Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3) Page 4

  “Please, have a seat,” he said as he moved toward the side table and pulled out a decanter and a glass. “Would you like a drink?”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Scotch. I could have something else brought in,” he said as he handed her the snifter, “but I figure you could use something a bit stronger than sherry.”

  “You figure correctly. Thank you.” She sipped the amber liquid, feeling it burn as it slipped down her throat.

  “I am the Earl of Saint Brides,” he began. “Do you know what that means?”

  She shook her head.

  “By accident of birth and a fair amount of tragedy, I am responsible for several estates and the people who live on them. It is my duty to make sure their needs are properly cared for, that repairs and improvements are made, and that the title is in a sound and prosperous state at all times. Because of that responsibility, I am referred to as Lord Saint Brides. Does that answer your questions on that subject, Mrs. Tindall?”

  She blinked at his succinct and grim explanation, as though his fortune was more of a burden than a blessing. Either he was incredibly ungrateful, or he felt heavily burdened by his good fortune. She simply couldn’t fathom either, so she nodded.

  It should not matter one iota whether he was ungrateful or burdened. She was getting away from her handsome captor as soon as humanly possible.

  Drake leaned his hip against the side table, debating on how he wished to proceed. He knew beyond a doubt she would try to escape, and she would do it on the first available opportunity. That was unavoidable. And although it would be an aggravating nuisance when he had to run after her, it wasn’t his main concern.

  Somehow, he had to convince her to give up whatever it was she wasn’t telling him. Knowledge was key if he wanted to get to the bottom of this, which he did. Whether he liked it or not, she was his responsibility now, and he did not take his responsibilities lightly.

  “Mrs. Tindall, I fully intend to deliver you to the authorities in London, where you will be detained until given a fair trial. If during the trial, you are found innocent, you will be immediately released from custody.”

  “And if I’m not found innocent?” Large, hazel eyes met his unflinchingly.

  “Then you will hang by the neck until dead for committing the murder of your husband,” he answered easily. “If you are indeed innocent, that outcome should not concern you.”

  “Not concern me?” she echoed, fear glinting in her eyes.

  “As long as all the evidence is brought forth, without any missing facts, the truth will be the only logical explanation.” He watched as she took a healthy swallow from her glass, noting the little lines forming between her brow and the way she bit at the inside of her lip afterwards.

  He didn’t drink alcohol other than an occasional glass of wine with dinner, but the thought of tasting hard liquor on her lips, on her tongue, left him dreadfully thirsty.

  He flexed his hand at his side at the memory of her curves settled on his lap. How his hand had itched to drift higher up her waist. How he’d had to concentrate on overcoming obstacles that might arise on the journey back to London with a fugitive in tow in order to ignore how soft she felt in his arms.

  Finding himself in this sort of predicament was foreign and utterly confounding. He sincerely hoped it would not happen again. Not that he hadn’t ever been attracted to a woman before, but it had never affected him so strongly.

  Rather than noticing the small facial changes and ticks that would tell him whether a person was lying, nervous, scared, or angry, he was noticing the slow rise and fall of her chest, and how her ample breasts strained against the fabric of her bodice when fear or anger overtook her. He noticed the soft sheen of her hair when the light hit it. He noticed the smooth curves of her waist and hips as she walked.

  London was a long way to venture when traveling alone with a woman who inspired these sorts of cravings in him. She was dangerous in a way he had never encountered before.

  A knock sounded at the door. “Dinner is served in the breakfast room, my lord, and the lady’s room is prepared for her.”

  “Thank you, Martin,” Drake said. “Mrs. Tindall will need a maid this evening, and something to wear. I am sure Mother’s old gowns will fit well enough.” He turned to her with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid that is the best I can do on such short notice.”

  “Thank you,” she said hesitantly.

  “Of course, my lord.” Martin bowed and then paused. “Er… There is something else. Lady Saint Brides has arrived, and is awaiting you to dine.”

  Drake nodded his acknowledgment with a clenched jaw. He had known she would hurry over as soon as she caught wind of his arrival, but had hoped she would wait until tomorrow—after he had left for London, preferably.

  Ah, well. The mess was impossible to avoid now.

  He turned to Mrs. Tindall, offering her his arm. “May I escort you to your room to change, and then to dinner?”

  Her brows knit, and she tilted her head a small degree, as though she were trying to decipher his words. Then she stood and took his arm. “Yes, thank you.”

  Once they had both freshened up and changed into dinner attire, Drake led Mrs. Tindall to the breakfast room, which was lit to provide only enough light to comfortably see, not that he saw anything past the woman clad head to toe in black bombazine already seated and sipping claret.

  “Mother,” he greeted as he led Mrs. Tindall to her seat. “What a surprise.”

  “Drake, is that you?” she asked with exaggerated astonishment. “I hardly recognize you after all these years.”

  Drake lifted his hands out at his sides. “Surely my presence here gives me away.”

  “Perhaps it might if you honored me with your presence more than once every decade or so, as though you are a distant relation seeking funds. Even Richard visited more often than you, God rest his soul.”

  Richard, who had a damnable passion for travel, had been nine years Drake’s senior and the heir, cultivated since birth to take over the earldom after their father’s death, which he did for two measly years. Then he selfishly died of cholera, leaving Drake to deal with the blasted title.

  Drake took a deep, calming breath, reminding himself that engaging in a childish argument with his mother in front of an audience would be inappropriate. “May I introduce my guest, Mrs. Tindall?” He pulled out her chair for her to sit opposite his mother. Then he sat between them at the head of the table.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

  “The pleasure is mine, my dear.” His mother smiled. “You know, you are the first lady he has brought to Barrington Park. May I assume, then, that it is you who are the reason for this impromptu visit?”

  He felt Mrs. Tindall’s eyes on him before she answered, “I’m afraid so.”

  “In that case, I am eternally grateful to you. These halls have been empty for far too long.”

  “You are free to live here whenever you like, Mother,” he said with a hint of irritation.

  “Alone in this mausoleum?” she visibly shuttered. “No thank you, my dear. It needs renovations to bring in some light… and a family wouldn’t hurt, either.” She paused, her old eyes squinting in thought. “Tindall, you said? That name sounds familiar to me. Something recent, I believe. Something… out of the usual.”

  Mrs. Tindall’s hand froze, her glass of claret halfway to her mouth. Then his mother’s eyes bulged.

  Drake sighed inwardly and waited.

  “Good heavens!” his mother gasped. “You aren’t the one everyone is looking for, are you? The murderess?” When Mrs. Tindall didn’t speak, she turned to Drake. “Well?”

  “It seems you have solved the puzzle, Mother,” he muttered. “My congratulations. Now, I must beg you to keep it to yourself, and be assured I am handling the situation.”

  His mother’s old eyes were keen enough, despite her age, and they moved back and forth between him and Mrs. Tindall for several moment
s before her lips seemed to disappear into a thin line, and she turned all her attention to her claret.

  “Well…,” his mother muttered. “You are much lovelier in person.”

  Drake blinked, his expression no doubt as shocked as Mrs. Tindall’s.

  Footsteps sounding in the hall indicated the arrival of the first course just before several servants carried in trays of hot soup and bread. They were smartly dressed and graceful, as though they had been serving like this every night all the years he had been away. In reality, they must have been bored witless, cleaning a big empty castle with no one but themselves to appreciate their hard work.

  Guilt twisted and churned in his gut.

  Then he realized what it was they had set in front of him, and his throat thickened. His mother knew. She must have known.

  He turned toward her, expecting to see her brow arched victoriously, sticking it to him for not visiting all these years. Instead, she watched him with a sad smile.

  “Welsh cawl was always your favorite, wasn’t it?” she asked.

  He cleared his throat and picked up his spoon. “As it was father’s and Richard’s. I’m sure it’s half of England’s favorite, as well,” he said coolly.

  Why the devil had he come home for holiday? Why not go to Athens, or Venice, or… Hell, Timbuktu would have been better than here where he would be forced to remember what he had lost.

  He dipped his spoon into the savory mess of beef, potatoes, carrots, and turnips. He half-expected it to taste as bitter as the memories it evoked, but the flavors were just as warm and comforting as they had been when he was a boy. The fact was somehow disappointing.

  “It’s delicious,” Mrs. Tindall said, favoring him with the smallest of smiles when he glanced her way. “I can well see why one would consider it a favorite.”

  “It’s merely soup, Mrs. Tindall,” he said with reserved iciness. “And a humble one, at that. Yet for some mysterious reason, Cook refuses to give up her recipe, so we must settle for something slightly less delicious in London.”

  Gad, he should have bit his tongue. Her smile vanished the moment he mentioned London, leaving him feeling like the lowest of cads.

  “This matter must indeed be urgent if you intend on returning to London so soon,” his mother said disapprovingly.

  “Murder is rather urgent, Mother,” he pointed out.

  She turned her attention back to her soup with a baffling air of indifference. “I would have thought you’d had enough of the noisy place.”

  “I can’t seem to stay away,” he muttered, dipping a bit of bread into the soup to soak up some broth. “My life is one big whirlwind of obligations, annoyances, and intrusions.” He was fed up with everything and everyone. He carried the weight of justice for all of England on his shoulders, not to mention the title he never wanted. It was all bloody heavy.

  He popped the bit of soggy bread into his mouth, failing to ignore Mrs. Tindall’s somber expression. He had done that. He had opened his mouth and wiped the smile right off her face, simply because he was feeling maudlin and guilty.

  “The cawl is delicious, for being soup,” he said once he had swallowed. He threw a quick glance at Mrs. Tindall, then focused again on his soup. “If you truly favor it, Mrs. Tindall, I might manage to convince Cook to send the recipe with us when we leave.”

  “I’m sure you are right, my lord,” she said coolly. “I doubt I shall have time to bother with soup. I doubt I shall have time for anything more than bread and water.”

  “Bread and water?” his mother gasped. “Surely not, my dear. That’s uncivilized.”

  “Of course not, Mother,” Drake assured her, though his eyes never left Mrs. Tindall’s. “Even prisoners eat better than that.”

  “I should hope so,” his mother went on. “With a diet as meager as that, the prison would be empty, the prisoners having all died of malnutrition.”

  Drake groaned inwardly. “Mother, I do not think—”

  “It’s bad enough there as it is, with rats and all manner of disease, so I’m told. I can’t imagine how anyone survives long enough to face the gallows.”

  “Mother,” Drake warned quietly.

  “What?” his mother asked, all innocence. “If you are set on taking the poor girl to prison, she should at least be aware of what is waiting for her there.”

  “Mother, please,” he stressed.

  “Oh, very well,” Lady Saint Brides capitulated. “Tell me of your journey, then. How did you find the roads?”

  “The roads?” he repeated with the barest hint of relief. “The roads were tolerable for once. I take it the many years you have spent complaining about them has paid off?”

  The dowager beamed as she nodded. “Indeed. It’s even better than I thought possible. They are fixing almost all of them.”

  Yes, they were. Drake had pressed the matter last year after receiving what must have been the hundredth letter from his mother, demanding it. He was certain she had sent similar letters to at least fifty other members of Parliament if the relief in their faces when he had suggested the improvements was any indication.

  The rest of the dinner went quietly enough with talk mostly of politics and the road improvements.

  At long last, it was time to retire for the evening. With his mother on one arm, and Mrs. Tindall on the other, he escorted them upstairs to their chambers.

  He paused at his mother’s door, and she turned, cupping his face in her palm. “Thank you for coming home, Drake. I have missed you terribly.”

  Drake’s chest ached with words he couldn’t possibly force past his lips. How could he tell her he loved her when he had abandoned her, and will do so again?

  He needed to distance himself. Seeing her every day would only make the pain worse when she passed. Even now, the thought of losing her was like a dagger to his heart.

  He should have never come home.

  She smiled ruefully and leaned in, kissing his cheek before disappearing into her room.

  Drake cleared his throat, willing the thickness there to dissipate, as it ought. Then he offered his arm to Mrs. Tindall and walked her the short distance to her room.

  “May I remind you that you are to keep to your room tonight?” he asked as he stood before her door.

  “Like a good little prisoner, you mean?” she returned bluntly.

  “It’s as much for your safety as it is for justice. You would not be able to hide from Mr. Gordon forever, and the handbill that was made for you clearly states dead or alive. I’m sure you can imagine how one might decide bringing you in dead is much less of a hassle than bringing you in alive.”

  One side of her mouth curled up. “But not you.”

  The thought had not even crossed his mind. “I am of the opinion a person must be found guilty before any sentence is carried out.”

  She nodded, watching him with those hazel pools located where most mortals would have eyes. They were hypnotic, bottomless, and very likely able to peer into the soul of the very devil himself.

  Perhaps she truly was peering into his soul, trying to determine whether to believe him. But what she decided to believe should not make a ha’penny of difference to him. In fact, he would rather not know what she was thinking… ever.

  “I’m relieved you understand,” he said, not at all sure if she did. “Good night, Mrs. Tindall. I hope you rest well. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

  He watched her disappear behind the door before he turned the key in the lock.

  Once Sarah had changed into the night rail and donned the dressing robe that had been laid out for her, she plopped down on the bed and stared at the door to her room.

  She had heard him lock it, and she had never been especially skilled at picking locks. Earlier, a maid had unlocked it and entered to help her undress, then promptly locked it on her way out. She could have made a run for it before the maid had left, she supposed, except she knew he had been there, just outside the door, standing guard as though he were Ce
rberus keeping her trapped in Hades.

  Sarah turned to the only window, biting her lip as she weighed the advantages and disadvantages of attempting escape from four floors up. It didn’t promise well, especially since the sky had opened up not seconds after she had been deposited here, and the rain was now pounding against the glass in sheets while lightning cut through the sky.

  There was one other door in the room, which she would wager opened up into another bedchamber. There was the smallest chance Saint Brides would take that room.

  If only the rain hadn’t been so violent, she would be able to listen for sounds. Unfortunately, she couldn’t hear anything over the storm.

  She sighed, dropping her face into her palm. Like it or not, she wasn’t going anywhere tonight. Even if she were to sneak out of her room and somehow find her way outside, she would soon catch her death.

  One thing was certain; there was no way she was going to get any rest. At least not without a good book to lull her to sleep. She had already had a thorough look about the room, and though the candles had plenty of life left, she had found not one book. Not even Thomas Whately’s Observations on Modern Gardening, a tome clearly designed to put the reader instantly to sleep.

  The connecting door caught her eye yet again. There was a good chance she would be able to find her way back to the library, and with the servants retired for the evening, no one would notice her if she had to backtrack a few times to eventually arrive at the right room.

  She nodded once with firm determination. She was getting a book tonight, whether Lord Commander of the Universe Saint Brides wished her to or not.

  She silently padded to the connecting door, thankful now for the storm raging outside since no one would hear her.

  She tried the door, slowly turning the knob and easing it open. The room was dark, the only light being the storm outside as lightning flashed harsh shadows around the room. A year ago, she never would have dreamed of sneaking around a gothic castle during a thunderstorm, but if she had, it would have been romantic. There was nothing romantic in her thoughts now. Only a constant battle for whether or not a book was worth her being frightened to death.