The Substitute Countess (11 page)

She smiled as she replayed the memory of it in her mind. It had gone very well, she thought. She had pleased him and he had pleased her. It seemed to her that everything else in their lives would fall into place now that was settled. She hugged herself and grinned into her pillow. She was a wife for real now.

They would learn what was needed to govern the Elderidge estate, set all to rights and perhaps have children in the near future. Even if they never quite came up to the mark on social niceties, they had each other, a glorious home and the probability of an heir. Family had always been her greatest desire and she felt fulfilled.

He must have imbued her with his energy last night because she could hardly wait to hop out of bed and begin their wonderful future together. There were other wifely duties she needed to see to while Jack husbanded the estate matters.

Betty swept in with a tray. “Good morning, ma’am,” she chirped. “Here’s your chocolate and toast!”

Laurel sat up, holding the coverlet to cover her bare chest. She knew she was blushing, but she couldn’t suppress her smile.

“Aha! Good
night,
too, I see.” She set the tray on the bed and turned to the wardrobe. “Which morning gown?”

“The sprigged lavender. Is there hot water?”

“In the basin,” Betty said, her back to Laurel as she plucked the gown out of the wardrobe. “I was late last evening. Shan’t happen again.”

Laurel sipped her chocolate. “If that is an apology, it won’t serve, Betty. Are you walking out with George?”

Betty turned, a worried look on her face. She paused as if wondering whether it would pay to lie. “It wasn’t allowed at the London house, ma’am. We have feelings, you see. And—” she paused before continuing “—we thought since he’s Sir’s valet and I’m attending you, it might be...well, convenient for you and his lordship.” Her eyes held a plea. “You won’t forbid it, will you, ma’am?”

Though her first instinct urged her to allow it, Laurel saw this as a test. Was she to let the servants believe she was too softhearted to govern? Or else that she was a martinet who had no thought for the happiness of others? She sensed that Betty and George, as well as all the other servants on staff, would take advantage of her inexperience if she allowed it.

“I shall speak with his lordship and inform you later of our decision. Until then, you both are to maintain decorum and perform your duties on schedule.”

Betty looked a bit confused by Laurel’s firmness. She had obviously expected immediate permission. “Very well, ma’am,” she muttered.

Laurel drank her chocolate and munched on the toast as Betty went back to laying out clothes for the morning. She stifled the impulse to explain to Betty that the affair with George might cause problems with the rest of the staff. The girl should know that already.

“Is George seriously taken with you?” she asked. “Has he asked for your hand?”

Betty’s head bobbed up and down rather frantically. “Not asked yet, ma’am. Neither of us figured it would ever be possible for us to marry.”

“Do you want to marry him?”

Betty’s face was now alight with hope. “Oh, yes, ma’am, more’n anything, for near on a year now. Could we, you think? If his lordship says yes?”

Laurel sighed and set the tray aside on the bed. She was so delighted with her own marriage this morning, it pained her to think of poor Betty with no expectations of her own. And yet, she did not yet know whether it was against some hard-and-fast rule of society for servants in the same household to marry.

“Let me discuss it with him. Say nothing to George about this until it’s decided one way or the other.”

The ormolu clock on the mantel struck nine. It was past time to rise and begin her day. “I can dress myself this morning, Betty. Would you go and find Mrs. Mundy and tell her I wish a tour of the house first thing?”

“Anything you wish, ma’am.
Anything!
”

Once she learned her way about, Laurel fully intended to take full charge of her household. Jack had told her to pretend she was Mother Superior here. If he could play captain of this stationary Elderidge ship, she could surely provide order.

* * *

Jack had begun early in the day, knowing that he must confer with Hobson yet again and see that all monetary matters were understood and in order. Then they were to meet with Mr. Northram, the estate manager, and later, the village council and some of the tenants. Oddly, he felt no dread at any of it.

He began with a comfortable residual of the contentment that had lulled him to sleep the night before. Normally, he would have been wearing a hole in whatever floor he paced upon or firing questions faster than they could be answered.

As planned, he and Hobson had pored over the accounts, then visited the village to meet with the vicar and town council. They also rode out to speak with a number of the tenants whose homes required repair.

All of that had taken a full morning and half the afternoon. He was frankly amazed at how neatly things were being handled. Or rather how they had not tripped into chaos since the old earl’s death.

His own demeanor surprised him, as well. Only a little of his anxious need to leap at every issue had surfaced. He felt good about things with only a healthy bit of apprehension intruding.

He dusted his hat on the leg of his breeches and ran a hand through his hair. “I begin to believe I can do this, after all,” he confided to Hobson as they walked from the stables to the back entrance of the house.

“Of course you can! You have good men in place to take care of the details. All that’s needed is your overall direction and perhaps instituting limits now and again if anyone oversteps.”

“I might go over those books again in the next few days,” Jack said.

“They are in the library, still on your desk, sir,” Hobson replied. “I’m for London in the morning unless you need me here.”

“You’ll dine with us tonight? No, I insist,” he said as Hobson began to shake his head. Jack grinned. “As captain of this unwieldy land-bound ship, I may invite whomever I wish to share my table.”

“I’m honored that you ask,” Hobson said finally. Jack could see that the old fellow was pleased, but he also saw apprehension in his expression. “You might not care what the staff would think of having an employee join you, but the dowager countess will most certainly not approve.”

“They say she’s gone to Bath while the dowager house is being readied for her.”

Hobson hummed. “Yes, I sent word while you were in Spain that you were expected here and she should be preparing to move.”

“It’s settled then. You will join us.” Jack nodded and they started to part ways as they entered the house. Jack realized then that he had neglected a most obvious necessity. The atrium, office, dining room, stairs and the master suite were all he had seen thus far.

“I shouldn’t risk being lost in my own home. Show me where everything is?” he asked Hobson.

“Certainly. I quite forgot you’ve never been here.” He gestured to his right. “This way. We’ll begin with the gallery so you may become acquainted with the former occupants. Some are rather forbidding characters. You’ll be adding your own portrait one of these days. May I suggest you smile for it, sir?”

Jack laughed. “So as to break tradition?”

On the way there, they passed the door to the office, which stood open. Jack’s breath caught in his throat as he halted. Hobson almost collided with him.

Laurel sat at the huge mahogany desk, staring down at a page in one of the account books he had examined earlier.

Chapter Eleven

“W
hat are you doing in here?” Jack demanded, realizing too late how he had snapped at her.

She stood, slowly closing the book. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. A lovely day, isn’t it?” She placed a palm on the cover of the book. “I’ve been studying the account books, and I must say, I’m thoroughly stunned!”

“How so?” Jack asked, trying not to reveal how concerned he was that she might have discovered whose funds she had been perusing. Obviously, something had surprised her.

“You are
disgustingly
wealthy,” she said to Jack in a laughing whisper.

He approached and took her arm, leading her from behind the desk and escorting her to the door where Hobson waited and watched, nervously crimping the edge of his hat brim.

“Come away now. I’ve told you that you needn’t bother with financials,” Jack said. “Mr. Hobson and I will see to all of that.”

“Oh, it’s no bother. I told you I’m exceedingly good with numbers.”

Jack fought for patience. “You’ll have a household allowance to deal with, of course. There will be another book for those records.”

She patted his arm, smiling up at him. “That’s as it should be, I’m sure. So how has your day been, sir?”

“Productive thus far. I was just about to take a tour of the house if you’d care to join us,” he said, hoping to distract her completely away from all talk of accounts.

“Thank you, but I’ve already made the rounds with Mrs. Mundy this morning. If you two will excuse me, I’d best meet with her about the week’s menus as I promised.”

Jack huffed out a breath of relief even though the old and familiar tension within had now returned full force. He wondered if maybe Laurel could dispel it again if he held her for a moment and absorbed some of that inner peace. No, he’d definitely need longer than a moment and probably more than a mere embrace.

He was thinking nonsense, of course, and giving Laurel entirely too much credit. Peace came from within a person, and was not something one could borrow or steal.

He said nothing until he was certain she was out of earshot. “Perhaps you’d better take the account books back to London with you in the morning, Mr. Hobson,” he said quietly as they continued down the corridor to the gallery.

What a narrow escape. All morning, he had felt so much more contented than usual, even with the dreaded assumption of the new tasks and responsibilities of the earldom. Now he sorely missed the calm. He knew last night’s event, if not Laurel herself, was the reason for his contentment, of course. But when he had seen her with the books, his heart had jumped to his throat and even now, he couldn’t shake off the jangling of nerves.

“You haven’t finished with the books and there’s nothing in them about the will or the former earl’s intentions,” Hobson assured him. “She need never know.”

But Jack knew. The lie of omission continued to bother him, not to mention the dread of being caught in it. When he had grown such a delicate conscience, he couldn’t say. That conscience would simply have to suffer in silence, however. A confession was out of the question.

“She seems quite happy. I had so hoped she would be,” Hobson said as they walked.

“I plan to keep her that way,” Jack declared, as much to himself as to Hobson. Laurel was truly good for him and not only in the physical sense. He could not afford to lose her and the threat was always there.

* * *

Laurel reveled in her first attempt at entertaining even though Mr. Hobson was their only guest. She was happy to start out with a modest supper.

Jack had showered her with compliments when he had come to her room to collect her. How appreciated he made her feel. She wore her new ruby sarcenet, and Betty had done wonders with the hairstyle, assuring her it was the latest thing.

Mr. Hobson had flattered her sweetly, too. He was such a dear and her only real link to the father she had never known. He did what he could to fill that role for her when she was younger, gently turning aside her eager inquiries and replacing them with stories of England and his own experiences there. He had encouraged and applauded her efforts and exhibited pride in her accomplishments.

One day soon, she would question him as an adult about what sort of man had sired her and then sent her away. Not tonight, however. The mood was too pleasant to mar with unhappy history.

Instead, they spoke of his and Jack’s outing, their visit to the village and tenants. “I look forward to exploring beyond the main house myself,” she added after Jack expressed how well everything had progressed.

Mr. Hobson excelled at holding up his part of the conversation, and she could not imagine anyone of more exalted rank doing any better.

“Must you return to London so soon?” she asked as they sat watching their main course being served.

“Yes, I am afraid I must. I need to see about contracting someone for repairs on some of the cottages and begin negotiations for next spring’s wool sales.”

Laurel nodded her understanding. The man had duties. “Well then, you should return for the harvest festival. Mrs. Mundy says the tenants—”

A sudden commotion in the doorway interrupted her words as a woman shoved the butler aside, marched in and halted near the head of the table.

“Lady Portia!” Mr. Hobson jumped up from the table and his chair tipped backward, slamming to the floor, its loud report echoing in the silence that followed.

Laurel watched as Jack laid his fork on his plate and stood. She followed suit, knowing who the woman in unrelieved black must be. The dowager.

Oh, my.
The housekeeper had told her that their former mistress was away in Bath. Laurel had hoped to become settled before having to face the woman Jack said had banished her from the family.

Lady Portia was no ancient, probably only a shade over forty-five by the look of her, but her black hair was streaked with gray and her extremely fair complexion had gone rather pasty. Dark, piercing eyes only accented her paleness.

The extra two stone she carried on her rather short frame did not flatter. However, one could not fault her ensemble. Laurel doubted anyone had ever concocted a more elaborate one for mourning. Tiny tucks and black dyed lace trimmed every edge of the expensive bombazine.

Her dark, silver-threaded hair was curled in tight ringlets, caught up in a jet-studded bandeau. An attached black ostrich feather quivered with her every move.

Mr. Hobson cleared his throat. “Lady Portia, may I present...”

“I
know
who he is, Hobson! What are
you
doing here?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“I...I was invited, ma’am. His lordship insisted that I—”

“Has you at his beck and call already, I see,” she said to Jack.

Laurel beckoned the nearest footman and whispered, “Please bring another setting for her ladyship.”

“Don’t bother,” the woman said, huffing as she waved a hand in dismissal. She glared at Jack. “So you are now Elderidge.”

“I am.” Jack left the table and approached the dragon. “And I am glad to meet you, ma’am. Let me assure you of your welcome here anytime you wish to visit your former home. It must have been so difficult for you, having to vacate after so many—”

“Save your breath. This old pile of stone is a boil on the backside of England and I hate it with a passion. You’re welcome to it.”

She turned to Laurel, who stood waiting for her turn at the woman’s vitriol. All she received from the dowager was a puzzled look.

Perhaps no one had told the dowager whom Jack had married. Laurel squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I am Laurel, Countess of Elderidge.”

The woman laughed, a bitter sound. “You have the attitude for it, I see. Well, my girl, you’ll need it. Elderidge is of common stock and the Ton is not forgiving of that.”

Laurel saw red, but she kept her anger in check and her voice cool and polite. “Elderidge is of the same family
you
married into, Lady Portia.”

“Precisely my point.” She turned to the solicitor. “So is Hobson here, but then I suppose he neglected to apprise you of that little-known fact, eh? Wrong side of the blanket, but still a Worth, if not so named. Blight on society, the lot of you!” She fairly sneered. “And here is the family by-blow at your table looking like a cream-fed cat.” She trained a gimlet eye on Jack. “That certainly speaks to your regard for the title!”

“Enough, madam,” Jack insisted with quiet authority. “If you have an ax to grind with me, I suggest we postpone it until tomorrow and keep it between the two of us.”

She tried to stare him down and failed. Laurel was amazed at Jack’s ability to intimidate with a mere expression. His sea captain’s face, no doubt.

Finally the dowager blew out a noisy sigh and her wide shoulders slumped dramatically. “No axes, Elderidge.” She dragged out a chair and with no grace at all, plopped down on it, propped her elbow on the table and rested her tightly coiffed head on her hand. “I have had the most
rotten
day of my life,” she declared.

Laurel and Jack exchanged quizzing looks. It was Mr. Hobson who spoke, his voice soft with concern. “May I escort you home, Lady Portia? Was the journey from Bath so terrible?”

She nodded and rose again, almost absently, as she reached for his hand. “You’re a good sort for a bastard, Hobs. Always thought so.”

“Thank you. Come along now,” he replied and gently helped her from her chair and guided her out of the dining room.

Laurel was shaking her head in disbelief as the door closed. Jack quirked his mouth to one side.

“Well, what do you make of
that?
” Laurel asked.

One of the footmen coughed.

“I think we should discuss it later,” Jack said, turning his attention back to his roast of beef.

Laurel followed suit. She chewed thoughtfully, tasting nothing, wondering what would happen when the dowager found out that her stepdaughter was the one who now wore her title. Laurel’s name obviously had not registered with the woman. If and when it did, they could probably expect another, even grander scene than the one just experienced.

When they had finished dessert, Laurel decided to employ the new rule she had learned and excuse herself even though there were only the two of them at table.

She had already departed earlier from the expected by ordering their three places set at one end of the table, hers to Jack’s right and Mr. Hobson’s to his left, for the sake of conversation and convenience. That departure from tradition had caused a small stir among the staff. What with the dowager’s untoward visit, Laurel felt the need to apply at least a modicum of civility to what was left of the evening.

“I will leave you to your port,” she declared as she laid down her serviette and prepared to rise. A footman rushed to the back of her chair to assist.

Jack stood and offered her a smile, though it looked somewhat forced, probably for the benefit of the three servants who hovered about waiting to clear. “My compliments. The meal was superb, my lady, as was
your
company.”

“Thank you, Elderidge,” she replied with a wry twist of her lips. Then she raised an eyebrow in unspoken question she hoped he would understand.

He gave a slight nod and she watched his smile become real. Laurel’s heart swelled with anticipation. Apparently they would never need words for this particular arrangement. Jack would come to her again tonight.

* * *

Jack stayed in the dining room for a quarter hour, sipping the port he detested, despite its quality. He almost wished he could abide smoking, if only to have something to do as he killed the appropriate amount of time.

He knew he ought to go outside and walk off some of the angry tension that contracted every muscle in his body. He had barely been able to sit still, much less eat anything after the dratted dowager had burst in and ruined the evening.

He had thought her to be in Bath and hoped she would remain there. She would know the terms of her husband’s will, and Jack had feared that at any moment, she might blurt out the truth. Now he must devise some way to keep the two women apart.

Deception spread its tentacles like ivy on the facade of his life, creeping up to cover it completely. He felt smothered by it, wished he could rip it away. But then, his life might not have Laurel.

It would not do to go to her in his current frame of mind. On that thought, he pushed away from the table and strode out to the gardens.

How long would it take for Laurel to finish her evening ablutions and get rid of the maid? His strides ate up the graveled walkway through the well-tended roses, on past the edge of the hedges of the maze and out on to the green beyond.

Darkness enveloped him, so he broke into a run, trying to free himself of pent-up pressure. Finally, exhausted and sweating, he stopped, resting his hands on his knees and breathing hard.

Resigned to the fact that exercise had not helped much, he walked back to the house at a fast clip. Now he needed a bath. Problem on top of problems, he thought with a huff of frustration. And things had gone so well until midway through supper.

George waited for him at the foot of the stairs wearing a curious expression. “Are you unwell, sir?”

“No. Bring water for a bath and don’t bother to have it heated,” Jack said as he passed him.

When he reached his room, he was already tugging at his loosened neckcloth, anxious to strip off his damp clothes. He did so, donned his oldest banyan, then poured himself a brandy from the decanter on the table.

His door to the dressing room stood open, though the other to Laurel’s room was closed. She would be waiting in there, wondering when he would come to her.

Nothing would help him more than to go now, sweep her onto the bed and bury himself in her welcoming body. There, he wondered if he would find the quiet lassitude that came after they made love. Was how she affected him a wondrous discovery he had never even hoped to make? Or had it only been that relief had followed release and lasted longer than usual, almost throughout the day, in fact? It seemed that her very presence at supper had renewed his ease within. Until the dowager showed up.