The Earl Takes All (17 page)

But now she was awake, and she had the sense that something important had lured her from the dream in which she was continually running toward Albert only to have Edward constantly stepping in front of her, blocking her path. Or was she running toward Edward? She couldn't even tell them apart in her dreams.

Sitting up, she pressed her elbow to her knee, her forehead to her hand. Her thinking was muddled, as though she were striving to make her way through a ball of cobwebs. In her dream, she'd heard crying in the distance. She'd begun racing toward the sobbing but the faster she ran the farther away it became, until it faded to nothing. And the silence, a portent of bad tidings, had terrified her.

Alberta. It had been Alberta bawling. In the dream? No, outside of the dream. Bawling until her cries invaded the dream. If not for the brandy dulling everything, she would have woken up sooner, would have realized where the crying originated. Flinging back the covers, Julia scrambled out of bed. She was certain Nanny had soothed Alberta, but still she had a strong need to hold her daughter to her breast, to comfort her, to let her know that nothing would hurt her.

She flew out of her bedchamber, down the hallway to the nursery. Nanny was sitting in a chair with a lamp burning low and a book in her hands. Not Alberta. She wasn't holding Alberta.

Edward was. Lying on Nanny's bed, his eyes closed, Alberta on his chest, her knees tucked beneath her so her tiny bum was sticking up in the air. Pillows formed a barrier on either side of his body so if she rolled she wouldn't roll far. Not that Julia thought she was likely to move at all. One of his large hands was splayed over her back, holding her in place.

Setting the book aside, Nanny got up and approached her, tiptoeing. “She was crying something awful. I couldn't soothe her. The earl came in, none too happy. Said he could hear her howling in his library. Thought he was going to sack me on the spot. Instead he took her, placed her against his chest, and she quieted right down.”

He'd come to her rescue, Julia realized, while she had been suffering from too much drink to do anything but stir to life sluggishly. How had Edward managed to live like this for years, drinking to excess every night? Waking up was most unpleasant.

“Go find a bed in another chamber so you can get some sleep,” she told the nanny.

“I shouldn't leave her.”

“She's fine.”

“Thank you, m'lady.”

Julia waited until the woman was gone to sit in a chair near the bed. The sight of the tall, powerful man sprawled over the small bed with her daughter resting near his heart made her want to weep. She did not want to be so moved. Damn the weasel for coming to the princess's rescue. Damn her own heart for its gladness at seeing him—­she thought it might swell beyond the confines of her chest—­when she hadn't caught so much as a glimpse of him for days.

He'd lost weight. Shadows rested beneath his eyes. Even though he was asleep he appeared tired. Was it fair to punish him for doing what Albert had asked of him? No, the punishment was for the six weeks when he'd held the truth from her and charmed her instead.

If you got to know him better, I think you'd like him,
Albert had once told her. The problem was, she liked him far too much.

She wasn't going to ask for the cottage in the Cotswolds, because he was correct, blast him. Alberta belonged here. Nowhere else would she be more loved, more protected, more spoiled.

Unfortunately, she feared that nowhere else would she herself be more miserable.

Chapter 17

I
t
had been a wretched winter. Edward cursed the frigid winds that whipped around him as he dismounted in front of the village tea shop, then chose some rather strong words to fling at himself for braving what surely had to be the last storm before spring for something as whimsical as strawberry tarts. They weren't even for him. As nearly a week and a half had passed and Julia had yet to communicate with him in any manner whosoever, he knew she was still grieving, and he was hoping the tarts might cheer her, lessen her disgust with him. Or they would make her angry, but her fury was better than her sorrow.

The bell atop the door tinkled as he stepped inside and welcomed the warmth. The only other customer was a young boy, barefoot without a jacket. What sort of parents would be so negligent? He was of a mind to have a word with them.

“Please,” the boy pleaded, holding up a fist that appeared to be closed around a coin. “Me mum's hungry.”

“Sorry, love,” Mrs. Potts said, “but a ha'penny isn't going to buy you a meat pie.”

“But she's gonna die.”

“I'm sure she'll be fine.” Mrs. Potts looked at Edward. “Good day, Lord Greyling. What would please you?”

He understood no profit was to be made in giving away food, but surely exceptions could be made. On the other hand, if she gave something away, she'd have all manner of beggar at her door.

Edward knelt before the boy, who he put at around six years of age, surprised to see how flushed his face was. It wasn't that warm in here. “What's wrong with your mother, lad?”

“She's sick.”

“Probably influenza,” Mrs. Potts said. “Lot of people coming down with it.”

He touched his palm to the boy's forehead. “He's far too hot.”

“He shouldn't be in here, then. Be off with you, lad. Go on home.”

Edward held up his hand to halt her hysterics, wrapped his other hand around the child's bony shoulder. “What's your name, boy?”

“Johnny. Johnny Lark.”

“How many in your family?”

“Four.”

“Box up four meat pies, Mrs. Potts. Put them on my account.” Removing his coat, he wrapped it around Johnny Lark and lifted him into his arms. The lad weighed nothing at all. Taking the box Mrs. Potts placed on the counter, he said, “Box up four strawberry tarts. I'll return for them shortly.” He turned his attention to the boy. “Show me where you live, Johnny.”

It was a small cottage at the edge of the village. Based upon the lines of rope strung along the back that he could see as they neared, Edward assumed Johnny's mother was a washerwoman. Setting the lad on his feet on the stoop, he knocked on the door. When no one called out to him, he opened it and was nearly knocked back by the foul stench of sickness.

“Mrs. Lark,” he announced as he stepped inside.

On a bed in the corner, a woman with tangled red hair pushed herself up. “What'd ye do, Johnny?”

Her voice was scratchy, raw, and weak. Her face glistened with sweat; her eyes were dull.

“He acquired some food for you. I'm the Earl of Greyling.”

“Oh, m'lord.”

Edward rushed forward, placed a hand gently on her shoulder, taken aback by the heat emanating through the flannel. “Don't get up. I'm here to see after you.”

“But you're a lord.”

“Who was rather impressed by your son's resourcefulness.” Turning away, he took his coat from the boy, draped it over the back of a chair at the table. Opening the box, he set a meat pie on the table. “You need to eat, Johnny.”

“But me mum—­”

“I'll take care of your mum.”

A little red-­haired girl slightly younger than the boy crawled out from beneath the bed. Edward placed a pie on the table for her, lifted her onto a chair. He found spoons for them. The fourth member of the family was still in the cradle. He was going to have to mash up the meat pie for that little one. He needed to locate some milk as well.

He took a pie to the woman, offered it to her.

She shook her head. “It won't stay down.”

“You need to try, even if it's no more than a couple of bites. What does the doctor say about your condition?”

“He won't come here. I got no way to pay him.”

“He hasn't been here at all, then?”

She shook her head. “Wouldn't even come when me husband was dying last week. Said there weren't nothing he could do. Ben died. Undertaker came, took him and the last of me coin. Then I got sick. Who's going to take care of me bairns when I'm gone?”

“You're not going anywhere.” He placed the pie in her hands. “Eat what you can. I'm going to fetch the physician.” He grabbed his coat and headed toward the door.

“I'm telling you—­he won't come.”

Edward stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “For me, he'd better damn well come.”

He stormed out of the house, barely noticing the drizzling rain that had started. When he'd seen the sickly woman, the babe, the little girl crawling out from beneath the bed, a near panic had hit him as Julia flashed through his mind, alone and sentenced to squalid conditions. He knew that if she decided not to remain at Evermore, she would not be living in a hovel. She would have the cottage in the Cotswolds, an army of servants, and funds to ensure that she and Allie never went without. He would set up a trust. He needed to see to that immediately. As well as a will. He needed to ensure they were provided for. It didn't anger him that Albert hadn't seen to those details. He'd been a young, virile man. Why would he think death would come before he even reached his thirtieth year? But Death honored neither calendar nor clock, and Edward had no plans to be caught unawares when his time came.

He'd been striving to get all his holdings in order, to take stock of all that came to him with the title. His brother had left things in relatively good order, but still he had so much to learn, so much to comprehend. While he was not lord of the village, he could not help but feel as though he had a role in the care of its citizens. He was the largest landowner in the area, the only man for miles with a title. Those two aspects alone came with responsibilities that he had no intention of shirking.

When he arrived at the physician's residence, he pounded on the door. It was opened by a small woman with hair the color of corn silk. Her eyes widened.

“Lord Greyling, you shouldn't be out and about in weather such as this. Come in.”

Removing his hat, he stepped over the threshold. “Is your husband home?”

“He's at Mr. Monroe's lancing a boil. He shouldn't be long if you'd like to wait.”

“I shall do that, thank you.”

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I don't wish to trouble you.”

“It will be no trouble.”

“Then, yes, thank you, I would welcome it.”

“Please, take a seat.”

“I'm drenched, Mrs. Warren. I have no desire to ruin your furniture. I'll stand.”

“As you wish; I shan't be long.”

Warren on the other hand seemed to take his time. It was nearly an hour and two cups of tea later before he walked through the door. His eyes widened. “Greyling, this is a pleasant surprise.”

“Not so pleasant. I've just come from Mrs. Lark's. She's unwell.”

“Yes, influenza.”

“How would you know? You haven't seen her.”

Warren raised his chin. “Half the village has succumbed to the disease.”

“What is the treatment?”

“There is none except to let it run its course.”

“Her husband died.”

He lowered that chin that Edward had a good mind to punch. “The disease can be quite . . . unforgiving.”

“She has three small children. I believe the boy to be fevered as well.”

“It is contagious, I'm afraid.”

“So is it her lack of funds or your lack of courage that prevents you from going to her?”

The chin up again, the nose at a haughty angle. “I resent the implication that I am a coward.”

“Good. Then it's lack of money. I can deal with a man who is absent of compassion. You will go with me now to see her. You will then call on anyone who is ill. If they cannot afford to pay for your time, then you will come to me for payment. You will also let it be known that I will pay handsomely anyone who is willing to nurse those who have no one to care for them.”

Warren shook his head. “To put the well with the unwell will only spread the disease.”

“So your solution is to leave them to die?”

“Not everyone dies.”

“Then one is merely inconvenienced for a time. You will do as I demand or come spring there will be another physician in the village.” Regardless of whether Warren did as he'd insisted, there would be another physician come spring. A little competition always brought out the best in people. “Shall we be off?”

Warren sighed. “As Mr. Lark just died, I don't know that I'll have any luck finding anyone willing to go into the house and take care of Mrs. Lark and her children. Death tends to make people uncomfortable, as though if it visits once, it'll visit again.”

“You don't have to find anyone for her. I'm not going to ask others to do what I am unwilling to do. I'll see to Mrs. Lark. I just need you to examine her and tell me how best to help her.”

S
itting
on the sofa before the fireplace in her bedchamber, Julia stared at the clock on the mantel, watching as the hour hand neared two and the minute hand came ever closer to twelve. No missive alerting her to the earl's afternoon visit to the nursery had been delivered. Did he assume that after nearly ten days it was understood that he had established a ritual and would be attending to her daughter?

Or had he grown tired of his visits, weary of giving time to Alberta? Had he been using Alberta to manipulate her, and when she failed to rise to whatever bait he was dangling, decided to cast her daughter aside like so much rubbish?

Even as she had the horrid thought, she couldn't envision it of him, not after witnessing him with Alberta perched protectively on his chest two nights ago.

Torrie was no doubt at fault, lounging around somewhere instead of seeing to her duties. Shooting to her feet, she crossed the room and yanked on the bellpull. Then she paced, wondering why she felt strung as tightly as a bow. When the knock finally came, relief swamped through her. “Come in.”

Torrie entered, gave a little curtsy. “You rang for me, m'lady?”

“Did you not have a missive to deliver to me?”

“No, m'lady.”

Julia was unprepared for the disappointment that struck her. “The earl did not give you a note for me?”

“I don't see how he could. He's not here.”

“What do you mean he's not here?” Where was he? London? Another estate? Havisham Hall? He couldn't just leave without telling her.

“He rode to the village this morning and he hasn't returned yet.”

“In this weather?” She raised her hand. “No need to answer. It's not our place to question him.” But why did this man have such a penchant for traveling about in dreadful weather? No doubt it was the adventurer in him. Pity his poor wife, who would in all likelihood spend an inordinate amount of time worrying over him. Not that Julia was worried. He could catch his death for all she cared. Served him right for never saying anything when she whispered naughty things in his ear. It still mortified her to know he'd heard every shameful word she'd spoken.

“That'll be all.”

“Shall I alert you when he returns?”

“That would be splendid. I'm going to spend half an hour with Lady Alberta, and then I'm going to work with my watercolors.” She'd been envisioning a new character for her menagerie, and she was anxious to begin working on him.

Torrie smiled as though Julia had just announced she was going to set her up with a house and she wouldn't have to work for the remainder of her life. “Very good, m'lady. That room's been lonely without you.”

“Don't be absurd, Torrie. A room can't be lonely.”

“You'd be surprised, m'lady.”

Perhaps not, as this room at night felt incredibly lonely. Near midnight last night she'd gone into the master's bedchamber seeking some sort of solace that she couldn't understand. Failing to find it there, she'd gone to the chamber that had been designated as Edward's whenever he visited. The trunks were still there, untouched since her last sojourn into the room. Sinking to the floor, she'd opened Albert's trunk and wept as his familiar scent circled about her. Then for reasons she failed to comprehend, she opened Edward's and wept all the harder.

What a difficult task Albert had set before Edward. So many of her conversations with him since his return randomly ran through her mind, and she saw them in a different light, saw a man striving to remain as honest as he could with her while at the same time deceiving her.

With a shake of her head to scatter those disturbing thoughts, she put on her slippers and wandered down to the nursery. No need to creep about trying to be quiet.

Nanny immediately jumped to her feet. “M'lady.”

“Go enjoy a cup of tea. I'll watch Lady Alberta for a while.”

Nanny's brow furrowing deeply, she looked toward the door. “Is his lordship not coming, then?”

“Perhaps later.” She walked to the crib and picked up Alberta. “Hello, my darling.” The infant's face scrunched up as though she were on the verge of bellowing in protest. “I know I'm not who you were expecting, but he's been delayed. I'm sure he'll come see you as soon as he returns home.”

Holding her daughter close, she sat in the rocker. “I haven't your uncle's gift for storytelling. What do you suppose that naughty weasel is up to? Do you know what I think, Allie? I think the weasel—­who is supposed to be the villain of our tale—­may just turn out to be the hero.”