The Earl's Complete Surrender (4 page)

“I never considered it before, but it does sound as though both Hungary and Romania have been isolated from the other countries sharing their language roots.”

“From what I've managed to discover so far, circumstance turned the Hungarian ­people from settled hunters into nomads, relocating them from western Siberia almost two thousand years before Hungary became a kingdom.”

“So you're also studying the history and not just the language itself,” James remarked with interest.

“To do otherwise would be to deny myself a proper understanding of each language, which is part of the joy I find in studying the subject to begin with. I like to understand every aspect of it, I suppose.”

“Have you been at Thorncliff long?” James asked, encouraging her to tell him more about herself.

She shrugged slightly. “We arrived one week and a half ago. Mama has decided to redecorate Oakland House in the Grecian style, so we've come here for the summer in an effort to escape the ruckus.”

“You live with them? Your parents, I mean?”

“For now,” she said with an edge of discomfort. He decided not to press her any further, but she continued by saying, “I cannot remain at Newbury Hall, not since my late husband's cousin has laid claim to the title and moved in with his family. There's a dowager house of course, but that is already occupied by my mother-­in-­law. She and I never did get along very well with one another, so when I spoke to my father, he told me that I was welcome to return home for as long as I wish it. Naturally I have no desire to be a burden, so I do have plans to find other accommodations once this holiday is over.”

“Even so, you're lucky you have their support.”

“Without a doubt.” She fell silent for a moment, then met his gaze with a curious expression. “Do you know, nobody else of my acquaintance has even read
A Voyage to the Pacific Ocean
?” She shrugged a little, brushed some invisible lint from her lap. “Which means that you're officially the only person I know with whom I can discuss it.”

He watched as she clasped her hands together. She was talking faster than before—­as if she wished to get the words out before she lost her courage to speak them. Aware that she would likely retreat if she suspected him of taking note, he removed the book from the table where she'd placed it earlier and held it fondly between his hands. “Are you aware that my copy is more unique than most?” Opening it, he showed her the three signatures gracing the first page. “My grandfather was a friend of Cook's so he was able to get it autographed by all three captains.”

“That's incredible,” Chloe said, genuinely impressed by the value the signatures attributed to the copy. Looking up, she saw that he was watching her with those dark eyes of his, and her entire body shuddered, just as it had done when he'd accidentally brushed his fingers against hers a short while earlier.

She hadn't meant to find him—­had deliberately tried to avoid doing so. But every evening at dinner, her eyes had strayed in his direction, and somehow, little by little, her curiosity about him had started to grow. Perhaps because of the mystery he presented. Who was he really? She could never quite tell what he might be thinking. And why on earth did he affect her so?

“Have you ever traveled outside of England, Lady Newbury?” He leaned forward, addressing her with directness.

“No, I have not.” Without meaning to, she whispered the words, annoyed by how weak they sounded. Placing her hand against the armrest, she dug her fingers into it and swallowed. “I've never had the opportunity.”

“But you would like to?”

She nodded, afraid of telling him the truth and worried that her voice might convey her regrets or the leaden feeling in her chest—­that she might invite pity or worse, facilitate some sort of bond between them as her mother had suggested. “How about you?”

“I would like to see the Pantheon one day, or perhaps even the Pyramids.”

“I thought you preferred to keep to yourself.”

“Mostly.” The word was spoken with great consideration, as if it held greater meaning. A thick lock of hair fell into his eye. He swiped it aside with the back of his hand with an abandon that filled Chloe with envy. “But I do make occasional exceptions. Last night, for instance, I enjoyed a marvelous game of
vingt-­et-­un
with your brother and Chadwick.”

“And you won?”

He raised an eyebrow. “How did you know?”

She couldn't help but smile. “Mama says you're some sort of a genius. And Spencer muttered something about a stroke of bad luck when I met him this morning at breakfast.”

“He played well,” Woodford said. “Chadwick too.”

“But not well enough,” Chloe muttered.

“No.”

Silence fell between them. Chloe released her hold on the armrest. She took another sip of her tea, returned the cup to its saucer, and said, “So are you? A genius, that is?”

He shrugged. “I suppose that's a matter of opinion. Personally, I don't think of myself as such. I've just been blessed with an incredible memory, that's all.”

“How incredible?” Chloe asked, her curiosity growing.

His jaw tightened a little and for a moment it looked as though he'd rather not say, but then he got up and crossed to the cabinets that Chloe had come to investigate. She'd concluded her search of the library the previous day and had decided to move on to the salons. Upon arriving, she'd found Woodford though, happily relaxing with his book.

Opening the cabinet furthest to the left, Woodford reached inside and retrieved a pack of cards. Chloe craned her neck, but was unable to see anything besides a few dark shapes. She squinted, but Woodford shut the door again, straightened himself and walked back toward Chloe, offering her the deck of cards. “Shuffle them,” he said.

Intrigue washed away her frustration and she did as he requested while he resumed his seat. “What now?” she asked when she'd shuffled the entire deck five times.

“Now place the cards face up on the table, one card on top of the other in quick succession.” Again, she did as he asked while he quietly watched. When she was finished, he said, “Flip the deck over so it's facing down. If you turn the top card over you'll find the eight of diamonds.”

“Correct,” she said, setting the card aside face up.

“After that comes the two of spades, the king of hearts, the ten of clubs, the five of hearts, the three of hearts, the jack of diamonds . . .” He continued until he'd named each card in the pile in the correct order that they were in.

Chloe gaped at him. “That's incredible,” she said.

An arrogant man might have gloated, but the Earl of Woodford barely acknowledged her compliment with a twitch of his lips. “Few ­people invite me to play with them because of this advantage that I have. None will allow me to participate in a game of stakes.”

“Have you ever considered allowing others to win?”

“No. I don't approve of cheating in any capacity. Should I ever happen to lose, my opponent will know that he won the game fairly, and his pride will be justified.”

She couldn't help but admire his reasoning. “I suppose you must have attended Eton, as is common for aristocratic boys?”

“Hainsworth insisted upon it even though I believed it would be a waste of time. As far as I was concerned, I could learn everything I needed to know from the books available to me in the library at home.”

“But Hainsworth disagreed?”

Woodford sighed, his gaze dropping to the floor. “He wanted me to make friends.”

“And did you?”

Silently, Woodford reached for his glass, downing the remainder of its contents in one gulp.

Chloe considered the brusqueness of the movement. “I suspect the other boys must have envied you your skill. School would have been easier for you—­less of a struggle.”

“Some did. Others, like your brother and Chadwick, just considered it a quirk, but I . . .” He set his glass down hard and got to his feet, his fingers combing through his hair and sweeping it back as he went to stand by the window. Hands tucked firmly inside his pockets, he stared out through the leaded glass. “I had no interest in making friends.” He turned to face her and she saw that his expression had grown rigid. His dark eyes loomed over her like thunderclouds readying for a storm. “I still don't.”

She shrank back, her stomach collapsing beneath the weight of his glare. “Me neither,” she said. It was honest, because after all, she had a purpose—­one that Woodford was presently keeping her from. She should have gone to look for the journal in the other salons when she'd found him here, but she hadn't wanted to be rude. Rising, she said, “If you'll excuse me, my lord, it's almost time for me to join my sisters for an afternoon stroll. I ought to go and find them.”

The thunderclouds retreated. “By all means, Lady Newbury. You mustn't let me keep you.”

Chloe blinked, confused by his tone. “In case you're wondering, I do enjoy your company.”

“But you have an engagement with your sisters. One that conveniently saves you from having to endure the discomfort of my anger.” He moved toward her and she remained where she was, still like a rabbit assessing the fox's intent, but ready to run if the need arose. “I must apologize, Lady Newbury. It is not directed at you.”

Her eyes met his, forcing her to face the deep understanding that dwelled beneath his gaze. The tired beats of a broken heart resonated through her. She tried to think of something to say, anything at all that would put her shields back in place.

A noise from the hallway made her flinch and she looked toward the door that stood respectfully ajar. It swung open and gave way to a man whom Chloe had not seen for some time.

“Scarsdale,” she said, “I did not expect to see you here. When last we spoke, you mentioned a retreat to Bath.”

“I grew weary of the company,” Scarsdale said with a lopsided grin as he strode forward, reached for her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Nobody there was as charming as you, Lady Newbury, which is why I am now here.”

Refraining from rolling her eyes in response to Scarsdale's typically flamboyant flattery, Chloe schooled her features and forced a smile. “I'd like you to meet a new acquaintance of mine, Scarsdale—­the Earl of Woodford. Lord Woodford, I'm pleased to introduce you to my good friend, the Earl of Scarsdale.”

“It is a pleasure to see you again, my lord,” Scarsdale said somewhat crisply. “Any friend of Chloe's is a friend of mine.”

Woodford nodded, his jaw set in a tight line. “Likewise,” he said stiffly.

Chloe looked from one to the other. “I see that you're already acquainted. How lovely.”

“We've encountered each other a few times before,” Scarsdale said. He moved closer to Chloe. “Woodford doesn't visit any of the clubs on a regular basis, so it is a rare treat to cross paths with him. I believe I saw him last at Gentleman Jackson's.”

“You box?” Chloe asked, looking to Woodford.

“Occasionally,” he said, but offered nothing more.

“He's very good at it too,” Scarsdale supplied in a jovial tone. The tight set of his jaw, however, betrayed him. He turned to Chloe, his eyes softening as he took her in. A smile formed upon his lips. “It's so good to see you again—­a vision of feminine perfection.” Inadvertently, Chloe glanced toward Woodford who did in fact roll his eyes. Afraid she might laugh, she pressed her lips together and managed a quaking attempt at what she hoped would look like a smile of appreciation. “Thank you,” she said, addressing Scarsdale as soon as she'd gathered her wits. “You're always so kind.”

Scarsdale bowed his head. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to show me around a little? I've never visited Thorncliff before. The grandeur does seem somewhat daunting.”

“Unfortunately her ladyship has a prior engagement with her sisters,” Woodford said acerbically.

“Indeed,” Scarsdale muttered, his gaze still fixed on Chloe.

“I am to take a walk with them,” she said, relentlessly sticking with the lie that she'd spoken in order to flee Woodford's company.

“Allow me to join you then,” Scarsdale said, offering her his arm.

He'd always been the perfect gentleman, his smiles and attentiveness a welcome distraction in the wake of her husband's death. “Thank you,” she said, grateful for the friendship he offered. Her eyes shifted to Woodford. Was it just her imagination or did he look slightly defeated? Regretting the loss of his company, her dishonesty with him and the guilt tapping at her conscience, she said, “You're welcome to come with us.”

“As much as I appreciate your offer, I do believe I'd rather return to my book.”

Chloe felt her heart deflate, which of course was silly. Woodford was difficult to read, which made him a difficult man to know. She suspected that it was because he preferred to keep his distance, which was just as well since she had every intention of keeping hers. Hadn't she? “Then perhaps I'll see you later,” she heard herself say in a dull tone.

“Perhaps,” he agreed.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned away from him and allowed Scarsdale to lead her from the room.

 

Chapter 4

S
tretched out on his bed and with one arm tucked beneath his head, James listened to the steady ticking of the clock that was sitting on the fireplace mantel. He still hadn't managed to explore the passage that he'd discovered earlier in the day because a group of matrons, led by Lady Duncaster herself, had arrived in the Turkish salon immediately after Lady Newbury's departure. Following an exchange of pleasantries, James had excused himself as quickly as possible.

A brisk walk intended to ease the restlessness that came with the delay he faced, had led him to the stables where he'd gladly accepted the champion horse that the groom had offered. He'd welcomed the physical exercise as well as the brief escape from his thoughts. For half an hour, his mind had been filled with the sound of hooves pounding the earth and the rush of air upon his face. The tight knot forever coiled up inside him had eased.

Another tick made the clock chime and James swung his legs off the bed, perching himself on the edge of the mattress. It was two in the morning, and he was still fully dressed, save for his boots. Reaching for them, he pushed his feet inside and stood up, his heart a little unsteady with the anticipation of what he might find behind the wall of the Turkish salon.

Grabbing a lantern and a tinderbox, he stepped out into the hallway, closed the door to his bedchamber carefully behind him, and stopped to listen. The silence was muted in much the same way as it would be if one's ears were stuffed with thick wads of cotton. It accentuated the sound of his footsteps and likened the occasional squeak of a floorboard to a high-­pitched screech. Heading toward the stairs, he ignored the concern of potentially waking the other guests, aware that the accentuated noises were nothing but a trick on his own senses.

Downstairs, the ticking of clocks, joined in concert, camouflaged the clicking of James's heels against the polished marble floors. Reaching the Turkish salon, James stepped quickly inside the room and closed the door behind him. Removing the tinderbox from his pocket, he sparked a flame to light the lantern, the yellow glow falling in a haze upon each surface before gradually fading into darkness.

Crossing the floor, James cast a brief glance toward the armchairs where he and Lady Newbury had discussed Captain Cook and his card game with her brother, which had led to the questions about his schooling and the memories that he always struggled against. He could see her now, her image perfectly captured upon the canvas in his mind, filed away in his ever-­increasing gallery. She'd been frightened by his anger and rather than face it, she'd shied away, her confidence vanishing like a mirage, just as it had when he'd stopped her from falling in the library during their first conversation.

Intrigued by the emotional puzzle she presented, he'd been tempted to ask her to stay, hoping she might allow him to look deeper—­to offer some insight into her trained composure and the reason that lay behind it. But then Scarsdale had arrived and . . . Turning away from the images dropping before him in quick succession, James strode toward the wall and pushed against it. A click sounded and the segment popped out, just as it had earlier.

Holding up his lantern, James studied the other side of the makeshift door to ensure that he would be able to get back out again once it closed. Yellow light flickered across the surface, eventually settling upon a handle placed two thirds of the way up. It would allow anyone on the opposite side to pull the wall segment toward them, activating the spring and popping it open.

Reassured that he would not be locked behind the wall of the Turkish salon forever, James stepped into the narrow passageway beyond and pulled the wall back into place. He was inside Thorncliff's skeleton now, directly between two rooms. Rough beams shot upward, supporting the ones overhead, while others offered frames for the walls. The occasional nail protruding from a plank of wood served as a stark reminder that this was not an area intended for anyone other than a servant at best.

James inhaled, and dust caught in his throat right away, coating his windpipe and turning the otherwise simple task of breathing into a strenuous affair. A cough escaped him, brought on by the stale air. Determined not to be swayed by it, he took slow measured breaths, held his lantern high in front of him, and started forward. As he went, he did his best to avoid the cobwebs, of which there were plenty, but a few still caught in his hair while one stretched softly across his face before he could swipe it away with the back of his hand.

A few more paces and the path turned toward a dead end where a wooden ladder offered a means to ascend to the next level. James considered the spot while trying to work out where he would be if he were still on the outside. The wall beside the ladder probably marked the doorframe to the Indian salon, hence the break in the path.

Swinging the lantern around, he looked to see if there might be a similar handle here, but found none. Instead, there was what appeared to be a slat placed high upon the wall with a block of wood directly below it, forming a step. Stepping up, James pulled the slat aside and looked through to the room beyond. Even though it was shrouded in dark tones of gray, he was still able to make out enough of the room to know that he'd been right in his assessment. It was indeed the Indian salon.

With a tug, James pulled the slat back into position and stepped down to face the ladder. Glancing up, he saw nothing but darkness above. Considering the height of the ceilings in the downstairs rooms, he knew that the climb would consist of at least ten feet. Fleetingly, he wondered when the ladder had last been used and whether or not it would carry his weight. He then stepped onto the lowest rung, bouncing a little to see if it would bow beneath him. It not only held, but seemed to be remarkably solid.

Somewhat awkwardly, thanks to the lantern that he was forced to bring along, James started to climb. The wooden rails were rough beneath his hands, occasionally catching his skin as he hauled himself upward. After counting twenty rungs, he paused, his breaths just a little uneven because of the effort. Clasping the ladder tightly with his left hand, he held the lantern up with his right. It couldn't be much further now, could it? The light didn't reach far enough for him to be able to tell. Instead, the darkness wrapped itself around him, denying any point of reference.

Muttering an oath, James continued to haul himself upward until finally, ten rungs later, he climbed through a solid square opening and stepped out onto the second floor. It was less dusty up here and there were fewer cobwebs as well, James noted, which made him wonder if perhaps this passage was used more often than the other.

Moving slowly, he studied each wall, looking for slats or handles while keeping an eye on the floor as well. The last thing he needed was to fall to his death, which was what would undoubtedly happen if he stepped into another ladder opening. For several paces, there was nothing, but then a slat and a handle came into view and James didn't hesitate to take a look at the room beyond. It was a bedroom, just as he'd known it would be, and although he couldn't see any occupant, he was able to make out the silhouette of boots upon the floor and of a lonely hat that was sitting on a chair.

Turning away, James studied the following rooms in a similar manner. Loud snoring came from many of them, and in one, the occupant appeared to be having a lively time with one of the maids. Shutting the slat as silently as possible, James continued on his way until finally, he happened upon a room dressed entirely in white sheets. This had to be it—­the room he'd been hoping to find when he'd considered the opportunities that a secret passage offered: the late Earl of Duncaster's bedchamber, and most likely the room that had once belonged to the earl's father.

James pulled on the handle in front of him. A click sounded, and then the door popped open, granting him entry. For a moment, he remained quite still, taking his time to assess the outlines of each individual piece of furniture. Even though they'd been covered, a glimpse of legs beneath the sheets was enough to inform James of the period in which they'd been made. Most appeared to be modern, but one was not. Without hesitating further, James crossed to an escritoire crafted in a more dated style and carefully nudged aside the sheet that was covering its surface.

Crouching down, he stuck his hand underneath, searching for a hidden compartment. Finding none, he opened a drawer and reached inside. It seemed too shallow, so he pressed his fingertips against the back. The wood there suddenly gave way, swiveling sideways and revealing a space beyond. James felt around inside, his heart lurching when he came into contact with a solid object. Pulling it out of the drawer, the lurch turned into a steady gallop at the realization that he'd found a book.

Closing the drawer, he pulled the sheet back into place and reached for his lantern. He was just about to see if the book he'd found was actually the journal when a clicking noise drew his attention. His eyes darted to the door at the other end of the room. Someone was turning a key.

Before he had time to blink, he was on his feet and moving swiftly toward the wall-­panel through which he had entered. He slipped silently through it, closing it just as the other door opened. Drawing a breath, he peered through the slat that still remained slightly ajar, to see Lady Duncaster standing before a painting of a man that hung on the wall. “I miss you,” she said, her words reminding James of drooping flowers after a rainfall.

Unwilling to intrude on her private moment, he slid the slat quietly back into place, shoved the book inside his jacket pocket, and made his way back toward the ladder. No more than fifteen minutes later, he was back inside the Turkish salon where he took a moment to dust himself off with his hands.

Determined to return to his bedchamber quickly so that he could study the book in private, he headed for the door, reaching it just as it swung open, the edge of it hitting him squarely in the forehead.

“Damn!” The expletive was out before he could think.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon!”

James winced, his skull still reverberating like a bronze bell after a hefty ring. He stepped back away from the door and held up his lantern. “Lady Newbury.” He couldn't seem to help the dry tone. “What a surprise.”

“Are you all right?” She asked, the words rushing from her mouth. “I didn't think anyone would be in here so I . . . oh, I'm so sorry!”

“It was an accident. Considering the late hour, you were right to presume the room empty. May I ask what you are doing roaming around at”—­he glanced toward the clock on the side table next to where they were standing and frowned—­“three o'clock in the morning?”

“I couldn't sleep,” she replied. “You?”

“The same,” he said.

“I see.”

Silence followed, drawing out until it became somewhat awkward. “You really shouldn't be down here alone,” James finally said. “Allow me to escort you back upstairs.”

She hesitated, seemed to consider her options. “Wouldn't you rather get something cold for your head?”

“No. I'll do just fine without.”

Considering her deep frown, she didn't seem very convinced, but she finally nodded. “In that case, I'd be happy to accept your assistance.”

A soft wave of heat settled inside his chest as she linked her arm with his. A gentle reminder of her feminine appeal? Or just the relief of knowing that he'd soon be allowed to study the book he'd found? Starting forward, James chose to believe that it must be the latter. She was
just
a woman, after all, except that this was about as true as claiming that the Taj Mahal was
just
a building in India or that the Atlantic Ocean was
just
a body of water. She'd raised his awareness, and he'd been sorely pressed not to think about her since their previous encounters.

“You mentioned when last we spoke that you box.” Her words were soft—­perhaps even a little bit cautious.

“Yes.” A curt response intended to ensure a certain distance.

There was a pause, measured by ten exact steps, and then, “Do you engage in any other sporting activities?”

“You ask an awful lot of questions for a lady unwilling to offer much of herself in return.”

“What do you mean?” Quiet dread snuck its way into her voice.

James wondered if she was aware of it. “Nothing,” he said, deciding to avoid that path for now. “In answer to your question, I like riding and fencing as well.”

She made a little sound, perhaps of approval, and for a moment he thought she might say something more. When she didn't, he said, “What about you? Do you have any interests besides reading?”

“I err . . . yes, I . . .” She turned her head to look at him at the exact same moment that he turned his head to look at her, and they were suddenly very close—­so close in fact that he was able to see the occasional fleck of brown nestled against the green of her eyes. It shimmered in the glow of the lantern. His eyes dropped to the sumptuous curve of her mouth, and the gentleman within him took a step back, giving way to the scoundrel. Hell and damnation, he wanted to taste her. It wasn't logical in any way, but an urge brought on by some elemental need awakened within him the moment she licked her lips.