My Brown-Eyed Earl (27 page)

“I am an
excellent
shot.” Cautiously, he opened his bedroom door and checked the corridor. All clear. “Come. I'll walk you to your room.”

She shook her head. “I'll go alone. It will be easier to devise an explanation in the event I'm caught in the hall wearing my robe.”

“You won't be caught,” he said soberly, “if you leave right now.” He kissed her quickly but soundly and guided her into the corridor. “I shall see you later today.”

“Good-bye,” she mouthed, the hint of a smile softening the worry in her eyes. Her hips swayed seductively as she glided down the hall, making him seriously question his own judgment in letting her leave his bed, damn it.

But while he'd lain awake all night, he'd thought of at least one thing he could do this morning that would help him pass the time until he saw Meg again. It involved a trip to the attic where his father's old things had been stowed, locked away, and mostly forgotten.

Somewhere in that collection of rusty-hinged trunks, a single priceless item was hidden. And Will intended to find it.

*   *   *

Mrs. Lundy fumbled with the large key ring at her waist, clearly distressed. “It's been an age since anyone's been up here. Shall I have one of the footmen dust off the trunks and take them down to your study?”

“No need,” said Will. “I'll go through them here.”

The housekeeper frowned as she slipped a black iron key into the attic door lock. “If I'd known you needed something in this room, I would have sent a maid up to dust, at least.”

“I'm certain you and the staff have more pressing matters to attend to. A little dust won't kill me.”

Ignoring that bit of blasphemy, Mrs. Lundy swung the door open and sighed in dismay.

The closet-sized room had steeply sloped ceilings and a small round window near the roof peak. Tiny specks floated in the shaft of light that shone above half a dozen stacked chests and boxes.

“Thank you, Mrs. Lundy. That will be all.”

She coughed and waved the dust away from her face. “If you're sure. Please let me know if you require anything, anything at all.” She hurried off as though the sight of the dirty, cluttered room was simply too much to bear.

In deference to the low ceilings, Will ducked as he entered and dragged one of the sturdier trunks closer to sit on. He shrugged off his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and stared at the stack of boxes before him.

His father's entire life had been distilled into this sad pile and relegated to a distant corner of the house. After he'd died, servants had packed up his things; neither Will nor his mother had seen to the task themselves because they didn't need keepsakes or mementoes. Didn't want them. They'd just as soon forget the man and the things he'd done.

Will unlatched a large trunk, gripped the lid, and hesitated. Despite the room's stifling heat, a chill stole over him. His father couldn't hurt him from his grave, but rummaging through his personal belongings was sure to conjure memories better left buried. Drunken rants about his lazy, stupid son. The stinging smack of his palm across the face. The disgusted looks he shot across a silent dining table.

Will shook off his apprehension. He was not his father, and certainly not doomed to repeat his mistakes. Of course, he hadn't the slightest clue how a good husband or father should behave, and that scared the hell out of him. He wanted to do the right thing … the problem was knowing what the right thing was.

The old earl had been a miserable bastard. But five years had passed since his death, and Will was no longer a fly trapped in his diabolical web. True, he might have sustained a few scars during his youth, but lately he'd felt a glimmer of something unexpected and completely foreign: hope.

Will threw back the lid of the trunk and began examining the contents, determined to find something good in the sorry remnants of his father's existence—for Meg's sake and his own.

Two hours later, sweat dripped from his forehead and dampened his shirt. He leafed through a stack of letters in the second to last trunk, most of them from hard-working estate tenants or poorer relatives begging assistance from his father. Will would bet they'd all gone unanswered.

The next layer in the trunk consisted of his father's old, treasured articles of clothing. He spotted a small, faded blue jacket that his father had worn in a childhood portrait and a powdered wig, the likes of which he hadn't seen in decades.

And then, beneath an assortment of hats, shoes, and boots, Will found it: a large, water-stained satin pouch.

His heart pounding, he loosened the drawstring and spilled the contents onto the dusty floorboards. A collection of snuffboxes tumbled out, but there, in the middle of them, was a small, antique hinged box, inlaid with pearl.

His hands trembled as he opened it.

Nested in folds of velvet, his grandmother's diamond ring sparkled in the light. The diamond was not huge, but it was a fine stone, and any pawnshop would have paid his father a fair price for it.

But the old earl had held on to it. Even when he'd been willing to sell everything in the house that wasn't nailed down, he couldn't bring himself to part with Grandmamma's wedding ring. She had been the best part of their family, showing Will love and kindness when her own son had been unable to.

Meg was like her in many ways. Loyal, generous, and stubborn. Unwilling to bend her principles for anyone, but willing to sacrifice anything for those she cared about.

Will wanted her to wear his grandmother's ring, the ton be damned. All he had to do was convince Meg that, this time, she'd be better off with him than in a convent. But he knew better than to take her agreement for granted.

Now that he'd found what he was looking for, he was eager to leave the stuffy room and maybe pay a visit to the nursery to see Meg and the twins.

Invigorated by his success, he tucked the ring box into his pocket and tossed the snuffboxes and clothes back into the trunk. He threw the stacks of letters on top, but as he did, one of the strings binding them broke, and the letters spilled everywhere. He was tempted to leave them on the floor, but poor Mrs. Lundy had been distraught over the state of the room even before he'd created this additional mess. Cursing to himself, he scooped up handfuls of paper and threw them into the trunk.

And then one particular scrap of paper caught his eye.

Dated nine years ago, it appeared to be a note promising payment of a gambling debt. There was nothing odd about that; his father had written scores of them, and often collected them when—and if—he paid off his debts. But this one was different from the rest. The payee was Mr. Gregory Lacey—Meg's father. And the amount owed was a staggering ten thousand pounds.

Will's fingers went numb. For Gods' sake, how could his father have played so deeply with the local vicar—and lost?

He examined the IOU more closely. Beneath his father's cursive, however, a few lines of unfamiliar handwriting were scrawled:

In lieu of payment of the aforementioned sum, the debtor, Lord Castleton, may arrange for the marriage of his son and heir to my daughter, Miss Margaret Lacey. Upon consummation of the marriage, the debt shall be considered paid.

G.L.

Jesus.
This
was why his father had tried to force him to marry Meg all those years ago. And when her parents had died in that horrible coach accident, his father had not thought it necessary to honor his debt, much less mention it. He'd been content to stand by and watch as Meg and her sisters lost their childhood home. He'd remained silent as they were shipped off to live with their uncle, who could barely support himself.

The discovery of the IOU answered many of Will's long-held questions, but it raised a few, too. Had his mother been aware of the debt? Had the coach accident that killed Meg's parents
really
been an accident? He dragged his hands down his face, unsure he wanted to know the answers.

He'd spent years trying to fix his father's mistakes, but how in hell could he ever begin to repay his father's debt to Meg and her sisters?

Will carefully folded the IOU and tucked it into his pocket next to the ring box. His mother was forever nagging him to visit more often.

Her wish was about to come true.

 

Chapter
TWENTY-NINE

 

An afternoon jaunt to the park had somehow become an elaborate production, partly due to the size of their party—five, including Meg, the twins, Mrs. Hopwood, and Harry—and partly due to the extravagant picnic that the nanny had suggested they ask Cook to pack. She reasoned that it would be easier for Meg to tell Charlotte about her ruined dress if everyone enjoyed a scone or two. It certainly couldn't hurt.

Meg spread out two large quilts. “Miss Winters and Abigail will be here soon,” she told the twins. “Shall we read a book until they come?”

Valerie heaved a sigh. “If we must. But I'd rather play catch with Mr. Harry.”

“It's fine with me, Miss Lacey.” The footman threw a ball high into the air and easily caught it behind his back, causing the girls to cheer wildly.

“How can I possibly compete with that?” Meg playfully shooed the girls away. “Go, have fun.”

“Hooray!” They ran after Harry and the ball like hoydens.

Meg sank onto the blanket, mentally rehearsing what she'd say to Charlotte, while Mrs. Hopwood sat on a nearby bench, plying her needle.

“There they are now,” Meg murmured, spying her friend and her young charge strolling down the path.

“Remember,” Mrs. Hopwood said sagely, “a dress is only a possession, an object. No matter how beautiful it is—”

“
Was
,” Meg corrected.

“—it can't destroy a true friendship.”

Several yards away, Charlotte waved cheerfully and pointed Abigail in the direction of Harry and the girls before joining Meg and Mrs. Hopwood.

Meg introduced the nanny, and Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “I didn't realize Lord Castleton was even interviewing for a nanny—how wonderful!”

“He's a decisive sort of gentleman,” Mrs. Hopwood mused. “Once he makes his mind up, he acts, which is how it should be, if you ask me.” She stood slowly, stretched, and set her needlework in her sewing basket. “I believe I'll stroll for a bit and leave you young ladies to talk. You must have much to discuss after last night's dinner party. I shan't be gone long.” Giving Meg an encouraging wink, she toddled off.

“I was so happy to receive your invitation.” Charlotte rubbed her hands together eagerly as she plopped herself onto the blanket. “I'm desperate to hear what you thought of the evening.”

Meg swallowed hard. “Charlotte, there's something I must tell you. The beautiful gown that you lent to me … Blast, there's no easy way to say it. I … I ruined it. I'm so sorry. I'll find a way to replace it or reimburse you, I pro—”

“Meg, it's really not—”

“It may take me a while—”

“
Please
do not fret. It's only a dress.” Charlotte clasped her hand and gave it a firm squeeze.

“A one-of-a-kind dress. You entrusted it to me, and now it's destroyed.” Meg swiped at the tears that threatened.

“Destroyed?” Charlotte repeated, incredulous. “What in heaven's name happened to it?

“There's a stain on the bodice the size of a dinner plate,” she choked out. “Chocolate.”

“Well, if a gown must be ruined, I can think of no better way than chocolate.” She shook her head solemnly, then giggled. “We should all be so lucky.”

Meg let out a long breath and smiled, feeling inordinately better. “Honestly, I can't imagine what I did to deserve a wonderful friend like you.”

“Like
me
? I'm a horrid person. If you need proof, I was just going to indulge in a nasty bit of gossip about last night.”

Bracing herself, Meg asked, “You were?”

“I must confess that I did not care for Lady Rebecca
or
her father a whit. And though it's uncharitable of me to say, it's the truth.”

“Oh, Charlotte. If you must know, I adore your uncharitable side.”

“Good, for I feel the need to expound on the utter ridiculousness of Lady Rebecca's gown. Honestly, have you ever seen anything so ghastly?”

*   *   *

After returning from the park, Mrs. Hopwood and Meg tucked the girls into their beds for a nap. The nanny settled into her rocking chair, declared she planned to rest her eyes, and suggested that Meg do the same.

A nap sounded heavenly. Meg kissed the girls and headed toward her bedchamber but was intercepted in the corridor by Mrs. Lundy.

“Ah, there you are,” the housekeeper said. “The earl wishes to see you in his study. He asked me to give you the message as soon as you'd returned.”

Meg's heart did a cartwheel, but she endeavored to look only mildly interested. “Oh? How odd. I shall go at once.”

She found him in his study, not sitting behind his desk as she'd expected, but standing near the window, looking much more serious than he had last night. Alarms sounded in her head. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was about. “Will, is everything all right? Mrs. Lundy said you wanted to see me.”

He waved her toward a seat and closed the door halfway, giving them some semblance of privacy without flouting convention entirely. He leaned on the corner of his desk, his expression softening. “I always want to see you. I can't stop thinking about last night.”

Her face heated. “Nor can I.”

“There's much we need to discuss—in another time and place, when we are truly alone.”

Meg nodded. She and Will seemed destined to have two distinct relationships—their intimate one in secret, and their distant one in public. It wasn't ideal, but she would rather have those few stolen moments with him than none at all.