Yankee Earl (5 page)

      
“Rachel may be a striking young woman, but I say again, she can be…difficult,” the viscount replied, repressing a shudder as he remembered the porcelain-smashing, furniture-bashing scene she had created back at Harleigh Hall when he'd first informed her of the betrothal.

      
The marquess knew about Rachel Fairchild's famous temper and penchant for riding astride across the countryside. The gel had spirit to match his grandson's. If only the young fools would see it. “Have no fear, my friend. Jason shall deal famously with her.”

      
Harleigh sighed. “I certainly hope he can handle her. Lud, I have never had any luck. My younger gels were both biddable. You know Rachel is not.”

      
“All the better. Jason likes nothing so much as a good challenge.”

      
The two men sat in the library, a magnificent mahogany-paneled room lined with bookshelves which stretched to the top of the fourteen-foot ceiling. Cargrave studied his old friend over the rim of a Waterford brandy snifter. Mercifully, like himself, Harleigh had spawned far better looking offspring than either of them had a right to expect. While Cargrave was tall with a great beak of a Roman nose and deep-set eyes, Harleigh was slight of figure, pop-eyed and stooped with age in spite of being over a decade younger than the marquess. Ah, but Jason and Rachel were tall and strong, long of leg and fair of visage. What splendid children they would have!

      
As if reading Cargrave's thought, Harleigh raised his glass in a toast. “To the next generation of Beaumonts and Fairchilds!”

      
“Hear, hear,” Cargrave replied, keeping his eye on the ormolu clock that sat on the carved marble mantel across from the deep leather chairs in which they sat facing each other.
Where is that boy?

      
Just then the heavy walnut door crashed open and “that boy” strode in, slamming it behind him with a resounding crash. Neither of the old men noticed Rachel, who had slipped in before its closing, taking a seat in the shadows behind a potted palm to watch the combat.

      
Always one to take the offensive, the marquess stood up and turned to face his grandson. “That is scarcely the proper way for a gentleman to respond to a summons, sirrah!”

      
Jason advanced on the tall old man. “But we both know, don't we, Grandfather, that I'm no bloody gentleman. I'm an American.”

      
“No longer,” Cargrave snapped back. “By the grace of God and His Majesty, you are now the sixth Earl of Falconridge, and with such title comes responsibility.”

      
“Responsibility for a wife?”

      
“Just so, m'boy, just so. Mind your manners now while I present you to my old friend and your neighbor, Hugh Fairchild, Viscount Harleigh.”

      
Jason barely spared a nod in the direction of the slight figure standing across from his grandfather. From her place behind the palm, Rachel studied the contrast between the two Beaumont men and her quiet, mild-mannered father. Hugh Fairchild seemed to fade into the rich dark woodwork of the library as Jason and the old marquess stood glowering at each other.

      
In spite of the disparity in their ages, one could easily see that they were related. George's slate-gray eyes locked with the dark blue of his grandson's, both deep-set, boring into each other with palpable intensity. They faced off like two wolves preparing to dispute ownership of a kill. The marquess' rages were legendary, and everyone in England from royal dukes to street sweeps quaked in terror when the old man's wrath was aroused. Yet Jason Beaumont not only appeared utterly uncowed but equally as dangerous.

      
In spite of herself, Rachel was impressed. She valued courage greatly and had sent many milk-and-water suitors scurrying away during her season. Her own father, although she loved him dearly, was ineffectual in any confrontation. He carried the day only by doggedly pursuing his agenda behind an opponent's back—and in regard to marriage, she had become his opponent.

      
Crude Yankee, Jason Beaumont might be, but he was every inch a man. She could still remember the length of his self-assured strides, the arrogance of his manner the first time they'd met. He would never concede defeat to any man. Or woman.

      
“I consented to your blackmail in order to rescue my crew from a prison hulk. I gave my word to be the next Marquess of Cargrave. I did not agree to be Rachel Fairchild's husband,” Jason ground out.

      
“Do you find something amiss with the gel?” Cargrave had reined in his temper. À satisfied gleam in his eyes betrayed his confidence. He waited, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied Jason.

      
Rachel found herself tensing as she waited for his reply. She certainly did not want to marry Jason Beaumont. Yet for some perverse reason she found it important that he not find her undesirable. Her fingers dug into the brocade of the chair arm as she leaned forward to hear his reply.

      
“Oh, you mean some fault other than her temper, which would make a treed bobcat's seem mild? Or perhaps her manners, which are equal to those of a drunken tar?” If Jason heard the faint gasp of outrage coming from the corner, he ignored it. “The lady”—he paused for ironic emphasis—“wants no more of this arrangement than do I.”

      
“Small wonder she would not, sirrah! You are behaving abominably in front of the gel's father. Rachel is Harleigh's firstborn.”

      
Jason turned to Fairchild and snapped, “You have my condolences, sir.”

      
“I realize my daughter can be...a bit difficult from time to time, but—”

      
“A bit difficult!” Jason interrupted. “That is like saying the North Atlantic in January is a bit choppy!” he roared.

      
At that rejoinder, the viscount subsided as young Beaumont turned his attention back to his grandfather, stating flatly, “If and when I decide to marry, 'twill be on my terms, to a woman whom I choose.”

      
The marquess curled his lip and leaned forward. “I think not.”

      
“You think not?” the younger Beaumont echoed, his own wide mouth curving into a parody of a smile. “What would you do—de-earl me?”

      
“No, I most certainly would not, you ungrateful whelp. That would quite defeat the purpose of freeing you from the prison hulks and concealing the fact that you were an American privateer,” the marquess replied. “Not to mention all the strings I was forced to pull with the Admiralty to have you made over into His Majesty's latest naval hero,” he added dryly. Cargrave strolled back to the chair from which he had risen upon his grandson's angry entrance. After he once again took his seat, he steepled his gnarled fingers in front of him. A contemplative expression veiled his face, as if he were considering his next move on a chess board.

      
Jason knew the signs, and a knot of dread began to tighten deep in his gut.
What is the old bastard up to?
“And your purpose is?”

      
Ignoring the question, the marquess began to speak once more. “During the tragic cholera epidemic which took your father's life, I believe the lives of two young people were also lost—your estate manager and his half-blood Indian wife. They left behind a young son whom your family took in. Cameron Edmund Barlow, or Fox as he is known among his mother's people…”

      
“Yes, Fox, who, you undoubtedly know, stowed away on my last voyage and was captured with my ship.” The fist in Jason's belly clenched tighter. “He was to be repatriated to America. You gave your word.”

      
Ignoring the fury in his grandson's voice, Cargrave replied with utmost reasonableness, “Ah, and I kept my word. Your crew were all sent safely home. But young Fox was not a member of your crew. By your own admission, he was a stowaway.”

      
“And you have him. Your winning chess piece,” Jason said bitterly.

      
“Precisely.” The old man's tone was clipped and businesslike now.

      
“Everything is a bloody game to you, isn't it, Grandfather?”

      
“And I always play to win. You, of all people, should know that by now.”

      
“Yes, I should,” Jason replied softly. “You cheat when necessary. If you left my foster brother on that hulk—”

      
Cargrave shot up from his seat, all the calm self-assurance of a moment ago evaporated. “Damn you! Grandson or no, if I did not need an heir so desperately, I should call you out for such an insult!”

      
“If Fox is still on the
Laurel
, you shall not need to call me out,” Jason replied in a deadly tone.

      
At this point, the viscount, who had earlier sunk frozen into his chair, stood up once more and interposed himself between the two larger men. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please,” he beseeched. “You are grandfather and grandson. Do not even think of such an absurd thing as calling each other out.” He waved his hand vaguely. “I am certain George would not have left a child to languish in prison.” His pale eyes moved worriedly from the younger to the elder Beaumont, hoping for confirmation.

      
“It seems you have a better opinion of me than my grandson does,” the marquess replied sternly, glaring at Jason. “Young Master Barlow has been safely tucked away while you were cutting a swath through the ton this past month. A pity I cannot name him my heir. He demonstrates considerably greater intelligence than the foster brother he so idolizes. One might hope he'll outgrow that,” the old man muttered beneath his breath.

      
At this point, Rachel could hold her peace no longer. The marquess had blackmailed the hateful Yankee lout into assuming the title. That perhaps spoke well of Jason's integrity, she was forced to admit, remembering her insinuations about his having betrayed his country for an earldom. But she brushed that matter aside as the realization sank in—now the marquess intended to use the boy to blackmail his heir into marrying her!

      
“I believe this whole charade—or is it a chess match?—has gone far enough,” she said imperiously as she walked into the center of the room, her peach silk gown swishing with every step.

      
“Rachel, child—good God, how long have you been listening?” the viscount croaked.

      
“Long enough to plot three murders, Father,” she re plied sweetly, without taking her eyes from Jason's. “Let me assure you, m'lord earl, this treed bobcat is every bit as furious over being forced into marriage as are you.”

      
Cargrave watched her dark eyes flash with fury, meeting Jason's startled blue ones.
Lud, what splendid children they will have! She is the perfect match for that wild hellion. Now all he has to do is tame her. A bit easier said than done.

      
“We may be in perfect accord on the issue, Countess, but I suspect my grandfather will not agree.” Jason turned, lifting one black eyebrow at the marquess.

      
“Young Fox calls my daughter-in-law 'Mama,' and she considers him her second son; hence he is a member of my extended family…over here on a visit,” Cargrave added slyly.

      
“And how long will this ‘visit’ last?” Jason asked.

      
“I imagine even one with your gravely challenged mental capacity should be able to deduce the answer to that,” Rachel interjected acidly.

      
Jason glowered at her, but the marquess grinned now, thoroughly enjoying himself once again. “I'm certain Fox will not wish to return to America until after witnessing the nuptials of his foster brother. I suspect he'd be hurt if you did not ask him to stand as witness.” Without waiting for Jason's reply, he stepped to the wall and yanked upon a bellpull, summoning the footman waiting behind the adjoining door.

      
“Bring Master Fox,” the marquess instructed the servant.

* * * *

      
The door to the library once again burst open, but this time a footman was there to carefully close it behind the boy who dashed toward Jason with a cry of utter delight. “Jace! Grandfather said you were here!”

      
Jason hugged the black-haired youth with copper-dark skin and midnight eyes as the others observed. The viscount looked mildly startled at such a noisy interruption. The marquess looked smugly self-satisfied. But Rachel was utterly nonplused by the arrogant American's display of affection for the boy. Here was a side of the earl that she would never have suspected. She watched keenly as he listened to Fox chatter about his new life.

      
“Grandfather has given me a horse of my very own—Little Chief! And all sorts of wonderful teachers, not at all like the ones at school in Baltimore. I have a riding instructor and a fighting teacher—oh, I mean he's teaching me how to shoot pistols and how to fence with swords—”