A Clandestine Courtship
Allison Lane
scan and proofing by svetico (www.svetico.narod.ru)
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
It had been many years since James had seen England. The murder of his twin brother had brought him home and shifted the responsibilities of the earldom of Ridge-way onto his own broad shoulders. Saddened by the circumstances of his return, he intends nevertheless to perform his duties, chief among them to identify his brother's killer.
There is only one advantage, it seems, to this home-coming-the opportunity, once again, to gaze into Mary Layton's bottomless blue eyes. But too much has changed in his years away. The young beauty is now Lady Northrup, the baron's widow. Those lovely eyes now look upon him with confusion, perhaps even mistrust. No wonder, with the horrid rumors that swirl about his head-and the dastardly reputation his brother has left him to live down.
Under these wretched circumstances, love is simply not a possibility. But Mary's courageous heart will remind him that passion never gives up the fight…
"Finally!"
Smiling, Mary Northrup laid the letter aside. Justin was coming home. At last she could send out invitations to the welcome party that would reintroduce him to the neighborhood after a seven-year absence. And the timing couldn't be better. Her mourning period would end tomorrow.
But now that the reunion was imminent, she had mixed feelings about seeing him again. His return would throw her life into upheaval, and not just because she was the old baron's widow rather than the current baron's wife. Her diminished importance extended further than that. She had supervised both the house and the estate virtually unfettered since her marriage. Despite knowing for a year that it couldn't continue, she was no more prepared to give it up now than she'd been the day Frederick had died.
Perhaps it was time to find that dream cottage. Losing control of Northfield Manor would be frustrating enough. Turning over her staff would be worse. She had selected and trained most of them. Many were friends, though there was never a question of who was in charge. Even if Justin kept her on for now, her authority could not last. He must eventually marry. She did not want to watch others meddling with her people and her home. The dower house was too close, so she needed to move clear away. Besides, she would never be fully accepted by local society anyway.
But that was for the future.
Her immediate problem was coping with Justin. He had been fifteen when she'd wed his brother and had resented her presence, ignoring her efforts to befriend him. They had passed a quarrelsome fortnight before he'd returned to school. His next visit home had been cut brutally short when he'd stormed off to buy colors following a week of ferocious arguments with Frederick.
It had been a relief at the time, for she had not known how to deal with him, but his transfer two years later to a regiment sailing to India had shocked everyone. He had not returned to Northfield before leaving. The news had arrived by post, devastating his young sisters, who had been anxiously anticipating an expected leave. Not once in the five years since, had he explained his decision. In fact, his letters had been remarkably reticent on many points, containing none of his thoughts and no hint of his character.
Now he was back. And at three-and-twenty, he was too old for mothering, too old to require a guardian, too old to need consent for anything he chose to do. So she had no idea what to expect. Even this latest missive contained little information beyond his arrival date. He had not disclosed his intentions.
I have sold my commission and will take up my new duties, he had written in his only reference to Frederick's death. Did his lack of condolences arise from antipathy toward his brother, or did he still distrust her? What was he like now?
Her greatest fear was that he would resemble Frederick. Not in looks, which she knew were different, but in interests and character.
She shivered, though a resemblance could work to her advantage. Frederick had hated the country, leaving her in charge of the estate while he lived in London. It was an arrangement that had suited them both, and one that might suit Justin as well.
But he wished to take up his duties, which implied a desire to assume management of Northfield.
Or did it? Perhaps he was referring to Parliament. The barony gave him a seat in the Lords, and a political career would keep him in London. Many of his youthful arguments had revealed an interest in current affairs and the future of the nation. Had that been a passing fancy, or had his years in India increased his concerns?
Stop this! Such thinking was useless, revealing a cowardly refusal to face reality. He could just as easily be referring to his duty to marry and provide for the succession. After all, Frederick had wed within a month of achieving the title. It might be a family tradition.
And even if Justin hated estate work and postponed any thought of matrimony, he would hardly leave her in charge. Few men accepted women in positions of authority. Frederick had done so out of laziness, but an army officer who had earned two field promotions was not lazy. And Justin might be worse than his brother in other ways. Again she shivered.
Turning over control of the estate would be tricky. He knew little about the Manor or its tenants. Though they had corresponded regularly, she had never described Frederick's business or mentioned her hand in running it. He was probably unaware of her role.
Just as she knew nothing of his interests. He had not responded to news of his childhood neighbors. His letters had been friendly, but bland, touching only on the mundane. And even that could have been a facade. No gentleman would admit faults such as indiscriminate womanizing, unethical or illegal activities, brutality, uncaring selfishness, or any other failing, particularly to a lady whom he knew only by sight. So what was he really like? Saint or sinner? Caring or brutal? Industrious or incompetent?
The answers were important, for she had to plan how to approach him. A smooth transition required that she teach him the estate's problems, peculiarities, and limitations. And she must do so without implying that he was ignorant or suffering any other shortcoming. Men did not like criticism-even when warranted-and their anger terrified her.
Sighing, she read the letter again, hoping to find evidence that Justin was milder than Frederick. But nothing had changed. Setting her fears aside, she rued her vivid imagination. It conjured too many potential.disasters, and fretting over the future was pointless. She would discover the truth soon enough. Even if he turned out to be a brutal misogynist, she would have to accept it. For better or worse, her life was now under his control. And she could not seek that cottage just yet. She had one last duty to the Northrups, one Justin would support. No gentleman wanted two aging sisters on his hands, so she must find husbands for Amelia and Caroline. Frederick's death had interrupted the task, but she could postpone it no longer. Time was flying.
The girls were her only real family. Both of her parents were dead, and her brother was a destitute curate in Cornwall. She probably had several distant relations, but she wouldn't know how to find them. Her father had not stayed in touch.
Footsteps pounded along the hall.
"Trimble says pst-fin-rvd Justin red-cm home," exclaimed Caroline, bursting into the drawing room. As happened all too often, she was talking so fast that only a few words emerged ungarbled.
"Is he back in England then?" asked Amelia, quietly joining them. Amelia did everything quietly, having long ago adopted the relaxed movements and serene disposition that helped keep Caroline coherent.
"He is." Mary was grateful that her sisters-in-law had interrupted her useless fretting. The butler set a tea tray before her.
"Thank you, Trimble." She poured. "Justin will remain in London for a few days to deal with the legalities of his accession, but he expects to arrive here in a fortnight."
"What legalities?" asked Caroline carefully. Tea always slowed her speech. The concentration that kept her cup steady controlled her spirits as well.
"Among other things, he will be meeting with Frederick's solicitor and man of business."
"He will learn nothing new." Caroline set her cup on a table. "Everything will be new to him," Amelia reminded her. "He has been gone for many years. I doubt he knew much about Father's finances and nothing about Frederick's."
"Fredik lost r dowries."
"Easy, Caro," murmured Amelia, pointing to the abandoned cup. Caroline retrieved it. "We can do nothing about that now. At least we still have a home. You should give thanks every day that it is entailed."
"Even if it is shabby beyond belief," muttered Caroline. Which was true, Mary admitted. She needn't look to be aware of the threadbare spot in the carpet, the fraying seats on the chairs, and the peeling wallcoverings near the windows. But there was little they could do about it.
She relaxed as Caroline sipped her tea. She never knew what to expect. Some days the girl was nearly uncontrollable- though bad days were occurring less often as she matured. In contrast, Amelia was the most restful lady of her acquaintance-and the sweetest. She rarely made demands for herself, devoting her time to helping Caroline and easing the lives of their tenants. She deserved a husband and family of her own- which made the squandered dowries even more tragic and Mary's efforts more urgent.
Caroline was equally deserving, for despite her excitability, she shared Amelia's common sense. And she was a sparkling beauty who drew every eye. As her self-control strengthened, her vivacity charmed more often than it repelled, giving them hope that the problem would ultimately resolve itself.
"We will host a welcome party as soon as Justin returns," said Mary. "He will need to meet everyone, for they will recall him only as a child."
"Wonderful!" Caroline jumped up to dance about the room. "Let's give a ball-he must marry now that he snw baron." Her twirling accelerated until she bumped dizzily into the fireplace.
Mary cringed, wishing she had eased into the subject. Was Justin aware of Caro's affliction? He had spent most of his time in school before joining the military, and she had omitted mention of it in her letters, not wanting to burden him with problems he could not address from India. "Sit next to me, Caro," she begged. "I need your good sense just now."
Caro gulped air, clenching her fists until she could walk across the room and take a seat.
"Can we afford something so grand?" asked Amelia. Mary frowned. "I doubt it. Even a modest ball would involve upwards of two hundred guests. Those who traveled any distance would have to stay the night. But too many linens need replacing, and we haven't enough servants to handle the extra work. Then there is the expense of musicians, food-" Caroline's face fell.
Mary continued. "I was thinking of a dinner for our neighbors, followed by cards, but perhaps we could include informal dancing. Now that my mourning is over, no one could accuse us of frivolity. You have been very patient with me."
"It has been no hardship," claimed Amelia before Caroline could protest. "Lady Carworth escorted us to most gatherings."
Caroline nearly snorted, for Lady Carworth disliked her excitability. Taking a deep breath, she spoke slowly. "Informal dancing will be quite enjoyable, so whom shall we invite?"
"The Carworths, Squire Church, the Redfields," said Mary.
"The vicar, the doctor. Miss Hardaway, Miss Sharpe," added Amelia.
Caroline made a face.
"The Grangers."
"Colonel Davis."
"Weren't the Adams boys once Justin's particular friends?" Discussion eventually produced a list of fifty and an agreement that they were honoring both Justin's arrival and Mary's
emergence from mourning.
"Can we seat so many for dinner?" asked Amelia. Mary frowned. "Cook will need help, and we will have to find more footmen, but it should work."
"Perhaps Lady Carworth will loan us some footmen." Mary suppressed a grimace. The lady would agree. It would enhance her reputation for generosity while drawing attention to the Northrup failings."
"I wonder if Lord Ridgeway will arrive by then." Caroline was again holding her teacup.
"I am surprised that he has not inspected his seat before now," said Amelia. "It has been six months since he acceded to the title."
"He is visiting those properties near his own estate first," Mary reminded them.
"But how long can that take?"
Forever, if that was what he wanted, but Mary wasn't about to embark on that topic. His movements were of no interest. "If he arrives before the party, we will invite him, but I doubt he will do so. According to the Times, he is spending the Season in London."
"Poor man. He must have been horrified to learn of his brother's death. How could anyone murder a lord on Christmas Day?"
Mary ignored Caroline's observation, unwilling to discuss- yet again-Shropshire's ongoing scandal.
The murder of the ninth earl of Ridgeway still dominated every conversation from the Lusty Maiden's taproom to the most exclusive drawing rooms. The lurid tale tumbled forth hourly, daily, weekly, with no sign of waning interest. But despite the lip service paid to civilized outrage, every voice conveyed satisfaction, for Ridgeway had been the most hated man m the shire.
Shuddering, she pushed thoughts of the murder aside. The new earl had always been very different from his brother. That should not have changed, for he had been a grown man when he had last visited Ridgeway.
Perhaps he would be interested in Amelia. Acceding to the title left him in need of a wife. His sojourn in London proved that he knew it, but he had not yet met with success. The Season was nearly over, without an announcement.
Amelia would make a perfect countess. She was sweet, kind, well-trained, and competent. The earl's fortune was vast enough so that her lack of dowry should pose no problem. With luck, he would visit Ridgeway Court soon.
Mary bit back a sigh over the problem of finding matches for her sisters. Amelia was already twenty, and Caroline eighteen. Despite her own dissatisfaction with marriage, she did not want them to dwindle into spinsters. Showing them to advantage was another reason for this gathering. Hopefully, Caroline could control her excitement long enough to impress at least one gentleman.
* * *
James Underwood, tenth Earl of Ridgeway, motioned his friends to fall back so he could enjoy a moment of solitude. Not that he was bored by their conversation. He had deliberately sought their company to provide a distraction from his thoughts.
But for the moment he needed to be alone. His face was out of control, revealing his most private feelings. Let them think he was anxious for the first glimpse of his boyhood home. Let them conclude that he was moody and unpredictable. Their beliefs didn't matter as long as they never discerned the truth: He dreaded this visit.
What was he doing here?
Ten years ago he had escaped along this very road, vowing never to return. Grief, shock, fury, and a pain he had tried to deny had accompanied him. It had taken years to banish those emotions, but he had done it, building a life he enjoyed and establishing a reputation he could be proud of. Setting the past behind him had removed its influence over his future. Or so he had thought.
Until John's murder.
His first reaction had been rage. Not at the death-he and John had been too estranged-but because it forced him to break that vow and return home.
He choked.
Home. The word no longer applied to Ridgeway Court-if it ever had. Long before his actual departure, he had ceased belonging there. In the years since, he had called many places home-rooms in Paris, a palazzo in Naples, the house in Bombay-but his true home now lay in Lincolnshire. His estate might be smaller than Ridgeway, but it welcomed him as the Court never would. So he would be the first Underwood in centuries to live elsewhere. Certainly the first Ridgeway.
But before he could return to the comfort of home, he had to inspect the family seat. It was not a task he could delegate to others. His steward was busy at the Haven. His man of business was trying to make sense of the Ridgeway financial affairs. His secretary was investigating rumors of John's misdeeds in London. They were the only men he wholly trusted. So he must do this himself. And he could put it off no longer.
He had already visited the other Ridgeway properties. After correcting their problems, he had spent two months in London, pretending to search for a bride. Both activities had revealed horrifying accounts of John's misuse of power. Even discounting half the gossip, he had to accept that John's behavior had worsened in the last ten years. Every person he met looked at him askance, every eye holding the same question: Was he like John?
He had convinced most of them that he was not. Accomplishing that had given his London sojourn a purpose, but he could stay there no longer. The Season was drawing to a close, the most desperate matchmaker was plotting his downfall, and he had heard that Ridgeway's tenants were in dire straits.
So he could no longer postpone this visit. Further delay would hurt innocent people and expose his fears and irresponsibility to the world. But facing the ghosts from his past would be difficult, which was why he had invited Harry and Edwin to accompany him.
They were not close friends-he had met Harry while inspecting a small estate in Kent four months ago and had met Edwin when he'd arrived in London-so they could not discern his thoughts. Nor would they see through his public facade. But they would provide company.
Or so he had thought. If his face was slipping before he even reached Ridgeway land, how was he to protect his secrets and hide his shame?
Somehow, he would manage it, he assured himself, shifting in the saddle as the road twisted uphill into the forest. And it should not be difficult. He had deliberately chosen companions who rarely questioned surface appearances.
At nine- and-twenty. Harry Crenshaw had made a name for himself as a carefree rakehell. He was a younger son whose fortune allowed him to enjoy life with willing women, good wine, and intriguing wagers-such as whether a man could stand on one foot for a quarter hour after drinking a bottle of brandy. Few knew Harry's serious side-his work to abolish the use of climbing boys and his support of mothers widowed by the war. James had stumbled across the information quite by accident and had never mentioned it. But Harry's own secrets would keep him from prying.
Sir Edwin Stokes was Harry's opposite. Though only six-and-twenty, he eschewed ballrooms and boudoirs in favor of books and music. While not serious enough to be considered a scholar, Edwin was fascinated by the Romans and was convinced that significant remains were buried on his estate. He planned to search for them once he returned home. In the meantime, his preoccupation blinded him to other men's concerns. Even when he talked and laughed with friends, a portion of his mind remained with the Romans.
James nodded in satisfaction. A rake and a dreamer. Neither would pay attention to his moods. And the entertainment they provided would allow him to mask any unseemly emotions this confrontation with the past might raise.
"Is it true that you know Napoleon?" asked Edwin when James paused to allow their mounts to catch up.
"We have met, but I can hardly claim to know the man. I was in France during the Peace of Amiens ten years ago," he added, seeing the question trembling on Harry's lips.
Paris had been his first stop after leaving England-and the beginning of a Grand Tour few of his friends had managed. The remnants of the old aristocracy had welcomed the English flocking across the Channel, suppressing their doubts and hiding their woes behind determined celebration. The gaiety had pulled him out of his own pain and turned his eyes to the future.
France had offered delightful diversions, though even a cursory examination had convinced him that the peace would not last; Napoleon had been using the interlude to consolidate his g power, resupply his army, and enflame the populace into supporting new campaigns. But the memories could still make him smile. From there, he had traveled to Austria, Italy, Egypt, and finally to India, where he had acquired a fortune that made his inheritance seem paltry.
"How were the Parisian ladies?" asked Harry slyly.
"Sophisticated, but just as willing as that serving girl you ogled in the taproom last night."
"I do enjoy a lusty wench, and she was certainly lusty." Harry let out an exaggerated sigh, then burst into laughter at Edwin's flushed face.
Though Edwin never openly criticized other men's liaisons, he was a bit of a prude who blushed like a schoolgirl when embarrassed. It was not a reaction he could hide, for he was cursed with the pale, transparent complexion common among redheads, so it provided endless entertainment for his fellows.
"We are nearly there," said James unnecessarily, to protect Edwin's feelings. The lad was good-natured about his affliction, but James disliked jokes at anyone's expense. He had been the victim of teasing too often to ignore the pain that usually accompanied it. His brother had been a master at using subtle barbs to undermine an opponent's nerve or tarnish his reputation.
"Did you visit Rome in your travels?" asked Edwin.
"No, but I was in Naples for several months." He saw the question on Harry's lips, licked his own in appreciation, then described the Roman sites he had visited. Even Harry asked thoughtful questions, immersing them in antiquity and diverting his mind from his last day at the Court.
His description of the catacombs enthralled his companions as they passed the gates to Northfield Manor. His visits to Avellino and Benevento-where he had admired the Roman theater and the exquisite artistry of Trajan's Arch-carried them beyond a dozen tenant farms.
But his reprieve couldn't last forever. They rounded a corner and crossed a bridge. Ridgeway dust now swirled around his horses's hooves and billowed behind the carriage wheels.
Memories swept over him, making his hands tremble. Panic clawed at his chest, worse than he had expected, gripping him with an airless tension that would not dissipate. Evil eyes bored into his back.
He cursed under his breath, for his reaction made no sense. It was the people he had fled, not the place. And the people were gone. What evil could remain now?
The park gates stood open, offering an unlikely welcome, but the house was hidden behind its hill. Secretive. Furtive. Like so many of its masters. That had certainly been true of John. What would he find here?
He shivered.
Harry was again waxing poetic over the tavern wench, but James no longer cared. Memories of his brother lodged a lump in his throat. This was why he had procrastinated. He could not face Ridgeway without also coming to terms with his feelings for John Underwood, ninth Earl of Ridgeway, and his elder brother by ten minutes.
Their relationship had always defied description. He had wanted to believe that their shared blood was more than an accident of birth and that family meant something. Twins were supposed to be closer than normal brothers, able to read each other's thoughts, willing to support each other against any threat. So he had made excuses, offered forgiveness, and ignored even blatant treachery for more than twenty years. When that failed, he had left, repudiating both blood and family. Fool!
His unswerving trust had blinded him until it was too late. Now he was faced with cleaning up the wreckage John had left behind and with trying to understand what had gone wrong. The first step was to figure out why John had died.
What had he done to incite murder?
James closed his eyes in a futile attempt to quell a mounting headache. The question had too many answers. He had finally accepted John's venality ten years earlier. Their shared blood tied him to, a man he could never respect, tarnishing his own image and drawing suspicion onto his head that would never dissipate.
But despite that, he could not allow John's killer to escape. So how was he to discover which vice had triggered the final attack? And how many new transgressions would he uncover at the Court? They would be legion-which was another reason he had postponed this visit; he had not been ready to face the worst.
John had never visited his other estates, so his orders there had merely inflicted general hardship as he milked the properties of every shilling. But his motives at Ridgeway would have gone far beyond his quest for wealth.
James shivered. He had already seen evidence in London that John had used the power of his position to avenge perceived slights. Had he expended his fury at his twin by striking out at anyone James had cared for? It wasn't an idle fear, for John had threatened to do just that.
Edwin was retaliating against Harry's sexual braggadocio with a discourse on Roman viaducts that had Harry gnashing his teeth, but James hardly heard it. Traversing this road, seeing these hills, and hearing the stream boil over a rocky fall recalled every horror of his last visit.
He forced the memories away by scrupulously examining every tree and shrub in his path» but the battle to forget only increased his feeling of doom. He dreaded this return, dreaded facing the depth of John's anger and the ashes of his revenge, dreaded meeting tenants who would blame him for calling disaster onto their heads.
But he had no choice. He was now the earl, responsible for the welfare of Ridgeway and all its people. He could evade his duty no longer.
Rounding the hill, he led the way to the house.
Mary turned her horse along the shortcut through Ridge-way's woods. She needed to visit one of the tenants, but first she must recover the poise her encounter with Mrs. Brid-well had shattered.
Her reaction had been stupid, she admitted as Acorn picked his way across a stream. The vicar's wife never failed to find fault with her, and today had been no exception. She should not have let the spiteful words destroy her composure, for they meant nothing.
But they had caught her at a bad time. Between preparing for Justin's arrival and fretting over her future, she was exhausted. Instead of turning the criticism aside with her usual bland comment, she had bolted, loath to reveal the tears pooling in her eyes.
She had overreacted. Today's complaint was an old one- her habit of riding about the countryside unescorted. And the transgression was irrelevant anyway, for the woman only used it as a bridge to censure her other behavior and deride her low birth: A lady would travel by carriage with a footman in attendance; a lady would not dream of supervising estate workers, inspecting repairs, meeting with bankers, or issuing orders to the steward; and-horrors!-a lady would never foster doubts about her virtue.
Obviously the woman had never been to London. Mary grinned and relaxed.
She had not visited London, either, seldom traveling beyond the market town of Ridgefield. But anyone who read the city papers would know that virtue was loosely interpreted in aristocratic circles.
Mrs. Bridwell's opinion was annoying, but nothing would change it, and though Mary was her favorite target, she rarely had a good word for anyone. Perhaps she was envious that Mary had wed into the aristocracy. Or maybe she was naturally catty-she certainly lapped up the rumors, even those proven to be false. Or her pique might arise from guilt. Mary still carried out parish duties Mrs. Bridwell ignored. Everyone knew it, looking askance at the woman. They also knew that Mary's unladylike habits had been dictated by necessity.
Not that she considered running the estate and raising Frederick's siblings to be hardships. As a vicar's daughter, she was accustomed to work and felt uncomfortable with nothing to do. Nor was she used to taking servants along on every errand. Besides, the estate could ill afford to hire a groom whose sole job would be to ride with her all day.
She shrugged. Let Mrs. Bridwell condemn her. Riding alone was a minor offense.
Rounding a corner, she nearly collided with a frowning gentleman who was riding the other way.
John Underwood!
Panicking, she jerked her horse from the path. Acorn side-swiped a holly bush and recoiled, nearly unseating her. Fighting both the horse and her pounding heart, she doused her fear with a cold bucket of reality.
John was dead. He had been dead for six months. It was James's forbidding expression that had momentarily confused her.
"Welcome home, my lord." Somehow she kept her voice calm through the boil of new emotions.
James escaped the house, seeking the sanctuary of the woods where he could think. Memories were clouding his judgment, making it impossible to tell whether the frigid atmosphere arose from his own fears or from staff antipathy. He had to decide quickly, for the answer would determine what changes were necessary.
His usual approach was not working. As with his other estates, he had arrived without warning. John's servants ranged from good to bad to venal. Appearing unexpectedly prevented them from assuming a false facade, giving him a better chance to judge their competence and attitudes. It also kept anyone from hiding evidence of malfeasance, allowing him to quickly separate the wheat from the chaff.
But not at Ridgeway. By the time he'd reached the Court, he had been in no condition to judge anything. Memories, voices, pain, and disillusionment had swirled through his head. Guilt had overwhelmed his senses, making him short-tempered. So it was hardly surprising that the servants had appeared sullen. Even the clearer head of morning improved nothing. They seemed to hate him deeply, passionately, and irrevocably, but that made no sense. He knew none of them.
John had turned off the entire staff after gaining the title- hardly surprising, for many of the old servants had carried tales of his childhood misdeeds to the earl. The new staff had been smaller-another way to increase John's revenues-and poorly paid. He doubted any of them had seen service before Ridge-way. Yet none of that explained their hostility.
He hated repeating John's actions by turning everyone off, but he must have servants he could trust and who would perform their duties with at least a modicum of competence. These had been doing a very bad job, starting with the housekeeper.
The manor was filthy. Cleaning had been sporadic at best, and a cursory glance through the accounts showed wholesale pilfering. The butler's accounts were also short. The lower servants were surly, and the sight of the stables nearly made him weep. They had once been the glory of the estate. Now he cringed at consigning his cattle to such deplorable conditions.
Yet he was hesitant about making changes. More was going on than service or lack of it. The servants' faces also reflected fear. Already they were whispering about ghosts, so prudence demanded he move slowly. Was the poor performance aimed at John, and the hatred at John's likeness?
His own ghosts tormented him, driving his friends' chatter into the background. He had expected the pain and guilt that still haunted him ten years after his last meeting with John. But he had not expected to feel his father's presence so clearly.
The eighth earl had been capricious-kind and supportive one day, furiously vindictive the next. He had also been weak and lazy, paying little heed to justice or honor. When someone complained about a twin's behavior, he had found it easier to punish the nearest son than to figure out who was at fault. So James had paid for many a prank he had not played. John had been a master at staying out of sight.
But he wasn't ready to deal with the past. His immediate problem was the staff, which required a clear mind. According to his valet, many of the servants suspected him of either killing John or arranging for his death. Some also blamed him for his father's death.
That was what had sent him on this lone ride. He had never connected their last argument with the fit that had killed him. The idea added a new layer of guilt to his usual burden. Could it be true?
He had rarely protested those unjust charges, having learned that argument merely increased his punishment. But that final accusation had been too base. He had sworn on his honor as a gentleman that it was false. He had even named the people who could prove he had been in Ridgefield at the time. Clearly, the culprit was John.
But his father had not believed him. The earl had favored John ever since the boy had nearly succumbed to a fever at age three. John's convulsions had terrified everyone in the household and had left the earl loath to punish him for years afterward lest he bring on a new attack. The earl's fondest dream had been that his heir would be worthy of the title. Since he did not want that dream shattered, James made an easy scapegoat who could keep his il...
nonie.sungkono