The Revenge of Lord Eberlin (15 page)

“I was accompanied by my parents, of course,” Miss Babcock said demurely, smiling slyly at Lily. “Lord Eberlin has engaged my father to take his wool to the London market.” She helped herself to a stewed fig. “I think they shall be good friends. Oh, and Lady Horncastle and her son were in attendance.” She glanced up at Mrs. Morton through her lashes. “That is all.”

“Almost the same number that dined here when Mr. Morton and I had his lordship to supper.”

Lily resisted the urge to groan with impatience as the two women attempted to establish their respective influence with that beast of a man. A man who would kiss her as if she’d been the only woman in the world and then the very next evening entertain Miss Daria Babcock.

“Did he, by chance, mention the work on his mill—the one built upstream from Ashwood? Or his recent acquisition of land that has belonged to Ashwood for decades?”

“No,” Miss Babcock said thoughtfully. “He spoke only of selling so much wool. Too many sheep, he
said.” She giggled. “He said they’ve been too well fed, for they think of nothing but procreation.”

“Well, I’ve not had the pleasure of dining with him, but I
have
heard the most interesting bit of news regarding our Count Eberlin,” a woman on the other side of the hydrangeas said. Lily tried to see who was speaking, but a particularly large bloom hid the woman’s face. “I thought it rather curious that he has come from
Denmark
to an English estate, but all has been explained. I inquired of Mr. Sibley.”

Oh, Lily would enjoy hearing exactly how it had been explained!

“I don’t know why you should find it curious,” Mrs. Morton said. “And you could have asked me. His lordship was quite clear about it when he dined with us. He procured the estate as well as his title. He escaped the Continent, because Denmark is rather lawless, and what with all the wars, he thought it best.”

Mrs. Morton spoke as if she had firsthand knowledge of the situation on the Continent, or the supposed lawlessness of Denmark.

“That may be, Felicity, but the interesting bit of news is not how he came by his title and estate. It is that his surname is Scott.”

God in heaven, who was speaking?
Lily tried desperately to see around that ridiculous arrangement, but she could see nothing but the lace cuffs of the lady speaking.

“What of it?” Mrs. Morton asked, clearly annoyed that this woman would know more about Count Eberlin than she. “It is of little consequence, is it not, as the title he owns is the name he chooses to use.”

“You miss my point completely!” the woman protested. “His given name is Mr. Tobin Scott . . . the son of
Joseph
Scott.”

“Who is that?” Miss Babcock asked, as she, like Lily, tried to see around the flower arrangement.

“The wood-carver,” Lily said.

“Precisely,” the other woman agreed. “But of course you would be aware of it, your ladyship, given your unfortunate history at Ashwood.”

“What unfortunate history?” Miss Babcock demanded petulantly.

At last, someone was imparting the truth about Tobin!

Mrs. Morton’s gaze riveted on Lily. She did not look surprised; she looked, unfathomably, almost pleased. “Of course she knows about it, Sarah.”

Sarah Langley, the dress shop proprietress was speaking, Lily realized. Lily had expected that she would feel oddly vindicated somehow when the truth was known about Tobin, but she did not.

“I just recently learned of it myself,” Mrs. Langley said.

Mrs. Morton smiled at Lily. “Is it not heartening? To think of all that poor young man has had to overcome! It would seem impossible that he could rise to
such prominence with the disgrace his family suffered. What a remarkable story!”

“It is indeed,” Mrs. Langley said. “I am happy that he has brought his good fortune to Hadley Green. It is my belief that he desires to atone for his father’s unspeakable crime by helping us all. He’s lent money to various persons in need, and they say he does so without question—if someone is in need, he is very generous in his aid.”

Lily was beginning to grasp that to these women, Mr. Scott’s death was too long ago and of no consequence. But his son was an entirely different matter. He was a count now, a handsome figure of a man, and, to ladies like Miss Babcock, a highly desirable match. These ladies would not allow questions of his character or past to interfere with the prospect of his wealth; they would turn a blind eye as he slowly dismantled Ashwood, as long as they were treated like local royalty at Tiber Park and he lent their husbands money.

In that moment, Lily very much desired to kick something.

When luncheon was at last over and the ladies were shown to the drawing room, Lily sat beside Mrs. Langley and Mrs. Morton while Miss Babcock displayed passable talents on the pianoforte.

Lily smiled and applauded the performance; she responded as she ought to Mrs. Langley’s conversation. But privately, she was stewing. Tobin Scott had
ingratiated himself to the village, and when he completely ruined her, she had no doubt they would all believe she had somehow brought it on herself. They would never say an unkind word against a wealthy, unmarried,
titled
gentleman.

How on earth was she to prevent her complete ruin with no one to help her?

The situation was made all the worse when Mrs. Ogle finally deigned to speak to Lily.

Mrs. Ogle had been particularly stung by Keira’s deceit and had scarcely spoken a handful of words to Lily since her arrival. For the most part, she avoided Lily beyond the obligatory greeting and inquiring after her health. After lunch, however, Mrs. Ogle seemed more at ease and began to hold court with the others.

“A gentleman such as Count Eberlin will no doubt wish to marry soon,” she said. “I rather suspect that is the reason for the ball, so that he might see all that Hadley Green has to offer.”

“He didn’t mention that was the reason,” Miss Babcock said.

“Really, Daria, do you think he would say such a thing? Of course he would not.” Mrs. Ogle eyed Miss Babcock closely. “I am reminded of the demise of the late Mrs. Crawley. Mr. Crawley mourns her so. He told me that in the beginning, he hadn’t much interest in her. He said, very truthfully, that he was interested in her dowry. But Mrs. Crawley was quite determined
in
him,
and she wooed him to her with felicitous patience.”

“I do not think it proper for a lady to woo a gentleman,” Miss Babcock sniffed. “It should be the other way around.”

“One day you may see things in a different light, Miss Babcock,” Mrs. Langley said kindly.

“Perhaps I should say that Mrs. Crawley
endeared
herself to her husband,” Mrs. Ogle continued. “She did those things that men come to adore in a wife, and he, in turn, adored her beyond compare.”

“You will have to tell us all what that is, Mrs. Ogle,” Mrs. Morton said laughingly, “for I have not yet endeared myself to Mr. Morton despite twenty years of marital bliss.”

“I mean that she enticed him to love her,” Mrs. Ogle said. “Now, Daria, if you wish the count to love
you
—”

“Her!” Mrs. Morton said. “I rather thought Lady Ashwood.”

“Heavens, no, Felicity!” Mrs. Ogle said, appalled. “He will never be accepted in the society in which our Lady Ashwood moves. And besides, Lady Horncastle has told me herself that there is a rumble of interest from her son—”

Lily was so stunned by Mrs. Ogle’s dismissal of Tobin that she almost missed the remark about Lord Horncastle. “No,
no,
” she said, throwing up her hand.

“Well of course not, Lady Ashwood,” Mrs. Ogle
said, as if annoyed that Lily would think she’d implied anything. “There are much better opportunities coming for you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, my dear.” When no one spoke, Mrs. Ogle rolled her eyes. “The
Darlingtons.
There are
two
unmarried sons.”

“By all accounts, the youngest one is a bounder,” Mrs. Morton said.

“But Lord Christopher is not,” Mrs. Ogle retorted. “He is quite well respected, and he is very rich. And I hear that he may join his brother at Kitridge Lodge.”

The ladies suddenly all cooed and fluttered about like a covey of doves and exclaimed politely at what a wonderful opportunity that would be for Lily.

There was a time in her life when Lily would have agreed. She’d heard of Lord Christopher, and certainly she knew the Darlington name—they were a powerful family in England. Lord Christopher was precisely the sort of titled man that Mr. Fish had in mind for her: the sort that could solve all her problems.

Oddly, Lily couldn’t seem to summon much interest.

T
obin had taken to chopping down hedgerows.

It was the only thing that made him feel as if he had some control over his own body.

He’d needed to do something physical to prove to himself he wasn’t going mad. His malady was entirely emasculating and, alarmingly, had occurred in Lily’s presence. Not with the Babcocks, nor with his gentlemen guests. Only her.

And that Lily Boudine, of all people, would see him at his weakest was not to be borne.

As it happened, there was an old hedgerow of English yew that ran for a mile along the road to Tiber Park. It was six feet high and three feet deep, and Tobin disliked it immensely. He could see nothing on the other side of it, and he liked to look out at his vast property as he traveled that road. So he’d suggested to his head groundskeeper, Mr. Greenhaven, that it ought to come down.

He had not intended to do it himself, but the morning after his evening with Lily, there he’d been, chopping away at it, swinging the ax with as much force as he’d been able to muster, feeling each strike against the trunk reverberate through his body.

It was absurd that he should have done it, given the number of men he employed to do such things. And it was bloody inconvenient, for he had several far more important matters that needed his attention. Yet it had felt so rewarding that Tobin had come back the next day, and the next, clearing a few feet each day while a crew of gardeners had watched nervously from a distance, scurrying forward at intervals to clear away the debris. Mr. Greenhaven had been beside himself. He’d hovered about, assuring Tobin as he’d worked that he and his men could remove the hedge. Still, Tobin had refused to put down the ax. He’d walked out to that bloody hedgerow every day, removed his coat, his neckcloth, and his waistcoat, rolled up his sleeves, and picked up the ax.

It felt good. It made him feel alive and powerful. It was the only thing that seemed to give him some ease.

On the day MacKenzie and Bolge had ridden out to London to inspect the rerigging of one of his ships, they’d paused at the hedgerow where Tobin had been working. Bolge had laughed, but MacKenzie had calmly examined Tobin’s work, then looked curiously at his old friend. “I’ve never seen ye out of your wits, lad,” he’d said.

“I have all my wits about me,” Tobin had assured
him. “Work is good for the body humors. You might try it yourself one day.”

“If this is what a woman brings a man to do, I’ll keep to me scalawag habits, thank you.”

“This has nothing to do with a woman,” Tobin had snorted, ignoring the tiny twinge of conscience that said it did.

“No, of course no’,” MacKenzie had said, his eyes twinkling. “We’ll leave you to it, then.”

Bolge had touched the brim of his hat. “May you be delivered from the grip of this madness, Scottie.” He’d laughed and spurred his horse on after MacKenzie.

The madness was much deeper than those two suspected, Tobin had thought grimly, and it went far beyond a hedgerow.

Today, he’d cleared an extra six feet, having come from his daily visit to his mill.