The Earl's Betrothal Page 6

  Anthony stared at himself in the mirror on his washstand, feeling weary to the bone. After dinner he’d spent several hours in his father’s study, familiarizing himself with the estate accounts and his father’s business correspondence. By the time he looked at the clock, it was nearly three in the morning.

  He tugged off his neckcloth—a form of torture if ever there was one—and then his shirt, tossing both onto the chair where he’d previously dropped his coat and waistcoat, and splashed water on his face.

  Lucas entered the room and handed him a fresh towel. “It’s been a long day and an even longer night, Tony. I’ll help you with your boots.”

  “Why aren’t you asleep?” Anthony asked.

  Lucas gave him a speaking glance.

  “I don’t need a nursemaid,” Anthony grumbled. He crossed to the bed and collapsed, grateful for the assistance all the same. He really shouldn’t allow it. Now that the others knew of Lucas’s aristocratic background, he shouldn’t be behaving like a servant. But Anthony had gotten comfortable with Lucas as his personal servant in the army, and old habits died hard, especially when one was nearly too exhausted to move. Perhaps he was tired enough to actually sleep through what remained of the night.

  Boots removed, he rolled fully onto his bed and dragged the quilts over himself. He was barely aware of Lucas blowing out the candles.

  Anthony was sure he’d scarcely closed his eyes when he heard a commotion. Gunfire and explosions. Scuffling. Someone screaming.

  A woman.

  Was it Miss Clarke? Was she in peril?

  Panicked, he struggled to sit up, fought to go to her rescue. Her screams were frantic, high-pitched sounds that struck at Anthony like knife blows. Something or someone was holding him back, and he fought, flailing out furiously to free himself. It couldn’t be happening again.

  “Stop!” he cried at the top of his voice, fighting, fighting. “Stop! Stop!”

  “Tony!” he heard in the distance. “Tony!”

  Someone grabbed his shoulders and shook him. The screams turned to sobs, and Anthony raged and despaired. He was too late! He’d failed again! He pushed at the restraining arms, tried to aim a blow at the man responsible for his failure to assist.

  “Tony!”

  This time his name was accompanied by a slap to the face. Shaking his head to clear it, he looked, really looked this time, and saw Lucas.

  There was no sobbing outside his door. There were no men attacking Miss Clarke or anyone else, for that matter.

  “It was the dream again,” he said. He was clammy, and his heart was beating out of his chest.

  His friend had a look of resolve on his face and only released his grip on Anthony when it was obvious he was fully awake. “Yes,” Lucas said. “And this is why I intend to remain for a while yet. You don’t need a stranger wondering about your nightmares.”

  Meaning someone who hadn’t been there. Hadn’t experienced Badajoz, didn’t know of its horror.

  “You don’t suffer from nightmares.”

  “I have my own demons to fight, I assure you, but I wasn’t an officer like you. I wasn’t responsible for the actions of others. Or, more aptly, I didn’t feel responsible for their actions like you did. Will you be able to sleep again?”

  “I doubt it. What time is it?”

  “Nearly dawn. You did well tonight, considering.”

  He’d slept a measly two hours, but at least it was something—more sleep than either of them expected.

  “Has the weather cleared? Perhaps I’ll take Bucephalus for an early run.”

  Lucas parted the curtains and peered outside. “No rain. I believe I’ll join you on that run, if you’ll let me.”

  “Of course.”

  Lucas left to dress, and Anthony rose, untangling himself from the blankets that had twisted around his legs in his distress, and quickly pulled on his clothes. The scent of acrid smoke filled his nostrils, so real had been his dream. Would he ever get past the horror of Badajoz?

  Shots rang out and mingled with the screams and cries of the soldiers as they pressed forward and were immediately felled and those behind struggled over the fallen to take their places. Explosions and gunfire illuminated the smoky, murky sky, revealing men subjected to the unfathomable atrocities of war.

  In what had seemed an eternity to Anthony but was a mere few hours, French commander General Philippon surrendered to General Wellesley. But the surrender did not stop British soldiers fueled with bloodlust from their looting and vicious reprisals on the innocent citizens of Badajoz. Anthony fought a new battle now against his own men, but without success.

  As he made his way down one putrid, narrow alley, he encountered the worst sort of brutality imaginable—a gang of men savagely attacking a woman, her eyes wild with fear and pain. Anthony had had enough and raised his pistol. “Stop!” he yelled. “I order you to stop this instant.”

  A filthy soldier turned to look at him with glinting, unseeing eyes. “Leave be, Captain, and let us have a little fun.”

  “No,” Anthony said. “I command you to stop. Now!”

  He charged at them, tearing a few of the men away from the woman as she struggled and screamed. He fought, taking hard punches and landing a few of his own. The woman sobbed, and he lunged, throwing himself between her and her attackers. And then he heard the shot from a pistol and felt intense fire in his side, and then nothing at all . . .

  Anthony dropped into a chair and hung his head, covering his face with his hands. The images of Badajoz haunted him constantly, but none more than that of the woman. Had the men killed her? And, if so, how long had she been forced to suffer before they had?

  He’d been helpless to save her. He’d failed. There was nothing he could do now but pray for her soul and hope she’d found peace, but it was not enough. It would never be enough. Not for her or for so many others.

  It wasn’t until he joined Lucas in the hallway that he paused to wonder why it had been Miss Clarke who had been in his dream.

  Chapter 4

  When Amelia had initially begun her employment as Lady Ashworth’s companion, Lord Ashworth had spent a great deal of time and energy bringing his eldest son to heel. Lord Alexander had been a dashing, amiable man who had been kind to Amelia on the few occasions when they’d spoken, but he’d been inclined to reckless behavior, from what she had been able to observe.

  The staff had occasionally gossiped about the antics of the young earl, although they’d stopped talking whenever Amelia had happened by. As a newcomer who spent most of her time with the marchioness, she hadn’t been privy to their chatter, despite her general acceptance among the servants. Still, Amelia had caught bits of conversations: Lord Alex racing to Brighton in his curricle, the young master losing hundreds of pounds gambling, then winning it all back on a single hand of cards, the dashing young man who was such a favorite with the ladies . . .

  And then Amelia had seen the young man laid out in the parlor, his neck broken when his horse had failed to clear a fence. Those had been terrible days, terrible months—the marchioness weeping, the ill marquess staring woodenly out the window. Lady Louisa inconsolable at the loss of her eldest brother, with Viscount Farleigh, Lady Louisa’s husband, standing helplessly by. The news of the younger son dying in Spain.

  Now the family Amelia had grown to love as dearly as if they were her own could rejoice. And she would do everything in her power to make the fete a joyous one. She thought again how she would love to see her mother or her father and discover their deaths had not occurred!

  The last few days had been extraordinarily busy ones. Lady Ashworth had quickly dashed off a letter to Lady Louisa, informing her that her brother was home from Spain and very much alive. During the subsequent mornings, Lord Ashworth—invigorated by the return of his son—had his steward and Lord Halford meet with him in his bedchamber so he could overse
e their estate discussions from the comfort of his bed. During that time, Amelia helped the marchioness write invitations to the local gentry and particular friends for a formal dinner to be held the evening prior to the festivities. In the early afternoons, Lady Ashworth took luncheon with the marquess before he rested.

  Which was why Amelia had an hour to herself at present.

  A footman bearing a silver tray approached Amelia as she came down the staircase into the great hall. “This arrived for you, Miss Clarke,” he said, bowing slightly.

  “Thank you, John,” she said. Undoubtedly it was from the vicar’s wife, who had promised to update her on the plans for the scheduled daytime activities. She tucked the letter into her pocket and headed in the direction of the music room—her favorite room in the house.

  The plans for the festivities, now less than a week away, were under control. Mrs. Shaw already had the housemaids dusting every inch of the place, and the laundry maids had been tasked with ironing every piece of linen.

  Feeling a trifle hungry, Amelia decided to stop by the kitchen first. Mrs. Deal had been busy making cakes and tarts and various other preparations for the fete, and the place bloomed with mouthwatering aromas.

  “Miss Amelia,” Mrs. Deal said, using her apron to protect her hands as she removed a large copper pot from the fire. “You’re in time for a fresh scone. Lizzie, fetch some butter; that’s a good girl.”

  “Dear Mrs. Deal, you read my mind.” Amelia sat on the bench next to the kitchen table, where the scones were cooling. The young scullery maid set a crock of butter and a dish of currant jam on the table.

  “Thank you kindly, Lizzie,” Amelia said.

  The girl dipped a polite curtsy and returned to her task of scrubbing pots.

  Amelia helped herself to a warm scone, giving it a good dollop of butter and jam before taking a bite and savoring its utter deliciousness. Mrs. Deal was known throughout the area for her cooking. “Will you be baking something for the contest this Friday?” she asked nonchalantly, knowing full well what Mrs. Deal’s reaction would be.

  The woman huffed and ran a sleeve across her damp forehead. “As if I don’t have enough to do, what with providing fancied-up meals to all them gentry folk what will be here and all. Of course I’m entering something. I’ll not be having people thinking I’m not up to snuff, and that’s that. Now take another scone and be off with you. I’ve work to do.”

  Amelia laughed and kissed Mrs. Deal on her reddened cheek before slathering butter and jam on another scone and tucking it into a napkin to eat later.

  There had been an old clavichord in her home growing up, and Amelia had fond childhood memories of her mother playing it. She’d given Amelia lessons until she’d become too ill to continue.

  The music room at Ashworth Park was home to a lovely, modern pianoforte and had warm, golden walls and high ceilings elaborately painted with scenes from Greek mythology. Large banks of windows overlooked the grounds and gave the room an open, airy feeling.

  She wandered over to the windows to take in the scene and open the note she’d received. It was indeed from Mrs. Villiers, the vicar’s wife. She had convinced some of the village men to organize a cricket match and, later, if it met with approval, a tug-of-war.

  Amelia smiled. From what she had been told in the village, a tug of war between the men of Ashworthy was traditionally done over muddy ground and was particularly amusing to watch.

  She read further. The ladies of the parish who were organizing the baking contest wondered if Lord Halford would be so kind as to judge their wares, and would Miss Clarke please put their request to him.

  That made her heart skip a beat. It meant approaching him, and the idea was both frightening and exhilarating. Too exhilarating for Amelia’s own good. Keeping her distance was in her best interest; the man had too much of an effect on Amelia’s common sense.

  She continued reading. Mrs. Villiers seemed to have everything well in hand, so it only remained for Amelia to plan the games and contests for the children, which she had happily volunteered to do. She adored children and had spent many wonderful hours assisting her father at the school in Little Brenchley.

  Satisfied that the plans were going well, she tucked the letter back in her pocket and seated herself at the pianoforte. Amelia ran her hands lightly over its wooden cabinetry, enjoying the satiny finish. Above the keyboard was a lovely floral pattern of inlaid wood, the perfect touch for such an exquisite instrument.

  She set her fingers to the keys and began to play.

  * * *

  Anthony had spent another long morning with his father and his father’s steward, Fawcett. Honestly, the man had been old when Anthony had been a boy; he looked like Father Time now, though he was still as sharp as a tack. And while his father was looking better than he had on the first day of Anthony’s arrival home, he tired easily and, therefore, relied on Fawcett’s recommendations.

  None of which would have been bad if the man didn’t look at Anthony as though he was still an infant in leading strings.

  Adding insult to injury, after Fawcett had made his obsequious bows and had finally left the room, Anthony’s father said, “Your mother has assured me there will be eligible young ladies at the dinner to be held in your honor. Be sure to do your part.”

  “I know my duties in that regard, Father. You have made them perfectly clear.”

  “I hope so.” His father straightened the few papers that remained on his lap desk. “You should know that we had nearly completed the settlements between your brother and Marwood’s daughter before he went off and got himself killed on that wild horse of his. She’ll be there, so look her over carefully. Most of the work is already done, so the marriage can be expedited if she suits.”

  Clearly implying his father wanted them to suit.

  Anthony remembered Lady Elizabeth Spaulding, the Duke of Marwood’s only daughter. She was extraordinarily beautiful, every bit the daughter of a duke and a diamond of the first water. How could Anthony, with his blemished soul, bind such an exquisite creature to him? The answer was he couldn’t. Besides, she had always been intended for Alex, and Anthony regarded her as a sister. “I understand completely,” Anthony said, wanting the conversation to end. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will leave you to rest.”

  “Devil take it! I’m not tired, and what could be more important than the topic we’re discussing? I’d like to know,” his father said.

  “The age of your steward, for one,” Anthony replied. “The man is ancient. I must learn what I can from him as speedily as possible, for he is apt to crumble into dust at any moment.”

  “Bah,” the marquess said. “Fawcett’s too mean to die. It’s what I’ve valued about him for all these years.”

  “Seriously, Father, the man has earned the right to a generous pension and some leisure time while he can still enjoy it. I will be his diligent pupil in the meantime. I know I have much to learn if I am to assume my duties effectively.”

  “I am not sure Fawcett would know what to do with himself if I pensioned him off, but I take your point. Go, then, off with you, and see what pearls of wisdom you can glean from him before it’s too late.” The marquess settled deeper into the pillows at his back and closed his eyes. “You’re a good lad. Always have been.” He sighed. “And there I am, calling you a lad myself.”

  “I take no offense, but thank you instead, Father,” Anthony said as he lifted the lap desk from his father’s bed. The man wasn’t known for sprinkling compliments. “I will do my best.”

  “Just don’t forget Lady Elizabeth while you are at it,” he said, his eyes closed, his hands clasped on the counterpane.

  Anthony shook his head and left his father’s bedchamber, determined to speak to Fawcett and assert his authority over the man. The old steward was undoubtedly in the study, so Anthony went in that direction. As he made his way down the ha
llway, however, he heard an unfamiliar sound.

  Music.

  That was odd. His sister, Louisa, was the only one who played the pianoforte, and even before she married, she’d rarely spent time at the instrument.

  Dealing with Fawcett could wait.

  He walked to the music room and stood outside the door, listening for several minutes. He recognized the piece as a simple country tune, but the performer was embellishing it in a most delightful way.

  The door to the room was closed, and Anthony didn’t wish to disturb the performance, so he carefully turned the knob and opened the door only enough to slip inside. It was Miss Clarke at the keyboard, and she was engrossed enough in her music that she didn’t hear Anthony enter the room.

  He leaned against the wall, watching her and listening. Her fingers glided over the keys, combining the lilting melody with harmonies that filled an empty place in Anthony’s heart. When she finished, he waited quietly in hopes that she would play another, certain that if she knew he was there she would stop and the pleasure of listening to her would end.

  He was not disappointed. She began another piece, slower, softer this time, with a tender melody and harmonies more somber than the first had had. The music ebbed and flowed, nuanced with emotions he rarely acknowledged.

  The piece finally concluded, and Anthony found himself deeply moved by the performance. He was reluctant for the soothing atmosphere she had created to end, but unfortunately, it was time to make her aware of his presence. He began to clap.

  She turned abruptly at the sound, a blush rising on her cheeks. He continued clapping as he righted himself from the wall and walked toward her.

  “Brava, Miss Clarke,” he said. “Forgive my intrusion on your privacy, but I was drawn to the music and could not resist. You are very accomplished.”

  “I think not, my lord, though I thank you for the compliment,” she said. She hesitated and then added, “I do have permission to be here.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Anthony replied. “I’m certain the moment my parents heard you play they insisted on making this room available to you at any time. You have great ability.”