Yankee Earl (27 page)

      
“But she is so very beautiful—and nice, too.” Fox felt constrained to defend his angel. “Why would he not want her for a wife?”

      
The gentleman seemed at a loss for words, something the boy intuited did not happen often. At length his disconcerted companion replied, “Tis not her in particular, dear boy. The earl just does not want to be leg-shack—er, married—to any lady, no matter how beautiful. And,” he hastened to add, “the lady does not wish to marry him, either.”

      
“Is it because Grandfather and the viscount picked them for each other?”

      
Mr. Drummond tugged at his cravat and muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath, then replied, “You are altogether too wise for your years, young sir.”

      
Fox grinned. “Jace always says that, too.”

      
“Hmmm, I am beginning to see why. But nonetheless, it is imperative that you reveal nothing to the marquess, so that you and Jason can get clean away.”

      
Fox nodded uncertainly. “But why is Jace going to marry Miss Fairchild if only for one night?”

      
The question appeared to startle the dandy. His face reddened as he cleared his throat. “I have my own theories about that—but never you mind. The thing is to throw Cargrave and Harleigh off their guard. Once the marriage has taken place and they retire to Falconridge for…well, after the first night, it will be easier for Jason to slip past those set to watch him and come to fetch you.”

      
“You mean because the marriage will be consummated,” Fox said.

      
Mr. Drummond nearly choked at that rejoinder. “Obviously, they don't teach you that babies come from the cabbage patch in America, do they?”

      
“Oh, my father's people do, but the Shawnee tell the truth. 'Tis only natural, you know,” he said, shrugging at the foolishness of “civilized societies.”

      
Mr. Drummond harrumphed for a moment, then said, “Utmost secrecy is the order of the day if you are to escape. Jason will appear beneath your window at midnight and signal you by making the call of an owl. Then you must dress quickly and climb down the trellis at the garden wall. Do you think you can do that?”

      
Fox nodded glumly. “I suppose so.”

      
“I sense a certain reluctance, m'boy. Don't you want to go home to your family in America?”

      
“Some day. But right now…well, I don't want to hurt Grandfather's feelings.”

      
Mr. Drummond emitted a sharp bark of laughter. “Can't say I've ever before heard anyone worry about hurting the old boy. Rather, most people fear what he will do to hurt them.”

      
“He has been ever so kind to me,” Fox replied with stubborn insistence, feeling a bit of anger at the way this man and so many others judged the marquess.

      
Mr. Drummond began to pace beneath an apple tree, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “What a bumble bath this is turning out to be,” he said crossly.

      
Fox did not feel that his visitor's anger was directed at him. He waited patiently for him to continue.

      
Sighing, the dandy made another approach. “You know about the attempt on the earl's life while you were at Falconridge?” At the boy's nod, he continued, “Well, there have been several others attempts—in London and in the country.”

      
“But who would want to kill Jace?”

      
“That is precisely what the marquess has charged me with learning. We believe it to be those in the pay of Lord Frederick Forrestal. However, so far, I have been unable to find proof of the villain's deeds. Until I do so...”

      
Fox could see those bright green eyes studying him speculatively and knew what was expected of him. Sighing glumly, he replied, “I will say nothing to Grandfather, and I will go back to America with Jace until it is safe for him to return and be Miss Fairchild’s…er, the Countess of Falconridge's husband.”

      
“Er…well, yes, I imagine you may be more nearly correct than ever the earl or his countess suspects,” Mr. Drummond had replied with a mysterious chuckle. Then he had winked at Fox.

      
Sitting in the library, Fox remembered how happy Mr. Drummond had appeared when he was able to take his leave at the conclusion of their talk. But now, after sleeping on it overnight, the boy was still torn. He could not betray Jace. But how could he betray Grandfather?

      
This Lord Forrestal meant to kill Jace. That had added a whole new dimension to Fox's dilemma. Until they arrested the evil man, it would be better for Jace to return to America. But no one had thought to ask Fox what he wanted to do. He was not sure himself at this point. If only he could talk to Jace before the wedding.

      
The boy's reverie was interrupted by LaFarge, his master-at-arms. “Young Monsieur Fox, have you forgotten? This afternoon we practice with the foils,
non
?”

* * * *

      
The invitation to Sir Roger Dalbert's soiree arrived early the next morning. Fox, who was with Cargrave in the library, listened as the old man read it. “Demned nice of Roger and his wife to keep to tradition this way, having a hunt to celebrate the betrothal.”

      
“A fox hunt?” the boy asked. He had difficulty understanding the English sport that allowed several dozen men and women to use a pack of hounds to hunt down and kill one small fox—especially considering that the fox was his totem animal.

      
“Yes, m'boy. For generations, although we are distant kin, the Dalberts and Beaumonts have celebrated marriages and births in our respective families by holding a hunt. Brings everyone together for a rousing good time. Last hunt was when Roger announced his betrothal to Mistress Simmons. Of course, her being a Cit and all, some of the family raised their eyebrows a bit, but…” He shrugged, dismissing the class prejudices, which he knew a boy of Fox's background would not understand. Neither did Jason, being raised as an American, but that was all to the good. It would bring a breath of fresh air into this stuffy old clan, he decided, chuckling to himself. And if Fox could be raised as an English gentleman....?

      
“Will I be allowed to accompany you?” Fox asked.

      
The marquess considered for a moment as he studied the boy's eager face. He knew the lad sorely missed his foster brother. And the Dalberts’ country place was only a few hours' ride from Cargrave Hall. Cargrave would make certain that the men he had set to guard Jason watched him like a hawk. With Fox's tutors also in attendance, there would be no danger of Jason spiriting the boy away.

      
“Yes, I do believe I shall take you with me. Do you good, lad, to participate in a fine old English tradition. Bradley tells me your riding skills are coming along splendidly.”

      
“Yes, Grandfather. I'm able to jump Little Chief over every hedgerow on the estate now. I am certain I shall enjoy the hunt very much.”

      
The old man did not understand that the gleam of excitement in the boy's eyes had nothing to do with chasing a fox. This weekend would provide the perfect opportunity to talk over his feelings with Jace before the plan to leave England was set in motion.

* * * *

      
Frederick Forrestal was more frustrated than ever. He sat in his apartments off Grosvenor Square, drinking alone in mid-morning as he considered his dilemma. Fate had not favored him of late, and that was a masterpiece of understatement. He looked about the opulently furnished room, then took another swallow of fine aged port. There was no way he would give up the life to which birth had entitled him, but he would have to act quickly to avert disaster.

      
As if all else had not gone to blazes already, now his father, the Duke of Etherington, had disinherited his only son in favor of a puling nephew. To be sure, Frederick would still become the duke and inherit the family's entailed estate. But the vast majority of Etherington wealth was unentailed and would go to the old duke's nephew. Frederick would be land poor, no better off than he was now, while his cousin Marshall would be fabulously wealthy.

      
Two years his junior, Marsh had been disgustingly easy to bully ever since they'd been in leading strings together. At Eton, Frederick had made his cousin's life pure hell, taking great pleasure in watching the sanctimonious puppy blubber and shriek for mercy as Frederick's friends held him suspended by one ankle from a third-story window. How they had all laughed at him.

      
But now Marsh would have the final laugh! Intolerable. Frederick would deal with that carbuncle-faced fool in time, but for now, even more pressing matters required his attention. Word of his father's decision had spread swiftly through the ton. Unfortunately, it had also spread to the merchants, who now had the unmitigated impertinence to begin demanding that Frederick pay his bills. Considering that he owed his boot maker alone well in excess of a thousand pounds, he was so far in dun territory as to require a miracle to save him from utter disgrace.

      
Or a very wealthy wife.

      
Forrestal smiled chillingly, and his yellow eyes narrowed on the small cloisonné box sitting beside the cut crystal port decanter. He opened it and looked at the embroidered silk bag within, filled with opium. Just a small dose to calm his nerves, help him think. As he pulled the drawstrings open, he considered how he would kidnap Rachel Fairchild. Once he had taken her maidenhead, she would have no choice but to wed him. He would see to her defloration in route to Gretna Green.

      
A scandal would ensue, of course, and that damned Yankee would be furious. His lips curved slightly in a parody of a smile. Even sweeter than killing that bastard Beaumont would be humiliating him. And as for that haughty Fairchild hellcat? She would be on her knees in front of him before he was finished with her. That would be the best revenge against the earl he could have. And that wretched pop-eyed old viscount would be grateful to call him son-in-law.

      
Having decided on a course of action, Forrestal put the silk bag back in the box. He could relax later. Now he was impatient to put his plan in motion at once. With one hand he reached for the bellpull while the other picked up his glass of port, lifting it in a toast of self-congratulation. To a rich wife and a very angry earl!”

* * * *

      
“Do not scowl so. 'Twill wrinkle your face,” Harry scolded as Rachel stared across the crowded hall at Jason, who had just arrived for the festivities.

      
He stood with their host and hostess, Roger and Garnet Dalbert, utterly ignoring Rachel as Garnet introduced him to her son by her first marriage. Evelyn Simmons was slim and wiry, with his mother's sharp dark eyes. Smallpox scars pitted his narrow face. In spite of them, he would be considered handsome. Curious to know what was being said, Harry took Rachel's arm in a sisterly fashion and began strolling closer. They could hear Roger's bluff voice booming over the hall.

      
“I say, old chap, you look quite the thing now. All recovered from your bout with the foxglove, eh?” Roger said.

      
“Yes, thanks to you and most especially your quick witted wife,” Jason replied, smiling at Garnet. He turned to her son and said, “I understand you also work at the shipyards at Gravesend.”

      
“Indeed. Mother is most adept at running it, but I am learning the ropes, so to speak.” Simmons smiled amiably. “You, too, were in shipping, m'lord, before returning to England, were you not?”

      
Harry pulled Rachel away from what turned into a boring discussion of Baltimore clippers and Napoleon's embargo, saying, “He does not seem eager to greet his bride. You shall have to do something to rouse his jealousy. Mistress Dalbert's son is unattached, is he not?”

      
“Don't you dare even think of such a thing,” Rachel whispered fiercely.

      
“Ah, I do believe she doth protest too much. Is that not from something literary?” Harry asked.

      
“Shakespeare.
Hamlet
,” Rachel replied absently. “And I am not going to make a cake of myself just to amuse that arrogant fool.”

      
“You always were too much the bluestocking,” Harry fretted.

      
“You either accuse me of being too much the hoyden or being too bookish. You cannot have it both ways, Harry,” Rachel said, trying to divert the conversation.

      
“Well, neither is appealing to a gentleman.”

      
“Fine. Jason Beaumont, by his own admission, is no gentleman,” Rachel snapped. She had never revealed that she and Drum had joined forces to rescue Jason from his drunken folly the preceding week. She could still feel the sting of humiliation—which she assured herself was really anger—when Jason had passed into snoring unconsciousness with both hands affixed to her breasts. What a vapor her sister would have if Rachel ever confessed that fiasco!