The Thirteenth Earl
Read The Thirteenth Earl Online
Authors: Evelyn Pryce
ALSO BY EVELYN PRYCE
A Man Above Reproach
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright
© 2016 Kristin K. Ross
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503952034
ISBN-10: 1503952037
Cover design by Laura Klynstra
The Setting
England, 1884. A country estate near Bath. The season is about to change from summer to fall. Some leaves have already drained of color and fallen to the ground, serving as portents to the greenery that still clings to the trees. We are concerned with Spencer House, a lone manor on a hill, where the newlywed Earl and Countess Spencer are throwing a house party.
The Players
- Jonathan Vane, Viscount Thaxton, future thirteenth Earl Vane
- Miss Cassandra Seton, daughter of the Marquess of Dorset
- Dinah Seton, Marchioness of Dorset
- Percival Spencer, Earl Spencer, childhood friend of Thaxton
- Eliza Spencer, Countess Spencer, Percival’s wife
- Miles Markwick, Miss Seton’s fiancé
- Lucy Macallister, a spiritual medium
- Sutton, a valet
Chapter One
He was going to take out all of his hostility on Percival. Truthfully, Percy was probably the only one who could handle it.
Thaxton raised the sword, fixing the guard against the tip. “Are you sure you want to fence in the library?” he asked, one last time.
“We cannot go outside right now. My relatives are all over the lawn, poking around the estate. We have to hide, of course, but you need to do
somet
hin
g
. En garde,” he said.
Percival Spencer—Lord Spencer to those who had not grown up by his side—was possibly the most carefree person Thaxton had ever known.
Jonathan Vane, who had been the Viscount Thaxton since his father required he begin using his courtesy title at university, had never been carefree. Eldest sons were always entitled to use one of their father’s honorifics in the case of the highest ranks of the peerage. Thaxton thought the endless procession of names and rules only caused more trouble. His title would eventually be Earl Vane, the thirteenth such luminary. Spencer said it was not so bad, being an earl. Thaxton had been told something different.
“You are a mess,” Spencer went on. “London is terrible for you; country air will do you good. Expend the energy you waste moping about your cursed life in some other manner.”
Thaxton put the sword at his side, looking down at his wardrobe. His friend probably had a point, but perhaps he just did not care if it looked as if he had stepped off Cork Street. He no longer cared what anyone thought of him.
He had fired his valet months ago and retained only the servants necessary to keep his London rooms reasonably clean. The Vane family’s longtime cook made sure the earl and his son ate, but Thaxton thought it best that they kept a minimal amount of staff. People already gossiped enough.
“You are too thin,” Spencer continued, relentless in his lecture. “Too thin by half and you have not left your apartments in more than six months. We could carry water from the well by using the bags under your eyes, chap. Do you know that society has begun to call you the Ghost?
The Ghost
, Jonathan. People are talking. Everyone is talking—except you.”
Thaxton sighed. He swooshed the sword through the air to hear the sound again. Spencer had fooled him. Drawn him out of the house, trapped him at his country estate for a godforsaken party that would last a fortnight to give him the same speech again. Thaxton had already heard it via letter and his friend’s random personal visits. Spencer would not honor his request for solitude.
“You know my father is ill. The Earl Vane is mad, Percy. You have seen him.”
“Yes, but that does not mean
your
life is over.”
“He is mad,” Thaxton averred, tapping the sword against his leg. “He is mad, he cannot take care of himself, and he cannot be among society. I am handling all estate business. He cannot even be trusted to go for a walk. I am the earl in everything but name, and he has three servants dedicated to his whims round the clock.”
Spencer shook his head, refusing to get into the conversation again. He raised his blade.
“En garde, Thaxton.”
Thaxton looked at Spencer for a moment—his oldest friend, facing him with a thin, dangerous blade. When they were children, before they understood the burden of their titles, they would fence with sticks by the river that ran past the cemetery in the back of Spencer House—the Vanes’ country seat a mere fifteen-minute walk away, their families so close they may as well have been one. Dozens of their ancestors lay under the ground that they played on; the two boys pretended to kill each other like knights five feet away from where real ones took eternal rest.
Thaxton stepped one foot back, arranging for the best equilibrium, and lunged forward at Spencer. He blocked in a fluid motion, and a clang rang through the air of the library. Vastly satisfying. A vase shuddered on a pedestal in the corner.
“If your wife finds us in here, she will kill us both,” Thaxton said, beginning to enjoy himself. “With our own swords.” He crossed his blade with Spencer’s and used it to push the earl back. He staggered, clipping his knee on his desk. A stack of papers fluttered to the floor.
“Eliza will understand,” he said, straining a bit as he lunged forward again, one bead of sweat trailing down his cheek. “Besides, there is no way she could know—”
“Is that so?” asked the countess from the doorway.
Thaxton used the opportunity, somewhat unfairly, to attack. Spencer parried without even looking at him, smiling at his wife. Eliza inclined her head with fondness, and Thaxton attacked the earl again, on principle. Such happiness as the Spencers displayed always made him more indignant.
Spencer defended again without looking. “Hello, Countess,” he said with a grin. “The viscount and I would never be so crass as to duel in the library.”
“That vase has been in your family for more than a hundred years, Percival.”
Eliza glided into the room, and Thaxton frowned at Spencer’s transfixed expression. The affliction of love between the new husband and wife permeated any room they were in together. Thaxton knew he was a drunk and a bore, but he had some pride. No woman could ever make him heel the way Eliza had made Spencer.
“Oh, and hello, Miss Seton,” Spencer added, leaning to include the form obscured by his wife. “We are unbearably inconsiderate. Miss Seton, the man across from me with the weapon is Jonathan Vane, Viscount Thaxton, horrible rogue and worse swordsman. Thaxton, this is Miss Cassandra Seton, my wife’s indispensable friend from Cheltenham, the daughter of the Marquess of Dorset.”
Probably as dull as a horseshoe and indoctrinated by that finishing school,
Thaxton thought. He could see half of Miss Cassandra Seton’s tiny form, almost as if she were hiding in the statuesque Eliza’s skirts, which, admittedly, were excessive. Thaxton often thought that women’s clothing was designed to thwart men, not attract them.
“Miss Seton is betrothed to Mr. Markwick,” Eliza mentioned innocently, “who is finally back in England.”
Of course, she would have no idea that this would be the distraction Spencer needed to knock the sword from Thaxton’s hand. It went skittering across the room, stopping short of Miss Seton’s little tailored boots.
“My sympathies,” Thaxton murmured in the direction of Miss Seton, pushing down the bile that rose in his throat at Eliza’s words.
This woman was Miles Markwick’s fiancée. So, that meant his cousin was home. Thaxton would much rather he had stayed in Scotland. It had been a respite when Miles had run away to the wilds. When Markwick—the most grating man Thaxton had ever come into contact with—was anywhere around him, they could not stop sniping at each other.
Miss Seton stepped out from behind Eliza to pick up the weapon. She wore a day dress of foulard with blue satin trimming, a similar color to the eyes that met his. She handed him back his sword carefully. He had hoped she would be hideous; he had hoped she would be covered in warts. Miles Markwick deserved a wife who would make him miserable to the end of his days.
This woman was none of these things. Her black hair framed the most intriguing face Thaxton had ever seen—neither austere nor cupid, but some sort of in-between.
He took the sword back too quickly, like a child with a toy.
“Viscount Thaxton,” she said. “We are soon to be family, as I understand. Do you know your cousin well?”
He could not quite make out her expression. She did not sound friendly. It had been quite some time since Thaxton had spoken to a woman who was neither a relation nor a bed partner. He had no idea how to get a read on her.
“I wager I know him better than you,” he said, feeling a bit argumentative, a quality that Miles always brought out in him. “As I understand it, Markwick ran off to Scotland . . . to stall an arranged marriage.”
If Spencer had heard him, the conversation would be over. Thaxton knew he was being far too personal—impertinent, even. Fortunately, the earl was listening with a very interested expression to whatever his wife was whispering in his ear.
“Just so,” Miss Seton said without so much as a blink of her long eyelashes. “I am that arranged marriage. We were promised when we were both in the cradle. I have met him twice.”
Thaxton set the sword down on the table to look away from her keen, assessing gaze for a moment. Her frankness astounded him. It was not a feature of many women of his acquaintance, with the possible exception of Countess Spencer.
He, however, liked it very much.
“How fortunate for you,” he said, not sorry for his smirk. She had a face that wanted a flirt, and he was glad to deliver it. “Soon you will know him all too well, and you will find yourself remembering these days with fondness.”
“If you use that wit with your tailor, my lord, I see why your clothing does not fit.”
He laughed. “I fired him. Why the ‘miss,’ if I may ask? You are the daughter of a marquess; are you not a lady?”
“Not in the sense they define it. I prefer the ‘miss.’ I do not like the honorific.”
“Little rebel.”
Thank goodness for Spencer’s continued inattention.
“I do not suppose your parents approve of that.”
“They do not pay attention to my wishes.” She gave a small smile. “But my friends do. My very best friends call me Cassie.”
“Then I shall start with Miss Seton, and endeavor to Cassie.”
Miss Seton frowned. Thaxton thought he must be out of practice. He used to throw one of those smirks from twenty paces without a doubt that it would land well. This one did not.
“Good day, Lord Thaxton,” she said, turning abruptly to rejoin Eliza.
He smiled at her back. If he was to be stranded in Bath, Miss Seton was, too.
Cassandra excused herself from Spencer’s library, ignoring Eliza’s worried look. She needed a moment alone, and the gardens beckoned. Eliza had planted them specifically to attract butterflies; the air felt soft as she entered the green shadowy paths.
Miles would be there tomorrow, after she had not set eyes on him in nine years. The last time she had seen him, he had clasped her hand and promised he would return. That he needed to seek his fortune and assess his decrepit Scottish estate, abandoned by his father when the upkeep had gotten to be too much. He would come back for her, he had reassured.
Tomorrow would be a promise fulfilled, nine torturous years later.
Cassandra sat down on a bench in a little copse. She knew she should be happy. She had instead rocketed through every emotion but happiness since learning the news of his return, anger being the primary offender. Nine years alone since her age of majority, nine years trapped in limbo, obligated to marry this man she did not even know.
She had to turn down Lord Beaumont when he swore his devotion, even though he would have made a fine husband. Thomas Amberson, a baronet, would have been able to provide enough for a sensible life, but Cassandra had told him no as well. She had no choice. Her father had promised away both her and her dowry in a businesslike deal at her age of majority.
“Excuse me, Miss Seton.”
And on top of it all, Lord Thaxton. The viscount had followed her. Perhaps it was the setting, but his dark-brown hair reminded her of a garden, this one gone to seed—tendrils curling at his neck, untamed. Thaxton’s cravat had been tied by careless hands and not by any self-respecting valet.
The combination should not have been attractive.
“Forgive me,” he continued. “I should not have been so flip about Miles. As you know, he is my cousin, but we have not had an easy history.”
“Apology accepted,” she said. She hoped he would leave it at that. Instead, he sat down beside her, in a cloud of whisky and some scent beneath—what? Something exotic, new to her nostrils.
“I can tell you about him,” he said, folding his hands as if he was a proper gentleman, which he was visibly not. “You must be curious.”
“About Miles? I will soon find out all about him, I am sure. He arrives on the morrow and will stay with us the length of the house party. The Spencers have been very accommodating.”
“Percy is too permissive. I would never have Markwick at my house.” Thaxton tilted his head toward her, and she could not avoid a panoramic view of his sharp jaw, covered as it was with beard growth. Cassandra blessed the beard, because she did not want to be exposed to the naked power of that face.
“You apologize,” she said, instead of anything that she had been thinking, “then continue to be rude.”
“Merely honest.” He smiled, a strange, lenient thing that eased the tiny lines of worry nestled around his eyes. “I do not mean to offend you, but I find it interesting that you know nothing of the man who will be your husband.”
“You do not like him.”
“Oh, everybody likes Miles Markwick. You mustn’t listen to me; I am the exception to the rule. Miles is the one who stole my whirligigs. Miles is the one who tattled on me to my governess. He is the one who replaced my brandy with rainwater at Oxford. He never liked me and thus never gave me the opportunity to like him.”
“We should not be alone here,” she said.
