Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3) Read online

  What the devil was wrong with him?

  Chapter 7

  Elisabeth waited patiently in Lady Umberton’s finely decorated parlor, perched upon a blue striped settee as she sipped her tea. Mary sat nearby, wringing her hands in her lap. Elisabeth had insisted she act normal so as not to upset Lady Umberton, but considering the gravity of the news, she understood if the young maid couldn’t quite hold her anxiety to an unnoticeable level. It couldn’t be helped. At least Mary was adept at becoming invisible when needed, and Lady Umberton was not in the habit of noticing servants.

  When Lady Umberton appeared at the door, Elisabeth went to her, taking her hands and squeezing them. She looked pale. She must have taken things harder than she had let on a few days ago when she had come to visit Elisabeth at the dower house.

  “My dear Elisabeth,” Lady Umberton greeted warmly as she kissed Elisabeth’s cheeks. “How good of you to visit. Please sit with me.”

  Elisabeth settled on the blue striped settee, and Francine the matching one opposite.

  “I did not expect you until Thursday next,” Lady Umberton said.

  “It was too important to wait, Francine.”

  “You look upset,” Francine said, a delicate frown knitting her brow. “What on earth is it, my dear?”

  “It’s that incident you told me about last week,” Elisabeth said, folding her hands in her lap. “The robbery and that man’s death.”

  Francine suddenly looked weary, the lines of age on her features deepening. She picked up a teacup from the table with shaking hands. “I suppose you want me to tell the authorities.”

  “I do,” Elisabeth said. “Those men need to be arrested, but it won’t happen without your help.”

  “Fustian nonsense,” Francine said, waving one hand about dismissively. “The authorities will find those heartless brigands, and if they can’t, they will send for someone from the Home Office, surely.”

  “I’m afraid they already have,” Elisabeth said. “Drake has the suspect in custody.”

  “Well, you see? All is well,” Francine said with a nervous smile. Then she paused. “Suspect? He caught only one of them?”

  “He arrested the widow,” Elisabeth explained. “They have posted her face all over England, claiming she’s a murderess.”

  “Oh, dear,” Francine muttered, her brow deeply furrowed.

  “Exactly. Even if she is not found guilty and hanged, that poor woman’s life will be well and truly ruined. Already, it might be too late.”

  “Surely not,” the older woman breathed.

  “You must tell them, Francine.” Elisabeth leaned forward, taking her friend’s hand. “Tell Drake about the ring, and why you sent those men to find it. Tell him what they told you.”

  “But I did nothing wrong,” Francine insisted, tears building up on her lashes. “I only sent them to retrieve my ring. My daughter’s ring. I never told them to kill him for it.” She sniffled, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe at her eyes. “He did not even have it.”

  Elisabeth clasped her hands in her lap, dreading what must be said next. “If he did have it, it would only have been his right.”

  Francine gasped indignantly. “His right? He stole it from me!”

  Elisabeth nodded. “I know that, Francine, and I’m not saying highwaymen have a right to their booty, but this one did as far as that ring was concerned.”

  Francine’s brows drew so tightly together they nearly touched. “What are you saying?”

  “The man’s name was Tindall,” Elisabeth said softly. “Do you remember that name?”

  Francine became very still. The only visible movement was the trembling of her thin bottom lip. “Tindall?”

  Elisabeth nodded and held out her hand. “Mary, may I see that handbill?”

  Mary stood, bringing the folded handbill to Elisabeth, who handed it over to Francine. “Frank Tindall. Francis was his birth name.”

  What color there was in Francine’s face vanished, and the handbill fluttered to the floor. “My-my-my—”

  “Grandson.” Elisabeth nodded. “Yes, he was, and at this very moment, his wife is being taken to London for his murder; her reputation being utterly destroyed in the process.” Her mouth drew into a thin line. “We both know she is innocent, Francine.” as he led her into the inn. The. l to ing for one facing the hangmanrying away.ed even routine as he led her into the inn. The

  Francine set her jaw, as though steeling herself to speak, and then promptly collapsed into sobs.

  Elisabeth moved to sit beside her, wrapping her arms around the frail body. Tears silently skittered down her cheeks. Her heart ached for her dearest friend just as painfully as it had so many years ago when she had lost her daughter.

  “I killed my grandson!” Francine wailed, clutching Elisabeth’s arms.

  “Nonsense, Francine,” she cooed. “You could not have known it was him. Nor could you have predicted what those men would do to him.”

  “I sh-should have recognized him in the c-carriage,” Francine said through her sobs. “I should have known it w-was him when he t-took it from me. He looked just like M-Margaret!”

  “You said yourself last week, he was masked. If you hadn’t hired those two ruffians, you would never have found him again.”

  “If I hadn’t h-hired those two r-ruffians, he would be alive!”

  “There, there, my dear,” Elisabeth said, patting Francine’s back. “You realize now why you must tell Drake, don’t you?”

  Francine sniffled, raised her puffy eyes to Elisabeth, and nodded. “We c-cannot allow this girl to be r-ruined, Elisabeth. We m-must treat her the way I ought to have t-treated Margaret.”

  “Of course, Francine.”

  “She will m-meet the queen and h-have everything she w-wishes. Hats, g-gowns, a b-box at the opera, a-and suitors. If s-she ever f-forgives me!”

  Elisabeth nodded. “Of course she will. She is a dear girl. Now, Drake left yesterday, so we must travel at a breakneck speed to catch him. How long will it take your servants to pack your luggage and ready a carriage?”

  After acting the part of rakish beast yet again, Drake had grabbed his clothes, left the room, set a guard at the door, and sent a bath up for Mrs. Tindall. While she bathed, he found a modiste shop, purchased a stylish black traveling gown and cloak for her—leaning heavily on the modiste’s recommendations—and attempted using them as a peace offering.

  Attempted being the word.

  His valiant effort did not seem to appease the sullen siren. Now, since they had settled in the carriage, Mrs. Tindall had been sulking. That was the only word he had for the way she was glaring at him, her posture rigid, and her little nose decidedly lifted. She was as haughty as a bleeding duchess. A beautiful, angry, sulking duchess.

  Drake had positioned himself to appear as comfortably as he could out of spite, though appearances were misleading. He had been lounging across the squabs for hours now, his hat almost completely obscuring his eyes, his hands laced over his middle, and his legs sprawled out before him… and he had the most excruciating crick in his neck and ache in his back.

  Hell, he was acting about as childish as she was.

  Frustrated and in pain, he straightened in the seat and set his hat beside him. “Do you intend to ignore me the entire journey?”

  Silence.

  “I overstepped my bounds, I know,” he allowed, “but you are being childish.”

  “You said you could resist,” she bit out, turning to look out the window. The red hue of the sunset on her face illuminated her in the most irritatingly breathtaking fashion.

  “I did,” he admitted, though it pained him. “I miscalculated. Apparently, you are irresistible. Regardless, it shan’t happen again, I promise you.”

  He lifted his hand to the back of his neck, massaging out the taut, aching muscles there. Then he stretched his head from side to side and rubbed the aching spot, but with very little success. He could barely turn his head, sucking in a painful breath
when he tried.

  She sent him a sidelong glance. “It’s because you were slouched in the seat like a drunken caesar.”

  He scowled at her. She was right—curse her—but he did not need some haughty adventuress telling him things he already knew.

  He kneaded his fingers into his neck with more force, cursing under his breath when they found a particularly tender spot.

  “Shall I help you with that?” she asked, irritably. “Or shall I sit here while you curse and moan all evening?”

  Drake paused his rubbing and glared at her. “Now would not be the most ideal time to break my neck, Mrs. Tindall. My coachman would know it was you.”

  She frowned until little lines appeared between her brows. “You still think I’m a murderer?”

  “I’m not certain,” he said. “But the look in your eyes for the past several hours had a definite murderous quality about it.”

  A small, crooked smile slowly pulled at her mouth, and mischief lit her unearthly eyes. “You’re afraid of me.”

  “What rot,” Drake bristled.

  “Then let me help you.”

  He scowled at her. “The desire to preserve one’s life is not fear. It’s natural instinct.”

  “You are looking rather murderous at the moment, but I’m willing to look past that and trust you not to strangle me the minute I sit beside you.”

  “How magnanimous of you,” he said, his eyes narrowed, “and stupid. If you come anywhere near me, I shall—”

  Drake didn’t get the chance to finish that statement before she displaced his hat and sat her deliciously rounded derrière down beside him.

  “Mrs. Tindall,” he forced out. His voice sounded strangled, and panic filled his chest as her hands came up to his shoulders. He tensed at the contact, a familiar shock of warmth coursing through him.

  They were too close. Her face less than an arm’s length from his as her hands worked magic on his taut muscles. Her eyes, focused resolutely on his neck, were stunning at this distance, or the lack thereof. The striking amber ringed by green, too vivid, too intense, and far too exotic to be human, was surrounded by dark, thick lashes. Her dark brows were arched just so, delicate yet determined, as was the rest of her visage.

  Her lips were worst of all. They were full, and she would suck her bottom lip in every so often in concentration. It drove him mad, and so he closed his eyes, focusing instead on the pure ecstasy of her touch and keeping himself from gaining a throbbing erection.

  He did sums. He recalled his favorite philosophers, and quoted them in Latin, French, Italian, Turkish, and Arabic. He thought of the last speech he had given to Parliament, and the one he meant to give in three weeks. Then he thought of them in Latin, French, Italian, Turkish, and Arabic. Even with these distractions, it took several minutes before he felt himself relax. Finally his head tipped forward and his shoulders slumped.

  “Try turning your head now.”

  He turned his head, carefully at first.

  “No pain whatsoever. You are either an angel in disguise, or a witch,” he murmured as she returned to her seat opposite him.

  “So then, the question is: will you burn me at the stake, or let me go on my way?”

  “What sort of idiot would I be if I had an angel in my grasp and let her go?”

  “A benevolent one?”

  Drake took in her reserved yet hopeful expression and sighed. “I cannot simply let you go.”

  “Of course you can,” she argued, fire sparking in her eyes. “You are under no obligation, no oath.”

  His hand fisted where it rested on his thigh. He could let her go. Hell, he could arrange for her safe passage to Europe if he was so inclined. He could shove this case under the rug, destroy the report, and order his men to ignore it completely.

  Compromise his integrity. Break his oath. Abuse his power.

  “I’m sorry. I cannot.” He did not want her to go to trial, and he desperately did not want her to hang, but it was not his call to make. Even if he was not bound by the oath of his office, he couldn’t let her go. He had a responsibility to his country and to himself as a gentleman, regardless of how insubstantial that responsibility looked in recent days.

  She shook her head, her brows knit. “I don’t understand. I’m innocent. You know I am.”

  “That isn’t for me to decide. Were I to make this disappear, this entire bloody mess…” He shook his head. “How could I possibly continue in my position if I cannot uphold the law I expect others to follow? Who would respect such a man?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Even she couldn’t respect such a man.

  “Precisely,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. Then he locked his gaze on her, willing her to see the sincerity there, that he meant every word with all his being. “This does not mean I cannot protect you. I have never sent an innocent person to the gallows. I shall not start with you.”

  Her eyes narrowed on him. “What do you mean you have never sent them?”

  His jaw tensed. He could embellish the power lords had in convictions and sentencing, but it was time he told her who he was. Perhaps if he explained the power he truly had, she would see how he might ensure she had a fair chance at court.

  “Shall I explain over dinner?” He glanced out the window as the carriage came to a slow stop outside yet another coaching inn.

  The change in speed caught her attention, and she glanced out the window in confusion. “We’re stopping so soon?”

  “Traveling through the night would raise suspicion. We must act as natural as possible. Besides, I’m famished.”

  He exited the carriage and turned to offer his hand, which she graciously accepted. The way the deceptively dainty hand curled steadily in his arm gave him a sense of calm. She was behaving herself for the time being. Once her curiosity was quenched, though, no doubt she would be at her shenanigans again.

  That thought gave him a strange sense of anticipation.

  What would she do next? Steal a post chaise, perhaps, and make a run for the coast? Disguise herself as a man? No, he dismissed the thought out of hand. There was no way in hell anyone could disguise that body as a man’s. He would have to give her upcoming antics more thought later. At that moment, he noticed another carriage had stopped at the inn yard with his coat of arms blazoned on the door.

  He blinked, giving the carriage a second glance to confirm he hadn’t imagined it.

  What the devil was his mother doing here?

  He drew in a deep breath, concealing the maelstrom of irritation and dread simmering inside him. With grim resolution, he locked his gaze on the battered door of the inn.

  As he entered the public taproom, a flurry of black ruffles was disappearing into a private dining room at the back. His mother had only just arrived, then. Unfortunately, that meant she hadn’t yet eaten and would insist they sup together, prolonging their time in each other’s presence.

  He spotted the innkeeper easily enough and pulled him aside. In clearly clipped tones he usually saved for negligent agents, he arranged for lodgings, a hot supper, and a hot breakfast in the private dining room at daybreak.

  After he paid, he turned his attention to the door the black bombazine and ruffles had disappeared behind and made his way toward it with Mrs. Tindall still on his arm, strangely meek and quiet.

  He would have to shove her and all of the tumultuous crises she caused into a far corner of his mind until he could solve them later. For now, he had older, more painful problems to deal with.

  “Mother, why have you—” He had opened the door and stepped inside the private room, but he stopped short upon realizing it was in fact two flurries of black ruffles he had seen disappearing into this room.

  They were now seated at the table in the middle of the room, two of the most important women in his life. The only two people on this planet he could not possibly keep himself from loving, though he was determined to give it his best effort.

  “Lady
Umberton,” he said, bowing slightly.

  Sarah was scarcely hanging on to civility. She felt foolish and betrayed, and she should never have allowed herself to touch him. What a stupid, naive mistake!

  Oh, but what else could she have done? He looked so boyishly pathetic. Him, the stern, inflexible lord, with tuffs of hair falling over his forehead, and a brooding scowl across his face. He was adorable.

  Massaging his neck without tangling her fingers in that tousled mess of chestnut hair had taken every ounce of her willpower, and it had left her with butterflies beating their wings frantically in her stomach.

  But he had lied to her. Maybe not flat-out, but omitting bits of the truth was the same as lying. He expected her to tell him everything, and she did, but he wasn’t reciprocating that trust.

  She felt him stiffen as they walked across the inn yard, and she sent a quick glance in the direction of the cause: a carriage with the same coat of arms as those displayed in the halls of Barrington Park.

  Why should his mother’s presence bother him so? Was he worried the dowager might let slip the true nature of her identity?

  The thought was disturbing, but no more disturbing than what she had learned only moments ago.

  She had been caught the moment she had stepped foot in that cabin.

  She ought to have realized it sooner. Had she stumbled upon the foreboding gothic castle instead of the abandoned cabin, it might have been slightly more obvious her doom was nigh. Instead, the gods had chosen to send her a subtler clue: the lord of the castle, himself.

  His commanding presence, the authority in his voice, the way he scowled at everyone and everything as though he were Lord Commander of it all, and he had grown weary of the privilege.

  When he had led her into the private dining room, he had only just managed to shut the door behind them before he froze, stopping midsentence to bestow his icy glare on the unexpected.