Chapter Eight
It was Tuesday and Willa had heard absolutely nothing from the Earl, receiving neither a note nor a visit. Had he returned to Hampshire, the awkward carriage journey from Richmond to London a catalyst to send him scurrying away from any interaction with her?
Phillip Moreland always defaulted to distance if the conversation became personal.
He had shown his true self a few times, she amended, when she’d seen beneath the more normal veneer, but the raw truths of his life were quickly covered over by other means.
He was indeed the master of disguise even outside of a masquerade ball. That thought made her frown further.
When Anna Cherton arrived for a visit half an hour later Wilhelmina knew by the excitement in her eyes that she had news.
‘There is talk of Lord Elmsworth all over town, Willa. It seems he has been in some sort of a fight and has black eyes and wounds, which explains his absence from events lately. Everyone has commented on it.’
‘If he has been so out of Society, how would anyone know of his injuries?’
‘His valet is the husband of one of my maid’s daughters and you know how servants talk. Probably it is the fastest and the most accurate gossip-mill in town, if one thinks about it with all those connections just joining up the dots.’
‘Do these rumours state where he was injured?’
‘They do, indeed. Phillip Moreland was blind drunk when he arrived home at his town house late at night three days ago and as furious as his valet had ever seen him. It seems he was in a fight in a back-street tavern and he reeked of cheap whisky.’ Anna gave her this gossip with a raised brow.
Wilhelmina counted back the days. Last Friday was the day they had gone to Richmond to see the Harcourts.
Why had he then got so drunk he’d been in a fight?
Nothing made sense to Wilhelmina. Perhaps the talk of his difficult childhood had left him angry?
Or had their dreadful ride home made him irritated?
Either way a man who could not control his emotions and one who got drunk on a whim was hardly stable.
That thought left her frowning.
‘It seems his star might have fallen amongst the desperate mamas of Society looking for a suitable husband for their daughters, Willa, for there are other stories also circulating of Phillip Moreland’s temper. I heard it implied today that he tried to kill his brother.’
Willa remembered George’s words on this very same incident as she waited for Anna to explain.
‘It apparently was about a year before he left for America and he has rarely been seen with Oliver Moreland in Society since.’
The shades of damage rose and in London that could be a dangerous thing indeed. Was this why he had not surfaced since? Or was he hurt far worse than anyone knew?
Wilhelmina breathed in to try and distil her worry and was pleased when Anna left soon afterwards.
She would send Phillip Moreland a note. She would not sit here and fuss.
After Lionel she had promised to act upon her misgivings because she would never again allow herself to be left in a position of powerlessness.
A short, crisp, to-the-point letter wondering how he fared would not be out of place, given their strange relationship, and it would set her mind at rest at the very least.
Phillip arrived in the early afternoon at her town house, his card brought into the day room by her butler.
‘Please show the Earl in,’ Wilhelmina said, glancing at her reflection in the mirror just to check everything was in order.
His face when he entered the room was much, much worse than Anna’s tale had described it to be.
Both eyes were swollen and damaged. His cheek held a substantial stitched cut and his lip was split at one corner, the abrasion flowing to his chin.
The bruises across his nose were yellow, green and purple but the look in his eyes invited no sympathy at all from her.
‘Mrs St Claire.’ Formal, firm and direct.
‘My lord,’ she returned in the same vein, hating the way the blood rushed to her face.
‘Thank you for your note. As you can see, I am still alive.’
‘If barely,’ she gave him back, and went straight to the crux of the matter. ‘Rumour has it you were blind drunk on cheap whisky and itching for a fight in some back-street tavern.’
‘The whisky part is almost correct, though it was certainly not cheap. My place of choice was actually White’s, the private club I have belonged to for years and from which I elected to walk home.
The fight part came after I was attacked on a particularly dark corner by three assailants I had never seen before and hopefully never will again. ’
‘A rather different story, then, to the one circulating? Why have you not thought to correct such discrepancies? Society at the moment is raking through your past history to find other misdemeanours and your currency in the marriage stakes has fallen markedly because of it all.’
‘Well, that is at least one plus from all of this.’
His smile was crooked and so very beautiful that Willa turned away. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea and soft cakes? Or are even they going to be difficult to eat in your present condition?’
He ignored her banter. ‘I would like that.’
‘Then you should sit down,’ she said next, calling her butler to give him the details of what they wished to eat and drink. ‘Don’t make the tea too hot,’ she added at the end and saw him smile again.
‘Three assailants seem quite a number, Lord Elmsworth.’ Such formality would put him exactly in his place.
‘Two were easy. It was the third one who mostly did this. He came at me with a knife.’
‘My goodness.’ She hated the tremble in her words.
‘I should have listened to the barkeep at my club and heeded his warning of ordering a carriage, for there have been other recent attacks in the same area apparently. I had certainly imagined the amble home to be more peaceful than it turned out to be.’
‘But you disposed of them anyway. Where did you learn to fight?’
‘In America. I was not an earl there, you see. I was simply a broken-hearted widower who travelled in questionable company over many miles and months. One learns the lay of the land, so to speak.’
‘Which is to attack or be attacked?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Then it would probably be conducive to your reputation to reappear in Society in an attempt to repair the damage.’
‘I think I almost killed one of them.’ Horror had her mouth opening. ‘The man who taught me how to fight held no sway with allowing mercy.’
‘I see.’
‘Four years in the wilderness in a foreign land does nothing to temper forgiveness, either.’
‘Did you also try to kill your brother?’
His gaze sharpened and she was glad for it.
‘That is another of the stories now circulating which you would do well to know of.’
‘No. I did not. I meant to miss.’ He said no more even though she waited.
‘Well,’ she began finally when he did not speak, ‘if you value your position here in Society at all you must attend the Kelland ball in five days and appear as if this has all been a truly dreadful mistake. Attacks come in different forms, my lord, and this one shall simply be subtler. I intend to be there, so I can help you in your quest for impunity.’
‘You would do that for me? I thought after the carriage ride…’
She did not let him finish. ‘The intimacy between us was unwise, my lord, but I am not a person who just turns aside when injustice is served up no matter who the injured party is or isn’t.’
‘Touché,’ he gave her back and smiled. ‘Though I might be construed as a poor candidate for restoration, given that my injuries will still be more than noticeable.’
‘Think of them as a badge of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Any one of the members of Society could be in that position, and they know it.’
‘Lord.’ He ran his left hand through his hair and she saw marks on all the knuckles. She also saw he no longer wore his wedding ring. God forbid the thieves had stolen it but she did not feel up to asking.
‘Sometimes the struggle to fit back into London Society hardly seems worth it.’ His words came after a moment or two.
‘I understand that completely, my lord. But if you find it in you to quit the city altogether then it is far better to do so on your own terms.’
‘You are ruthless, Mrs St Claire.’
‘Almost as ruthless as you are, Lord Elmsworth, and I use it as a protection to never again be trampled under the feet of others.’
‘“Though she be but little, she is fierce.”’
‘Helena from A Midsummer Night’s Dream? You surprise me, my lord.’
‘I could say the same of you, Willa.’
The first time he had addressed her so informally. A détente, born out of necessity. The kiss in the carriage shimmered between them under the words, slicing away reason, causing a stalemate.
When the cake and tea came the talk became more general but Willa missed the sharp and clever conversation from before.
Willa did consider not going altogether.
She could still send an apology saying that she was ill or indisposed and yet here she was about to be dressed in the most beautiful gown she owned because tonight she had to appear as the sort of woman Phillip Moreland, the eighth Earl of Elmsworth, might genuinely choose to spend a dance or two with.
To run would lead to questions on his behalf and would incite more conjecture about her motives and so she bathed in lavender water and her maid fashioned her long hair into a soft style of tumbling curls.
The dark blue dress she had donned was both sensual and classical and the small matching hat was cleverly fashioned.
She wore rings on her fingers and a necklace of diamonds at her throat and she allowed her maid to colour her lips and apply light blush to her cheeks.