Beware of Virtuous Women (36 page)

Eleanor felt unnaturally calm. She was sure it was unnatural to be so calm, at any rate.

Perhaps it was because she felt so certain that Jack would come for her.

Or perhaps it was because the Earl of Chelfham, this man her mind and memories had made into a monster, looked anything but intimidating at the moment. When she'd been carried into his study, and dropped unceremoniously onto a couch, the blanket over her head removed, the man had actually blanched in front of her.

"The journals, damn you! I said the
journals!
What in Hades do I want with her?"

The man Eleanor believed must be Beatrice's supposed suitor had explained in fits and starts that he'd been taken by surprise in Jack's study, first by Cluny. He'd taken care of the Irishman, even did that thing the Red Men Gang did, smeared the man's face with blood.

But he still couldn't find the journals anywhere, and then Eastwood himself came into the study. Before daybreak! Did no one sleep in that household? He'd heard him talking, in the hallway, and grabbed up a brass candlestick and hidden himself behind the door. Knocked him down.

Still with no journals to be found, and with Eleanor screaming to wake the dead, he hadn't really thought about much more than getting her shut up, and getting them out of there.

"I thought...I thought you could maybe
trade
the lady for the journals, my lord?" Gerald ended hopefully, looking apologetically toward Eleanor.

"A man with initiative. How pleased you must be with your henchman, my lord. And a plausible solution, as well. But only if I'm unharmed, of course. Otherwise, I would imagine Jack will feed both of you your own eyeballs," Eleanor warned in polite tones, carefully checking her neckline to be sure she was modestly covered. Outwardly calm, her mind was tumbling over itself in its search for solutions, and had already come up with that threat about eyeballs, remembering Jacko saying something very like it one time in jest, when Spencer had done something to annoy him.

In any case, she was establishing herself as a force, even as she remained a captive. It was important that Chelfham understand that she was not intimidated, not powerless. Not afraid.

Her sister Morgan would be attacking, verbally and physically, her anger overwhelming her. But she was not Morgan. She did not have Morgan's strengths, her blind courage.

So what did she have? What were her weapons? Her cool head in a crisis? Her supposedly ladylike, demure appearance? Her quiet air of command that had worked wonders on her brothers and sisters over the years? Those, some would say, were her virtues.

And then, hiding her smile behind her hand, Eleanor thought of something she had read in one of Montaigne's essays. "I find that the best virtue I have has in it some tinture of vice."

She did have a weapon. She had
herself.

Her mind raced on, seeking solutions. She and Jack had spoken of their conclusions as to how Chelfham's own mind worked, how he approached problems.

He'd make a plan and not deviate from it, not expect the unexpected or prepare for it. Clearly, he'd planned to take back his journals by breaking into Jack's study. Safe in his own house, he'd sent someone else to do the real work, believing he'd soon have his property back where it belonged.

But now the unexpected had happened, and Eleanor saw the panic in the man's eyes, the uncertainty. The weakness.

So she would graciously deign to help him, give him a new plan. Set his feet down another path, and pray that Jack would come to the same conclusion she had come to—that Chelfham wasn't capable of thinking much beyond his mission, that of recovering the journals. Consequences. Chelfham didn't expend a lot of effort on thinking of possibly adverse consequences, preferring rosy scenarios in their place.

"What a fine mess, my lord Chelfham," she said conversationally, as if they were guests at a dinner party, discussing someone else's problem. "You're really not all that proficient in the finer points of skulduggery, are you? I'm surprised you've lasted so long in this dangerous game."

"I could gag you," Chelfham threatened, pacing the carpet in front of her. "I could have you killed."

"Not if you wish to continue living," Eleanor told him, folding her hands in her blanket-covered lap, keeping her posture rigid. "But I'll be quiet, allow you to think. You really do need to think, my lord, find a way to make the best of what is certainly a rather embarrassing debacle for you. And so unfair, that a gentleman like yourself should be so badly used. Oh, wait, I have an idea. Compose a conciliatory note to my husband and ask him to come here to fetch me, my lord—effect that trade your man spoke of. Although I do believe Jack, his constitution being much more rough-and-tumble than yours, may wish to renegotiate your partnership. Therefore, a slight hint of humility in the note might be advisable."

Chelfham glared at her, actually took one menacing step in her direction. But then he stopped, turned and sat himself behind his desk, still glaring at her as he pulled paper and pen in front of him.

Eleanor inclined her head slightly, and then composed her features as she pretended to inspect a rather inferior hunt scene hung behind the earl's head.

Yes. Calm. She was unreasonably, unnaturally calm. Right here, in the presence of her nightmare, her boo-geyman. And he was only human, and more than fallible. How liberating!

Jack would come for her. He had been moving on the floor even as the man who could be no one other than Beatrice's Gerald had picked her up, thrown her over his shoulder. She'd even heard him groan.

She wasn't as sure about Cluny, however, and that did worry her. She didn't really know the man that well, but he was important to Jack. And what was important to Jack was important to her.

For nearly a half hour, there was nothing but silence in the earl's study as Eleanor watched the man pace, pause, look at the mantel clock, then begin to pace once more.

The note had been written and dispatched to Portland Place. Jack would be here soon. To "correct an unfortunate error on the part of one of my overzealous servants." Chelfham had actually read the note to her, as if seeking her approval, and she had assured him that Jack would be most forgiving, "...as there is fault on both sides, isn't there, my lord? There will be these little
bumps
at the outset of any new association."

Calm. So wonderfully, mercifully, eerily calm...

"Thank you. Gerald, isn't it?" Eleanor said a few minutes later as that man placed a silver tea tray on the table in front of her. He'd already brought her a shawl that smelled of Lady Chelfham's perfume. "I see that the burn on your hand is healing nicely. Beatrice is also well on her way to mending. You've acted badly, Gerald, but you've also been kind. I'll be sure to mention that kindness to my husband."

"Yes, ma'am, thank you," Gerald said, hiding his burned hand behind his back, then crying out as a small silver paperweight bounced off his shoulder.

"Idiots. I'm surrounded by them," Chelfham spat from behind his desk. "Who told you to bring her tea?"

"Oh, for goodness sake, your lordship, there's no need to be so outraged," Eleanor scolded. "It's only tea. I highly doubt I've corrupted the man. Again, Gerald, thank you. I had begun to take a chill, being dragged through the streets before dawn in my nightclothes."

"Get out of here now, you fool! Eastwood's due within the hour. Let me know when you hear him at the door. Be of some damn use to me after the mess you've made," Chelfham ordered tersely to the now nervously bowing Gerald, and the man quickly exited the study, leaving Eleanor alone with the earl once more.

He leaned his elbows on the desktop littered with a brace of silver-handled dueling pistols and glowered at her. "You're a piece of work, aren't you? Sitting there, so much the lady, acting as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth."

Eleanor didn't respond until she'd replaced the small teapot on the tray and was reaching for the tongs for the sugar cubes Gerald had provided. Less than an hour. If she was going to act, it would have to be now. "What else is there for me, my lord? I can scarcely overpower you, physically—even if you are old enough to be my father."

Chelfham sprawled back against his chair as if shoved there by an unseen hand, one arm dangling over one of its leather arms, the other bent, the back of his hand to his mouth as he concentrated on Eleanor. "I wanted to believe it all a horrible coincidence. But you know, don't you."

Eleanor willed her hand steady as she dropped a single sugar cube into her cup. Years. She'd waited years for this moment. "Who I am? Who
you
are? Yes. Yes, I do."

The earl bit on his knuckle for a moment, then sat forward once more. "Who
I
am? How would you know that?"

"An answer for an answer, my lord? As long as we're merely attempting to pass the time?"

He didn't say anything, but simply made a small circular motion with his hand, as if inviting her to speak.

"Very well. First allow me to say that my husband is aware of what I know, but we decided not to act upon that knowledge, feeling it more profitable to become your partner than to try to prove my...parentage. Secondly, I know who you are because I overheard my mother admit as much to your brother, just before she had him thrown overboard. Now, my first question. Were you planning to have me murdered as I left London for Jack's estate?"

Once again, Chelfham looked genuinely shocked. Or perhaps Eleanor wanted to believe he was genuinely shocked. He'd been so malleable, she had to guard against becoming overconfident. "Murder you? Why would I do that?"

"Isn't that obvious? Because you know who I am."

"And you think, knowing who you are, that I'd order you killed? I just wanted you gone. You look too much like her, remind me of a time I want to forget. I'm going to give you back, remember, just as soon as Eastwood gets here with my journals. I'm
civilized,
damn it. None of this was my idea—it was all forced on me. We live in a civilized country. We're not a bunch
of...of pirates."

"Yes, pirates," Eleanor said, her heart pounding now. "Let's speak of pirates for a few moments, shall we, leaving the idea you might want me dead for another time? How, exactly, did you arrange your brother's death? How much does it cost a civilized gentleman such as yourself to buy an entire crew, and their captain, as well, I would suppose?"

The earl's face had begun to flush an unhealthy red. "I should have ordered you bound and gagged. It was her idea, not mine. Your whore of a mother. And look where it got us. Her dead, me enslaved." He got up from his chair and strode over to a table littered with crystal decanters. "No more questions."

"Oh, my lord, you can't stop now.
Enslaved?
You hardly look enslaved. I suppose I should thank you for not wanting to see me dead? You're the civilized gentleman, so perhaps you can help me here. Does a daughter thank her father for something like that? Does a daughter apologize for even thinking a father capable of such a thing? Ah, but you've murdered flesh and blood before, haven't you? My mother wasn't acting alone. Surely you can understand my concern."

"Shut up! Just shut your mouth!" Chelfham turned about so quickly, his arm caught one of the decanters and sent it crashing to the floor, the smell of brandy quickly permeating the small room and instantly reminding Eleanor of the night Jack had given her brandy to drink. Just the thought of Jack lent her strength to keep pushing this man.

"Certainly,
Father.
A bit of silence may be just what we both need. Time to reflect on all we've learned, perhaps?"

Eleanor picked up her teacup and brought it to her mouth, sipped some of the still rather hot contents. Calm. She was still so amazingly calm, almost as if she was an actress in a play. How could that be? Then she deliberately smiled, put down the cup, and folded her hands in her lap.

And waited for Chelfham to fill the silence. She had no "lines" right now. It was time to be quiet. Papa had always told her that her greatest weapon was her silences.

And, eventually, with only the sound of the clock on the mantel audible, Chelfham succumbed to that weapon.

"It's been so long. What? More than fifteen years since I last saw her?" Chelfham said, retaking his seat. "I didn't recognize you. Not at all, even though you look just like her. It took my slut of a wife to comment on the resemblance to a portrait that still hangs somewhere in this house. God, how I loved your mother. And how I loathe her now.
She
did this to me. She did it all."

Eleanor was careful to remain very still, keep her expression as close to neutral as possible, even as his every word sliced into her.

He pointed one shaky finger at her. "Yes, she looked like that, too. Just like that. Like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. We couldn't marry, you know, even with Robert dead. But that didn't matter to her. It would be enough that we had the money, that we had each other. Her, the dowager countess, me, the bachelor earl, both of us living under the same roof. Anything to get that dull as ditch water Robert out of her life. I was so young, so stupidly flattered. I've often wondered, over the years, how long I would have survived my brother."

Eleanor's memories of her mother, the man she'd believed to be her father, were only vague, never clear. Still, it hurt to hear Chelfham speak about either of them this way. "You believe now that she was only using you for her own purposes? Is that how you salve your conscience, by seeing yourself as a victim? Surely not everything that happened was terrible for you. After all, fratricide gained you an earldom."

Chelfham retrieved his glass of wine, still intent on his own thoughts, his own memories. Clearly, his mind was a good fifteen or more years in the past. "My father used to say, when you sup with the devil be careful to use a long spoon. I forgot that. I paid him to be rid of Robert, and he paid me back by attacking the ship for its cargo."

He gave a short sniff of wry amusement. "We hired her own killer. Amazing, isn't it? And then he came back three years ago, holding
my
crime over my head, my signed note to him telling him what I wanted him to do about Robert, and he forced me into doing business with him. His minion. His slave."