The Last of Lady Lansdown (3 page)

Arthur gazed out the coach window, taking no notice of the beauty of the lush shades of green foliage lining the road to Chatfield Court, nor the ever-changing view of the River Hulm, which resembled a ribbon of sparkling blue on this warm summer day.

I was cursed from birth
. Everyone said he was the lucky one, the twin born first, the older son who inherited the title, mansion, vast estates, while James, born a minute later, was merely the second son, left with the dregs.

So was James the unlucky twin? No, by God, not with a wife who had borne him eight children! With all the delicacy of a rabbit, Beatrice popped out a baby every other year or so, all of them healthy, not a runt in the bunch. Among them, five sons. Five! Whereas he, Arthur, the honored and revered Earl of Lansdown, remained childless. No sons. Childless, by God, and not only that, forced to beam with delight at the christenings of his brother’s brats while he seethed inside, his envy nearly tearing him apart. Galling!

Of course Elizabeth was entirely to blame. His utterly barren first wife tried her best, he supposed, spending countless hours in useless prayer, stuffing herself with pomegranate seeds and God-knew-what concoctions. Nothing worked, and when she finally died, some said of desperation, he felt a certain amount of regret—yes, of course, he did—but even as he stood by her freshly dug grave, he vowed his next wife would be young, beautiful and fertile. Above all else,
fertile
.

Jane had deceived him. Even he, as intelligent and perceptive as a man could be, was fooled by her beauty and surface charm. There was a time when he was so smitten he thought he could not do without her. Even married her without a dowry. She seemed perfect at first. Miss Jane Hart, daughter of a baronet, had a coming-out and a season in London where she’d been the belle of the ball and could have caught any one of the many beaux who pursued her. Only after he married her, when it was too late, had he discovered her cold witch’s heart.

A year passed, but he still remembered his much-anticipated wedding night when he thought he could, with a little luck, impregnate his new bride, and thus end the humiliation he had suffered because of the fecundity of his twin brother. Instead—he still shuddered at the memory—he found he could not perform. To say he was shocked was an understatement. Never had there been the slightest hint of a problem with his first wife. True, after Elizabeth died, he had experienced a bit of difficulty with his mistresses, but they were only whores who could pleasure him in other ways, so what did it matter whether or not—he allowed a caustic laugh to escape his lips—he could rise all the way to the occasion.

A wave of smoldering anger coursed through him. All Jane’s fault. How could he be expected to achieve an erection when he was bedded with an iceberg who lay there with that get-it-over-with look on her face? To be honest, at first she made some pretense of welcoming his advances, but later on, he could feel her flinch when he touched her. Now the feeling was mutual, even though just last week ... He reflected upon his partial success the week before. He surprised himself, but even so, at best his performance bordered on pitiful. So nothing had really changed. Over time, his love had turned to hate, and who could blame him?

Now he took great pleasure in finding ways to hurt her. When she needed a lady’s maid, he hired Bruta, the ugliest, most odious woman he could find. Then he sold Jane’s horse. He had to smile every time he recalled the stricken look on her face when he informed her Beauty was gone, sold at Tattersall’s in London to someone—he could not recall whom. It was the first and last time he saw tears in her eyes.

“Why?” she asked.

“Riding a horse is not conducive to a woman’s good health. Especially one in her child-bearing years, such as you. It is for your own good. You are not to ride anymore.”

She said no more, although the pain in her eyes clearly showed her dismay. Served her right. She was the most frustrating woman he had ever known, and the most galling.

Well, she would soon get what she deserved. Oh, yes! He smiled and patted the pocket containing the Spanish Fly. He could hardly wait for tonight.

* * * *

Later in the day, Jane stood chatting with Mrs. Stanhope, the head housekeeper, in the entryway of Chatfield Court. She employed her usual tact in discussing what to the servants was indeed an unpleasant subject—the plans for the upcoming visit of James and Beatrice Elton.

Mrs. Stanhope had worked at Chatfield Court for many years. Once she confided in Jane how, while the first Countess of Lansdown was alive, the servants of Chatfield Court sent up endless prayers that she would bear a healthy child—a boy, of course. Their pious concern was based less on a genuine desire for her ladyship’s happiness than the fervent hope that her persistent foul temper and shrill histrionics would disappear if only she could present his lordship with an heir. Such an event was never to be. When the countess died without issue, the servants heaved private sighs of relief.

The servants’ joyful respite came to an end when the earl’s twin brother and wife came to stay shortly thereafter. Their eight unruly children were mostly grown, but Beatrice Elton herself proved to be far more loathsome than the late countess on her worst day. “We always knew where we stood with her ladyship,” Mrs. Stanhope confided. “She might have screamed at us, but at least she did not parade around as if she were Queen of England.”

Much to the Eltons’ rage and dismay, the earl remarried and packed them off to their modest home in London even before the new Countess of Lansdown arrived. What the housekeeper did not tell Jane was how the servants’ delight knew no bounds when they met her. At only twenty-five, she was the very antithesis of the unstable first countess and the insufferable Mrs. Elton. Pleasant, even-tempered and kind, she undertook to run Chatfield Court with a firm but gentle hand, restoring peace and harmony to what had been a miserable, disordered household. Not to mention that she was a delight to look upon: tall and slender with rich, auburn colored hair, full, rosy lips and large, intelligent, wide-set blue eyes.

“The Eltons arrive tomorrow, Mrs. Stanhope. I trust all will be in readiness?”

“Indeed, m’lady.” The plump, gray-haired housekeeper could not quite conceal a frown. “How many of the children will be coming?”

“Only Percy.” Jane disliked giving Mrs. Stanhope such distressing news. Of the Eltons’ eight detestable children, Percy was the standout. As a boy, he had played nasty tricks on his younger brothers and sisters, as well as the servants. Rumors abounded concerning his cruelty to small animals—rumors that were promptly denied and quashed by his adoring parents. As an adult he had not changed. His sly ways and sarcastic comments made him impossible to like. Jane didn’t care for him at all, taking pains to avoid being alone with him in the same room. “I recall your mentioning that all the Elton children were quite lively when they were small.”

“ ‘Lively’ is hardly the word, m’lady. We tried to confine them to the fourth floor, but their mother thought nothing of letting them run screaming and yelling throughout the mansion—all eight of them—and no hand lifted to discipline them, I might add.” Mrs. Stanhope huffed indignantly. “During their visits, his lordship kept to his study. The first countess—if I may be frank—only added to the uproar with her constant screaming.”

“Well, at least they are all grown now.”

“Thank the Lord.”

Just then, the sounds of dogs barking, horses neighing and footmen shouting announced the arrival of Lord Lansdown’s coach rolling to a rumbling stop at the front portico.

“There are matters I must attend to.” Accompanied by the jingling sound of the many keys dangling from Mrs. Stanhope’s belt, she beat a hasty retreat.

Jane felt a flutter of anxiety, as she always did when about to confront her husband. She, too, would have liked to make a hasty retreat, but that would only postpone the inevitable. She stood waiting, her gaze sweeping the vast entry hall of Chatfield Court, a dark corridor dominated by a massively beamed ceiling, huge stained glass windows of Gothic design, a curved staircase and above, a galleried hall hung with sober-faced portraits of the many Earls of Lansdown. They began with the first earl, deceased in 1581, and ended with Arthur, the sixth and present earl, whom many would have liked to see dead.

Griggs, the butler, hastened to open the door. His lordship strode inside. Jane noticed he held a small package in his hand—rather unusual considering he ordinarily deigned not to carry his own purchases. That was the work of his footmen, not his exalted self.

Jane forced a smile, wondering if the surprise the earl talked about was in the package. A pretty bobble of some sort? No, not that. Since their wedding and his initial generosity, Arthur had stopped giving her any sort of gift. Besides, she still had the feeling the “surprise” would not be a pleasant one. Whatever it was, she reminded herself, this was all her own doing and she must make the best of it. After all, she had known when she married the Earl of Lansdown that she did not love him.
At least you respected him
. What she had not counted on was how, over the one year of their marriage, her respect gradually shifted to a vague distaste, spiraled down to a definite dislike, to ... did she now hate him? For a moment she closed her eyes in utter misery. With all her heart, she yearned to love her husband, but how could she love a man who constantly looked down his hawkish nose at her as if she were a lesser being? Who sold her horse and kept her in the country like a prisoner? Who gave her the world’s most awful lady’s maid, and, worst of all, who summoned her to his bedchamber for those unwelcome nights when she performed what Mama delicately referred to as her “wifely duties.”
No! Don’t even think of it
.

“Hello, my pet.” The earl’s small, granite eyes fastened upon her with what seemed like unusual interest.

“Your Lordship.” Jane dipped a quick, near invisible curtsy. She nodded at the package in his hand. “I see you’ve been shopping.”

He returned a smile that seemed almost a smirk. “Indeed I have. It’s the little surprise I mentioned and it’s just for you.”

She had long since become expert at detecting the falseness in his voice. She heard it now. “How nice.”

The smile faded. “I shall expect you in my bedchamber directly after our dinner guests leave.” He twisted on his heel and left, his bony fingers still clutching the mysterious package.

Frozen, she stared after him. Something in his voice ... something in the way he looked at her ... made her stomach clench.

The butler appeared. “Cook wants to know how many will be at dinner tonight.”

“Let’s see ... I believe the family plus seventeen guests.” Arthur entertained often. Not, she suspected, because he liked people all that much; he simply liked to show off the opulence of his mansion, the quantity of his servants and, of course, the priceless Lansdown jewels, which had been in the family for generations. She had never seen the entire collection. Only on special occasions, such as when guests came for dinner, did he select a piece for her to wear.

“Thank you, Griggs.” She hoped the guests would all stay late tonight. Anything to delay receiving her husband’s so-called “surprise.”

Chapter 3

Alone in the dim candlelight of his bedchamber, the Earl of Lansdown picked up one of two silver-rimmed wineglasses and flicked it with his fingertip. He nodded agreeably at the exquisitely clear ping!
Nothing but the best for my lovely bride
. His lip curled in a sardonic twist. The set of fine wineglasses had belonged to Elizabeth, who had only brought them out on special occasions. If ever there was a special occasion, this was it.

The earl picked up the bottle of Madeira he’d had Griggs bring up from the wine cellar. He poured the wine into the glasses, each to half full, and raised a glass. Swirling its contents, he admired the deep golden color of the Madeira and savored the faint aroma of oak teasing his nostrils.

It was time. She would be here shortly. He reached into the pocket of his brocade dressing gown and pulled out the vial. Removing the cork, he balanced the vial on the rim of one wineglass and with great care tipped it slowly. The drops fell one at a time. One ... two ... three ... four ... finally ten, each one sinking quickly into the golden depths of the wine. What did Felton say? Ten drops?
By God, if ten drops were good, then twenty would be twice as good
. He allowed ten more drops to fall into the glass, noting with satisfaction that the color of the Madeira appeared unaltered.

After he tipped the twentieth drop into the glass—adding one more for good measure—he slipped the vial back in his pocket and looked around his bedchamber to see if all was in order. Fire burning in the fireplace ... the covers folded back invitingly on his huge, elevated bed ... Ah, the jewelry box. Not even Griggs knew its location. Best return it to its hiding spot now, what with his brother and family arriving tomorrow. Not that James would steal, but he would not put anything past that greedy, conniving wife of his.

As usual, he could not resist opening the lid of the carved wooden box to admire the glittering family jewels. He fingered his special favorite, the blue heart diamond ring—originally one of the French crown jewels. He ran his finger over another favorite, a pearl and amber necklace once owned by a Russian czarina. He had allowed Jane to wear it at dinner. Not that she deserved to wear it, but how else could he display the family treasures? He closed the lid, carried the box to the fireplace, and set the box down. With both hands, he slid up one of the large stones from the hearth. Then he picked up the box and dropped it into the large, empty cavity beneath, replacing the stone.
A fine hiding place
. He was the only one who knew of it. Someday he would make other arrangements. After all, he would not live forever, but no need to worry now. He heard a discreet knock on his door. “Enter!”

She glided in, holding herself tall, lovely as always. At dinner she had looked strikingly beautiful with her upswept hair intertwined with pearls, the pearl and amber necklace around her swanlike neck and a gown of white satin displaying her magnificent breasts to perfection. Now she had changed into her tartish, red velvet dressing gown, the one he ordered specially made for her. He insisted she wear it whenever she came to his bedchamber. She had not said as much, but he knew she hated it. How she must despise him. His mouth pulled into a cynical smile. He would change her hate to panting desire before the night was over.