Chapter Twelve
Tabitha should have known that Cousin Ralph would turn up at a mealtime.
He was the first person she saw when she and Lily approached the gathering in the gallery before dinner, standing out as he did as the only gentleman in morning dress rather than evening clothes.
She could almost imagine his conversation with Louisa.
“Oh, no, dear lady, I could not impose. I shall put up at the inn just as soon as I speak to my cousin.”
“We shall not hear of it, my lord. Do join us, and of course you must stay here.”
“But I am not even dressed to dine!”
“Oh, that is of no matter. Truly, we insist...”
And so Ralph would have let himself be talked into what he had intended all along.
He stood now with Sir Peter and Mrs. Saunders, a glass of sherry in his hand.
“Rats,” Lily muttered. “I thought we might have got away without him until tomorrow.”
“He’ll be trying to beat the rumour of his rival claimant.
I wonder if he knows he is too late for that?
” Several people had already asked Tabitha for the truth of the matter on her way downstairs.
Since neither her own nor Lily’s position could be altered by whoever succeeded to the earldom, it had been easy to maintain disdainful ignorance.
Accepting a glass of sherry from Chivers, Tabitha moved further along the gallery, searching for Jack. She would not let him be browbeaten by his family—although how she intended to prevent it was another matter.
“He has just come in,” Lily said demurely. “With the terrifying uncle.”
The girl was growing far too perceptive. Restraining the urge to stick her tongue out at her stepdaughter, she said, “You had best go and greet Ralph. I’ll join you momentarily...”
As she hurried straight to the duke, she was relieved to see no obvious signs of distress in him. In fact, he looked handsome, elegant and confidant. And when he finally saw her, his whole face lit up and took her breath away all over again.
“My lady,” he greeted her, as Chivers offered his tray.
Lord Hazlett took a glass of sherry and one of lemonade which he handed to Jack.
“Thank you,” Jack said mildly, setting the glass back on the tray before Chivers could move away.
“Sir Peter keeps a very fine sherry, at least as good as ours, Uncle—what do you think?”
“I think I see Lord Sark,” Hazlett said coldly, taking his nephew’s elbow. He had not acknowledged Tabitha’s presence by more than the faintest inclination of the head.
“Don’t let us keep you, sir,” Jack said politely, and there was nothing for Hazlett to do, short of a physical manhandling, but to walk away.
“Is everything well?” Tabitha asked under her breath. “Are you?”
“Brushed through without tears on anyone’s part, though old Fox was a bit of a facer. He’s my valet who was my father’s before me. When did Sark—or not-Sark—turn up?”
“Not long ago, I suspect. Have you heard the party gossip?”
“About Hunter’s claim? I heard a few whispers.
My uncle knows it, too. It must be all over London.
” He turned aside, walking a little further off from the crowd.
“Tabitha, you must take care around Ralph. Don’t be alone with him, or, in fact, go anywhere alone.
He must be unstable to have taken a shot at Hunter like that—and you are in his way. ”
“Not when he knows you won’t co-operate.”
Jack’s gaze flickered across the room. “Judging by the warm greeting between him and my uncle, neither has given up hope of persuading me. Oh, dear God.” His breath of laughter contained as much frustration as amusement.
“What?” she asked following his gaze to where a dignified, balding stranger in a slightly threadbare evening coat was talking to Lady Kenwood. “Who is that man?”
“My chaplain.”
She blinked. “You have a private chaplain?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Jack said flippantly. “In this case he must be Spiritual Authority to my uncle’s Temporal.”
“He’s coming this way,” Tabitha said. “Shall I leave you alone?”
“Don’t you dare.” He held out his hand to the approaching clergyman. “Dr. Wheatsheaf, what an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to Hawthorn Court?”
“Lord Hazlett, your uncle, requested my companionship.” The man’s handshake looked to have the grip of a wet fish. He peered closely at the duke. “Your grace looks exhausted.”
“No, I don’t,” Jack said serenely. “My lady, allow me to present the Isbourne chaplain, Dr. Wheatsheaf. Sir, the Dowager Countess of Sark.”
For some reason, the clergyman looked alarmed. “My lady.” He bowed with considerable respect, though he cast a sort of imploring glance in the direction of Lord Hazlett, who was now with a group who included Ralph, Lily, her friend Amelia, and Lieutenant Meade.
“Ah, there you are, Tabbie,” Louisa said, flitting past. “You must have known I’d partnered you with his grace. Lily is with young Meade. Come, Doctor and I shall introduce you to Mrs. Hart, who is a quite charming lady...”
“Bless her heart,” Jack said.
“She is making up for Carily last night.”
Jack leaned closer. “Plus, I did ask her.”
“Did you?” Tabitha smiled and took his arm.
***
ANGER HAD BECOME RALPH Lisle’s constant companion.
Anger with old Sark, his uncle, for running the estate so poorly, for pretending to be so wealthy when he was not, for giving Tabitha effective control of Lily.
Anger with the Lord Chancelor and all the other powers that be for never formally acknowledging the earldom was Ralph’s, even though everyone knew he was his uncle’s heir.
Anger at the very existence of Hunter and his son, and positive fury that they dared cross the Atlantic to claim what he had always regarded as his own.
He was also angry with both the sickly duke and Lord Hazlett because they hadn’t immediately moved to fulfil their role in his plans; and with Tabitha for opposing his every move that could at least preserve something for Ralph and his family.
Tabitha—a mere, silly young woman, and not even a Lisle by blood!
To all that constant rage, he now had to add anger at himself for not controlling it better.
Although he had known in his heart that the man claiming to be Hunter Lisle truly was his cousin, the rightful earl, it had been somehow unbearable to see him strolling into his lawyer’s office.
It was a crazy impulse that had caused him to hide in the hackney waiting for Hunter; an even crazier one that had him lifting the pistol from where it had been so carelessly abandoned on the seat; and craziest of all to have aimed it and actually shot the man.
That had been stupidity born of the red fury blinding him. For even if he’d got away with killing Hunter, there was still a son before Ralph in the succession.
Now, the anger was still there, thrumming in the background as he laid plans for what he knew was his last throw of the dice. He meant to drag Lily home to meet and marry the Duke of Isbourne, even if it meant forbidding Tabitha the main house at Sark Park to do so.
“Oh, yes,” he said to Lily now. “From insisting she was at death’s door last night, Portia woke positively glowing with health this morning! I thought the best thing I could do was come in person anyway and calm your fears for her. My letter must have given you a terrible fright.”
“Indeed,” Lily said gravely, though he thought he saw a certain humorous gleam there that he put down to Tabitha’s influence.
The lie was a weak one, but there was little else he could say when he discovered the duke was actually here.
“So at least we are not obliged to disrupt your pleasure in Lady Hawthorn’s party,” he finished in a rush.
“She tells me the Duke of Isbourne himself is among her guests—quite a coup! And have you met him?”
“Oh yes, and we like him very much.”
Thank God. There would be no trouble from that quarter then. Even Tabitha might have withdrawn her objections. His luck had changed at last.
“Is he here now? Do point him out to me—discreetly, of course.”
Lily, very pretty and demure in the palest pink muslin, looked about her and smiled. “There he is. Strolling toward us from the right. With Tabitha.”
Ralph’s fingers tightened on his sherry glass.
A pulse beat rapidly in his temple. For he was sure he had seen that young man before.
Pale and slight with contrasting black hair and refined, almost delicate features.
Surely the same youth who had stopped to talk to Hunter Lisle outside the solicitor’s office in London.
When Ralph had fired that foolish shot. It was the duke himself who had hurried the man to safety, blocking any further shots with his own body.
For a moment, he was so overcome that his mind went horrifically blank.
And then he began to think again. Of course neither Hunter nor this man had seen him commit that folly. No one had. No hue and cry had gone up, despite the loudness of the shot, and Hunter himself was still very much alive, making lots of noise about being the true Earl of Sark. Damn him.
Ralph hoped his smile was not as sickly as it felt as Tabitha—Tabitha, of all people! —greeted him civilly and presented him to his grace.
Despite the pale skin and delicate appearance, the boy was not nearly as sickly as Ralph had expected. He had known in theory that he was two-and-twenty years old, but had pictured him as appearing younger, walking with a stick and a handkerchief held constantly to a pale, weak mouth.
There appeared to be little that was weak about this man.
His eyes were intense and vital, and his movements were positively quick.
Ralph pinned his hopes to the amiability of his expression, the friendliness of his hand-shake.
If the duke was assessing him, he was, surely, giving him the benefit of the doubt at least.