If Wishes Were Earls (8 page)

“Sir Bartholomew?” Roxley huffed. “Him?”

He was most assured now that Poggs had been drinking. He hated to tell the man but Sir Bartholomew Keswick was a figment of his aunt’s overly wrought imagination.

Poggs grew even more exasperated by Roxley’s lack of dismay. “My lord! Your aunt’s treasured reputation—those were my mother’s exact words, ‘treasured reputation’—”

“Good heavens, I should hope they weren’t yours,” Roxley told him.

The barb was lost on the baron, intent on delivering the rest of his message. “My mother says there won’t be a bit of plate left at Marshom Court with Sir Bartholomew about—”

Roxley didn’t want to let poor Poggs know there hadn’t been real plate about the house in three generations.

And while he was at it, perhaps he ought to check on Poggs’s mother’s brandy bottle. She must be imbibing if she was seeing Sir Bartholomew as well.

“—and that he is the worst sort of bounder, roué who ever lived.”

Certainly, Poggs had the right of it—the man was a bounder.

But he also was merely another of his Aunt Oriel’s delusions. There was no Sir Bartholomew, save in his aunt’s fertile imagination.

Yet this news tugged at him, like a noose tightening around his neck. It all had a rather Machiavellian familiarity to it. First Essex, then Eleanor, now Oriel. Could this all be related?

What with his own pending ruin, and now his aunts, who were just as much a part of his inheritance, as they were his duty, as Lady Gudgeon had so eloquently reminded him.

And not for every coin in the realm, or even just enough to dig him out of his current mire, would he admit they were also his heart and soul. His dearest girls. He loved them so completely that to think that any harm might befall them because of something he’d done—

Or failed to stop . . .

At this point, Poggs drew a deep, shuddering breath, but before he could launch into the rest of his promised lecture, Roxley stopped him.

“What does your mother propose? Is she willing to chase off Sir Bartholomew? For if she is, then by all means, I’ll forgive your debt—for it will save me a trip out to the Cottage.”

Poggs took great offense to the earl’s suggestion. “My mother! My mother, indeed! Sir, this is
your
responsibility.”

And there it was. His responsibility. As if he didn’t demmed well know that.

“I rather detest that word, Poggs. And I don’t like it flung about. So off with you. Or I’ll ask my old friend Mr. Hathaway to come over and help me turn you upside down and we’ll shake the coppers you owe me out of your pockets.” Roxley jerked his head toward Chaunce, who stood lounging against one of the walls.

The baron glanced in that direction and his face went beet red. For two very good reasons. Certainly because Roxley wasn’t above making good his threat. Nor would Poggs stand a chance of escaping such a humiliation.

That didn’t mean he still wasn’t going to get the last word in before he hopped away like an indignant toad. “I’ve done you a favor, Roxley! I have indeed! I was only trying to help.”

Roxley glanced up and flicked his hand, summoning his friend, but Poggs was already on the run.

Yet his final word hung in the air around the earl.
Help.

The notion prodded him.
Help.

He had tried for months now to determine what the devil was going on—whether this singular plan to ruin him was an old grudge, a leftover case from the Home Office, the tattered remnants of a dalliance that had ended badly—but none of those offered even an inkling of understanding.

No, he needed help.

And when he looked up, his gaze landed once again on his oldest friend. Chaunce nodded in reply, as if the fellow understood exactly what the earl needed.

No one could say more with a flick of a glance and a nod than Chaunce. Then again, that was probably why he was the Home Office’s most effective agent.

“W
hat the devil are you doing out here?”

The nondescript woman in the plain black gown winced at the bite of hard, solid fingers into her elbow as the man pulled her off the garden path and into the shadows of an archway covered in roses.

“Keep your voice down,” Madame Sybille scolded, yanking her arm free and glaring at him. She found it best to keep this man unsure of how much she feared him.

Not that she couldn’t be dangerous when needed. “We’ve run into a complication.”

“I doubt it. I have everything in order, madame. Now get back in there before someone sees you out here with me.” He gave her another rattle.

“Everything in order!” she scoffed. “Did you know Roxley’s aunt Lady Essex has arrived from the country?”

This took him aback, as she knew it would. “Lady Essex?”

“Yes,” she told him. “And she isn’t pleased about Miss Murray.”

Her partner wasn’t really listening. “That’s excellent news,” he was saying more to himself. He looked up. “She’s precisely who we need. Perhaps he’s even summoned her—”

“No, no, it isn’t like that. He was shocked to see her.”

“Hmm. Still, this might be perfect timing. Perhaps she came bearing an engagement gift.” He glanced at the open doors and then back at Sybille. “Has he made his proposal to Miss Murray?”

“No, he hesitates,” she confessed. “But he’s a fool to delay. He’ll be ruined before the end of the week.”

“Don’t let that capering facade deceive you.” There was an edge to his words, sharp and dangerous. “Lord Roxley is no idiot. He’s a Marshom through and through. Nothing escapes those cheating culls. He’s biding his time.”

“He hasn’t much left,
mon cher
,” she told him. “When he proposes, we shall have what we’ve been waiting for.”

“No. No more waiting. I will have my due now,” he said, that familiar edge of madness that had always worried her lacing his every word. He brushed past her roughly and moved deeper into the shadows.

“Where are you going?” she called after him, picking up her dark skirts and taking a few steps toward him. But she wasn’t so foolish to follow him completely into the shadows.

“To take advantage of an opportunity.” Nor were his words of any comfort. Cold and foreboding like the man himself.

Sybille shivered as a garden gate, hidden in the darkness, creaked open. There was no sound from his boots. He was as silent as a cat. That was exactly how he had snuck up on her and entangled her in this dangerous game to begin with.

But one she intended to win. Eventually.

No matter who else had to meet an untimely end.

“S
uperb dancing, don’t you agree, Miss Hathaway?”

“Pardon?” Harriet replied. For she hadn’t really heard a word that Lord Fieldgate had uttered since he’d claimed her hand for the supper dance. In fact the entire evening had become a bit of a blur.

Roxley to marry Miss Murray?

It couldn’t be true. Not when . . .

She blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over. She never cried. And yet, suddenly she was as much a watering pot as that silly Miss Fidgeon from the Miss Darby novels.

Harriet took a steadying breath, for up ahead was Roxley escorting Miss Murray into the supper. This should have inspired a bit of the Hathaway temper, wrath, a few cutting words, but how could she when all she could hear was Roxley’s voice from that night at Owle Park.

I love you, Kitten. You hold my heart.

He loved her. He did. He couldn’t have been lying. And yet  . . .

Here he was squiring an heiress, the perfect sort of lady earls married.

Not the daughters of impoverished baronets who wore made-over gowns and hadn’t the dash and polish that came with a proper Bath education.

“The dancing, most excellent,” Fieldgate was saying, slanting a glance at her. “Are you well, Miss Hathaway?”

She glanced up at the viscount and found him studying her most intently. That he’d actually noticed her distress rather surprised her. Here Harriet hadn’t thought Fieldgate much more astute than a loose carriage wheel.

“Just a bit fatigued,” she told him. “From the travel. Lady Essex and I only just arrived today from Kempton.”

“Today? And you are already out in company? My, my. Dare I hope, Miss Hathaway, you have done this because you were anxious to rekindle an acquaintance?”

I was
, she thought, glancing once again at the back of Roxley’s dark head.

“I will take your silence as the reticence of a lady to admit her heart,” Fieldgate said, sounding far too smug.

This got Harriet’s attention, for when she looked up at the viscount, she realized he meant himself. As in she had been pining away in the country for him.

Oh, good heavens.
However could she tell the man her preference wasn’t so much for him but his unsavory reputation. Where other ladies would politely decline such a nefarious fellow, Harriet had waded in with a flirtatious smile on her lips.

Honestly, she’d never understood why the viscount returned her attentions. She wasn’t his usual pursuit—at least so she knew from having overheard Lady Essex with one of her more gossipy friends. Apparently the viscount preferred widows and other sorts of ladies . . . the kind with a Mrs. before their name and no husband to speak of.

But suddenly last Season he’d become enamored of her, and his pursuit had been a bit of a mystery.

Not that she’d minded—Fieldgate, it turned out, was rather handy.

For the man had a way of putting Roxley out of sorts. Brought him to her side in no time, if only to scold her. And then remembering his manners, he’d dance with her, leaving her dizzy with joy.

But not tonight. She’d danced with Fieldgate twice and Roxley still hadn’t appeared to scold her. Not even to wag a finger. He hadn’t even sent her a level glare from across the room.

Of course, glancing ahead to where he stood beside Miss Murray, she understood why, for her heart was echoing only half of the familiar refrain.

He loves me not.

“Whatever happened?” she said aloud without thinking.

As it was, Fieldgate answered her quite unwittingly. “Ah, yes, Roxley,” he said, his gaze following the direction of hers. “And Miss Murray. Quite stole the march on any number of us. How he discovered her is a mystery. Demmed fine luck, that.”

“A mystery?” Harriet asked, her gaze still fixed on the woman who was now the bane of her existence.

“Oh, yes,” Fieldgate told her. “The earl went too deep last fall. Pockets to let, so I hear. All but rolled up. Worse off than Kipps was last Season. Then like some conjuring fellow at a country fair, he appears with Miss Murray. She’ll save his hide, she will. Well, her dowry will.”

But all Harriet heard was that Roxley was in trouble. She glanced around the crowded room and knew without a doubt that such news wasn’t a secret. So why hadn’t anyone told her?

Why hadn’t he?
Her heart did a double thump, but then a very practical part of her smoldered white hot.

He should have told her.

The viscount led her through the packed room, where the tables had been set up nearly on top of each other to accommodate all the guests. Across the way, Tabitha and Daphne shot her apologetic glances that said very clearly they had tried to save her a seat, but it appeared the duchess’s Timmons relations had come and made themselves welcome to the empty chairs, despite her aunt’s misgivings over associating with the likes of Lady Henry.

Across the room, Chaunce had spotted her, and then spied her companion. She glanced away to avoid the dour expression of protest that was sure to follow.

So Harriet searched for another place—one far from her brother—and realized the only seats Fieldgate could manage were at the table directly adjacent to Roxley’s.

And Miss Murray.

Harriet’s nose wrinkled. Oh, bother! The dainty heiress made Harriet feel like an unseemly country bumpkin.

As the viscount pulled out a chair for her, it smacked directly into the earl’s.

“My apologies,” Fieldgate said, with sly twist to his brows as Roxley spied Harriet about to take her place so close at hand.

For a moment, as Harriet sat down, she swore she’d seen that old flicker in Roxley’s eyes, the one that warned her off from keeping such company and the spark that said the earl knew all too well that her heart was his.

Anytime he wanted to claim it.

But now, that spark barely had a chance to flicker before he extinguished it. “No worries, my good man,” Roxley told the viscount. “A bit of a crush tonight.” Once again all glib manners and foppish cares.

Harriet wanted to dash him over the head—she glanced around for something well and good for dashing—but spying nothing of weight or value, had to make do with the hope that someone would wander by with a rather large vase.

“Probably hoping to catch another infamous scene,” Fieldgate was replying. “Willing to provide one, Roxley?”

“No, not I,” he demurred. “My scandalous days are over.”

His words rang with a warning, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, or rather planning.

She bristled a bit. He thought she meant to ruin his plans? How could he? Her indignation gave way to the realization he had every right to think thusly, especially given that she’d been having a rather delightful fantasy of seeing a chinoiserie vase crack over his thick skull.

Then there had been her behavior earlier. When she’d interrupted him and Miss Murray.

Well, in her defense, how could she have known that he was about to pledge his future to such a whey-faced
cit
?

Harriet straightened, her indignation returning. She’d show Roxley she wasn’t some bothersome little scamp who followed him about. She, Miss Harriet Hathaway, the daughter of a gentleman, could spend the evening as the epitome of good manners and ladylike demeanor, who is utterly and completely above reproach.

Even if she was being partnered by the rather scandalous Lord Fieldgate.

On cue, the viscount leaned over and said, “Miss Hathaway, I had forgotten how devilishly pretty you are.”

Behind her, Roxley shifted in his seat, and usually she’d use such a perfect moment to say something equally shocking, some quip that would have the earl out of his seat and protesting, demanding satisfaction, but . . .