Good Earls Don't Lie (3 page)

After he was dressed, he followed Hattie down the servants’ hallway. She turned to him and with a hopeful smile said, “I do wish you well, sir.” Pointing to the door at the end, she added, “You can go out that way.”

He eyed the door and then regarded the maid for a moment. “Do you believe that I am the Earl of Ashton, though I’m looking as if I’d been dragged through the midden heap?”

Hattie appeared uncomfortable and lowered her gaze. “It—it’s not for me to be sayin’, sir.” With that, she continued leading him toward the back door.

He didn’t argue with her, for she was only obeying orders. His mind was already conjuring up where he would stay this night. Possibly in the stables or somewhere sheltered. He hadn’t a single coin to call his own, so no one in the village would give him a place.

Iain had only walked a few steps when he heard a woman screaming. The piercing noise made it sound as if she were being attacked. He didn’t stop to ask questions, but hurried up the stairs leading to the hall. He found a middle-aged woman running toward the front door, her hair tangled and hanging down her back. She wore a long-sleeved blue serge gown and her eyes were wild. Far too young to be Lady Wolcroft, he guessed, but it could be the woman’s daughter.

“Lady Penford!” Hattie exclaimed, rushing forward to her aid. “Please . . . let me help you.”

Iain looked around to see what the woman was fleeing from, but there was nothing at all.

The woman’s face was deathly white, and her hands shook badly. When Hattie put her hand out, Lady Penford gripped it hard. “Please, you have to help me! The—the wolves. I heard them howling. They’re coming for me.”

The maid sent a look toward Iain and shook her head in warning. Though Iain wasn’t certain what was happening, it was clear that Lady Penford was suffering from visions that weren’t real.

The woman started to bolt again, and Hattie tried to stop her, holding her by the waist. “My lady, no. You mustn’t leave the house.”

Whatever illness had captured her mind, Lady Penford might injure herself if she was allowed to flee. And though it wasn’t his business, Iain stepped toward the doorway to keep her from escaping.

“Let me go,” Lady Penford insisted, wrenching her way free of the maid. But when she moved toward the front door, Iain remained in place to block her. He sensed that this woman was trapped in a world of her own imaginings, one where reality made little sense.

“Where are the wolves?” he asked calmly. He kept his voice quiet, as though soothing a wounded animal.

His question seemed to break through Lady Penford’s hysteria, and she faltered. “They—they were chasing me.” Her face held confusion, and she appeared unaware that he was a stranger.

“Would you feel safer in your room?” he asked. “Perhaps Hattie could take you there.”

“No.” Her breathing grew unsteady. “I can’t go back there. The wolves will find me.” She gripped her hands together and took another step toward the door. “Summon my coach.”

He met Hattie’s gaze, and she moved closer to Lady Penford. Iain took another step backward to prevent her from reaching the door.

A slight noise caught his attention at the top of the stairs, and he saw Lady Rose being carried by a footman. “Mother, please wait a moment.” Her face paled at the sight of the matron, and she ordered, “Calvert, take me downstairs.”

It sobered him to realize how difficult Lady Rose’s life must be, having to rely on others to carry her where she wanted to go. The simple act of helping her mother would be quite beyond her abilities.

When she saw Iain standing by the door, her face tightened in dismay. Color flooded her cheeks as if she was embarrassed that he had witnessed her mother’s outburst. Hattie brought a chair close to Lady Penford, and the footman set Lady Rose upon it, retreating to a discreet distance.

“Are you all right?” the young woman asked. In her voice, there was the gentle tone of compassion, no censure for the madness. She held out her hand, but Lady Penford ignored it.

At this close proximity, Iain noticed that Lady Rose’s eyes were the color of warm sherry. A few tendrils of reddish-brown hair framed her lovely face, and he found himself wanting to ease her worry.

“Did you hear me, Mother?”

Lady Penford gave no answer, but she stared down at her trembling hands.

“I was just talking with Lady Penford about the wolves,” Iain said, as if there were nothing at all wrong. He fixed his gaze upon the young woman, hoping she would play along, since the older woman seemed to be caught up in confusion.

But Lady Rose paid him no mind. “Everything is all right now, Mother. I am here.” She reached out a hand, but the woman ignored it.

“I’m afraid,” her mother admitted. Her eyes welled up with tears, and she twisted her hands together. “So afraid.”

He glanced over at Lady Rose and saw her flushed cheeks. The maid and footman eyed one another before casting their gazes downward. Clearly the woman’s madness was not a new occurrence.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Iain asked.

The older woman turned back to him, and her mood suddenly shifted. “I’ve not seen you before. Do you know my son James? Is that why you are here? Has he returned from India?” Her voice was edged with emotion, and he suspected that grief and worry had led her into this agitated state.

Iain risked a glance toward Rose, who shook her head. It wasn’t clear whether her brother was dead or gone, but he decided not to upset the woman any more than necessary. It was simple enough to continue with the ruse. “I might have seen him. Will you remind me of what he looks like?”

A sudden moment of clarity passed over the woman’s face, and her expression filled up with sorrow. “James has been gone for a long time. I pray he will return, but he hasn’t answered my letters. He must come back, you see. He is the new Earl of Penford.” Her voice lowered to a soft whisper. “Now that my husband is . . . gone, there is so much to do. So many decisions to be made, and I can’t—I simply can’t—” Lady Penford covered her mouth with her hands, panic rising in her expression.

“You needn’t worry,” Rose reassured her. “Lily and I will manage. Right now, I think you should go into the drawing room and have a cup of tea. Mrs. Marlock might have scones with clotted cream. Would you like that?”

The mention of food successfully diverted the matron’s attention. “I—yes, that would be lovely.”

“Hattie will take you to the drawing room, and we will join you there.” Rose signaled for the maid to come forward, and Hattie guided Lady Penford down the hallway.

When her mother was gone, Rose turned back to Iain, and her expression held sadness. “Thank you for stopping her from leaving. She’s been grieving ever since my father died.”

He nodded. “She seemed very upset.”
And not in her right mind,
he thought, but didn’t say so. “Will she be all right?”

Rose sighed and straightened in the chair. “No one knows the answer to that question. There are good days and bad days.”

He glanced back at the footman. “Do you need assistance? That is, if you wish to join her, I could—” But he stopped short, realizing how inappropriate it would be for him to carry her.

Lady Rose didn’t appear to take offense, but simply answered, “Calvert will bring me there.” Then she glanced at Iain’s bedraggled clothing with a questioning look. “Do you still claim to be an Irish earl, sir?” Her words held a dry humor, and the look in her eyes said she didn’t believe him at all.

Iain’s mouth twisted in a smile. “My name is Lord Ashton,
a chara
. And you’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?”

Chapter Two

Rose wasn’t certain what to believe of this gentleman who claimed to be an earl. He lacked the deferential manners of a servant, especially after he’d taken charge of her mother’s hysteria and calmed her. Even wearing rags, he
did
appear to be something more. But everything about him was improper, from his speech to his lack of formality. She simply couldn’t believe that he was a nobleman—not without his own coach and servants.

Lord Ashton, was he? More like Lord of the Ashes.

Despite his appearance, he intrigued her. And yes, he
was
quite handsome, in a forbidden sort of way. The way he’d smiled at her was both wicked and filled with promises of dark corners and secret liaisons. His dark hair needed to be trimmed, and his cheeks held the stubble of a beard, making her wonder what it would be like to touch it.

Her mind was wandering as badly as her mother’s. Why was he truly here? And who was he?

Calvert brought her into the drawing room to join her mother. Her sister, Lily, arrived shortly afterward. Rose met her sister’s questioning look, and she shook her head slightly to let her know that this was not a good day.
Tread softly, Lily.

“Mother, would you like tea?” her sister asked brightly, reaching for the silver teapot.

Iris’s face had gone distant, and Lily had to repeat herself twice more before their mother blinked and turned to face them. “What was that? Oh, yes, tea. With milk and sugar, if you please.”

Lily prepared the tea and sat beside their mother as she offered her the cup. Iris did appear calmer, but neither of them wanted to say anything to bring back the fearful visions.

“Are you feeling well today, Mother?” Lily poured another cup for Rose and set it before her.

“Yes, I am much better now. But who was that new gentleman I saw a moment ago?”

Dash it all, she’d hoped her mother would forget all about Lord of the Ashes. Her sister sent her a curious look, for she had not seen the stranger who had arrived at Penford. Rose decided it was best to say nothing.

“He’s no one, Mother. You needn’t worry.” She didn’t want her mother distracted or afraid of a stranger.

“A new gentleman?” Lily prompted.

Don’t,
Rose warned her silently, raising an eyebrow. Now was not the time to discuss it.

But Iris turned and sent her a mysterious smile. “He
was
rather dashing. I’m not blind, my dear. Was he here to pay a call on you?” Before she could tell her mother no and attempt to change the subject, Lady Penford continued, “You
are
in need of a husband, after all, Rose.”

An unbidden rush of embarrassment gathered inside her, and Lily interrupted them. “Not now, Mother. It’s too soon.” Her sister distracted Iris with a sugar biscuit, redirecting their conversation to a new gown she planned to have made.
Thank you, Lily.

But even so, it hurt that her mother would say something so thoughtless when Rose already had a suitor. Her eyes welled up with tears, and she blinked hard to hold them back.

I will not cry.
But the very thought of Lord Burkham made her emotional, for she missed him so much. He had been on the verge of offering for her when she had fallen ill in Yorkshire. The terrible sickness had forced her to battle for her life, and when it was over, she was left too weak to move. Thomas had sent letters over the past few months, wishing her well. She was confident that when she could walk again, he would ask her to marry him.

Rose refused to surrender to a life where she had to be carried like a child. No matter how long it took, she would not return to London until she could walk. Perhaps it was her pride, but she didn’t want Thomas to see her as an invalid.

“You really ought to return to London for the Season,” Iris continued. “You are such a lovely young woman. Any gentleman would be glad to marry someone as sweet as you.”

Rose tried to muster a smile, but it felt as if a weight were crushing her chest. Iris seemed to have forgotten all about her inability to walk. “I cannot return for a few more months. But Lily might wish to go.”

“No, I—I would rather not attend the Season,” Lily stammered. Her sister sat down and chose a large tea cake, stuffing it into her mouth to avoid further conversation. Then she gathered two more and piled them upon her plate, making it clear that she would continue eating so she would not have to speak. Rose raised an eyebrow at the pile of food, but Lily sent her a pained smile. Both of them were in the same dilemma, truthfully. They had already selected their future husbands; it was simply that fate had intervened.

Lily had been avoiding marriage ever since Matthew Larkspur, the Earl of Arnsbury, had gone missing. Rose was certain she was waiting for the gentleman to return . . . if he ever did. Her sister pined for Lord Arnsbury, and she seemed eager to shut herself away from society to avoid choosing someone else.

Iris sipped at her tea, and she suddenly sent Rose a gentle smile. “It will be all right, my darlings. Both you and your sister will one day marry the men of your dreams. I believe that.”

In that moment, their mother no longer appeared to be the same woman who was fleeing from imaginary wolves. Instead, the moment of clarity revealed a woman who was once again trying to find happiness for her daughters.

Rose searched in desperation for another topic of conversation. “Do you suppose it will rain today?”

“Now, do not try to change the subject,” Iris chided. “You are my eldest daughter, and it’s high time you were wed. How old are you now? Twenty?”

“Twenty-three,” she murmured.

Her mother frowned. “No, that’s not possible.” As she began trying to convince her that she was only twenty, Rose pasted a smile on her face and let her thoughts drift. She didn’t want to think about the undeniable fact that she was likely to remain a spinster unless she learned to walk again.

She hadn’t given up—not at all. Every day she practiced standing, and though her legs would not yet support her weight, she refused to abandon hope. She had to rebuild her strength, and if force of will would move her legs, then she would indeed walk again.

“It is unlikely, but not impossible,”
the doctor had said. And Rose had held fast to that fragment of hope, needing to believe it.

Outside, she saw movement, and when she focused her gaze, she realized it was the Irishman, Mr. Donovan. It appeared that he was walking toward the stables.

Now what was he doing? Her curiosity was piqued, and more than anything, she wanted to follow him.

But being unable to walk meant that she was never alone. She could go nowhere without help, and she didn’t exactly want the footman to think she was infatuated with the man-who-claimed-to-be-an-earl. No, she was merely intrigued by his story—that was all.

“Rose, what is your opinion?” Lily interrupted her thoughts, and she jerked her attention back to them.

“I—that is, whatever you think would be best.”

“Excellent.” Iris beamed at her. “This will be most splendid.”

Now what exactly had she agreed to? When she risked a glimpse at Lily, her sister was wincing and shaking her head. Oh dear.

Rose cleared her throat, waiting for her mother to elaborate. Iris finished her tea, looking entirely too satisfied. “Very well, then. Both of you will go to London as soon as your grandmother returns. And by the end of the summer, I shall expect one or both of you to have a husband.”

London? No, not that. She’d rather be devoured by the aforementioned wolves.

Iris rose to her feet and was already talking about the details of the upcoming Season. “I shall speak with Mrs. Marlock about ordering new gowns for both of you. And then . . . I won’t have to worry so much.” Her voice trailed away softly as she reached the doorway.

The moment their mother was gone, Lily let out a groan. “London? Rose, what were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t listening,” she confessed. “I was distracted.”

“Obviously.” Her sister stood and began pacing. “We have to convince her that she only imagined it. We are not going to London to be married off. Especially me.”

“Because of Lord Arnsbury?” she ventured.

Lily’s face flushed, and there was a flash of grief. “He might come back. And if he does . . .” There were years of hope bound up in that wish, for her sister loved the earl with all her being. But it had been nearly two years since he’d disappeared. The chances of him returning were growing slimmer each day, and she didn’t ask what Lily would do if he never came back.

“Whether or not he does, we have a problem.” Rose used both of her arms to press hard against the chair, attempting to stand again. “Lily, help me up.”

Her sister came to support her waist, and in her expression, Rose saw sympathy. “Are you certain you can stand?”

“My arms are getting stronger.” She
would
manage somehow.

But her sister took a step back. “Oughtn’t you to ask Calvert? He’s stronger than I and could help if you stumbled.”

With reluctance, Rose lowered herself back down. “No. Never mind.” Though she understood that Lily didn’t believe she could stand, it dimmed her spirits. Her throat tightened, and she took a deep breath. “What should we do about Mother?”

“I think we should behave as if she never brought it up. Pretend she never suggested any of it. Like the wolves. She won’t remember in the morning.”

“I suppose so.” Rose risked a glance out the window again, and it bothered her that she had lost sight of Mr. Donovan. Where was he now? She craned her neck, but still could not see him.

“
What
is it that has you so distracted, Rose?” Lily peered outside the window and then turned back. “It’s him, isn’t it? The gentleman you spoke of.”

She sighed. “Well, yes. Mr. Donovan claims he’s an earl, but I don’t believe him.”

Lily wrinkled her nose. “An earl? Why would he say such a thing?”

“I have no idea. But I wonder why he’s truly here.” The logical explanation was that he was attempting to insinuate himself within their household for a nefarious purpose. And yet . . . she didn’t quite believe that.

Her sister’s knuckles tightened on the window, and she shook her head. “Oh no.”

“What?” Rose couldn’t see anything from her vantage point.

“It seems that you were right about Mr. Donovan. I don’t think he’s an earl at all.”

It was maddening being unable to see, and Rose used all her strength to hoist her weight against the arms of the chair. “Why would you say that, Lily?”

Lily turned back with an apologetic look. “Because he’s stealing one of our horses.”

Iain urged the gelding into a hard gallop, guiding the horse toward the spot where he’d been robbed. Behind him, he heard the sounds of men yelling, “Stop, thief!”

Which was ironic, really, because this was
his
horse, even if no one here would believe him. He’d been shocked to find Darcy inside the stables, where he’d been intending to conceal himself for the night. Someone had put the gelding in one of the stalls, and that meant the boys were nearby. This time, Iain intended to confront them and seize the rest of his missing belongings.

More than all else, he needed that signet ring. Or at the very least, the letter from Lady Wolcroft inviting him to Penford.

He was convinced that the robbery was adolescent mischief. They had somehow knocked him from his horse—possibly with a rope strung between the trees—and had entertained themselves by stripping him of everything.

Iain, however, was not amused. Their trickery had cost him his identity, and he would hunt them down until he had everything back.

He leaned in, searching his surroundings for a sign of the boys. The afternoon sun was blinding, but he found the lake easily enough. The road grew narrower, and at last, he spied one of the boys walking alone. He looked to be about thirteen or so and was wearing Iain’s coat. The moment he heard Iain coming up behind him, he broke into a run.

Not fast enough.

Iain leaned down and seized the boy, dragging him atop his horse. The lad was skinny, and though he fought, Iain gripped him hard. “You’re not going anywhere. Not until you’ve returned everything you stole from me.”

“I didn’t steal anything. I was bringing it back,” the boy complained.

“Like the clothes you’re wearing? And what did you do with my signet ring?” Iain had no sympathy for him. The lad had questions he was going to answer. “I’m thinking we should speak to your father about this.”

The boy sent him a sly smile. “He’s not at home.” The gleeful expression on his face made it obvious that he
wanted
Iain to take him home.

Perhaps it was better to take a different tack. “Then you’ll be coming with me. Unless you want to return my ring first?”

He didn’t truly know
what
he would do with the boy, but he wasn’t about to let the lad go free. Not until he had answers.

“I don’t have it.” To prove his point, the boy showed his empty hands.

“Then where is it?” he demanded. The boy’s answer was a shrug. His expression remained defiant, as if he intended to hold his silence.