The Spinster and the Earl (8 page)

Puzzled, his man inspected the platters. If a two-headed snake had been served instead of the usual rumps of roast mutton, he could not have felt more discomfited. It had been bad enough that the woman had practically wiggled her bottom at him, but then to bring his master’s morning mess in, as well. Gads! It was intolerably impudent!

“Nay, Capt’n—I mean, Your Grace. It isn’t considered part of a lady’s maid’s duties, or responsibilities to serve a gentleman. Unless he be her mistress’s husband, sir,” he said stiffening. He silently rebuked himself for permitting the lady’s companion entry to the usually exclusive all-male domain.

“Just so, Corporal Davis.” The earl nodded. “Just so.” And without another word, he tucked into the delicious food with unfeigned relish.

*    *    *

Lord Patrick O’Brien’s gout had been easing quite nicely, and he felt fair pleased with himself as he ambled towards Drennan Castle’s ruins. It was nearing the hour of nine and a cool night wind blew dead leaves around his horse’s feet. Lord Patrick, an old, stout gentleman, carefully walked the animal through the maze of fallen square stones while holding onto a walking stick. The ruins had once been part of the castle’s stone walls.

He heard a twig break and froze. Had he been followed? Perhaps a cutthroat purse-snatcher hoping to catch him out here alone was even now about to pounce upon him? Tensing, he let go of the horse’s leash and put a hand on his sturdy blunderbuss.

A familiar young trebling voice called out, “Who goes there?”

“’Tis I, lad, your master, Lord Patrick,” he replied roughly, easing the weapon down again.

A slight lad of thirteen stepped out from the shadows. Tommy Flander’s freckled face greeted him with a broad grin of welcome. His own rude weapon, a large pitchfork, he carried defensively in one hand.

“Aye, so it be. ’Tis grand seeing your lordship up and about again. Bessy’s not been making her best. It was as if she knew you weren’t here to test her out, my lord.”

“Is that so, Tommy, me boy? Well, now that be a grand shame, especially when I’m certain you kept her going at a fine trot.”

The lord picked up a tumbler full of freshly brewed whiskey from a rough hewn table. He drank, swishing the liquid around in his mouth as he did so, tasting the flavors. “You fed her plenty of the secret ingredient like I told you to, lad?”

He touched the distillery’s copper belly as if he were milking a cow of the most temperamental variety.

“Aye, my lord. Though ’twas difficult warming her with the wind blowing about tonight. And I’ll be telling you, true, the moon was full-hitched in the sky. Afraid I was. They say the wee folk dance here when it be like this.”

The lad glanced superstitiously at the half-ruined parts of the castle. In the moonlight, the ruins loomed forbiddingly in the quiet. Rumors had been spread aplenty and as fertile as the meadows in spring, as to the certain downfall of the Drennan clan. The talk now was that the new lord’s recent fall from his mount had not been an accident.

For all the village knew that Lady Beatrice was one of the best shots in the parish. If she shot his lordship down, it was certain he would have been greeting the heavenly saints themselves that morn, instead of lying in a comfortable featherbed at Brightwood Manor as a convalescing guest. “Nay,” cackled, Mother O’Donnell, a wizened lady of some advanced years. “’Twas them rascally wee folk who’d whispered a word into the horse’s ear, which brought about his lordship’s present condition.” Young Tommy, one of the avid listeners, believed the old woman.

He turned to his master. “’Tis been ever so quiet since the new earl settled at Brightwood to heal, m’lord. Faith, been right silent enough to wonder if the banshee wouldn’t howl at us at night in mourning for them noble dead knights buried over there.”

He nodded in the direction of the castle’s silent cemetery, fearfully eyeing the tilted tall grave stones of long gone lords and ladies. He took a step back into the warm firelight. Their ghosts were rumored to walk about on nights such as this, capering with the fairies under the moonlight.

“Nay, lad. There’s naught to concern yourself in that quarter. Dinna you know that the ghosts like it when it be quiet. ’Tis said to give them a bit o’ rest. Though if one had seen me lass come running from here, you’d think she’d seen one of the fey herself.”

He winked at the servant and said in a voice full of confidence, “As long as we leave them in peace to do their fairy craft, there be no harm in putting ourselves under their protection. Why, tonight we’ll even leave a jug offering out to keep them from making mischief. I hear they take to a fine brew. And I’d like even to go so far as to say ours has begun to taste, quite magical.”

Lord Patrick took another sip from the jug, not a wit concerned for the fey sprites that might dwell in the ruins, or the ill effects drinking would have on his gout. For, was it not his own levelheaded daughter who gave him the idea of moving his poteen-making operations here? What with the whole village full of superstitious heathens, he’d chosen the best spot in Urlingford to secret Bessy. All the credit was due to his brave girl coming home pale-faced one rainy night from the direction of the supposedly bewitched castle’s haunted ruins.

At first he’d thought some foul play had been used against his strong-headed lass and had started to order his outriders to chase out the villainous rogues that had dared to frighten her. But she’d stopped him in mid-stride, her face rosy with shame, as she confessed she’d merely been frightened by the storm’s loud flashing show of thunder and earthshaking lightning.

Now that was an astonishing bit of news. His strong-willed lass had never been inclined to be afraid of anything in her entire life. Brought up as an only child, she had learned to stand on her own two feet, without the protection or interference of bothersome siblings. She was quite fearless. Not even as a wee chit when she got stuck in a ram’s pen by accident, was she afraid. She’d merely blinked those bright green eyes of hers twice at the beast, daring it to charge and calmly walked out the gate as if taking a sunny Sabbath stroll to church. The doting father was certain that a braver lass than his Beatrice could not be found in the entire parish.

He knew then that her fright had to have something to do with the castle. What, he was not certain. The castle was mostly in ruins, unoccupied with the exception of two remaining towers inhabited at the time by the old earl and his elderly servants. But knowing his lass to have a level head about her, he’d reluctantly accepted her moonshine of an excuse and developed his own brilliant plans for the ghostly ruins.

“Aye,” he mused drowsily as he snuggled up against Bessy’s warm copper belly. I’ll have to get m’lass a husband. I canna have her continually running around the countryside like some wild hoyden. For sure, I am that tired of the lads at the Boars Teeth making fun of my Bea’ and those foppish suitors of hers. I have to find her a proper gentleman, one that can stand on his own two feet. Best I shut my eyes and do some thinking about it in the morn.” And with that resolve in mind, he drifted off into a drunken slumber.

The following evening, Lord Patrick found himself seated comfortably by the turf fire of his own manor home deciding the fate of his only daughter. Lord O’Brien, the Earl of Drennan and Beatrice drank to the younger lord’s good health with contraband Spanish port, the bottle having been graciously provided by his recovering guest. Since it might be a crime either to keep it or to throw it away, the two lords decided it was best if they drank it then and there.

“
Slainte
,” she heard her father say in Irish, toasting the earl’s health.

“To your own good health, sir,” answered the younger lord, raising his glass in turn. Primly Beatrice sat frowning at her father for disobeying Wise Sarah’s orders of no strong spirits.

She’d tried to ignore them, but made a poor attempt of reading a tome containing recently translated Irish folklore. Irish legends were currently à la mode with scholars. Until now they had not been translated from the original Irish. The particular legend before her was a recent publication sent directly from a press in Dublin connected with the Institute of Ancient Irish Lore. But her thoughts refused to remain focused on the giant warriors of old for long. They kept straying towards a far more contemporary personage. Principally, this ruggedly handsome lord sitting calmly, talking with her father.

She listened as her father said, “I suppose once when your lordship is fit again, you’ll be wanting to kick up your heels a bit. The gossipmongers have it that you came directly here upon learning of your uncle’s passing. By now, a young buck like yourself must be after wishing to be back in London with the ton.”

The earl shook his head in negation. “Far from it, sir. ’Tis doubtful I shall ever return to my former home or life. No doubt the moneylenders have long ago confiscated what few possessions I owned,” he openly admitted.

“When I bought my stripes, I’d been running neck-high for some time in dun territory from gambling debts and living beyond my meager means. I behaved like a complete make-bait.” As way of explanation he added, “I am the youngest of three sons. ’Twas very decent of his majesty’s service to see to it I did not scorch myself any further into Newgate Prison. When I joined up, those money lending sharks no longer could pursue me. I was under his majesty’s protection. While in the army, I reformed, learning how to handle responsibility, becoming the wiser man you see today.”

“But what of your family? Surely they’d welcome you with open arms now that you’re an earl?”

“Miracles have been known to occur,” said James with an unemotional shrug.

“Mayhap you’re thinking of returning to that fine regiment of yours? I hear from your man Davis that ye were a Jim-dandy fighter.” The old lord winked, taking a puff from his clay pipe.

The younger lord smiled at the compliment, his eyes falling upon Beatrice’s dark, shiny head. She pretended to be absorbed in her book, feeling his eyes observing her, carefully hiding her own interest. She knew so little about him. She listened intently to their conversation.

“My decision depends on a sundry of variables, Lord O’Brien. None of which exclude my choosing to make my permanent residence the family’s ancestral castle here in Urlingford. Living there does, I must admit, have certain advantages. One, of course, having such charming neighbors such as yourselves nearby.”

She looked up, startled. Charming? No one had ever used that term in connection with them before. She’d heard gentlemen say several flowery and exaggerated compliments to her. This, however, was the first she’d heard anyone consider using more personal terms than one would use with, say, a well-trained pet.

Her eyes met his. Unbidden, her cheeks flamed. It’d been two days since she’d felt his arms around her waist when she’d asked him to kiss her. The embrace was not one she could forget. It burned in her thoughts, reminding her how she had completely forgotten herself in that moment. If she was not careful, she’d soon find herself doing more than just looking at this appealing gentleman . . . she would find herself back in his bed. No, that would not do at all, not unless she wished to give up her independence and wealth to a man.

Observing his daughter’s flushed expression, Lord Patrick helped himself to the port decanter. He turned to Beatrice and said, “Daughter, would ye be so kind, darlin’, as to fetch m’wrap? I feel a chill creeping up my back.”

“Aye, Da,” she answered, forcing herself to move towards the door, reluctant to miss the conversation between the two. She sensed her sly fox of a father was up to something. He usually never played the part of a feeble old man afraid of catching a sudden chill. There’d been many a day when she’d seen him wander about on horseback with nothing on but a thin, frilled shirt. Now what the devil was he about?

Lord Patrick called out after her as she prepared to reluctantly leave the room. “And be a good lass and close the doors behind you. There’s a fierce draft coming from the main hall.”

She nodded, but sensing something was afoot left it open a crack. She fully intended to listen at the door.

The old lord set aside his drink. “Now, you were saying that you might stay on. May I ask what it would take to entice ye to stay, Your Grace?’’

James, the Earl of Drennan, ex-captain of his majesty’s service, swirled the ruby liquor in his crystal tumbler. He was enjoying the moment. It’d been a long time since he’d gambled, having decided upon buying out of his majesty’s service that debtor’s prison was not the sort of quarters he wished to find himself in. He’d given up the heady addiction. Leaning back comfortably into his chair, he decided it was the moment to pass the first ace of information to his partner, Lord Patrick O’Brien.

“’Tis simple, sir. I’ve need of a wife,” he stated plainly without any further to do.

“Oh, so that be the way of it. And might I be so bold as to ask what qualities ye’d be after in seeking one, sir?”

The young earl took a light sip from the tumbler and looked the lord directly in the eye and said without bluffing, “She must be rich.”

“To be sure,” nodded the old lord sagely, “you’ve only the castle estates and another smaller one, I hear, in the next parish to live on. And although they’ll bring you a tidy sum, I imagine your lordship will be needing plenty of gilt to make your life more comfortable.” And thinking of the decaying castle, which the younger lord was considering turning into his permanent residence, he added, “Not t’ mention more habitable.”

Lord Patrick scratched underneath his graying beard in thought.

“Hmm . . . there be rich brides aplenty to be had around London and Dublin. Aye, ye could do very well indeed by tying the knot with some rich cit’s offspring. What with your title, the ladies would line up for the privilege.”

The young earl shook his head and gave a feigned doleful sigh. “And she must be of Irish lineage. ’Tis not been bandied about, but my title requires that I marry an Irish lady of blue-blood. My uncle, you must understand, detested the thought of the title passing completely into English hands. In order for me to inherit, he put in his will that I must marry—”