Earl on Fire

Chapter 9

Nine

“There will be danger,” her king warned on the eve of a long and treacherous journey.

The concubine stopped her stowing of her silks in his saddlebag and took his face into her hands.

“Nothing—not mercenaries, not mountains—can match the agony of being parted from you.”

— The Concubine and Her King. Unpublished MS.

Henry was off back home. It had taken some time to get away this morning, to escape Lady D'Oyly’s endless speeches about how he was a most welcome guest and now a good friend, and he must either return soon or have the family come to Bledsoe Park.

Lady D'Oyly had a relation nearby—did Lord Ashthorpe know that?

—and Emma had long expressed an interest in seeing Bledsoe Park.

”I have not, Mama,” Emma said. “Please let his lordship depart.”

Henry received Sir John’s sealed letter to the marchioness, made one last bow, and was finally in the carriage. The carriage was moving. The Earl of Ashthorpe was leaving Sutton Hall and the land of Tommy Treadwell.

His valet Carruthers had chosen to sit on the outside with the driver and the footman, so Henry was alone.

He shifted in his seat. Perhaps he’d bring Mina here someday to see the Wrecknot and the mill and the elephant gargoyle on the church-cum-castle.

He was certain Mina would find even more traces of Tommy’s Tales and Further Adventures than he had.

But, no. Henry had been reckless here. And he’d told the enchantress she’d never see him again, and he was a man of his word.

It had been odd what she’d said back to him. No, you’ll never see me again.

She had said exactly the same thing he had, but when she had said it, the words had twisted and tightened to a sharp point and stabbed Henry through the chest.

He rubbed at his chest where his cravat dipped into his waistcoat. Still a strange ache there.

What was this? The carriage was slowing, and they’d barely left the drive. He stuck his head out the window.

“Martin,” he shouted to the driver.

The horses came to a stop, and Martin leaned down and over and back and said, “There’s a woman standing in the lane, m’lord.”

Henry got out of the carriage. More recklessness, perhaps. Or it could be he’d become determined to prove he had a curiosity.

Or it could be he knew it was her.

It was.

She stood in the middle of the road, wearing a pelisse and holding a sack in one hand, the other hand outstretched, palm towards the carriage. Wisps of her hair escaped her bonnet and danced around her face in the morning breeze.

“Careful, my lord,” Martin said as Henry drew even with the front of the carriage. “She might be mad.”

“She isn’t,” he said and walked towards her.

She lowered her arm as he approached. Before he could say anything, before he could make a dry remark about how they were both breaking their words, she spoke as quickly as she could, so fast that all the words ran together and what came out sounded like, “Howmutchyewlpayforthebuk?”

Then she took a deep breath and spoke more slowly.

“How much are you offering to pay me to write this book you want?”

“I’m not offering you anyth—” A dawning realization.

She spread her feet wide, put her fists on her waist with elbows akimbo. “Yes. I am Augustus Puddlewick.”

He folded his arms in front of his chest.

“I am,” she insisted. “My brothers sold the books to Mr. Manwaring the younger, but they’re my stories.”

“You didn’t tell me yesterday.”

“No, I didn’t. But you still haven’t even told me your name.” She looked at him expectantly.

“Delamere. Henry Delamere.”

His own name sounded strange to his ears. He was Ashthorpe, he had been Ashthorpe for years, he would die Ashthorpe. Yet, here, with her, he wanted to be Henry Delamere.

She had been quite fierce up until this moment, but now she beamed at him.

“My name amuses you,” he said.

A burst of laughter from her. “I amuse myself, Mr. Delamere. I did your trick.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Of getting an answer without asking a question,” she said. “You never ask questions.”

“I ask questions.”

“Do you.”

He noted she had raised her eyebrows back at him but had kept her tone flat, not rising in pitch on you.

“Yes, I do. Here’s one. What has made you come to tell me you’re Puddlewick? Something must have happened since yesterday.”

Something besides the kiss they had shared, the kiss that had allowed no room for spoken confessions, only carnal ones. That all-encompassing kiss that had not even begun to be enough.

Even though he had decided it had to be enough. And he thought she had decided that, too.

Her shoulders drooped, and her arms fell to her side. “I need some money.”

He had been right to guess her telling him she was Puddlewick had nothing to do with the kiss, nothing to do with him. He was right, and he was disgruntled by his rightness.

She went on, “I found out this morning I need some money to live. My brother’s getting married.”

What had she said in the churchyard about women? Yes. Her brother was trading one unpaid keeper for another.

She glared at him. “You think I’m lying.”

“No. I am very familiar with the concept of needing money to live.” But when he’d been poor, Henry had had no stories to sell, only his title.

“I meant about being Puddlewick,” she said.

“It never occurred to me that a woman might have written Tommy Treadwell. He’s a very convincing boy.”

“Yes, he is.”

A silence. Henry could hear the jingle of the harnesses behind him as the horses moved a little. She crossed her arms, and now they were mirrors of each other.

He uncrossed his arms. “All right. How did you come to write such a convincing boy, Miss Beasley?”

“Brothers. Five of them who all knew the only way to get a story was to stop hitting each other and get into their beds.”

He tilted his head. “What did Tommy find buried under the oak tree?”

“Three golden acorns. Ask a hard one.”

“What’s the last sentence of Chapter Five in Further Adventures?”

She looked stricken. “I don’t know.”

He had set her an unfair test. Henry knew the answer—Then Tommy and the faeries built a bonfire and danced around it all night long—but the book must have been written a quarter of a century ago, and Miss Beasley had not read it twice a week for the last year as Henry had.

“In terms of payment, I know nothing about an author’s fees.”

“Hodge got ten pounds for the first book, and Jory got eighty for the second,” she said quickly.

“I see.” A downy piece of something floated between them, and Henry snagged it between his fingers. “Much more for the second. A seventy pound increase.”

“Jory was very good at bargaining. And he heard tell the first was well-liked.”

“I see. Well. One hundred and fifty pounds for the third book seems reasonable to me.”

It was a wildly extravagant present for a five-year-old child, but he had been thinking about getting Mina a pony and that could cost even more, depending on the breeding.

And Mina would much prefer a Tommy Treadwell book to a pony.

And a hundred and fifty pounds was a respectable amount for a woman with humble tastes to live on for two or three years.

Miss Beasley’s eyes darted to the side. He could almost see the pen scribbling in her head, totting up numbers.

She looked back at him. “The money is for the book. Not for . . . other things.” Her cheeks were pink. “Not that I think there will be other things.”

He straightened his back. “Yes, for the book. Not for other things. There will not be other things.” He was not that kind of villain. “I would never impose on someone in my employ.”

“In your employ. So strange.” She gave herself a little shake as if a spider had crawled up her back. “Well, good.” She turned brisk. “And I will come away with you now, but I have no money, so if there are any travel expenses, you will have to pay them.”

“Come away with me,” he said. His mind was empty, and he could only repeat her words like a simpleton.

“I need to meet your granddaughter.”

“My granddaughter.”

“I made up Tommy Treadwell for my brothers, to get them to be good. But there was never another book because they grew up and didn’t need or want Tommy anymore, and I had run out of the stories I had told them.”

“But surely you can make up more stories without a child to tell them to.”

“Perhaps. But I haven’t. If I can talk to the child they’re for, I know I could.”

“I see.”

“I brought my things.” She held up the sack. “And I’ve never seen London.” There was a hint of wistfulness there.

“My granddaughter isn’t in London.”

“Oh.”

She was visibly disappointed, and he hated that he had been the one to disappoint her.

“She is at Bledsoe Park. My home. I am going there.” Reckless Henry. “We are going there.” He motioned towards the carriage. “Come.”

Carruthers had gotten down from the driver’s seat and joined the footman next to the carriage door.

Henry addressed his valet. “Miss Beasley will be traveling with us. She’ll need her own room at the coaching inn tonight.” Carruthers handled these arrangements.

“Yes, my lord.”

He turned to Miss Beasley, to indicate she should use the steps the footman had put in place to get into the carriage. Her face was white.

“A lord,” she whispered and dipped into a low curtsy.

“The Earl of Ashthorpe,” Carruthers said helpfully.

“Lord Ashthorpe,” she said, still in her curtsy.

“Yes. And before Lady D’Oyly comes down the drive and waylays me for another hour, please get into the coach, Mr. Puddlewick.” Reminding her that neither of them had been quick to reveal everything to the other.

Still pale, she took his hand and got into the coach. He followed her and sat facing her. The carriage began moving.

“Your name,” he said.

“You know my—oh, Susannah.”

Susannah. It was of a piece with her and her soft magic. He could never think of her as Miss Beasley again. Only Susannah. Or enchantress.

“Are you really an earl?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ve never met an earl before. Never . . .”

For this, their third meeting and her anticipated journey to London, she had worn gloves, and now she brought her gloved fingers to her lips. Had she been about to say, Never kissed one, either?

He tucked his chin to his chest. “And I have never met an authoress before.”

She dropped her hand, leaned forward. “You haven’t? But I would have thought lords would meet authors and actors and painters and—”

“I was never part of those circles.” Diana had been, though. That was where she had met the poet with a fondness for little boys.

Susannah sat back and looked out the carriage window. “Well, you still haven’t met an authoress. Not a real one.”

“You’ve written books that have been published. And that are much loved by many people,” he said stiffly, his stomach still curdled from thoughts of the past.

“By children,” she said.

“You are a very fine writer, Miss Beasley.” Henry had discovered he was a man who found it difficult to compliment anyone beyond his granddaughter. But Susannah was deserving. “You should be proud.”

At first, she did not say anything in answer, just kept her gaze directed out the carriage window. The carriage trundled along the country lane, jolting them.

She murmured to the window, “My father was the real writer.”

It sounded like something Susannah had told herself often. Or been told often. Perhaps by the father who had written one book, the one mentioned by the farrier who had almost turned Henry into mince last night.

“You said five brothers.”

She looked at him. She waited.

He tried again. “Do the other four brothers live in Much Wemby?” And why aren’t they providing for you, Susannah?

“My other brothers are all gone.”

He supposed it was not uncommon for only two out of six siblings to live to a middle-age. “And were all your brothers fierce giants like the one I met?”

“No, Dando grew the most. And he’s really very gentle.” In response to his expression, she added, “Really, he is. When not provoked.”

“I’m glad you have a brother who takes some interest in your well-being.” He emphasized the some.

“Oh, no, you mustn’t think Dando is getting rid of me. He wants me to keep living with him and Celia after they marry even though she doesn’t like me.”

“I can’t imagine that’s true,” Henry said, not to be polite but because he actually couldn’t imagine it. How could anyone not like Susannah? He rarely liked anyone, and— Was liked even the right word for what he thought about her after only one day’s acquaintance?

She laughed. “You have a very poor imagination, then.”

She wouldn’t say that if she knew what he had imagined last night, lying in his bed at Sutton Hall. How he had imagined their one kiss turning into two and three and more until he and she were more than kissing, they were improbably fucking up against a wall in the middle of a village fête.

Susannah stopped laughing abruptly and worry creased her forehead. “My lord, I—”

He waved away what was almost certainly going to be an apology.

“No. You are correct. Most think my imagination poor. Along with my curiosity.”

Her forehead smoothed. “Maybe that’s why you don’t ask questions.”

Henry felt he must defend himself.

“I ask my granddaughter questions.”

Her eyes sparkled at that, and she smiled. “That’s wonderful. Children are usually the ones asking questions, and she must love that you ask her things. How old is she?”

“Five years.”

“And what is her name?”

“Wilhelmina Kirby. But she prefers Mina.”

“Do your daughter and her husband also live with you?”

“I have no daughter. Mina was my oldest son’s child.”

“But, Delamere, you said, and—that is to say, I mean I thought—” Susannah was growing flustered.

“My granddaughter was born on the wrong side of the blankets, as people say.”

Susannah was quiet for a moment. “And what of her mother? You didn’t take Wilhelmina away from her, did you?”

“She is dead. Like my son.”

She nodded. “I see. But so much loss for such a little one.”

“Yes.”

“And you have also suffered great losses. Your son, your wife.”

The conflict and hatred between him and Diana for so many years meant he had never considered her death a loss. Except that it had marked the end of any kind of intercourse between him and his sons.

“I have another son,” he said abruptly. “Charles, my heir. But you will not meet him. He lives abroad.”

“Ah.”

A long silence came here.

“Well, your granddaughter is lucky to have your care,” she said. “You’re a good man.”

He wasn’t. He had been a good army officer. He had eventually become a good custodian of Bledsoe Park and the coronet. He tried very hard to be the best grandfather. But he had been a wretch of a husband and a horror of a father. He was not in any way a good man.

He could not imagine he ever would be, but it was very good to be sitting across from someone who thought he was.