Counterfeit Earl

Captain Denning moved more gracefully than she could possibly have expected, but somehow she knew it was not just his dancing that was affecting her so powerfully that evening.

She raised her eyes, smiling a little shyly. Was it her imagination, or had some of the shadows been lifted from his face? He seemed that night to have shed some of the strain that she had seen in him the morning they had met.

Jack smiled at her in return, and Olivia’s heart did a rapid somersault. There was such charm and sweetness in his face at that moment, but also a haunting sadness. She wondered what lay behind his expression. What could possibly have caused so much pain?

Counterfeit Earl

Anne Herries

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ANNE HERRIES

lives in Cambridge but spends part of the winter in Spain, where she and her husband stay in a pretty resort nestled amid the hills that run from Malaga to Gibraltar. Gazing over a sparkling blue ocean, watching the sunbeams dance like silver confetti on the restless waves, Anne loves to dream up her stories of laughter, tears and romantic lovers.

THE STEEPWOOD SCANDAL:

Lord Ravensden’s Marriage, by Anne Herries

An Innocent Miss, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Reluctant Bride, by Meg Alexander

A Companion of Quality, by Nicola Cornick

A Most Improper Proposal, by Gail Whitiker

A Noble Man, by Anne Ashley

An Unreasonable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

An Unconventional Duenna, by Paula Marshall

Counterfeit Earl, by Anne Herries

The Captain’s Return, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Guardian’s Dilemma, By Gail Whitiker

Lord Exmouth’s Intentions, by Anne Ashley

Mr. Rushford’s Honour, by Meg Alexander

An Unlikely Suitor, by Nicola Cornick

An Inescapable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

The Missing Marchioness, by Paula Marshall

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter One

April 1812

Captain Jack Denning sat huddled into himself by the campfire. Even in summer, the evenings could be cold on the mountain, and sometimes a dense mist came down so that the peaks were hidden. There was no mist that evening, but he still felt chilled to the bone. He had begun to wonder if he would ever feel warm again.

“Still cold, Captain?”

The voice of his sergeant and friend Brett brought Jack’s head up. In the light of the Spanish sun, which was only just beginning to dip towards the sea, his face had a tortured, haunted expression, his eyes red-rimmed by illness and lack of sleep.

“It’s just the last throes of the fever,” Jack said. “I’ll be all right in a few minutes.”

“If you’re rested, we ought to move on,” Brett said. “We’ll need to travel most of the night if we’re to reach the ship before the tide changes in the morning.”

“Yes, I know. Get the wagons ready, Sergeant. I’ll see to the fire.”

Jack rose to his feet as Brett walked away to follow his orders. He kicked the smouldering wood apart with the tip of his boot, a scowl on his once handsome face. It was not handsome at that moment. Jack Denning looked gaunt, drained, his hair too long and straggling in greasy disarray, a blood-stained bandage about his head giving him the appearance of a cut-throat pirate.

Damn it! That’s what they all were, all Old Hooky’s brave bully boys. Scum of the earth, that was what Viscount Arthur Wellington of Talevara, Commander-in-Chief of the British forces in the Peninsula, called them—and by heaven and hell, he was right!

“God forgive us all,” Jack muttered as he kicked earth over the ashes to dampen down the remaining heat. It would not do to have the fire flare up again after they moved on, there were too many enemies in these hills. That included the damned Spanish, whom they were supposed to be helping. Instead of being grateful for Wellington’s superb tactics, which had led to success after success these past weeks, the pride of the Spanish generals had caused several setbacks and some of the guerrilla bands that roamed these hills would as lief attack the British as the French. “And God damn us—you too, Wellington!”

It was twelve days now since the conquest of Badajoz, three since his commander had sent for him.

“I’m ordering you home, Denning. You will be in charge of the seriously wounded, men who will never fight again. It’s your responsibility to get them down to the coast and on to a ship bound for England. And you are to go with them.”

“My wounds were superficial, sir. I was laid low by a fever for a few days, but I’ll be fit for duty again soon. May I have your permission to return to my unit after I’ve seen the wounded safe?”

“Damn your eyes, sir! Do you not know an order when you hear one? The Regent himself has requested your return. You have done your share of fighting, Denning—at what cost to yourself we all know. I am recommending you for bravery in the face of the enemy…”

“In the face of the enemy?” Jack’s brows rose.

“Yes, the enemy,” Wellington repeated. “We both know what happened, Denning, and the consequences. With things difficult at home I am on a thin string here. I charge you to keep certain things to yourself. They will become known in due course, but I hope to brush over them…do you understand me?”

Jack inclined his head stiffly. “I was never a gabble-monger, sir. I take no pride in what happened. Indeed, I shall bear the shame of it until my dying day.”

“Damn your eyes, Denning! You need have no shame.” Wellington scowled, his gaze narrowing fiercely as he inwardly cursed the fool who was compelling him to send this man home. Denning should have stayed to fight the remainder of the campaign. Only in the heat of battle might he learn to forget the horrors that were lurking in his haunted eyes. “Do not imagine it was my idea to send you back. I understand the request came from the Earl of Heggan, and since it is a command from the Regent that I accede to that request, I can only obey.”

An immediate return to England was the only avenue open to Jack since his commander had given the order, but the resentment was eating at his guts as he turned away. Since he was ordered to return to England, he would do so, but nothing on this earth should make him return to that lonely, forlorn house in which he had been born. If the Earl of Heggan wished to speak to his grandson, he would have to come in search of him.

Jack had made a vow never to return to his father’s house long ago, and he was determined to keep it!

“Is that a letter from Beatrice by any chance?” asked Mr Bertram Roade as he entered the parlour that afternoon in late June 1812 and discovered his youngest daughter frowning over her correspondence. “What does your sister have to say, Olivia?”

“She writes to ask me to visit her,” replied Olivia, glancing up with a smile. She suspected that Papa was missing Beatrice more than he admitted. “She and Harry are going to Brighton soon and would like me to accompany them.”

“Ah…” Mr Roades eyes gleamed behind his spectacles. “I wonder if this would be a good time for me to begin my work at Camberwell? I have made excellent strides since I last spoke to Ravensden.”

“Bellows brought a letter for you, too, Papa,” Olivia said. “It is there on the sideboard. I suspect that it may be from Lord Ravensden.”

“I shall read it immediately. Harry always writes such interesting letters. Excellent mind, excellent mind.”

Mr Roade pounced on the small packet with evident pleasure, smiled at his daughter and went off to his study, leaving Olivia in sole possession of the parlour.

She did not immediately return to her letter, laying it down on the little occasional table beside her, together with her embroidery and a book of poems she had been reading when their manservant brought the mail. Her sister’s letter had made her restless.

Since Beatrice’s marriage to Lord Ravensden six months earlier, she had written several times to ask Olivia to stay with her. Until now, Olivia had made various excuses, the most truthful that she felt she needed to spend a little time with her father and Aunt Nan.

Getting up from her seat, Olivia sighed and wandered over to the window to glance out at the view. Roade House was set on a little rise just at the outskirts of the village of Abbot Giles. On a clear summer afternoon like this one, she could see the church spire and some of the rooftops of the village houses…and in the distance the brooding presence of Steepwood Abbey.

How that place haunted her! There had been such shocking happenings at the Abbey these past months, culminating in the recent news that the Marquis had been brutally murdered in his bedchamber with his own razor.

A shudder ran through Olivia as she reflected on the strangeness of fate. Only a few months back, when she had first come to live with Beatrice and her father in Abbot Giles, they had all been agog at the news that the young Marchioness had disappeared. Olivia herself had been certain that Lady Sywell had been murdered by her brute of a husband, and despite all the rumours since, the most recent of which seemed to lay the blame for the Marquis’s murder at his wife’s door, she still wondered if Lady Sywell’s body had been concealed somewhere in the grounds of the Abbey.

Olivia did not believe for one moment that the Marchioness was the murderer of her cruel husband. If the stories were to be believed, there had been a terrible fight, the Marquis having put up a struggle for his life. He had been a large man, built like a bull and strong. A woman would surely not have had the strength to overcome him.

No, Olivia thought, it could not have been his wife. Yet whoever had done it must have known the Abbey well. There had been wild rumours circulating in the village, but Olivia believed it must have been an itinerant journeyman or perhaps a servant who had been unfairly dismissed.

In the past few months there had been tales of a hoard of gold sovereigns allegedly stolen by the Marchioness in her flight from the dominance of her husband, though since the tale had apparently come from a laundress, who could know if it was true? And now the villages were reeling with the shocking news that Lord Sywell had been murdered on the evening of the 9th of June.

Naturally, no one had talked of anything else since. Despite the general dislike felt by local people, Lord Sywell was nevertheless a member of the aristocracy and there was bound to be a thorough investigation of the crime. Some people were saying that the Regent himself had ordered a report to be made directly to him.

Olivia had not been near the Abbey grounds since that terrible morning in November the previous year, when Sywell had threatened her sister with a blunderbuss. Although Lord Ravensden’s brave action had diverted his attention, and Olivia’s own actions had caused the Marquis’s shots to go wide, they had resulted in Harry falling from his horse and so nearly ended in a tragedy. The whole affair had given Olivia an acute dislike of the place and its master, and these days she stayed well clear whenever she went walking.

Since her sister’s wedding, she had been making friends with various young women in the four villages. One of her particular friends was Lady Sophia, daughter of the Earl of Yardley, but Sophia had gone up to town earlier in the year and after a brilliant Season was engaged to be married. Robina Perceval, daughter of the vicar at Abbot Quincey, had also been in London. However, in the last letter Olivia had received from her, Robina had told her that she’d been invited to go down to Brighton.

Olivia sighed again. It was foolish of her to feel so low, but she could not help herself. Her life was so very different these days.

“Is something wrong?” asked Nan, coming in behind her. “Why don’t you go for a walk, Olivia? It is a pleasant afternoon, and you might meet someone.”

Olivia turned and smiled at her aunt. She was a pretty, delicate girl with fine dark brows, and her hair was a wonderful, honey blonde: an unusual combination, which always made people look at her a second time. Her eyes were blue, though at times they could take on a greenish tint, but it was when she smiled that her beauty really showed through.

“Is it so obvious that I am moping?” she asked, knowing that Nan did not have as much sympathy for her as her sister had always shown. “I know I should not. It is just that I miss Beatrice.”

“You are not the only one in this house who misses her,” Nan said, and frowned. “Why do you not go and stay with her? She has asked you often enough.”

“She has written to ask me to accompany her and Harry to Brighton next month,” Olivia said, wrinkling her brow. “Do you think I should go, Nan?”

“Most of your friends will be there,” Nan said. “You will have to face up to it one day, Olivia. You cannot hide in this house for the rest of your life…unless you mean to go into a decline?”

“No, no, I do not mean to do that,” Olivia replied. “And I am not afraid of facing people, Nan. Besides, Harry has told everyone that the talk of my having jilted him was simply a mistake, that we agreed to part on a mutual wish… because he had fallen in love with my sister. People may not believe it in their hearts but if he says it is so they will accept it, and of course no one will criticise him, because of who he is.”

“Money and power will sway most,” admitted her aunt. “And you cannot blame people for being shocked, though I believe you did the right thing in the end. I am sorry the Burtons treated you so harshly, my dear. It was unkind of them to turn you out simply because you decided you did not wish to marry Lord Ravensden—but by staying here in obscurity, you are giving them best. Lord Ravensden settled a generous sum on you. Why don’t you make some use of it? Show all the scandalmongers that you are more than a match for them!” She smiled at Olivia. “I know you sometimes feel I am not as understanding as I might be, my dear, but it is only my way. I should like to see you happy, and that is something you are obviously not at this moment.”

“I have tried to be content here with you and Papa,” Olivia said, “truly I have, Nan. It is just that almost everyone seems to be in town or at Brighton just now. I was always used to company, and I soon tire of sitting alone.”

“Not quite everyone,” her aunt said. “I saw Annabel Lett in the village this morning. She asked me to remind you that you promised to walk over and take her a book of stories for her daughter.”

“Yes, so I did,” Olivia replied, brightening. “Yes. I remember. It was a rather splendid picture book of fairy-tales that I was given as a child and brought with me. Thank you for reminding me, Nan. I shall put on my bonnet and go this instant.”

“That is a very good idea,” Nan said. “And when you return, you may sit down and write to your sister—tell her that you would be very happy to accompany her to Brighton.”

“Yes,” Olivia said, and on impulse went to kiss her aunt’s cheek. “Thank you for your good advice, Nan. Perhaps a little scold was just what I needed. Papa is always so kind…”

“And so wrapped up in his work,” said her aunt. “Neither he nor I are congenial company for a young lady like you, Olivia. We care for you, but we can only give you so much. Somehow, you have to make a life for yourself…and I do not believe that you find much pleasure in preserving or baking.”

Olivia laughed. “If I could bake like Beatrice, I might find it an absorbing task—but even Farmer Ekins’s boy will not eat my cakes!”

“I dare say you could learn in time, but why should you? No, my dear. I believe you should go to Brighton with Beatrice and Lord Ravensden. Perhaps you may decide then precisely what it is you wish to do with your life.”

“It was kind of you to come all this way,” Annabel said, later that afternoon. “Rebecca will enjoy listening to these stories—and the woodcuts will fascinate her. She has never seen anything like this book. Something like this would be too expensive for me to buy.”

The book contained several woodcut engravings of characters and scenes from the fairy-stories, some of which had been hand coloured. It was an expensive gift, one of many similar which had been lavished on Olivia as a child.

“I am pleased for her to have it,” Olivia replied, smiling. “I spent many happy hours looking at it as a child. Is Rebecca in her crib?”

“Yes. I had just put her down when you arrived. She needs her afternoon nap.”

“Then we must not disturb her.”

“But you will stay for some tea before you go?”

“Thank you.” Olivia sat down. “The news about Lord Sywell was shocking, was it not?”

“Yes, indeed.” Annabel shook her head. “There are so many stories going round that it is difficult to know what is true and what is false.”

“My aunt was told that he was completely… naked.”

“There are even more shocking stories,” said Annabel. “I cannot bring myself to repeat most of them, nor do I believe they are true—but it seems that there must have been a terrible struggle.”

“Yes, so we were told.”

“Surely the murderer must have been covered in blood?”

Olivia shuddered. “Pray do not! May we not speak of something else?”

“Yes, of course. How does Lady Ravensden go on? Have you heard from her recently?”

“Bellows fetched a letter from the receiving office at Abbot Quincey earlier today. Beatrice is very well and very happy. She and Lord Ravensden are to visit Brighton next month, and they have asked me to go with them.”

“How lovely,” Annabel said. “You are fortunate to have the opportunity, Olivia.”

“Yes, I am,” Olivia replied. “Had Beatrice not fallen in love with Lord Ravensden, our lives would have been very different. We have more servants to look after the house, and we do not go short of anything. My sister and Lord Ravensden have been very generous.”

“Yes…” An odd expression crept into Annabel’s eyes. She drummed her nails on the arm of her chair. “Your sister was not expected to marry—to make such a match must have been beyond her dreams.”

“I believe Beatrice had no thought of marriage until she met Lord Ravensden. It was truly love at first sight in their case.”

Annabel nodded. Once again, her look struck Olivia as being wistful, even a little distracted, as though her mind were elsewhere. Perhaps she was thinking of the husband she had lost? They had never spoken of him, despite their growing friendship. Annabel did not seem to wish to discuss her past, and Olivia was too thoughtful to ask impertinent questions.

“Aunt Nan says I should go to Brighton,” Olivia said. “She told me I must face the gossips. Of course she does not know how cruel some of the important hostesses can be. I dare say there will be some who will give me the cut direct.”

“But you will not care for them? Lady Ravensden must be received everywhere—do you not think most people will be prepared to forgive you?”

“Perhaps. I shall simply ignore those who do not,” Olivia said bravely. “Now, tell me, what did you make of the Reverend Hartwell’s sermon last Sunday?…”

Olivia was thoughtful as she walked home that evening. It was warm and pleasant as she skirted the walls of the Abbey grounds. How odd to think of it empty and deserted, except perhaps for Solomon Burneck. She supposed the Marquis’s butler was still living there, that he would remain as a caretaker until the new owner arrived.

Who did the Abbey rightfully belong to now? Olivia did not know. Everyone had a different opinion as to what would happen to it, though she suspected that in their hearts most would like to see it return to the Yardley family.

Olivia knew much depended on whether or not an heir could be found, and since no one seemed to know if the Marquis of Sywell had any distant relatives, it was a matter for speculation, and would likely continue to be so for many months.

The fate of Steepwood Abbey did not, however, occupy her thoughts for long. What was she to do with her own life?

Since Lord Burton had banished her to the country, Olivia had refused to dwell on his unkindness. She had resolutely guarded against giving into self-pity, for there was no use in crying over something that was spoiled and could not be mended.

At first she had tried very hard to settle into the life at Abbot Giles. She had quickly grown fond of dear Papa, for who would not? She sensed that her aunt felt her lacking because she did not have Beatrice’s skills in the stillroom and the kitchen, though she was not unkind, and they went on well enough together.

Olivia was not precisely unhappy, merely restless. She did not have enough to occupy her time now that there was no need for either her or Nan to do so many of the tasks that had been necessary when they had only Lily and Ida, and Bellows, of course.

Olivia had been educated as a lady. She had been taught to read and write and to calculate figures; she had studied a little history, a little art and music, and she was proficient at embroidery; she played the pianoforte and the harp, sang, and did a little sketching.

Perhaps if she had married a man with an important title, she would in time have become a brilliant society hostess, her drawing-room the meeting place for artists, poets and politicians. Olivia knew this was very unlikely now. She had jilted a man, an important man, and she did not expect to be given a second chance, since gentlemen did not like to be made fools of, and most would not care to risk a repeat of her disgraceful behaviour. Besides, she would only marry if she found a man she could love, who also loved her—as much as Harry Ravensden loved Beatrice.

So if she was not to marry, what was she to do with herself instead? She was an intelligent girl, and she knew her education was lacking. She did not know many things Beatrice had been taught, but then her sister had been educated at home by their father, who was an unusual man.

Olivia could study at home, of course, and indeed she had begun to borrow books from her father’s library, books she would not have considered opening in the past. Although she was determined to improve her education through reading, she could not help feeling restless. She was in fact a very passionate girl and she needed an outlet for all the love that was inside her.

Olivia was very grateful to Harry Ravensden for settling ten thousand pounds on her. It meant that there was no hurry for her to make up her mind to do anything…and yet she longed for something to happen. If she had been born a man she might have taken up some sort of a profession, but very little was open to her as a female. She knew well that the life of a governess or a companion was a soulless existence, far less pleasant than her own at the moment.

“You are being missish,” Olivia scolded herself aloud. “You lack for nothing…except perhaps a little excitement, a little romance.”

If only she were a man! She would instantly enlist in the army and go to fight with their brave men in the Peninsula.

The Regent’s address to Parliament at the beginning of the year had mainly concerned Wellington’s brilliant victories in Spain. One of his most recent at Badajoz had excited even Papa when he read of it in his newspapers.