The Thirteenth Earl (20 page)

“I came back here to do that, in fact. Miles has chosen his second.”

She crossed to the bar, deciding it best to give explicit permission, after all her haranguing about alcohol. However, the more she thought about it, through the painful dinner and the hour with the ladies afterward, she realized that Thaxton must be feeling rather set-upon and alone. She could only rationalize that he deserved that feeling for so long, because she was in love with him.

And love made one do things that ran contrary to logic.

She poured a glass of what she assumed was scotch and handed it to him. He nodded and sat down in a chair next to a fire.

“He chose my father.”

“That has to be against the rules,” she said, sitting across from him. “Is it some kind of joke?”

He took a sip of his drink. “I am deadly serious.”

“But your father . . .”

“. . . is not well, yes. But my entire existence has been devoted to that fact not being public knowledge.”

“Is there no rule against this sort of thing?”

“There are no proper rules. Just some old Irish pamphlet that molds in most men’s pistol boxes.”

Cassandra took a drink, using all of her will to appear unaffected by the sting.

“Evidently it is more important to Miles to irritate you than to have a properly loaded pistol when he faces you on the field.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Thaxton was silent for a long moment, inhaling the odor of his drink but not ingesting it. He stared at the fire, as Cassandra imagined one would do if one were he, holding the past close with resentment, afraid to move into the future.

“He seems well, though. My father.”

“Yes, he handled himself well through dinner.” Cassandra reached for the best way to phrase it without being offensive. “I am sure that the rest of the party found no fault with his behavior.”

“Yes, but they were watching for it. For anything that might seem amiss. The story of a mad earl is more salacious than that of an aging mind.”

“And that is it exactly, Jonathan. It is time that you stopped caring what they think.” The drink was working the same wonder it had the other night, loosening her tongue and setting forth the truth of what she felt. “It will not serve us well in the future if you care what people think. They will say worse of me than they ever did your father.”

Thaxton set down his glass and leaned forward, taking her hand.

“Cassandra.”

She could no longer look into his eyes and wish she felt nothing; she wanted to have this love even though it hurt. If it were a thing she must endure, then she would endure it.

“The beginning of our relationship has not been smooth,” he said, “but I promise you that the worst is almost over. I will wed you in Scotland before anyone can lodge a protest.”

“But my parents . . .”

“. . . wanted to give you to Miles Markwick. They did not exactly have your best interests at heart.”

Even as she had been advising him to not care about what people said of his father, she worried ceaselessly what people were going to think of her. It was not as if she could marry Thaxton and go about having the polite society life that she had always envisioned. They would be lucky if the Spencers could invite them to parties without causing gossip. They would never be hosting any house party at the Vane estate.

None of that was enough cost to abandon him.

“Do not get killed,” she said, “and we will leave immediately.”

“Agreed. Good.”

“But for the sake of argument,” she said, the tinge of alcohol rusting her voice, “if tonight was your last night on earth, what would you want to be doing?”

“Less talking,” he said, taking both of her hands now, kissing them in turn as he pulled her to her feet. “Or at least less talking about unpleasantness.”

She smiled up at him, and he wrapped his arms around her waist.

“That sounds perfect,” she said, her lips nearing his. He tilted down, meeting her halfway. The kiss turned her smile into another form of communication. She returned his fervor, trying to say all the things she could not find words for.

Before long, his hands, large and restless, began wandering. His fingers skittered up her neck, tracing the path of her collarbone until he found the chain that held his ring. He pulled it out of her bodice, rolling the sapphire in the pads of his fingers.

“I will put this on your hand, proper, before the week is out.”

She fought a wave of melancholy—it was a promise he could not make for sure. Neither of them could predict what would happen at dawn, but she did not want to argue. He caught the fleeting look on her face and kissed her again.

“No unpleasantness,” he whispered, his tongue tracing out, erasing the taut line.

No more words could make their way past the barrier of the kiss, and she surrendered to it, to feeling instead of thought. She found the buttons on his dinner jacket, working them free one by one.

Her initiative must have pleased him; she could feel a new strain in his trousers. Those buttons followed logically, so she released them, pausing to draw her palm over the growing hardness.

“Cassie,” he groaned.

She met his eyes.

“I just want to remind you how good it is to be alive.”

“Very effective,” he said, sliding the jacket from his shoulders and dropping it on a nearby chair. His undergarments were visible at his waistline as he backed her toward his bed.

Thaxton pushed her lightly and she fell back, skirts billowing into the duvet. She started to reach behind to undo her corset, but his look stopped her.

“No,” he said. “Me first.”

Just the thought of him naked before her, while she lay fully clothed, felt impossibly decadent. He turned his back to her, working on his boots.

“No footwear in the bedroom of our house. Takes too much time.”

He dropped both boots, soft thuds on the carpet, then turned to gently pull off her slippers. Thaxton stood again, extinguishing the two oil lamps on the side of the bed, but leaving the candles lit. He slipped out of his waistcoat, returning to the foot of the bed, slowly getting rid of his trousers. She watched as he pulled down his undergarments, and followed the line of his hipbone, prominent. Cassandra had found another favorite part of Thaxton by his undressing so leisurely. When he was naked, already hard, his eyes went dark in the shadows, his voice low.

“Turn around.”

She did as he asked, though it robbed her of the view. He climbed on top of her, an expanse of skin against the fine fabric, setting her on fire. This time when he unlaced her corset, it did not take as long, eager fingers working steadily. She inwardly praised her foresight in not wearing the usual architecture under her dress—there was no barrier between the silk and him. She felt his hand reach between her legs, his thumb covered in the fabric, working against the sensitive nub that turned on her passion. She was starting to think of it as a button, one that switched off her mind. His soft circling made her lift her behind and moan, which he replied to with a husky laugh.

“So beautiful,” he said, drawing back to turn her around again. He wrestled with the dress, impatient, kissing the skin he exposed. He gave one last good pull and the dress came off, slipping over her legs, a waterfall of silk to the floor.

Thaxton did not bother taking off her chemise, just hiked it up over her thighs as he covered her body with his. His shaft pressed into her, throbbing, and his hands found her breasts. He pinched her nipples through the chemise, the combination of both sensations making her hips move restlessly.

“Jonathan,” she groaned.

“Yes?” He smiled, looking at her while he grasped his base, guiding the tip to her wetness. She rose up, pushing him in farther, watching the smug look disappear from his face. He closed his eyes as she settled around him, stretched for him.

She kept moving her hips, little circles, angling up to feel more of him, deeper.

“Oh,” she said, surprising herself. “Oh, my.”

“Yes,” he said again, hoarsely, his eyes intense and glazed. “Yes, let me see.”

Cassandra did not know exactly what he was asking. He did not begin to thrust, and she could not help her own movements, grinding him in deeper still, until he was as sheathed as possible. His hand returned to that place, her center, and she closed her eyes. She was so full of pleasure that it felt like delirium. She felt herself building to that peak again, the one he made her chase, and just as her climax started, he began to thrust.

She spasmed, the unbelievable feeling extending, going on far longer than she thought possible. He moaned, his breath increasing with his speed. The chemise stuck to her skin, and his hands moved under her, cupping her to bring her in closer. Thaxton released a long groan, his whole body tensing, motionless as he spilled inside of her.

He did not move for a moment, and Cassandra relished his weight on top of her, the reality of him, solid. He still jumped inside of her, and she wiggled, kissing his neck.

“I do not want to return to my room,” she said with a smile.

“Oh, not yet,” he said, nuzzling her back. “I am not yet tired . . . and there are other positions to explore.”

A few others, she found out, and even then they had not exhausted his knowledge.

She did not mean to fall asleep in his arms, but she did so anyway.

Cassandra woke in the middle of the night and carefully slid from under the weight of Thaxton’s arm. She snuck back to her room and slept for what felt like only a half hour, then woke again. She had a moment of sheer panic, unsure of the time. The ladies were meeting at 5:00 a.m., absolutely no later.

The plain dress she chose had no frills or adornment to get in the way. She paired it with her sturdiest walking boots, anticipating a bit of running. Best to be prepared.

None of the servants stirred yet, but it was all the same to her. Cassandra did not want to eat, nor did she want to try to explain her early rise. The estate held the quiet of a massing storm cloud, right before it opened up. There was a soft knock at her door.

“Come in,” she whispered.

Eliza opened the door enough to slip through. “Percy is asleep. I have no idea why he is so calm . . . he slept like an innocent last night. He did keep asking me if I was cross, which I was, but he eventually let it drop.”

“I saw Jonathan; I could not help it.”

Eliza smiled. “I knew you would. Is he well?”

“He is very upset by his father. He is startlingly unmoved, however, by the specter of possible death.”

“That—I cannot believe I am about to say this—that is normal. For him.”

“Do you think we will be able to stop them?”

The countess took a moment before answering, which spoke volumes. Cassandra had always known Eliza to be decisive. If there was a problem, she knew her mind and she made a decision, a skill Cassandra had always envied. But the answer to this particular issue had not emerged overnight.

“I do not know. But we have to try.”

There was another soft knock, and Lucy opened the door without being told. The women’s eyes passed over each other, quickly assessing. Lucy’s eyes had a determined set to them, her posture rigid. More like the woman who had first walked into the séance, less like the woman of the past few days, practically broken.

“Are we ready?” she asked.

Cassandra came forward, taking her hand.

“Are
you
ready? That is the most important part. This all hinges on you.”

“I am,” Lucy said, her voice filled with resolve. “He deserves it.”

“Thank you,” Cassandra said earnestly, letting go of her hand. “Thank you so much for doing this.”

“It is the least I owe you, after what I put you through.”

“Not you. Miles.”

“I should not have been so blind for so long.”

“It is the past,” Eliza said. “We need to focus on now. Lucy, you are to be posted in the copse of trees on the left of the dueling field, behind Miles, but out of Thaxton’s firing line. We are hoping to interrupt before anyone can shoot. Cassie and I will be posted on the right, nearest to Thaxton. We will wait until we hear you begin.”

“I do not know how he will react,” Lucy said, her eyes far off for a moment. “If he gets angry, I cannot predict what he might do.”

“I could say the same of Thaxton,” Cassandra mused. She straightened her back. “Ladies. Places.”

Chapter Eleven

Thaxton had been up for hours. He strolled through the mist floating from the edges of the pond, making it to the dueling field first. After loving Cassandra the best way he could, he felt that her passing out from pleasure was the highest compliment. And he felt he had never done anything more important in his life.

If he were to die, he was as ready as he could be.

“You are early,” Spencer said, his voice a little strained, having briskly hiked the two hills that separated the pond and its surroundings from the rest of the estate. He had the box of dueling pistols tucked under his arm.

“Fitful sleep. It never much mattered to me, anyway.”

“You’ve been cataloging things that matter?”

“Ceaselessly. There are a lot of things I had not thought about.”

“Funny how a woman will make you do that.”

“They are right, you know.”

“Of course they are,” Spencer said, his hair half covering his face in the sudden wind over the landscape. “But we cannot change our wrongness. It is tradition.”

“It is asinine.”

Spencer shrugged, an adolescent gesture that looked strange on shoulders weighed down by an earldom.

“It is, but what is done is done. How many shots do you think it will take to sufficiently scare Miles?”

“I was just going to make him bleed horribly, until he chose my father as his second. Now I may actually kill him.”

Thaxton paced ten away from the middle of the field, eyeing the copse of trees that marked the edges of the dueling ground. He paced ten back to Spencer. He must have completed that movement fifteen times that morning, this iteration making for sixteen.

“Let’s not,” Spencer said. “Messy. I do not want to explain a death at my very first house party. It is bad enough that it will most likely be remembered as the weekend Dorset’s daughter ran off with the mad viscount.”

Thaxton smiled despite himself. “Likely.”

“One more thing, before Miles and your father arrive. I would like to propose your father stay on here, while you enjoy your shameful honeymoon.”

“Spence, no, what a hideous imposition . . .”

“Not at all. Talking with my mother is not only doing him much good but also making her happy. You would be doing me a favor. She has little to occupy her in the dower house.”

“I could not—”

“Just say thank you, Jonathan. I assure you, it is easier than you make it seem.”

“Thank you.” He smiled.

Spencer placed the box of pistols on a high table that had been positioned for that purpose, probably in the even earlier hours by Sutton. Even now, the butler lurked near Spencer, in the case that the earl might have a command. The many days that had passed had done nothing to endear the valet to him—his constant watchfulness unnerved Thaxton.

Miles crested the hill, followed at some distance by the Earl Vane. Thaxton frowned, holding back a growl. Miles was not even good enough to stay behind when the earl was struggling. He wanted to call out, but discretion was the order of the morning, so he settled for curling and uncurling his fist.

When they were within earshot, he did not hold back, his voice a low hiss.

“Good of you to make sure my father is taken care of, Markwick.”

Over the years, Thaxton had noticed that Miles had a special smile he reserved for when he was pleased with his cruelty.

“The Earl Vane has assured me that he needs no special treatment.”

Spencer came forward, taking the earl’s arm and guiding him over to the small table.

“We will begin checking the pistols,” he said in a low, no-nonsense tone.

Thaxton glared at Miles. They had somehow set themselves in the middle of the field already, facing each other. Miles, a little shorter, took the opportunity to turn up his nose.

“If you survive this,” he sneered, “I rather think you should retire to the country. No one will want to see you in London again.”

“You seem to be under the impression that people care about your opinion, Markwick, yet you could only come up with a confused old man to stand on your honor. And you say I am delusional.”

“You are a laughingstock.”

The click of a barrel sounded behind them, and Thaxton turned to see his father, cocking the pistol that Miles would soon be raising.

“Then it will look all the worse when you have to cede,” Thaxton murmured. Somehow, in the midst of everything, the dreamlike crawl of fog on the ground and the evil quiet, an assuredness had stolen over him.

It would all be over soon, and he would still be standing.

He was not doomed, nor had he ever been.

“We are ready to begin,” Spencer said. “The seconds agree on the integrity of the weapons. They also agree that no peaceful solution could be met between the duelists.”

“May we have the pistols?” Thaxton asked.

Spencer came up beside him, carefully handing over the percussion-barrel masterpiece. The rich wood of the handle, the polished engravings on the metal, lions roaring in etched lines. Thaxton turned it over in his hands, looking at his family crest. There, tiny and deeply engraved, was that same symbol that had been drawn so gruesomely in blood on his door.

His father handed the other pistol to Miles.

Thaxton looked up, into Miles’s fathomless, animal eyes, and put one arm behind his back. The other held the pistol at his side, his thumb finding purchase on the back on the hammer. Miles followed suit, tense and straight. Thaxton took a moment for triumph, turning his left wrist so that his cuff link glinted. He wore the very pair of cuff links that Cassandra had taken out of Lucy’s drawer, diamond-shaped and engraved with
MRM
.

Thaxton saw recognition in Miles’s eyes, right before they turned.

“On my count, gentlemen. Turn and walk ten paces.”

Spencer’s oratory training hid any emotion from the pronouncement. Miles and Thaxton turned, but not before the latter managed one more hurried glare.

“One,” Spencer said.

Thaxton took the step forward, hearing Miles’s boots crunch on the grass.

“Two.”

The pond stretched out on his left, the water placid and shimmering.

“Three.”

His stride was unchanged. It seemed he could feel Miles behind him.

“Four.”

There was a wail.

Not any wail. The same wail that had brought him down to the blue parlor the night he and Cassandra first kissed. Lengthy, grief-stricken, keening. Coming from . . . behind him?

“Stop,” he ordered. “Stop.”

Spencer raised a hand. “What is it, Thaxton?”

The wail sounded again, at once close and far away. A distinctive noise, it was the very same one from that fateful night, a banshee expressing her extreme heartache.

“Do you not hear that?”

Thaxton turned back around, seeing that Miles already had.

“Pistols on the ground,” he said and lowered his own slowly, watching that Miles did the same. They both crouched, looking at each other. Thaxton let go of his gun first and drew back up to his feet. The wail came again, unmistakable this time, near.

“I heard it,” the Earl Vane said.

“As did I,” Spencer confirmed.

“I hear nothing,” Miles said with a slight tremor.

As if on cue to prove him wrong, it came again.

“I think it is coming from the trees behind Markwick,” Spencer said as the wail tapered off.

Miles looked over his shoulder. “Could not be. I am sure I hear nothing.”

Again. Inimitable. Loud.

Thaxton could no longer wait. He tramped forward, peering between the trees. He did not have to go far into the copse before he saw a flash of blonde hair.

“Lucy Macallister,” he said, loud enough for the other men to hear. Spencer was not far behind him, followed by the Earl Vane. Miles had not moved.

“Lord Thaxton.”

She turned, her head held high.

“You are the wailing woman.”

“Ever have been.” Lucy watched as Miles regained the use of his limbs and joined them. His eyes were on hers, as if the dueling field had disappeared.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

Her posture remained the same: proud.

“Making amends.”

“Now,” Cassandra said.

She and Eliza crept out onto the field while the men’s backs were turned. They each bent down, carefully scooping up the dueling pistols and inching back behind the cover of trees.

“They did not see us,” Eliza whispered. “We did it.”

“Shh, we can almost hear what they are saying.”

Lucy’s voice, nearer than the others, floated toward them.

“Miles has been plotting against Thaxton all this time. He knew you were onto him but felt assured you did not have any proof. I am ready to be that proof.”

“. . . picked a more proper time . . .” Cassandra heard Spencer say. Eliza rolled her eyes.

“There was no other time, my lord. I have been a coward until now. My instinct was to hide my head in shame, after what Miles has done. What he convinced me to go along with.”

“And what was that?” Thaxton’s voice was loud, clear as a bell and furious.

“The séances, as you know, were faked. But even before that, Miles snuck me in by bribing a groom to act as the wailing woman. There is a vent in the blue parlor that goes to your room; that was the first step. He thought you would question your sanity, but he did not plan on Cassandra hearing as well. Miles planned to have you declared unfit, Lord Thaxton, mad, by burden of proof. He has a paper signed by your father, saying the estate is entrusted to him if you are not fit to run it.”

There was absolute silence.

“Father?” Thaxton said finally. “Is this true?”

“Do you not think it best? I meant to speak with you about it.” The earl’s voice held certainty, as if he could not conceive that he had done anything wrong. Cassandra realized she and Eliza had inched over, behind Lucy yet still in the woods, so that they could hear nearly every word now.

“Miles was concerned about the estate,” the earl continued. “I assumed you would be pleased with my forethought. You are always so worried about running things and . . . you have not seemed well.”

The disbelief was evident in Thaxton’s voice.

“
I
have not been well?
I
, father?”

“You do not talk to me. You drink incessantly. You are cross all the time.”

“So you thought to give the estate to
my third cousin
?”

“Not give it to him, exactly. Only in the case that we were both unfit.”

Miles, who had been standing stock-still, finally said something.

“It would have been entirely appropriate. I am ready to take up an estate, in need of the funds, and engaged to be married. In a perfect position. Thaxton, on the other hand, has been reeling around Spencer House for two weeks, painting with blood and communicating with spirits.”

“You know that is not the truth,” Lucy said.

“I am finished,” Thaxton growled, stalking back to the field. Cassandra moved through the trees, following him as best she could, trying not to snap any branches. Thaxton reached his former spot and knelt down, searching through the grass.

“I am finished dealing with you in any other way than at the end of a barrel. Where . . . the bloody hell . . . is my pistol?”

Cassandra looked down at the gun in her hand and smiled.

“They are both gone,” she heard Miles say. “Both guns are gone.”

The men retook the clearing, and Cassandra could see both Miles and Thaxton. She stayed behind the tree nearest to the field of play, the gun at her side. She shook it and the bullet inside fell to the grass. Spencer’s frame came into her view, crouching on the ground, his hands carefully searching.

“Where are the damned pistols?” he muttered, barely audible.

Eliza snickered, looking at Cassandra and turning over the one she was holding, releasing the other bullet. She nodded, and Cassandra stepped onto the field, Thaxton’s pistol raised and leveled at Miles.

“Good morning,” she said brightly.

He stopped where he was, straightening his back to regard her.

“Cassandra.” He put his hands out, palms up, and took a step toward her. “Let’s put that down.”

Eliza, behind her, raised the other pistol.

“Let us not move any farther, Mr. Markwick.”

Cassandra smiled.

Miles lifted his hands in the air, removing the foot he had put forward. No one else moved.

“Who are these women?” the Earl Vane asked. He squinted, making Cassandra worry about the fact that he had been cleared to be a second, which required sight.

She kept her eyes on Miles, feeling Eliza’s pistol over her shoulder.

“My lord, hello. We met. Cassandra Seton. I am engaged to your son and dreadfully sorry you are finding out at this moment.”

“Oh!” the Earl Vane exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “The girl.”

“Apologies,” Eliza added. “I did not intend for a duel to be house-party entertainment.”

“This is all very exciting,” he said offhandedly, as if he were watching a play.

“If you will excuse us,” Cassandra said to him kindly, “there is a matter that must be immediately dealt with concerning your cousin.”