The Viscount's Kiss (11 page)

Afraid she might disturb Lord Bromwell's work in some way, she hesitated to do more than dust the jars and wash the few dishes. She did open the narrow drawers of the wooden cabinet carefully and slowly, to find even more specimens of spiders, dried and mounted. They were like little jewels, lying so still in their trays.

This morning it was too damp to go to the wood and or the laboratory, so she decided to go to the library and find a book to read. It was one of the more comfortable rooms in the house, and as she strolled around the perimeter she remembered being here with Lord Bromwell, wondering if he was going to kiss her…hoping that he would….

Such thoughts would avail her nothing, she told herself, and she tried to concentrate on finding a book to read for education, if not amusement, since most of the volumes were histories of ancient Rome or Greece, Italy, England and France, or philosophy and religious sermons.

She gave up hope of finding anything appealing after she had gone around the entire room and found herself once again by the door. Sighing, she pushed it half closed and glanced at the shelves behind it.

The Castle of Count Korlovsky
by Diana Westover was on the middle shelf, right at eye level. She'd heard of that book, and also the author, the wife of Viscount Adderley. Their marriage had been something of a sensation not so long ago. Indeed, Lady Sturmpole had been so fascinated by the gossip, one would think the author was one of her relatives, although she was not.

Nell pulled out the book and read a little of the first chapter. Then a little more. Taking the volume, she was about to head for a chair to spend the rest of the morning reading when another book, on the far end of the shelf almost completely hidden by the door, caught her eye:

The Spider's Web
.

This must be how Lord Bromwell felt when he discovered a new kind of spider, she thought as she eagerly pulled it from the shelf, happy for another reason, as well. This meant his father had kept a copy, after all.

She hurried to one of the large chairs near the window and settled down to read. She would save Diana Westover's book for later; first, she must read Lord Bromwell's.

As she expected, the viscount's book was no dry, scientific report about spiders or the other various species of flora and fauna he encountered and collected.

In spite of the many scholastic elements of
The Spider's Web
, it was also a rousing adventure, full of exciting events and danger, as well as humor and wry observations not just about foreign cultures and habits, but about life aboard ship. Many times Nell could practically smell the salt air and hear the crew's colourful language.

Nor did Lord Bromwell leave out the less attractive facets of life in close quarters. Often she could almost smell the bilge water and taste the hard biscuits, see the rats and hear the snores.

It was no wonder he didn't want to take a wife on such a voyage.

Then there were the dangers, not just the hurricane that had wrecked their ship, killed some of the men and left the others stranded on an island little more than a spit of sand, but the unpredictable inhabitants of the exotic lands who might welcome visitors, or kill and eat them. Lord Bromwell, the captain and the rest of the crew had never been quite sure which sort of encounter it would be until they landed.

Some of their experiences with the natives were of a distinctly pleasant nature. He spoke of their food, their social customs, their tattoos and their dances, and she realized he'd been doing something called the
upa upa
by the pond. As for other, more intimate, activities between the native population and their visitors, Lord Bromwell was discreet and couched his language carefully, but she could read
between the lines. She was fairly certain he hadn't kept aloof from the women.

And he had done more than dance.

Yet through it all, running like a thread of spider's silk, were two obvious themes—Lord Bromwell's passionate interest in his subject, and his modesty. And if he hadn't already proven to her that he was a capable, intelligent, admirable man, she would know it now.

A man cleared his throat loudly.

Startled, she looked up, half-expecting to see Lord Bromwell himself, as if reading his book had conjured him all the way from London like a magic spell.

It was not Lord Bromwell; it was his father, who stood with his chest out, his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels and regarding her gravely.

“I've been looking for you, Lady Eleanor,” he announced. “There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

For a horrible moment, she wondered if he'd discovered she was not who she claimed to be, until she realized he would surely be more angry and direct if he had.

No, it must be something else he wished to talk about, so Nell subdued a sigh and girded herself to hear more about fountains, or water pumps, or the difficulties of shipping Italian marble.

Instead—and what proved even more unnerving—the earl didn't say anything at first.

She shifted uncomfortably, but wasn't about to venture a remark.

“I presume you know that my son is the only living child of my wife and I?” the earl said at last.

“I had assumed so, since no one ever spoke of siblings,” she replied.

“Which means that, in due course, he will be the Earl of Granshire, a most noble and ancient title.”

Nell inclined her head in silent acknowledgment of that fact.

“He will be a very wealthy man. This estate and the house in London will be his, as well as a considerable fortune. His wife would, therefore, have every luxury and comfort.”

“She would also have your son, a not inconsiderable reward,” Nell pointed out.

“Provided she could get him to stay in England and not go haring off after more bugs!” the earl said with a frown, clapping his hands behind his back and starting to pace.

Nell didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't reply.

“He could have been anything,” Lord Granshire grumbled as he marched back and forth. “A statesman—even Prime Minister. He was the cleverest boy at his school. All the masters said so. Instead he wastes his time and talent on bugs! They even called him Buggy Bromwell at school. My son, the heir of Granshire, a viscount, smartest lad at Harrow—Buggy! It's enough to make a man tear out his hair!”

“Surely you must be proud of him now,” she protested, dismayed by his attitude and alarmed by his vehemence.

“How can I be proud of a son who studies bugs? Who dances with savages? Who won't do his duty and marry and get an heir?”

“I'm sure he'll marry some day and hopefully there will be children.”

The earl stopped pacing to fix her with a searching gaze that, at the moment, reminded her of the son he seemed to hate. “If my son could be persuaded to marry and especially if he could be persuaded to give up this notion of another
voyage, I would be very grateful. His bride could count on a very generous wedding gift from his grateful father.”

His meaning was unmistakable. He was offering her a bribe to marry his son.

“And you need not think he'll be lacking in the bedchamber,” his father continued. “His book provides ample evidence that—”

She leapt to her feet before he went on. “By God, sir, you should be ashamed of yourself! What kind of a father are you? Are you truly that stupid, that blind to the merits of your son?

“You should be
proud
of him. He could have been a rakehell, a cad, a scoundrel. He could be a gambler or a sot. He could be getting into debt or spending his money on Cyprians. Instead, he's contributing to the sum of human knowledge. He's doing something good and honorable. I'm sure there are many other men who would envy you your son and not belittle his work or consider him lacking, as you so obviously do.

“As for his taking a wife, there will be no need to bribe a woman to seek his hand. He's not only intelligent and brave, capable and clever, he's kind and generous—and there can be no doubt that such a man would be wonderful in every way a woman desires.”

The earl flushed as if he was on the verge of an apoplectic fit, but she didn't care. She didn't care if he demanded that she leave at once, or threw her out of Granshire Hall on her ear. At the moment, she didn't even care if he summoned the magistrate.

“How dare you?” he demanded. “How dare you stand there and berate me! I don't care if you are the Duke of Wymerton's daughter, you have no right to speak to the Earl of Granshire that way.”

“Perhaps I don't, but
somebody
should,” she retorted. She grabbed the two books on the table beside the chair and marched to the door. “If you'd like me to leave in the morning, I shall, and gladly!”

At the door she turned to face him one last time. “And if I am ever so fortunate as to have children, my lord, I hope I shall encourage them and not stifle them. That I shall love them as every child deserves to be loved, even if they like spiders. Or ants. Or snails. I wish—”

That I had any chance at all of being your son's wife.

Tears of rage and indignation and dismay choked her, so she said no more before she fled the library.

A
t the sound of approaching servants, whom she most certainly didn't want to meet, Nell ran into the nearest room.

She found herself in the huge ballroom with pier glass on the walls, its inlaid, waxed wooden floor gleaming, and French doors leading onto the terrace. She hurried beneath chandeliers shrouded with cheesecloth so they looked like large white nests, then out the doors, across the terrace and into the garden.

Dashing away her tears with the back of her hand, she paid no heed to the threatening skies and chilly breeze; nor did her steps slow when she reached the ha-ha. She leapt across and kept going, heading for Lord Bromwell's
laboratory where she would be alone and undisturbed, where she could gather her thoughts and make her plans.

And leave him a note of farewell.

After what she'd said to the earl, he would surely insist that she leave. At once.

She reached the laboratory and went inside. Her hands trembling, she set the books down on the sideboard, lit a fire in the hearth and slumped into one of the chairs. No wonder Lord Bromwell had his working space so far from the hall!

The door creaked open and she turned, expecting to see Billings or perhaps Brutus on the threshold.

Not Lord Bromwell.

His face full of concern, he rushed toward her. “My lady, are you all right? What's happened? I saw you running from the house.”

Surprised, delighted, then worried about what he would say when he learned of her confrontation with his father, she immediately got to her feet.

She hesitated to answer, but decided there was no point dissembling. “I had an argument with your father.”

“Ah,” he sighed as if he wasn't at all surprised. “Please sit down and I'll make some tea.”

She didn't want tea, but she couldn't think of a good reason to refuse.

“You mustn't be upset about that,” he said as he filled the kettle from a pitcher of water near the hearth. “He's a stubborn, opinionated man, but whatever you quarrelled about, he'll be swift to forgive a duke's daughter.”

Perhaps so, but she wasn't a duke's daughter.

And worse than that, she'd been far too tempted to accept the earl's bribe and try to win his son's hand in marriage without worrying about the consequences.

“What did you quarrel about?” Lord Bromwell asked as he sat opposite.

He might as well know, in case his father tried to bribe another young lady. “My lord, are you aware of how far your father is willing to go to see you married?”

“I'm aware that is one of the goals of his life and that he's willing to do a great deal to bring it about, with or without my cooperation,” Lord Bromwell replied grimly. “How much is he selling me for these days? I believe my price was up to five thousand pounds before I sailed. I expect he's dropped it some, now that I'm famous. Or maybe he hopes for a quick sale so he could announce our engagement at the ball.”

“How can he do such a thing?” she asked, relieved that he knew his father's schemes, but upset for him nonetheless. “How can he have so little grasp of his son's merits that he thinks he must pay a woman to marry you?”

“He's a man of fixed notions and I was a disappointment to him as a child. He still sees me as a weak, sickly lad with odd fascinations, likely to die at any moment.”

“That doesn't excuse his treatment of you.”

“No,” Lord Bromwell replied without bitterness. “It does, however, explain it.”

She flushed, more sorry than ever that she had lost her temper. Obviously, Lord Bromwell didn't feel the need for anyone to champion him. “I'm afraid I berated him quite thoroughly before I left the room without waiting to be excused.”

Lord Bromwell's eyes widened and he ignored the steaming kettle. “You walked out on him?”

“Yes. I suppose now he'll demand that I leave.”

Lord Bromwell's amazement turned to reflection. “Perhaps not. He tends to fly into a rage easily, then calm
down just as swiftly. It means he doesn't brood and is rarely sullen, but that also makes it difficult to know what to expect from him sometimes. Fortunately, since you're a duke's daughter, I believe he'll be inclined to act as if nothing at all untoward has happened between you.”

He gave her a companionable smile as he finally lifted the kettle from the crane and began to make the tea with the same deliberate care he likely brought to the studies that made him famous.

He paused when he saw the books on the sideboard, Diana Westover's on top.

“Have you read much of Diana's book? It's quite exciting,” he said as he poured the water from the kettle into the teapot.

“I started it, but I found another I prefer,” she said, rising and putting
The Castle of Count Korlovsky
to one side, revealing the book beneath.

He flushed and smiled and then busied himself with the tea.

“Your father kept a copy after all,” she said, returning to her seat.

“So I see.”

“You're a wonderful writer, my lord. I feel as if I'm there with you, through the good and the bad. And I had no idea spiders came in such variety until I met you.”

His smile grew, although he still didn't look at her. “That is why I wrote my book—so more people could appreciate not just spiders, but all the wonderful plants, animals and insects of the world, as well as the different peoples. The variety is really quite astonishing.”

Lord Bromwell handed her a teacup and, taking the chipped one again, settled back in his chair.

“I have good news for you,” he said, not aware that
everything he did for her made her feel more like a criminal and less worthy of his good opinion. “I spoke to my friend the attorney, who described your case—without naming you specifically—to one of the best solicitors in London. There may be a way to either make your parents see reason, or be deprived of their control over you.”

Feeling like the worst, most ungrateful sinner on earth, Nell gazed down at the cup in her lap.

What would happen if people learned he'd been tricked, duped into thinking that he was helping the daughter of the Duke of Wymerton instead of the poor offspring of a clerk and his wife?

What would he think of her then, and after she was gone, or if Lord Sturmpole found her and had her arrested?

“I thought you would be pleased,” Lord Bromwell said with puzzlement. “Or are you still upset about my father? Don't be. I'm quite used to his machinations.”

“It's not that,” she said, raising despondent eyes. Whatever happened, she couldn't bear deceiving Lord Bromwell another moment. Every deed he did, every word he said, was like a sword in her side, or another step on the road to damnation. The time had come to be honest with this man who was so honorable, so good and so generous. “I'm not a duke's daughter. I'm not Lady Eleanor Springford. My name is Nell Springley, and I'm a thief.”

 

Bromwell heard her words, comprehended their general meaning, and yet it was as if he'd been struck by a poison dart, one that rendered its victim inert.

She wasn't Lady Eleanor, daughter of the Duke of Wymerton? She was somebody else entirely—and a
thief?

“I stole some gowns and money from Lord Sturmpole
of Staynesborough. I didn't do so out of greed, or because I'm a habitual thief,” she hurriedly continued. “My father was the younger son of a knight, my mother a merchant's daughter. They raised me well and sent me to a good school, but when they died of a fever within two weeks of each other, I discovered my father had gambled and borrowed too much. I was left penniless. Through friends from school I found employment as a companion to Lady Sturmpole at their estate in Yorkshire.

“Lord Sturmpole was never there, though, and I never received a penny of my pay. When I complained to Lady Sturmpole, she told me to write to her husband. I did, but he only wrote back with excuses and promising to pay the entire amount when he arrived in person. Lady Sturmpole assured me her husband would make all right when he returned from London and since I had no one to turn to, very little money left and nowhere else to live, I stayed.

“Lord Sturmpole finally arrived some five months after I did. I was called into his study to receive my wages, or so I thought. I was also going to give him my notice.

“When I got to the study, he told me he would be glad to pay me all that he owed, and more, if I would…” She blushed and drew a deep, ragged breath. “If I would let him come to my bed.”

Bromwell didn't speak. He couldn't. He had never been more outraged and furiously angry in his life, and not even the most colourful epithet seemed appropriate to describe a man who would treat her in such a manner, or make that obscene offer.

“Naturally I refused at once and demanded my wages. Instead of paying me, he…he tried to…”

As she fell silent, her eyes anguished, her throat working,
Bromwell set down his teacup before he shattered it. “There's no need for you to go into details. I can guess what he tried to do. He should thank God he didn't succeed.”

Or I would hunt him down and kill him. Painfully.

“No, he didn't,” she confirmed. “I fought back and when he tired, he locked me in the room. I called out to the servants to help me, but they wouldn't. He's the only employer for miles and they wouldn't risk his displeasure, I suppose. I finally managed to get the lock open with a letter opener. The house was quiet—no doubt Lord Sturmpole thought I'd see sense in the morning.

“So I got a few of my clothes and what money I had, and then I went to his wife's dressing room and took three gowns and the pin money she kept in a drawer. It wasn't much—not nearly enough to cover my wages. And then I ran. The stagecoach went by not far from the estate and I managed to meet it just in time.”

By now, the worst of Bromwell's fury was subsiding, to be replaced by a cold anger and firm purpose. He would see that Lord Sturmpole regretted what he'd done, and what he'd tried to do.

However, all he said to the anguished woman before him was, “What you did seems perfectly justifiable to me.”

“And to me, or I wouldn't have done it. Unfortunately, I'm sure he wouldn't hesitate to have me charged with theft if he finds me. That's why I was travelling alone and told you I was Lady Eleanor. Until the coach overturned, I was planning to take ship to Ireland, or America, where he couldn't find me.”

The knuckles of her clasped hands whitened as she leaned forward and regarded Bromwell beseechingly, as if he were a judge at the Old Bailey with the power of life
and death over her. “I promise you, my lord, I did
nothing
to encourage Lord Sturmpole or make him think I would welcome his advances. You must believe me in spite of what I've done. I've never broken the law before.”

It wasn't difficult for him to answer her heartfelt plea. “I do believe you. The man cheated you, so you took goods in compensation. He did something far worse than robbery. He attempted to rape you.”

She flinched when he said “rape,” reminding him that while she was courageous and strong, she had been through a terrible ordeal.

“Forgive me if my choice of terms distresses you,” he said in a gentler tone. “I'm trying to think in legal terms, because I believe his is by far the greater crime. He should be imprisoned, if not hanged.”

“He is a powerful man,” Nell noted warily.

“Who must and will be stopped,” Bromwell said firmly as he got to his feet.

Although she was relieved that Lord Bromwell believed her, he was as angry and upset as if he were the one who'd been attacked.

“I doubt you're the first women in his employ he's treated in this manner and I fear you won't be the last unless he's imprisoned and convicted.”

She had been so worried about her own fate, she hadn't stopped to consider if anyone else had been the victim of Lord Sturmpole's lust. “Yes, I see.”

Lord Bromwell began to pace, just as his father had. “I'll speak to my friend Drury. He's the best barrister in England. He'll know how to proceed in a way that will lead to Sturmpole's conviction and your safety.” He stopped and faced her squarely. “You must promise me
that you'll stay here and continue to be Lady Eleanor until we've done so.”

Lord Bromwell spoke softly, but there was resolve beneath his words and a sternly determined expression in his stormy eyes. Now she was looking not at a well-educated, civilized viscount, but the heir of Celt, Saxon, Norman, Viking, Roman—every warrior race that had ever set foot and fought in Britain.

“Leave my father to me,” he continued. “I'll ensure that you're welcome to remain at Granshire Hall until I can return from London.”

She nodded, sure he would. But his plan also meant he would be leaving her here again, without him.

His visage softened a little, making him more like the Lord Bromwell she knew. “I can appreciate why you felt driven to lie to me and I bear you no grudge or ill will. I only wish you had felt confident enough in my compassion to tell me sooner.”