The Lonely Earl Read online

  Vincent looked at her from under his lashes reproachfully. “Don’t you believe me?”

  Reddening, Faustina said, “Really, Vincent, your allowance is none of my affair. Pray forgive me.”

  “Oh, damn!” he said, then quickly apologized. “Sorry, but I see that stupid man coming. Why does he have to come here all the time?”

  Faustina correctly identified the visitor from Vincent’s reaction, even before she saw him. Mr. Astley, the vicar at Trevan’s church, was an excellent man of good character — so everyone said.

  She chuckled. “Now, you know he comes here every day. Your father had the living, and because of Mr. Astley’s family, appointed him. But since the new earl is not in residence, the vicar feels he must report daily to someone, and the choice has unhappily fallen upon my father.”

  “Maybe he’ll take to Hugh!” said Vincent, with a rare flash of humor. “Serve them both right!”

  Faustina had barely regained her gravity when the vicar made his stately appearance. Tending toward plumpness, he carried his weight in front of him, much as though he were making an offering to the gods of plenty, who had fortunately seen his true merit and bestowed upon him the prosperous living of Trevan. George Astley was an Astley of Wiltshire, connected with the Hortons, a great and powerful family of Hampshire, to which he clung by the merest of ties. Because he was a widower, his daughter Helen kept his house. It was his ambition to advance himself in the world by his daughter’s marriage. Unfortunately, he saw no more clearly than most parents, and his daughter’s charms had hitherto gone unremarked in the marriage mart.

  Just now the vicar was full of information. Greeting Faustina with ponderous jocularity, he said, “I imagine the news has you on tiptoe with anticipation!” Turning to Vincent, he added, “How excellent a thing to have one’s family all about one again! I am sure you will find the earl’s return all that you hope for! For myself, I look forward to renewing our old acquaintance. It is most unfortunate that my own dear Helen is away just now. But she will return shortly!” A fleeting thought passed through his mind, reflected in a slight tightening of the lips. “Yes, she will!”

  Glancing at Vincent, Faustina saw that he was making a choice among the scathing remarks that clearly occurred to him, and swiftly she forestalled him. “How did you hear the news so soon? I imagine, though, you must have heard from your friends in London!”

  “No, Miss Kennett, I must tell you, I myself have seen him. At least, I saw his coach, and of course the crest on the door was unmistakable. Such a great number of outriders, and the most elegant equipage!” He continued in this vein for some moments.

  “You mean he’s here?” interrupted Vincent. “Already?”

  “Oh, my, yes,” said Mr. Astley, his eyes alight with remembered magnificence. “I was fortunate enough to have my own curricle at hand, and T followed the carriage out. I thought I ought to be the first to welcome the earl back to Crale Hall.”

  Mystified, Faustina was betrayed into bluntness. “Why?”

  He bent upon her a look of reproach. “Certainly I must be ever mindful of the claims of civility—”

  Vincent broke in, “You mean, you want to get in first before he forgets about you and gives the living to someone else! He could, you know. I hope he does!”

  Faustina cried. “Vincent! How shocking!”

  Vincent turned on his heel and left without a farewell. Only Faustina saw the miserable expression on his fair, boyish face.

  The vicar had seen nothing. His eyes followed Vincent across the lawn out of sight. Then he said, almost to himself, “As alike as two peas. I daresay the earl’s homecoming may provide a few surprises for him. And for that very rude young man, as well.”

  Faustina answered him appropriately, she hoped, for she could not remember a word she spoke. Her thoughts were absorbed by the puzzle of Vincent — his misery at his half-brother’s arrival was perhaps understandable. She detected, so she thought, something deeper.

  But why should Vincent be afraid?

  Chapter 2

  For the next week Faustina was unable to forget the earl. Not that she had fond recollections of him, for she had only one memory at all. She had still been in the schoolroom with dear Miss Bucknell when Hugh’s father accused him once too often of aspiring prematurely to the title.

  It was not so much the succession that agitated the old man, as his firmly held conviction that the first task young Hugh would set himself was the immediate removal of the second countess, a onetime dancer on the London stage, from the environs of Crale Hall.

  Once too often Hugh had railed at his father, and was gone from Crale between darkness and dawn of the next day.

  Before that time, Hugh had had little opportunity even to recognize his small and severely supervised neighbor at Kennett Chase, and if Faustina now, upon mature reflection, could see that the growing boy Hugh had been miserable with grief over his mother’s death, and resentment, returned in full measure, of his stepmother, nonetheless Hugh Crale was little more than a name to her.

  An execrated name, at that. For Vincent had little good to say about his half-brother.

  Although, in the ordinary course of events connected with leisurely country living, she might expect to meet the earl once in a while — at church, at the homes of various of their neighbors — Hugh’s long absence from the country had precluded any such acquaintance. And surely, she told herself now, the young man who had, at her behest, painstakingly released a fledgling lark from the toils of a bit of string — one day in a nearby coppice, when she was fourteen and he was nearly six years older — must long since have grown into a stranger.

  Not even Bucky was aware of her full-blown hero worship at the time, and of course that childish adoration had long since withered away.

  But Vincent found much to tell her daily, and she found that Hugh, even unseen, occupied far too much of her attention.

  She said as much to her father at lunch. “It’s been exactly a week,” she sighed, “since all this stir began. And I must confess I could wish the earl back in Paris, or wherever he came from.”

  Lord Egmont murmured, “Amsterdam. France is at war with us, you know.”

  “Anywhere but here!” said Faustina dramatically. “Perhaps the antipodes might be far enough, do you think, sir?”

  Her father looked up, startled more by the strained note in her voice than by her words. “Look here, Faustina, you are not letting your aunt’s visit throw you off, are you? You surely can deal with what’s required? She won’t be staying more than a fortnight, I should imagine.”

  Intrigued, Faustina immediately asked, “How do you gauge that? I confess I had anticipated at least two months! And two months of Aunt Louisa…”

  Neither one needed words to finish her thought. Father and daughter, in agreement upon most subjects, enjoyed a fanatical union of minds upon the subject of Louisa Waverly.

  “My child,” said Lord Egmont dryly, “we have agreed, have we not, that Louisa will find no amusement here?”

  Faustina nodded, her mouth full of chicken baked in wine in the new continental fashion.

  “And if we carefully avoid entertaining her, she will soon tire of us and go on to other fields to conquer. I must say, I wish she will get well away before she indulges in some extravagant whimsy…”

  Faustina frowned slightly. She wished she could be as optimistic as her father, but she could not. Certain information had been brought to her, and now she thought she must share it with her parent.

  “Papa, I am afraid—”

  “Pooh, you afraid!” said Lord Egmont. After a shrewd glance at his daughter, he changed his note. “What is it, my dear? I must say that if I had known this visit would upset you this much, I would have myself written to tell Louisa she isn’t welcome. Just now,” he added guiltily, as his daughter flashed him a chiding glance. “Some other time. Yes, that’s what I would have told her. It isn’t convenient just now.” He glanced up hopefully. “Is there sti
ll time to cry off, do you think?”

  “Papa,” said Faustina, apparently at a tangent, “do you remember the earl very well?”

  “Fine man,” said Lord Egmont with enthusiasm. “Rode the finest horses in all of Devon. And sail? A wizard with that yacht of his. What did he call it? The Gray Goose of England. Some nonsense about olden times, I guess.”

  “I mean the present earl, Papa,” she explained with commendable patience.

  Lord Egmont returned to the present with a visible start. “Young Hugh? No, now that I think about it, I don’t know him at all. His father was dead set against him, you know, toward the end. Young Hugh couldn’t do anything right. I laid it all to that stupid wife of his. Don’t know what the old man could have been thinking of!”

  “Perhaps he loved her?” ventured Faustina.

  “Nonsense. Made a mistake, and decided he had to live with it, that’s about the nub of it. But what’s past is past, and I don’t think you wanted to know that?”

  “No, sir. Well, it’s just that we were going along so comfortably here, and Vincent was happy, and now all of a sudden everything is turned upside down. Vincent…”

  “Want a word of advice? No, I don’t suppose you need it. But just the same, don’t take all this too much to heart. After Louisa leaves, which I devoutly hope will be soon, we’ll travel a bit. See the world. Too much walled up here, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  He threw down his napkin. Rising, he hesitated, as though wondering whether to speak what was on his mind. He finally decided on saying only, “Only thing about young Hugh. You never heard a word of complaint from him about the way he was treated. He must have had some bad times, but nobody ever knew.”

  Faustina knew well what he meant. But if Vincent, who was merely a boy yet, even though he was almost twenty, needed to talk to someone, what harm could it do? She thought she knew herself — and him — well enough to know that she must discount at least some of what he related to her, but if one-tenth was true…

  She propped her elbow on the table, and her chin in her hand. She looked into space, not seeing, on the buffet, the shining tea service in the Georgian style favored by her grandmother. Nor the Bohemian glass behind the glass-fronted cabinet, dark now, but springing to ruby-hued life in flickering candlelight. Nor the great mahogany buffet, balanced by the server of matching wood against the opposite wall.

  Instead, she saw Vincent’s face clearly before her, and though she had not thought about it much, she was now aware that she had felt an increasing uneasiness on his behalf. He was clarity itself when it came to his injuries at the hands of his half-brother, but now she began to think that he had been less than candid with her. There was something obviously nibbling away at him, a secret worry, almost fear — Faustina wished she had not remembered the story of the small boy and the fox gnawing at his vitals.

  Always practical, she decided that just now she could do nothing for Vincent, and perhaps it was her imagination, after all. In the meantime, there were long lists of things to accomplish before Aunt Louisa descended on the household, and there was little time left.

  *

  Lady Althea Crale, at the age of six, had already developed a liking for this new country, the ancestral home of her papa. She found it exhilaratingly roomy after the cramped quarters of Paris and the rooms in a succession of cities whose names she did not know.

  In the week since they had arrived — she and Zelle, and of course Papa — she had explored quite thoroughly the huge pile of stone that was called Crale Hall, meaning, Mrs. Robbins had told her that her ancestors had lived here for generations. She did not know precisely what an ancestor was, someone like Papa, she gathered, but she was impressed.

  Her insatiable curiosity had led her into the coppices of the home farm, into the kitchens of the cottages clustered near the barns, and she decided she liked the stables best. The enormous horses, stamping their hooves occasionally, making fearsome whickering sounds, the warm intimacy of other breathing creatures nearby in the half-dark, the pungent aroma of bran mash mixed with leather, hay, and other more exotic odors — all this spoke to her as it had to her English grandfather.

  She had learned, too, that Zelle (Mademoiselle Deland), engaged only recently in Antwerp, was indulgent to a fault, not because of affection for her charge — Lady Althea had a sharp instinct for affection, a rare commodity in her world — but simply because Zelle’s interests lay primarily in Zelle herself.

  But the prime lesson Lady Althea had learned was simple, and met with success most of the time. Put simply, it was: Don’t tell anyone what you intend to do, and then they can’t stop you.

  This day, a week after their arrival at Crale, she rode with Zelle to the village. Hooper drove, and Chirk sat behind, and Althea sat up straight beside her companion and let the breeze blow in her face. By the time the curricle came into the outskirts of Trevan, the novelty of the ride had worn off, and Althea looked about her with avid curiosity.

  This town was different from those on the continent. Cottages with flowers blooming at the foot of their walls. The small church beyond the graveyard there, the white stones barely visible through the overgrown lych-gate as they passed. The inn — the signboard newly painted the green man on it still glistening as the sun caught the swinging board.

  They turned in at the stableyard of the Green Man. Chirk lifted her down. She cast a longing look at the stables, where just then a pair of post-horses was led out, but Zelle pulled her by the hand impatiently out onto the street.

  “Now, then, my lady,” said Zelle. “I’ve got some shopping to do, and you stay where I can see you. You hear me?”

  “Yes, Zelle.”

  Althea thought with satisfaction that she had admitted only to hearing Zelle, not to obeying her. Therefore, she was a free agent. Obediently she trailed along with Zelle into Mrs. Petty’s millinery, where feathers and ribbons and odd felt and fur samples filled her nose with a queer dusty smell. Althea lagged behind, speaking with great affection to a stray dog, as Zelle went into the mercier’s. And by the time the indefatigable shopper in Zelle led her to the draper’s, Althea had vanished.

  Zelle glanced up and down the street, looking for her charge. The southbound coach, next stop Ashburton, was dwindling from view at the west end of the single village street, a roll of dust rising around it. In the other direction, only a woman trudging along the way. On the road from Crale, a vehicle came into view, and Zelle’s heart sank. Suppose the earl himself had come after Althea! What would Zelle tell him?

  Her healthy fear of the earl’s displeasure moved her to action, even after she saw that the arriving vehicle was driven by a woman, making the turn into the High Street with skill.

  Zelle ran across the street and burst into the parlor of the Green Man. She must proceed with discretion, she thought, and avoiding Mrs. Kyd, she sought out that formidable woman’s son, young Joseph. “Have you seen the little Lady Althea?” she asked in a low voice.

  Unfortunately for her, Joseph’s instinct for intrigue was blunted. “Lady Althea? Aye, I saw her come in with you, miss. Not half an hour since.”

  Zelle’s dark eyes flashed in impatience. Vraiment, this oaf was too stupid to be real! “No, no, Joseph. I know she was with me then. But now, have you seen her now?”

  Baffled, he shook his head slowly. Why would he have anything to do with Lady Althea? He could not argue with this exotic, dark-eyed woman, who spoke in such a strange way, hardly English at all — that’s what it was. All he could do was shake his head vigorously, denying all knowledge not only of Lady Althea, but of the quality in general and all women in particular.

  Mistress Betsy Kyd chose this moment to check on her son’s progress in his work. A great gaby, he was, and she had to keep him hard at it, or he’d turn out like his father, as good and kind a man as ever was, but a head for business he had not, and that was a fact. Betsy had managed Ben all the years of their marriage, with the same competence and dispatch that she had run th
e small Faustina when she was her nurse. Competence leavened with a great amount of kindness and common sense, and the prosperity of the Green Man was testimony to her ability.

  She eyed the new woman up at Crale Hall with suspicion. The Green Man was a profitable enterprise, and that dark-eyed Frenchwoman had her eye on it — Betsy would take her bounden oath on it. And Joseph was not designed to resist a really determined woman. Betsy had her own choice for Joseph, the girl Hester, who was just now kneading bread back in the kitchen.

  Betsy heard enough of the conversation to guess shrewdly what was amiss. Hands on her ample hips, she said as much. “So the child wandered away, did she? And I suppose you paid so little heed to her that she could have trudged back home again, and no one the wiser? Or been snatched away? I must say, I don’t know what the earl is thinking of to let a flighty Uke you—”

  Whatever strictures Betsy would have laid onto Zelle, she was prevented, at least for the present. The driver of the curricle that Zelle had been approaching had now entered the parlor of the inn, drawing off her driving gloves as she did so.

  After listening a moment, unnoticed, Faustina deemed it time to intervene. “Do I collect that a child is missing?”

  Betsy turned, relief spreading over her face. At last there was someone here who could tell them what to do, for she was becoming uneasily aware that Zelle was too distraught to quarrel — and the situation therefore took on an unwonted seriousness.

  “Yes, Miss Kennett,” she said. “The earl’s little daughter, that’s all, and this person here has accused my Joseph of knowing where she is—”

  Faustina quelled her former nurse with a glance and then turned and said, in a considering way, to Zelle, “Can this be right? That you have allowed the child to run away from you?”

  By gentle drawing out of each answer, Faustina finally felt she was in possession of enough of the true picture to know that the child must be found.

  “Before the gypsies take her,” said Betsy.