The Earl's Revenge (21 page)

“Is that why you are so disheveled?” he asked.

“How chivalrous of you to notice, my lord. But yes, I was with Nana for half an hour. Now sit down and quit being stubborn.” She pushed him into a chair, none too gently.

“You are a nuisance.”

“And you are a mule.” She took out her handkerchief, already damp with Helen’s tears, and dabbed at the cut on his leg. His pantaloons were ruined, so she ripped them to better examine his injury. “I suspect you will need stitches, though no more than two or three. You are fortunate. The cut is clean and will heal without problems as long as you do not aggravate it. Freddie can stitch it if you don’t care to wait for the doctor. Have you a handkerchief? This one is past using.”

He silently handed his over.

“Very good,” she said, making a pad and laying it on the wound. “Now give me your cravat.”

“This is ridiculous,” he snorted.

“Which would you prefer, my lord?” she asked maliciously. “Leaving a trail of blood between here and your room, or sneaking up one flight of stairs without a cravat? I never pegged you for a dandy.”

Still grumbling, he untied it and handed it over. Elaine knotted it in place and left without another word.

She should have curbed her outburst, but had not been able to summon the energy. His touch had burned clear to her soul, terrifying her far more than the falling stone. If she did not soon escape this house, he would win, and she would hate herself for all eternity.

Thoroughly drained, she headed for her room.

It wasn’t until she had washed and changed into a clean gown that she realized her bag was not on the bed. But Lucy would not have straightened her room. The girl stayed belowstairs during the day.

Anger had not had time to take hold before she found the bag on the floor next to the dressing table. She frowned, trying to recall if she could have placed it there herself, but she was positive that she had left it on the bed.

It took no more than a minute to confirm her suspicions. The sketchbook was closed though she had shoved it hastily out of sight when Bridgeport appeared, and had not taken it out after he left, being too upset to think about work.

Someone had been in her room and had searched her things. Who could possibly have both the desire and the bad manners to do so?

* * * *

“You enjoyed the trip into Bodmin, then?” asked Elaine. She and Miss Westmont were sitting in the drawing room that evening, considerably apart from the others.

“Very much,” murmured Miss Westmont. “It is a charming town, though the setting is rather stark.”

“The hills do seem to glower down,” agreed Elaine.

“Mr. Sedgestone has a wonderful bookshop. I found a volume on native plants that will make walks on the moor more interesting. I would have liked to remain longer, but the others were determined to return as quickly as possible.”

Because Bridgeport had not accompanied them, suspected Elaine. “It is not a place likely to amuse London ladies,” she agreed quietly.

“Or gentlemen,” said Miss Westmont, but she was interrupted before she could explain her enigmatic comment.

“Are there other things to do around here?” Miss Throckmorton asked, joining them as the gentlemen arrived after a round of port.

“Yes, surely there must be interesting places to visit,” chimed in Mr. Taylor. He was spending more and more time at Miss Throckmorton’s side.

“Not much,” admitted Elaine. “If you like ruins, there is Tintagel, of course, but the roads are so bad that an expedition requires a full day by carriage.” There were insufficient riding horses to mount all the guests.

“It might be worth a look,” said Lord Carrington. The isolated corner was now the focus of the room as more guests eschewed the comfort of the fireplace.

“Isn’t that where King Arthur was born?” asked Miss Throckmorton.

“According to legend,” agreed Anne.

“Perhaps we can make a trip of it,” suggested Lady Means.

Elaine nodded. “There is a circle of stones called the Dancing Maidens near the Tintagel road that might also be interesting. Or it can be reached by riding into the moor from here. Shall we include that in the excursion?”

“I thought the Dancing Maidens were farther west.” Carrington sounded interested.

“You are thinking of the Merry Maidens, my lord. It is the most famous of Cornwall’s circles. I’ve not seen it myself, though those who have are invariably impressed – nineteen stones rather than seven, and each considerably larger – but our own maidens are interesting.”

“Why are they called maidens?” asked Mr. Taylor.

“It is probably a corruption of
maedn
, old Cornish for stone. But legend is more fun. The story claims that seven sisters slipped away in the dead of night to dance in the moonlight on a midsummer’s eve. Worse, the clock turned round to Sunday while they capered on the moor, adding a more grievous sin to their disobedience. And so they were turned to stone, condemned to stand for all eternity as a warning.” She laughed. “It quite helps parents discipline their children.”

“And you say these stones are on the way to Tintagel?”

“Yes. In fact, you can see them from Lookout Peak, though it is too far to walk from here,” warned Elaine.

“But you walk out there all the time,” Hardwicke said to Mark.

“To Lookout Peak,” agreed Mark. “That is only a couple of miles. But the maidens are another three beyond that.” Actually, they were inland, so the distance was not that far, but he had no interest in leading a walking tour of the moor.

Talk returned to the expedition to Tintagel, which was set for four days hence, weather permitting.

Elaine awoke to a foggy dawn. She had thrashed around for fully half the night, then found her sleep tormented by nightmares. None of the details were clear now, but despite the early hour she feared to try again. Instead, she donned a dressing gown, pulled out her sketchbook and drawing board, and set to work on Thornton’s last illustration. Three hours later she nodded her head in satisfaction. It would do.

The job was complete. In a state of euphoria, she pulled on her cloak and indulged in an energetic walk along the cliff path. The morning sun had burned away the earlier fog, leaving the air clear. Gulls rose in shrieking clouds as she approached, to settle, grumbling, back in place once she had passed. Two seals played tag just offshore, their antics widening the smile on her face. In charity with the world, she turned back to the Manor.

But her good humor waned when she entered the hall. The first person she ran into was Bridgeport. Despite his vow of friendship, she was uncomfortable in his presence. Her own growing attraction could no longer be ignored.

“Good morning, my lord,” she murmured, intending to return to her room.

“Have you already been out for a walk, Miss Thompson?” He smiled. “I envy you that. I have just come from visiting Miss Beddoes.”

The words halted Elaine in her tracks. She looked up into green eyes that were much too close for comfort. “How is she?”

“Worse, I fear. Dr. Martin arrived after you had retired for the night, but he does not hold out much hope. The hip is infected.”

“Poor Helen,” replied Elaine with a shake of her head. “She will be heartbroken when the end arrives.” At the earl’s questioning stare, she continued. “Miss Beddoes is the only mother she has ever known. In the last two years, their roles have been nearly reversed, with Helen looking after the nurse. There is a very strong attachment there.”

“Of course.” He frowned. “I hope her governess arrives soon. The more people she has to comfort her, the easier it will be.”

“Perhaps.” She did not believe that a stranger would be able to offer any support. On the other hand, if the woman arrived soon enough, perhaps Helen would develop some rapport with her before the inevitable end. “Did Dr. Martin see after your own injury?”

He nodded. “As expected, it is nothing. I am on my way to collect Helen for another riding lesson. Will you join us?” The invitation was prosaic but his eyes gleamed warmly.

“Not today, my lord,” she managed to reply calmly. “I have some business with Mrs. Burgess this morning.” She needed to discover when someone would next travel to Bodmin for supplies. If it was soon, she could ride along and arrange for Mr. Holyoke to send the illustrations to Murray. If not, she must make her own plans.

“I have been remiss in not offering thanks for organizing this gathering so efficiently, my dear. I don’t know how I could have managed without you.” He raised her hand to his lips, the touch sending shivers down her spine, for neither of them was wearing gloves. His eyes burned into hers.

“You are mistaken,” she protested. “I have done nothing. And how quickly you forget your own fair words. If you truly wish for friendship you should practice acting less like a rake.”

Pulling her hand from his, she turned toward the stairs. Insufferable man! How could he expect her to believe his flirting? No country dowd could attract him when he had Mrs. Woodleigh to warm his nights.

Too far away to overhear their words, Mr. Hardwicke nevertheless saw that intimate caress and noted the look in Bridgeport’s eyes. His passion for revenge burned all the hotter after his failure, and he meant to embarrass the earl as much as possible. Stealing the man’s current mistress would strike a suitable blow to that puffed up lord. No woman had ever broken off an affair with the fellow.

Consequently, he haunted the house, shrugging off a suggestion by Lord Means that he join the gentlemen for a morning ride. Two hours later, his vigilance was rewarded when Miss Thompson headed for the secluded workroom where every day she arranged the flowers used in the dining and drawing rooms. He checked to see that no one was in the vicinity, then followed.

“My dear Miss Thompson,” he began smoothly, stopping in the doorway so she had no exit from the room. “You are looking remarkably beautiful today.” Her dark hair glowed mysteriously in the uncertain light of the workroom, turning her eyes to translucent gray. The unfashionable gown did little to hide her curvaceous figure.

Elaine frowned. “Did you want something, Mr. Hardwicke?”

“I have admired your floral artistry ever since we arrived,” he continued, smiling warmly. “It is such a pleasure to find someone who makes the most of the unique shape of each stalk instead of indiscriminately stuffing them into the nearest container.”

“Thank you, sir.” She turned her attention to her work, hoping he would take the hint and leave. The treacly voice and insincerity were disturbing, and the gleam in his eyes made her nervous.

“Such clever fingers,” he noted, the seductive tone making his meaning all too clear. “Long and slender. An elegant hand, capable of so much more than arranging the day’s flowers.”

“Lord Bridgeport is in the library,” she suggested, finished an arrangement and beginning another. “He will doubtless welcome company.”

“But I have no interest in speaking with him,” he said softly.

Alarmed, Elaine realized that he was no longer propped against the wall. The door clicked shut as he scrutinized her arrangement – by sidling around the table.

“I have work to do and must ask you to leave, sir,” she said frigidly, torn between fleeing in panic and forcing him to give up his game, whatever it was.

“But I have no wish to leave.” His implacable voice told her too late that she had underestimated her danger. His movement had already trapped her in a corner. Waves of tension radiated from him, though her terrified mind could detect no hint of either lust or attraction. He picked up her icy hand and made as if to kiss it.

“Your conduct is offensive,” she snapped, trying unsuccessfully to pull away. But his grasp tightened, his other arm whipping around her shoulders to pull her into an iron embrace.

“Come now, Miss Thompson. Don’t play coy. You will find me just as accomplished as your current protector, and even more lavish.”

“Let go!” Her free hand slapped his cheek hard enough to snap his head to one side.

His leer changed to fury. “You will pay for that, my country vixen,” he growled, twisting one arm behind her and making an unsuccessful grab for the other. “It is not fair that Bridgeport keeps two doxies when there is not even a chambermaid for the rest of us.”

“You must be drunk,” she panted, thrashing uselessly as he pulled her tighter against him. “No gentleman would attack a lady!” She twisted her head to avoid his kiss and spotted the shears still lying on the table. If only she could reach them! Easing her posture, she relaxed into his embrace in apparent capitulation. She could feel his triumph as one hand shifted to her breast. Panic engulfed her but she let him force her onto the worktable, then reached out with her free hand.

“Damned wench!” he gasped as the scissors dug into his side.

She jabbed harder until he rolled off, allowing her to jump out of reach. “Get out!”

“Never!” he swore. “No country slut will get the best of me.”

“I don’t know where you got these ridiculous ideas, but you are wrong,” she gasped, tears springing to her eyes.

“You needn’t bother perjuring yourself,” he spat. “Everyone knows you are one of Bridgeport’s whores. He is never faithful to his women, so why should you be.” He was inching closer as he spoke, taking advantage of her paralyzing shock to grab the shears.

“I always suspected you were stupid, Hardwicke, but this proves it,” drawled the Earl of Bridgeport from the newly opened door.

Hardwicke whirled, his color draining so fast he swayed. The shears ricocheted off the wall to land at the earl’s feet. Sobbing, Elaine collapsed onto a chair.

“You cannot deny the truth,” shouted Hardwicke, launching an attack on the earl.

Bridgeport sidestepped, landing quick punches to the jaw and stomach that crumpled Hardwicke to the floor. “No, I cannot. The Honorable Miss Thompson is the innocent daughter of a viscount and the epitome of propriety. I will tolerate no one – especially an uninvited guest – abusing her or any other person residing under my roof. Is that clear?”

Looming over Peter like a gargoyle, the earl grabbed the man’s cravat in one fist, and yanked him to his feet.