The Scandal of Lady Eleanor (2 page)

“That is superior.” The earl paused, wanting to say something else but choosing not to. “You travel tomorrow?”

“Early—with the first light.”

Eleanor Fowler rode across the estate, the late winter wind stinging her cheeks. Things at Thorn Hall changed the day her brother returned home. Now, Brantley was the Duke of Thornhill, and although Ella had not quite forgiven him for leaving her alone to bear the weight of running Thorn Hall and tending to William Fowler's regrets, she thoroughly enjoyed letting someone else deal with the disorder surrounding the title for a change.

Recently, she had told her brother she had a desire to travel—to see the world—to be independent—to never be subservient to a man again. Ella thought Brantley receptive to what she had said; at least, he had listened without censure. She had seen what a marriage based more on lust and less on love did to a person. She thought spending the rest of her life alone might bring her happiness, an eccentric daughter of an eccentric duke; she would not settle for a marriage of convenience. She would be out of her element in a romance, even an arranged one. “No,” she thought, “it would be best if I simply chose not to marry at all.”

Today, she rode her favorite grey, letting the horse kick up its heels and prance when it wanted. They both needed to simply run free with no destination in mind, and it was the perfect day to do so. “Come on, Sampson,” she urged. “It is our time.”

“You have no idea, Kerrington, how surprised I was to walk out of that gentleman's club to find my sister waiting on the steps.” James sat in Brantley Fowler's study, having arrived less than an hour before. “And poor Ella…she has dealt with it all since the Duke took ill. For two years, Father lay in bed enduring the ravages his lascivious life had brought him.”

James's brows drew together. “How in the world did Lady Fowler manage? An estate this size would cause most men to falter.”

“Eleanor is quite resourceful. When the Duke, for example, had a lucid moment, Ella presented him with page after page of blank paper to sign so she could later write orders for supplies or work to be completed. Her farce perpetuated the rumors that Father suffered from a reoccurring bout of pneumonia.”

James thought Fowler's sister quite ingenious. Few women would manage under such conditions. “I cannot imagine,” James said with a hint of amusement in his voice, “that you willingly agreed to return to Thornhill.You were always set on ignoring the entailment, even if it came your way.”

Fowler took another swallow of brandy, pointedly pausing before responding. “I refused, despite Eleanor's best arguments. My cousin Horton Leighton would inherit, and Ella promised she would not disclose finding me in Cornwall.” His friend hesitated. “I should not have denied Eleanor's request. I was aware of Leighton's own depravity, but I could not relinquish my pride to save my sister from a life as Leighton's mother's companion.”

James noted Fowler's culpability. His friend had spent years protecting the weak—searching for the noble cause. Now, Fowler admitted that he failed to “save” his own sister because of his personal ghosts. “What changed your mind?”

Fowler chuckled lightly. “Ella again. I underestimated her resolve. Women can be quite devious, Worthing,” he observed. “Eleanor returned to Kent, but she sent me a package—two miniatures. One was of my mother—a reminder of what she suffered in order that I might ascend to the title.”

“And the second?” James admired Lady Fowler's way of thinking. She had reached her brother's inner motivations.

“The second was of Velvet. I had wanted to ask Ella about her when my sister dwelled with me, but I did not believe I had the right.”

James insisted, “Your commitment to Ashmita was for Sonali's sake. You do not have to deny yourself the woman you have loved all your life because you saved an innocent girl from a crazy Baloch.” Every member of his Realm unit had dreamed of coming home and making things right—correcting the wrongs each left behind. Not a day went by without his spending time in anguish over losing Elizabeth. She rested in his heart and in his soul, and he could not let her go—could not forget what she had meant to him. Dutifully, he had accepted his fate: he had known the quintessence—the ideal love; and although he was likely to remarry, he would never know such happiness again. Despite that fact, he would remarry; he owed that much to his parents and to his title.

“Sonali's presence and the knowledge of my marriage has put a strain on my reunion with my cousin,” Fowler disclosed.

“Do not give up.” James offered a slow, triumphant smile. “My money is on you, Fowler.”

His friend nodded his agreement. “Speaking of Velvet, she and I were involved in an unusual attack three days ago. Someone took a shot at us as we visited the cottagers. I assume my cousin has accumulated no enemies.”

“Whereas you have, Fowler?”

“Whereas we all have, Worthing.”

James tilted his head in an acknowledgment of the truth. “Are you sure there is no way it could have been an accident?”

“I considered that—hunters or poachers—butVelvet and I were out in the open—standing along the riverbank. No one could have mistaken us for animals. The thing is—whoever did this hit Velvet…just a graze, but it is now personal. I will not stop until I know
who
and
why
.”

“Anything else?”

James watched as Fowler leaned back in his chair, fingers interlocked so he might mindlessly tap his chin. “Entries in my father's ledgers, several of them. Each simply say ‘3L.' Each for two to three thousand pounds.”

“And what do you want from me?” James suspected he knew the answer, but he would ask just the same.

Bran looked at his friend—leveling a direct gaze, solidifying their understanding. “It is important to me to rid Thornhill of its negative reputation. That means I must tie up all the loose ends. So, besides enjoying your company, I need another pair of eyes and a different perspective.” James knew this was his Thorn Hall mission even before he had arrived; Fowler held an undeniable desire to wipe away his father's reputation. Brantley Fowler wanted to be someone's “knight in shining armor.”

“So, all we must do is to solve the mystery of missing estate funds, to absolve your family name, and to find a way to convince Miss Aldridge that you are the man she must marry.” James's mouth curled in a sly smile. “Seems simple enough. All in a day's work for the Realm. Did you have any ideas on where we should start?”

Fowler frowned thoughtfully. “Well, I do have a plan to convince Velvet that my marrying Ashmita was my past. Velvet is my future.”

The conversation reminded James of his and Fowler's first mission together. From the beginning, they had worked well as a team—their thoughts similarly detailed and predictable.

“I did not simply inherit the title; I also assumed my father's position as Velvet's guardian. Therefore, I plan to provide her and my sister a Season. When Velvet has had a chance to find another and, hopefully, has failed, I will claim her at the end of the Season; then we will be equal—she will see that things are not always as they are told in a fairy tale or novel—dreams change.”

“It is a bold move,Your Grace.You are gambling with the prospect that your lady love will not choose another.”

“It is the only thing I can think of doing. Do you believe it is a mistake?”

Fowler looked worried. James recognized the feeling of disorientation Miss Aldridge brought to his friend's life. He had known such anguish, too, in those early days of winning Elizabeth Morris's affections. “In the game of love, I suppose it is as good as any other move. What do I know? I keep Mary as my mistress because love avoids me like the plague.”

Before they could continue, a light tap on the door announced Sonali's presence. “Papa,” she giggled as she ran to where Fowler sat. “Look what I have.” James enjoyed the girl's innocence. The child cupped her small hands lightly together. He sorely wished he had been at Linton Park to experience such moments with Daniel. She opened them enough for her father to see what she held. “It is a baby frog. May I keep it?”

Fowler glanced quickly at James before answering, “Does Mrs. Carruthers know of this, Sonali?” The duke manipulated her hold on the pet frog to keep her from accidentally crushing it in her palm.

The child shook her head rapidly. “Myles helped me catch it.”

Bran conspiratorially winked at James. “I see.” His friend took on a serious demeanor. “First, Child, as a frog is not really a house pet, I suspect it might be best to leave your catch in the pond where it might grow up naturally. However, before we speak to Mrs. Carruthers, say your good mornings to your Uncle James.”

James noted the look of innocent mischief playing on the child's face. “Uncle James!” Sonali squealed and reached for him when she finally looked his way.

“Aah…!” Fowler warned. “Frog!”

The child froze in place before looking at her father sheepishly. “Sorry, Papa.”

“March!” he ordered good-naturedly, pointing toward the hallway. Watching her go, Fowler turned to James. “I will be back in a moment. Make yourself comfortable.”

James stood and walked casually about the room, taking a closer look at what William Fowler thought important to hang on his walls—he doubted that the room held anything much of Brantley Fowler's. His friend had assumed the title only recently—not long enough ago to claim the study as his own, although a jade elephant, a Persian folding screen, and an ornate ebony and ivory chess set reflected their time in the East.

He had circumambulated the whole room when the door suddenly flew open, and James came face-to-face with a golden-haired beauty, who, literally, stumbled and fell into his arms. Instinctively, he steadied her stance by encircling her slim waist, clasping his hands behind her back. Her awkward movements to right herself skimmed her soft curves against the muscular hardness of his chest and abdomen, awakening something in his soul, as well as his body. She was breathtakingly beautiful at this close range and just looking at her aroused him. Although nearly as tall as he, the lady refused to look him in the eye as he used his hand to edge her closer to him.

“I…I apologize, Sir,” she stammered and blushed. Color waves flooded her face. James felt the heat of her body radiate into his, and something unknown stirred. He rarely acted so impulsively with any woman.

Tightening his hold on her, he whispered close to her ear, “I cannot say when I have enjoyed an accident more. You have my permission, my Dear, to fall into my waiting arms anytime you so choose.” He had no idea why he acted so boldly. The woman was obviously a lady of good breeding and a member of Fowler's household, and he should apologize, but James found he enjoyed this moment of indiscretion more than he should.

Eleanor Fowler forced herself to look into his countenance. The man's steel-grey eyes sparked with silver and gold, flashing in unexplained recognition. Broad-shouldered and athletically built, he was solid—time spent in the saddle or in the fencing halls was quite obvious. Dark brows, closely set, framed those mesmerizing eyes into which she now stared. A strong jaw held a firm mouth, biting
back a self-assured smile, and Ella realized too late that her hesitation had given him permission to continue to hold her; his hand pressed against her lower back, moving her inches closer to his flat abdomen. “I…I am…I am capable of standing on my own,” she choked out.

“You may be, my lovely, but I find your presence leaves me quite incapable of even breathing without your aid. This close, you breathe out…and I will inhale the essence of you.”

James Kerrington often found a beguiling female in his embrace, but when this one actually tumbled into his arms, he did not expect his world to shift on its axis. When he spoke of finding it difficult to breathe, he only half joked through the flirtation. The scent of lavender tempted his nostrils, and he willingly inhaled her essence. Taller than most women he knew, her angular, bony frame molded nicely to his, and James felt a rush of blood to his manhood. Besides the lavender, sun-warmed skin and a hint of cinnamon tea lingered, sending a new jolt of manly needs straight to his senses. Her redgold hair shimmered like silk, and James fought the desire to loosen the pins and let it slide like satin through his fingers.