The Earl's Mistress (42 page)

There was no sign of his cousin Royden, not that Hepplewood had held out much hope.

Back out on the street, he ordered Brooks to go up to the mews and get his curricle to fetch Isabella from Knightsbridge in all haste.

“What’s to become of that chap?” asked Marsh, watching Brooks go.

“We shall see,” said Hepplewood. “For now, train him up as an under-coachman. He’ll manage the leathers well enough, but I doubt he has much Town experience.”

“Reckon then you can pension me off,” suggested Marsh a little sourly.

“You may certainly make that choice,” said Hepplewood evenly, “but I shan’t make it for you. If all goes according to plan, I’ll soon have need of another driver.”

“
Hmph,
” said the coachman as Hepplewood went up the stairs. “Well. I’d best go help with the curricle. Like as not the poor clod’ll be hitching up the wagon instead.”

“I trust you’ll get him straightened out, Marsh.” Inside, Hepplewood handed his hat to the butler. “And no word at all from Jervis?”

“No, my lord, still in Liverpool so far as I know,” replied Fording. “Shall I fetch your valet?”

“Yes, I want a bath and a sandwich—in that order, and quickly.” Hepplewood started up the stairs. “Unless I miss my guess, there’ll be a magistrate on the doorstep within the next thirty minutes. Put him in my study.”

“Yes, sir.” Fording was pinching Hepplewood’s favorite—and somewhat travel-worn—hat as if it were infested.

“And Mrs. Aldridge will be arriving shortly,” Hepplewood continued, starting up the staircase. “You will remember meeting her at Loughford. She is Miss Caroline’s aunt and the mother of the two little girls.”

“The governess, my lord?” Fording was clearly intrigued.

“That is no longer the position for which she is being considered,” said Hepplewood. “Take her straight to the schoolroom if I’m not down. Oh, and we’ve taken on an under-coachman by the name of Brooks. Kindly see to replacing his livery at once.”

Hepplewood bathed and dressed with remarkable speed, then bolted down half a sandwich with a lack of decorum that would have done Fluffles proud. He was very sure Tafford would turn up; his mother would give him no choice. And when he did, Hepplewood meant to look every inch a peer of the realm—and a rich one, too.

“My best charcoal frock coat,” he said to his valet.

There wasn’t a chance in hell a London magistrate would take those girls from Isabella, he reassured himself as the valet slipped the elegant garment up his sleeves. And yet it felt just now as though his entire life was riding upon his ability to get this right.

Yes, he had thrown down the gauntlet—and a rather large bluff—all at once. And though a decade of hard gaming and hard living had instilled in him the ability to mask his every emotion, there was still a cold fear gnawing in the pit of his belly.

A fear of losing both Isabella and the girls.

A fear of losing what he’d hardly known he wanted.

But he did want it, by God—and he would have it, he prayed, though it might very much depend on what Jervis had discovered.

Tafford, however, would prove far less a challenge than Isabella would, he felt sure. And as to himself—well, he did not deserve what he wanted. He never did. But he had become selfish again; he needed Isabella with a desperation that was swiftly overcoming his good sense.

Yes, perhaps it was not Tafford who had instilled that gnawing fear after all.

He had no sooner started back down the grand staircase when he heard the knocker drop. He lingered on the landing, one ear attuned to the rising swell of conversation—none of it amiable, and one of the voices instantly recognizable.

“Ah, Tafford, your audacity knows no bounds,” said Hepplewood, coming briskly down his stairs. “Have you brought your magistrate, then?”

“This is Mr. Horace Wells, your lordship,” sniffed Fording, handing his master a card. “And Lord Tafford, whom I gather you know.”

Tucking the card into his pocket, Hepplewood cast an assessing eye over Mr. Horace Wells. If ever there had been a more unhappily disposed bureaucrat, Hepplewood had not met him. The gentleman was slight and balding, with a look of something approaching fear upon his face. Poor devil.

“Mr. Wells, I regret you’ve been dragged from hearth and home for nothing,” said Hepplewood more gently. “The children in question are in my care, and they are well.”

“But they are
not
your children,” interjected Tafford, leaping forward a good foot, one fist balled. “Georgina is my ward and my cousin. And you have no claim whatever on Jemima.”

“Nor have you,” Hepplewood calmly countered. “Moreover, the children have been for five years in the care of their elder sister, a well-bred widow who—”

“Well-bred my eye!” interjected Tafford. “Isabella Aldridge is in trade. She owns a bookshop. And now I collect the woman means to become nothing but your wh—”

“My what—?” Hepplewood coldly interjected. “Finish that sentence, Tafford, and you’ll have a problem from which only the grave, not the magistrate, will extract you.”

“Lord Hepplewood, with all respect,” said the magistrate, holding up both hands as if to forestall blows, “this is indeed a curious business. Do you deny this man is the girl’s guardian?”

“Technically, he may be,” Hepplewood acknowledged, “but that is for the courts to sort out.”

Looking apoplectic now, Tafford launched into a rambling explanation of why the children should be given to him forthwith, and how horrifically they were suffering under their sister’s care.

When he was done, Hepplewood turned a cold smile on the magistrate. “You understand, Mr. Wells, who I am?” he asked quietly. “You understand that my uncle is the Earl of Duncaster and that his heir, my cousin, is highly placed in the Home Office?”

“Yes, that’s right,” snarled Tafford. “Trot out your influential names if you will, Hepplewood, but Wells will not be intimidated.”

“I haven’t the slightest wish to intimidate him, Tafford,” said Hepplewood. “It is my intent to intimidate
you
. And to make plain the full force and authority that will be brought to bear upon you and anyone who inserts himself into my path with regard to those children and their happiness.”

“Georgina’s welfare is my gravest concern,” said Tafford, “and none of yours.”

“Your concern?” said Hepplewood pointedly. “Then perhaps you would care to explain to this poor, put-upon magistrate why, for nearly five years, you left the child in a shabby farm cottage in Fulham with a leaking roof, peeling paint, and barely any food on the table?”

“Well . . . she was with Isabella,” said Tafford, paling a little.

“Yes, the woman you just accused of being unfit to raise her,” said Hepplewood. “And yet you did not see fit, in all your grave concern, to provide a proper governess and a proper education for the child? You did not see fit to provide clothing or shelter befitting her circumstance?”

“I am trying to do precisely that,” said Tafford, “but you are interfering.”

“No, you are trying to force Mrs. Aldridge to marry you,” said Hepplewood.

“Yes, well, because that is what is best for the children,” he countered.

“Why?” said Hepplewood sharply. “I fail to see what one has to do with the other, Tafford. Either you want what is best for the children, or you do not. Either you mean to provide it, or you do not. But you’ve given Georgina not so much as a loaf of bread in all these years and have instead brought more and more pressure to bear on Mrs. Aldridge.”

Tafford looked at the magistrate. “
Do
something,” he snapped.

“Don’t look at Mr. Wells,” said Hepplewood, “for he is not about to remove those children from the only loving relation they’ve known for the past five years—not without an order from Chancery.”

“And I shall get one,” returned Tafford. “You know, Hepplewood, that I shall.”

“But not fast enough,” he said quietly, “to keep Isabella from marrying me.”

A sudden hush fell over the front hall.

“Yes, pray go on with your argument, Tafford,” said Hepplewood. “But trust me when I assure you that your solicitor won’t so much as get the proper complaint drawn before Isabella and I are wed and your chance of gaining control of her fortune is at an end.”

“You . . . You would not marry her,” sputtered Tafford. “She—why, she is a nobody.”

“But I make a habit of marrying rich nobodies,” said Hepplewood acidly. “Ask anyone. No, Tafford, you have badly misplayed your hand here.”

He waited for panic to sketch over Tafford’s pasty face, then he laughed.

“No, you were initially uncertain there actually
was
an inheritance, weren’t you?” Hepplewood went on. “So you and your gorgon of a mother have been weaseling information—by pretending, I suspect, to be Isabella. Perhaps even pretending you were already married to her. And making her Canadian relations think she never
left
Thornhill. I can prove none of that as yet, but I am a very patient man, Tafford. Are you?”

“I—I shall see you in Chancery, Hepplewood,” said Tafford, but much of the wrath had left him. “Mr. Wells, what do you mean to do about this business?”

“I do not care to be used as a tool for someone else’s machinations,” said the magistrate darkly. “I wish to see the children, Lord Hepplewood—
privately
. I insist upon it. I will assure myself as to their welfare. And then I will see this mysterious sister.”

“As soon as she arrives,” said Lord Hepplewood.

“But I am already here.” Isabella’s voice came from the staircase.

Heart sinking, Hepplewood turned to see her perched on his landing like some delicate bird. She had one hand laid lightly upon the banister, but in her eyes was a look of unholy wrath.

“My dear,” he managed smoothly. “I do beg your pardon.”

“It is Everett who should be begging my pardon,” she said coldly. “And yes, I should very much like Mr. Wells to meet my sisters. Perhaps he might care to examine the bruises Lord Tafford’s mother left on Jemima when she gagged her mouth and bound her hands? Or see Georgina’s tear-swollen eyes? Then yes, he may indeed decide if Everett wants what’s best for them.”

“Good Lord!” Wells shot Tafford a thunderous look.

“Might I take Mr. Wells back up to your schoolroom, Lord Hepplewood?” she asked, but there was another, darker question in her eyes. “The girls are tired—and terrified now, Everett, thanks to you. Kindly go away and leave my sisters alone. They hate you, in case you had not noticed.”

Tafford said nothing.

She looked again at Hepplewood. “I left word at the Home Office for Lord Saint-Bryce to come here as soon as he returns,” she said. “I’m sure your cousin can be depended upon to do so.”

Hepplewood bowed. “Thank you, my dear,” he said. “Fording, take Mrs. Aldridge and Mr. Wells up to the schoolroom, and arrange for them some private place to speak.”

“Isabella, this is madness,” Everett finally said. “He—why, he won’t marry you! And you would not be fool enough to marry such a vile excuse of a gentleman.”

Calmly, Isabella turned around. “And that,” she said quietly, “is the pot calling the kettle black if ever I heard it.”

“Tafford,” said Hepplewood grimly, “I think you’d better await Mr. Wells in the street outside.”

With that, he seized Tafford by the arm and propelled him toward the front door. Fording threw it open with a tight smile, and Hepplewood pushed his unwanted houseguest out.

Everett stepped down onto the pavement, still swearing them all to the devil, but he looked beaten, bloated, and a little ill.

“Good day to you, sir,” said Hepplewood curtly. “Don’t expect a wedding invitation.”

After cutting him one last black look, Everett turned and started down the pavement toward the mews on the other side of Curzon Street. Just then, a hackney cab turned up from Piccadilly, but Tafford did not look back.

Hepplewood stood on the last step, merely observing the carriage’s approach and scarcely daring to breathe. The denizens of Clarges Street did not generally use cabs. Lower servants took the omnibus. Or simply walked.

But professional men, on the other hand  . . .

Yes, the cab was slowing, though it seemingly took forever. As it neared, and he espied Jervis’s face staring out the glass, Hepplewood hastened down to fling open the door himself. Relief surged with hope when he saw the rotund, tired fellow seated beside his secretary.

“Mr. Jervis,” he said, “welcome home.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said the secretary, climbing down. “This is Mr. Colfax of Spratt, McCann and Colfax in Montreal. I had the good fortune of finding him yesterday upon his disembarkation in Liverpool.”

Hepplewood exhaled at last; whatever Isabella’s situation was, it would shortly be made clear—though the fact that Everett had not denied knowledge of an inheritance made Hepplewood all the more certain he had surmised rightly.

He put out his hand. “Hepplewood,” he said simply. “Do come inside, Mr. Colfax.”

ISABELLA LEFT
MR.
Wells ensconced with Jemima and a pot of tea in the governess’s sitting room. He had scowled upon seeing Georgina’s eyes, but he had puffed up with wrath upon examining Jemima’s wrists.

When he had asked to speak privately with Jemima, the girl had smiled. “Nothing would please me more,” she’d said upon catching Isabella’s worried gaze. “I am sure I can set Mr. Wells at ease with regard to Lord Tafford’s actions today—and his inactions these many years.”

Reluctantly, Isabella had acquiesced and stepped out, leaving the door open to Nanny and the younger girls, who were again playing happily.

“I will be just downstairs, Mr. Wells,” she had said.

But Wells had waved her off with the look of a man who was merely going through his bureaucratic motions.

It had been a horrific and trying day, Isabella thought as she went back down the stairs—and if the snippets of conversation she’d overheard earlier meant what she thought they did, then the trials were hardly over. She and Hepplewood were about to have some strong words.

But Isabella did not know the half of it, she realized, as she approached the main staircase. She looked down to see that Lord Hepplewood and his secretary Jervis were entering the front door below, speaking in sharp tones with a wan-looking fellow Isabella had never seen before.