The Earl Most Likely Page 4

  When he’d first met Lenore, a month before their wedding, he’d been pleased. Lenore had been lovely, with shining black hair thickly piled upon her head, bright green eyes, and the kind of bosom a man could get lost in. His grandmother on his mother’s side had disapproved of the match, for though Lenore’s lineage was impressive, her father was a mere mister with little or no income to speak of. Lower than landed gentry, she’d said, her mouth turning downward in displeasure. Augustus hadn’t loved Lenore, but had resigned himself to the fate of having a wife he didn’t necessarily like, but would certainly enjoy bedding. On their wedding night, she had yielded to him stoically, not complaining when he touched her, kissed her full breasts, but not encouraging him either. She was like a warm, living doll, submitting silently, and if he hadn’t heard the catch in her breath that one time, he would have thought her completely unmoved by his caresses. When the act was complete, she finally found her voice and told him what she truly thought of him and his father. He’d left for America again two weeks later, unable to face a wife who loathed him and refused his touch.

  No, the next time he married, if he married, it would be to a woman of his choice, someone with aristocratic blood, who would bear his children, and take her role as countess seriously. Love never entered his mind as a requirement.

  As she reached the archway he said, “After some thought, I believe it is imperative that you be completely discreet, so I’m sorry to say you cannot share our arrangement with anyone, including your friends.”

  “But that will completely ruin my plans to force you down the aisle, sir.” She said this with a straight face, without a bit of a hint that she was joking, and for just a moment, he thought she was serious. Her eyes crinkled after a moment, and he knew she was jesting. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man go so pale so quickly,” she said, clearly enjoying herself and surprising him with her wit. “You can rest assured, my lord, that I will be completely discreet. There is no room in my little cottage for any man, not even one as esteemed as you.”

  Augustus chuckled. “Well said, Miss Anderson. Now, shall we proceed with the tour? Brace yourself.”

  With that, he turned around and led her through the stone archway and into the courtyard. As soon as they cleared the arch, Miss Anderson stopped and let out a small sound.

  “I see you’ve noticed the new gaslights,” he said dryly. “That is only the smallest change, I can assure you.”

  Striding to the door, he found himself steeling himself for what was to come. He’d thought he’d get used to it, but the sight of what his wife had done to Costille seemed only to grow grimmer as time went by.

  “The door,” she whispered, and he paused to look behind him at her solemn expression. She reached out a hand and laid it on the wood door, ornamented with a large, round door knocker etched with some sort of floral design that was repeated on the door knob. Gone were the heavy iron bars and hinges, the thick slabs of wood surrounded by intricate carving—including that squirrel Miss Anderson recalled.

  With a flourish, he opened the door and was not surprised when the lady let out a gasp of dismay.

  * * * *

  Harriet closed her eyes and brought forth the image of what the grand entry hall used to look like; its soaring ceiling, the massive iron chandelier, the armor and shields, and intricate paintings on the ceiling and walls. She could not stop the gasp that erupted from her throat, and when she opened her eyes, it was to see Lord Berkley staring at her, his dark eyes emotionless. Most perplexing was that the room seemed somehow smaller, and she realized that walls had been erected, blocking the view of a large staircase that led to a balcony above. Windows had once let in light from the balcony, but now, with it closed off, the space felt dark and small. The chandelier hanging above her head was a modern gas fixture with hundreds of crystals that at the moment had little light to reflect. On the walls, etched glass sconces covered with a soft fuzz of dust had been installed every few feet.

  “It is quite different, is it not?” she asked cautiously, then dug into her reticule and pulled out a thick sheaf of paper with her meticulous notes. “It is all here, my lord.” Then she smiled and she saw his face clear, as if he’d been fortifying himself for bad news. “That wall must come down, the ceiling must be removed. Oh, so much work and we haven’t even begun.”

  She could not imagine what it had been like to come home to find what his wife had done. It wasn’t purely awful, simply very modern and extremely feminine, but she could understand why Lord Berkley was so horrified by it all. Gone was the sense of walking back in time, of entering a world of brave knights and their ladies. Effecting such changes to the home must have taken months, perhaps longer, which made Harriet curious about how Lady Greenwich could have possibly made such substantial changes with him none the wiser.

  “I hope it takes less time to undo than it did to create,” he said dryly.

  “How long did it take?”

  He looked around the room, his gaze stopping with unveiled disgust at the chandelier, as if he could make it shatter with his piercing eyes. “I was gone a bit more than two years. I imagine she began the renovations shortly after I left.”

  “Two years,” Harriet said softly. Lord Berkley chuckled at her expression, and she suddenly felt provincial and gauche. Perhaps in the world of the aristocracy, it was not unusual for a husband and wife to be separated for so long. “Shall we continue the tour?” she asked in her most business-like tone, and his smile grew. Harriet decided then and there that she did not care much for Lord Berkley; she never did like to feel the butt of a joke, and that was precisely how he was making her feel. Worse, she had no idea what the joke was.

  He raised his arm, indicating that she should precede him into the next room. Turning smartly, Harriet moved to the left, where in her memory was the great hall, a massive space, whitewashed, adorned with the accoutrements of medieval days: spears, bows, suits of armor, shields. Thick beams stretched across the ceiling, and a high row of narrow windows illuminated the room and its massive fireplace. Harriet recalled thinking how awful it must be for the servants of the house, who would have to climb up ladders to wash the glass windows, one of the few concessions to modern times.

  Pushing through the door, Harriet stopped abruptly and spun about, confused. She could have sworn this large door led to the great hall, but instead she’d found herself stepping into an intimate parlor, decorated almost exclusively in pink.

  “This was, I believe, the greatest tragedy,” he said. “This and my study. She took great delight there.”

  “She hated you,” Harriet blurted out.

  “Immensely.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why. How could one man incite such loathing? What had he done to her? Harriet suppressed a shudder. She did not know this man, had trusted him only because he was friends with Mr. Southwell, whom she liked and respected. No one knew where she was. The rumor when his wife died was that he’d thrown her from the highest tower on the night of a grand party, the very night Lord Berkley had returned home from America. They’d found her body the next morning, and Harriet had wondered why no one had missed her during the night. Harriet adored the macabre and remembered reading every detail in the newspaper at the time, thrilled by the idea that a lord had committed murder right in their little village. Of course, he was soon exonerated and her death ruled a suicide. But what if the constable was wrong? What if Berkley was a monster, what if he actually had murdered his wife?

  Instead of questioning him, she stepped into the room, her back tingling, because she knew he was looking at her, likely smiling at her discomfort.

  “You are not curious about my late wife?”

  “Should I be?” she asked, sounding far more composed than she was. What she truly felt like doing was turning around and running from the house, never to return. “Is the entire hall now turned into small parlors?”

&nbs
p; When he didn’t answer, she forced herself to turn and look at him. He stood, still on the threshold of the room, staring at her. Apparently, she amused him, for he still had that slight smile on his lips, one that made her feel uncomfortable. She suddenly felt sorry for his poor dead wife if she’d been subjected to his mockery and unsettling stares.

  Harriet walked stiffly to a door on the far side of the parlor, grasping the crystal door knob—another nod to modern fashion—and bracing herself for what she would find on the other side of the door.

  “Oh my goodness.”

  The great hall was there, yes, but its roof was gone, replaced by glass, the entire space filled with the cloying smell of rotted plants and the odd blossoms that had somehow managed to survive obvious neglect. Her knees felt weak, and she sat quickly on a nearby bench.

  “My father was an accumulator of information and a devotee of power. Some of that information could have sent my bride’s father to prison. Sir Robert Stanford was a good man who had done something very stupid, as desperate men sometimes do. He did what he could to save himself, but ended up in prison anyway. My wife blamed my father, and by association, me.”

  “Did you know?”

  He let out a bitter laugh. “I was, Miss Anderson, completely unaware of my father’s machinations. She, however, was not.” He waved his hand to encompass the destruction before them, evidence of his wife’s hatred.

  “Did you love her?”

  He gave her a quick look of disbelief. “Not at all. But it was my duty to marry and so I did. I was committed to my marriage.” He chuckled. “At least for the first six hours or so. As you know, she died two years ago and my father passed just this year. And that, Miss Anderson, is my sordid story.”

  Normally, when someone mentioned a death, Harriet’s automatic response was to say she was sorry for the loss, but it was clear to her that such a sentiment would not be well-received by the earl. It might even gain her another mocking smile. “Why have you not begun restorations?”

  “It seemed a futile effort, Miss Anderson, until you.”

  Harriet was suddenly uncertain as to whether she wanted such a heavy responsibility. What if her memory were flawed? After all, it had been years since she’d toured the house. She’d been so confident the day prior when she’d written her detailed notes, but that was before she’d seen the drastic changes made to the home. Another chill swept over her even though the room was quite warm, and she wrapped her arms about herself, her eyes taking in the destruction of the once beautiful hall. This had been done maliciously, with terrible glee. She could almost imagine the lady ordering the roof taken down, the gleaming marble floor covered with gravel. Digging her toe into the gravel, she found the smooth hard stone floor beneath, soiled and scratched.

  “It may still be a futile effort,” she said. “Have you anything else to show me?”

  “My study.”

  They walked back through the parlor, the entry, and down several long hallways, leaving Harriet overwhelmed by the amount of work that needed to be done. Along the way, they passed several servants, who curtsied or bowed, depending upon their gender, and Harriet found herself uncommonly relieved that should she scream, someone would hear her. It was a silly thought, she told herself. Lord Berkley was not a murderer nor had he given her any indication that he was interested in anything about her person—except for her remarkable memory.

  She’s no more interesting than a piece of furniture.

  Harriet grimaced as that memory sprang forth. Those words had been uttered by a young swain who’d been admiring Clara. Another lad had asked about “the other sister.” And that had been his reply. “She’s no more interesting than a piece of furniture.”

  At the time, she’d been just seventeen and terribly hurt by those words. They’d stayed with her for long weeks, digging at her confidence like nothing her mother had ever said to her.

  “This,” he said with a flourish, “was my wife’s chef-d’oeuvre.”

  Harriet couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing, then quickly covered her mouth with her hands. His study, once a masculine haven of stone and dark beams, was now an explosion of pink cabbage roses, intricate moldings with gold leaf accents, and an abundance of gaslight fixtures also in gold. The furnishings were delicate and decidedly feminine, the type a man as large as Lord Berkley would feel silly sitting upon.

  “Oh, this is…this is…” She couldn’t get the word out past her laughter.

  “Horrifying.”

  “Spectacular,” she finally said, and he jerked his head back as if she’d struck him. Waving her hand as if to erase that word, Harriet tried to collect herself so she might explain. “It is horrifying. But I was just thinking about how much fun she must have had creating this monstrosity.”

  “Apparently, the depths of her animosity had no end,” said Berkley. “It was my favorite room. How she knew this, I have no idea.”

  “What was her name?” Harriet had no idea why, but she found herself liking Lady Greenwich. How angry she must have been, how brave, knowing that someday her husband would return and discover what she had done. Very brave or very foolish.

  “Lenore.” There was no hint of softness in his voice, and Harriet found herself suppressing another chill.

  “You must have been quite angry with her.”

  He smiled grimly. “I was mad with anger, Miss Anderson.”

  With that, he departed the room, leaving her alone to assess the damage done by his late wife.

  * * * *

  The little chit thought he’d murdered his wife. Augustus could see it in her eyes, the way she looked at him. Let her believe that, he thought. No one entered his home and saw what Lenore had done to it without believing him capable of throttling the life out of her.

  When a footman had found Lenore that morning, lying pale and still, a large and sickening puddle of blood around her head, he’d known immediately he would come under suspicion. They had fought loudly and bitterly about what she had done to Costille House, within earshot of dozens of people. Perhaps most untenable was that even while he was livid, he couldn’t help but admire her, how lovely she was, how defiant. When he’d gone to bed that night, he’d actually chuckled, thinking that his wife might suit him after all. Lenore had barely topped five feet, and yet, by God, she’d stood up to him, flaunted what she’d done, let him know precisely why and how much she’d enjoyed destroying the only thing he loved.

  He knew some people still believed him to be a murderer, that his title had given him license to do as he pleased. Lenore’s own words had exonerated him. Lenore had made it clear in her diary that she was so miserable, she could think of only one solution to her problems. If Augustus had realized she was so unhappy she would resort to suicide, he would have done what he could to make certain she did not follow through. He was not a monster; he was as much a pawn in his father’s power game as she had been.

  When Augustus had nearly reached the door to the courtyard, he stopped, realizing Miss Anderson, even with her remarkable memory, might not be able to find her way back from his study. As he started to return to find her, he heard her light footsteps and soon after saw her slim form emerging from the shadows, her face pale, her stunning blue eyes wary.

  “I promise not to murder you, Miss Anderson, so I would appreciate it if you would stop looking at me as if I plan to. I care not what you think or believe, only that you make every effort to do your job. But if it will make you feel any better, I did not kill my wife.”

  Her hand shot to her mouth as if horrified that he should think that was what she believed. “I didn’t think you did. Not entirely at any rate.” She gave him a sheepish look. “And I also didn’t think you would murder me. Unless, of course, I fail in my duty to restore your house.” She looked around the entrance. “You must admit, you certainly had a strong motive.”

  He let out a h
umorless laugh, somewhat impressed by her gumption. “That I did.” He walked briskly toward the door, assuming Miss Anderson would follow, and behind him he heard her hurried footsteps. “Workers arrive tomorrow. They will be instructed to follow your instructions to the word. I depart for London tomorrow afternoon and will return in a fortnight. If you need to reach me, please let my butler, Mr. Pearson, know.”

  “I am to deal with the workers?”

  He turned and she stopped short, again looking like she might flee. “Is that a problem, Miss Anderson?”

  He watched with fascination as she thought through this new development. Uncertainty turned to resolve in a matter of seconds. “No, my lord, I see no problem. Where would you like the work to begin?”

  “Everywhere at once. I want this done as quickly as possible, so I have hired a large contingent of laborers. I want her back, Miss Anderson, and the sooner the better.”

  Her brows furrowed and she pressed those plush pink lips together in consternation. “Did you have a particular date in mind for the work to be completed?”

  What was it about her mouth that so fascinated him? It was downright distracting. “Christmastide. I’m planning a ball.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “That’s impossible.”

  “I assure you I have planned balls in the past.”

  It was difficult not to smile when her eyes narrowed. “I meant,” she said with barely concealed annoyance, “that having the renovations completed before Christmas would be impossible.”

  “No, it is not. I have an army of men coming and the work will be completed in time for the ball.”

  “You cannot possibly believe that it can be accomplished. Simply saying so, no matter how forcefully or arrogantly, will not make it so.”