way to self-righteousness. “If you would but explain to Papa, I am certain he would be willing to cry off the arrangement.”

      
Rachel gritted her teeth and sighed for patience as her sister chattered on inanely. Once Harry's mind took hold of an idea—no matter how unlikely—she held to it with the tenacity of a pit dog and jumped to conclusions with the speed of a cutpurse outrunning a charley. Interrupting her disquisition regarding her friend Lady Julia's misalliance with an Italian count, Rachel finally said, “It would signify nothing if Father broke the betrothal with Falconridge. He would only find another candidate.”

      
Harry babbled on about several most suitable men in her husband's acquaintance, but Rachel only pretended to listen. Her thoughts turned instead to what she would do after Jason Beaumont was gone.
And he
will
be gone.
The thought elicited a most unexpected feeling of…discomfort. Pushing that aside, she considered her essential problem. She must get herself off the marriage mart permanently.

* * * *

      
Jason watched Fox stroke Araby's neck and croon to the big black in Shawnee as the marquess approached them, smiling fondly. They had all journeyed to Falconridge the morning after the ball so that Fox and Jason would have time for a brief visit. Jason also knew that the Fairchilds were expected to arrive at Harleigh Hall in a day or two, which would give him and Rachel time to mend the rift before any further social events. At least, that was the crafty old marquess' plan.

      
Well you should be pleased, Grandfather. You think everything is going your way.
“Good morning,” Jason called out to the old man. “Fox and I were just out for a ride…along with Mace and Bradley,” he added with the appropriate frown. The old man was keeping a close watch on the boy.

      
“Oh, Grandfather, Araby is as splendid as Little Chief. We jumped seven stone fences just as if we were flying,” Fox said excitedly.

      
Placing a hand proprietarily on the lad's shoulder, Cargrave nodded, eyeing Jason as he said, “Fox, we're off to Cargrave Hall shortly. Go with your tutors now and prepare to depart. You may bid Jason farewell at the coach.” At the boy's crestfallen look, the old man added, “Your foster brother has work to do here at Falconridge; but after he and Miss Fairchild are wed, you shall come to visit as often as you like.”

      
Fox turned to Jason. “It won't be long until then, will it?” he asked hopefully.

      
“Why is it I suspect that you're more interested in seeing Rachel than me, hmmm?” he said, ruffling the boy's thick black hair. “And, no, it won't be long until we're together again. Go along now. I'll be at the coach to say goodbye.”

      
Jason and the marquess watched the boy attempt to match his strides to those of his two “tutors” as they herded him toward the manor house.

      
Falconridge, unlike Cargrave Hall, was not a vast granite monstrosity. Jason had always disliked the pretension of the marquess' seat, but his own was quite different. Built of lime-plastered sandstone and timber, it sprawled across a pretty glade in the midst of rolling woodlands. Because additions had been made to it helter-skelter since the seventeenth century, it was eclectic in style, with many large windows overlooking the verdant countryside.

      
“You seem to be dealing well here,” Cargrave said. “I knew you'd like this, since it more nearly resembles what you were used to back in Maryland.”

      
"There are similarities," Jason replied grudgingly, "but I was not responsible for the daily running of the plantation."

      
“And so you shall not be for Falconridge, either. Use that much vaunted Yankee business sense to select a reliable man of affairs to handle the estate. Remember, one day you shall have not only this place but Cargrave, Chatfield, Montrose and, of course, Harleigh.”

      
“If my countess does not cry off,” Jason replied, testing the waters.

      
The marquess waved that possibility aside, chuckling. “She does have a bit of a temper, I grant you. Best not to arm her with champagne at the wedding breakfast.”

      
“I suspect I should be more concerned about her bashing in my brains with a fireplace poker on the wedding night than about a splash of wine in my eyes at the wedding breakfast.”

      
“Surely you do not doubt your ability to handle a strong-willed woman? I was given to believe that American men prided themselves on such matters.”

      
“Do not attempt to pique my Yankee vanity, Grandfather. This is not America, and Rachel is more than just strong-willed.”

      
“What the deuce did you say to her to set her off?”

      
“Tis a personal matter between the lady and myself, as I've already told you.”

      
“Just so you straighten it out shortly. Hugh is expecting you for dinner on Friday next. Do not disappoint him.”

      
“And to make certain that I do not, Fox will remain with his ‘tutors’ at Cargrave Hall.”

      
The marquess' gray eyes flashed triumphantly. “His tutors are eminently qualified for their work.”

      
“I don't know about Bradley or LaFarge, but Mace looks to be an unsavory sort. I wouldn't trust him with the boy, were I you.”

      
“Ha, 'tis you whom I dare not trust with young Master Fox, lest you take him and run for the nearest seaport.”

      
Jason shrugged in resignation. “Come, Grandfather. I shall walk you to your coach.”

      
As Jason watched the Cargrave coach turn down the circular drive in front of the manor, he smiled to himself.
Yes, Grandfather, remain well pleased with yourself…until Fox and I escape your net.

* * * *

      
After the marquess and Fox had departed, Jason spent the duration of the morning closeted with the estate steward, then decided to take a long ride across Falconridge to clear his head of the fog caused by reading dusty ledgers. Being the heir of the ninth Marquess of Cargrave was quite a bit of a bother.

      
At the shipyards in Baltimore, he had relied upon his old friend Morton Riggs to handle office matters while he devoted his efforts to designing and building beautiful clippers. But he had always taken his responsibilities to his employees seriously. He fancied himself a good judge of men and intended to find someone here in the countryside who could be trusted to fill Morton's role—that was, once he returned from taking his foster brother safely to America.

      
The old marquess would have ample time to stew and then give his word not to “arrange” any further betrothals for his heir. Once they had that singularly important matter settled, Jason would return to fulfill his duty to the Beaumont family name. If the old man refused, well then, so be it. Jason would never set foot on English soil again.

      
Comfortable with working people, Jason hoped to learn the names and duties of all his tenants. Good lord, if he indeed did become Cargrave's heir, he would have to do the same at four other estates! Just contemplating the exercise gave him a headache. He had a groom saddle Araby, who was eager for another outing after a rubdown and long midday rest. Soon they were sailing across the rolling hills through dense stands of woodland.

      
Without quite realizing how, Jason found himself nearing the border with Harleigh where he and Rachel had first met with such disastrous consequences. Not that much had changed for the better on their second encounter, he thought wryly. What was it about the chit that got under his skin? He reined in Araby as he approached a small, secluded pool hidden behind a stand of elms. The stream dividing Falconridge from Harleigh must feed this small lake, he surmised.

      
The enchantment of the spot led him to dismount and turn the stallion to grazing on the lush grass around the water's edge while he found a rock shaded by several overhanging branches that afforded him an excellent view of the water. Taking a seat, he stretched out his long legs and considered the enigma of Rachel Fairchild. He lay back on the warm rock's smooth surface and laced his fingers behind his head, staring up through the sun-mottled leaves at the brilliant azure of the sky.

      
She was an intelligent woman, and that was good. He desired her, and that was bad. To act on such a base physical urge would lead to permanent consequences. The very thought of it made him shudder. He was certain the war between England and America would end in a year or two, but marriage with that viper-tongued wench would be akin to living the rest of his life under siege. Odd, though, for after the ball when he had intended to seek out one of the elegant courtesans of his acquaintance, the idea had lost all appeal. Instead he'd ended up gambling until dawn at Wheatie's. Why had none of the Cyprians taken his fancy?

      
The thought had troubled him over the past three days. He could not seem to get Rachel out of his mind. Her transformation at the ball had certainly been startling, but she was hardly the first striking woman of good family he'd met. His mother had been playing matchmaker for years, to no avail. Of course, now she, too, was allied with his grandfather in the desire to marry him to Rachel.

      
Visions of long sleek legs and masses of thick chocolate hair danced behind his eyelids as he closed them and started to doze in the afternoon heat. Suddenly a loud noise roused him. Disoriented, he sat up and looked across the water. Two huge mastiffs bounded down the hillside. Circling around the pool, they headed directly toward him at a dead run, barking furiously. Their open mouths revealed large, sharp, yellow fangs.

Chapter Five

      
Rachel had let the mastiffs get too far ahead of her. They were always boisterous and eager for a run after being confined in the Hall while she was in the city. She heard their loud baying and the sound of a man's voice and at once kicked Reddy into a gallop, heading through the woods to the pool. Good lord, they might tear the fellow into pieces if he panicked and tried to run from them!