Twilight with the Infamous Earl (2 page)

“How tragic,” he drawled, earning him an amused look from Saint’s wife, Catherine.

A bowl of what looked like milk soup was served. Perhaps goat’s milk? With a delicate shudder, he signaled the footman to remove it. Regan displayed her displeasure with a slight pout. Thankfully, she resisted the urge to scold him. Boiled mackerel with a fennel and mint sauce swiftly replaced the unwanted soup.

Dare took a sip of his wine. “Well, a few hours later, Lady Netherley called on Regan. Of course, she insisted on seeing Bishop when he awoke from his nap.”

“Naturally,” Frost said, laying his linen napkin across his lap. “The lad has been charming ladies since he was pulled from his mother’s womb.”

Vane paled at the casual mention of the birthing process. His wife, Isabel, was in the seventh month of her pregnancy, and this was their first child. It mattered little to his friend that many of the ladies seated at the table had given birth to healthy infants. Vane fretted over his lady. He blamed himself for Isabel’s delicate condition, and rightly so. Unfortunately for his sweet-natured wife, she would have an overbearing husband on her hands until she delivered Vanewright’s heir.

“Bishop adores Lady Netherley. She doesn’t understand most of his chatter, but she enjoys her brief visits with him.” Dare winked at Vane, who happened to be the elderly marchioness’s son. “She is anxious for her new grandchild to be born.”

Isabel placed her hand on her rounded belly. “She isn’t the only one,” she said, sounding tired.

Dare and Regan shared a rueful smile. “When Regan settled Bishop on Lady Netherley’s lap, he said rather clearly,
‘Mama bwoke cocks.’”

Sin burst out laughing. Dare, Reign, Saint, Vane, and Hunter joined him, while the wives fought back smiles. Regan’s eyes watered as she tried not to laugh. It was not the first time his friends had heard the tale, but the humor of it had not grown stale in the retelling.

“I was dreadfully embarrassed,” Regan confessed, using her napkin to dab at the moisture in her eyes as she laughed. “Especially when Lady Netherley asked Bishop to repeat his words because her ears were weary that day.”

Frost smirked at his sister. “I’ll wager you whisked our boy out of the drawing room before he could utter a sound.”

Regan closed her eyes and groaned. “And you would be correct, dear brother.” She gave Saint and Catherine an impish grin. “See what you have to look forward to?”

The implication was obvious.

The Marchioness of Sainthill was carrying Saint’s child.

The announcement came as a slight surprise to Frost. Although it was not common knowledge, Catherine’s upbringing was vastly different from those of the other ladies at the table. There was also a little history between him and Catherine, but their tryst was so brief it was barely worth mentioning. On one occasion, Saint had privately admitted that Catherine was concerned she might be incapable of having children when she had not conceived a child during the first year of their marriage. Thankfully, their good news proved that her worries were unfounded.

“I say, congratulations are in order,” Frost said, raising his glass of wine to the couple. “A toast to Catherine and the health of her unborn child. May the son possess the temperament of his sire!”

Saint grinned, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. “Frost, only you could make a toast sound like a bloody curse.”

“To Catherine and Saint,” his companions echoed.

*   *   *

The next two hours passed by in a leisurely albeit noisy fashion. Instead of the gentlemen adjourning to Dare’s library for brandy and port, they had joined the ladies in the drawing room. It wasn’t long before Bishop’s nurse appeared at the threshold with the little charmer rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Regan gathered her son in her arms and strode over to Dare. His friend’s gaze lit up with joy and love as Bishop reached out for his father.

It was a good thing he hadn’t quietly murdered Dare when the gent slipped Regan out of the house one evening and married her without Frost’s consent. Regan’s happiness meant more to him than his pride, though he would never admit it.

Soon his nephew was joined by Sin and Juliana’s son and Reign and Sophia’s little girl. High childish shrieks of delight and dismay were heard over the din of the adult conversations. To add a little civility, Juliana offered to play one of her recently published musical compositions on the pianoforte.

If the marchioness hoped that music might calm the little beasts, her efforts were in vain.

Frost brought his fist to his mouth to conceal his laugher as the lady’s son zigzagged around the room with a small replica of a tall ship clutched in his hands. Even more entertaining were Sin’s futile attempts to catch the lad.

“Did you ever think you’d ever witness the day that Sin was bested by a child?” Saint asked as he approached Frost. In his hands, he had two glasses of brandy. Thankfully, he was willing to share.

“Never.” Frost accepted the glass and took a sip. “Though to be honest, Sin’s expertise lay in chasing skirts rather than little boys. Do you know what you are getting into?”

Frost was referring to the announcement of Catherine’s pregnancy and Saint’s impending fatherhood. The brilliant smile on his friend’s face was more eloquent than words.

“Does anyone?” Saint shrugged. “If I can persuade Catherine, I’d like to fill the nursery.”

Frost chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. There was a time when he would have wagered that no lady could have claimed the marquess’s heart. “You might want to pace yourself, gent.”

The sound of breaking porcelain and a sharp cry of indignant outrage spared Saint from replying. Sin had finally caught his son, and in the process had knocked over a large vase. Juliana had abandoned the pianoforte and was attempting to soothe her crying son. Sin stepped aside, relieved his wife was willing to take charge of the situation.

Perhaps in sympathy for their upset friend, Bishop and Lily began to cry. Sophia rushed to her daughter’s side while Dare dealt with his son.

“Is this a drawing room or a nursery?” Frost wondered aloud, but no one was paying attention to him.

As the children sobbed, and the adults tried to calm them, Frost watched, realizing that he was the one who did not fit the quaint family gathering. Somewhere along the way, his friends had moved on without him when they had married and started their families.

He was part of their lives, but no longer one of them.

Frost finished his brandy as he mulled over his unpleasant revelations about himself and his friends. There were other things to consider, as well, like the future of Nox.

“Are you just going to stand there gathering wool?” Dare demanded, his frustration penetrating Frost’s dark musings. “A little assistance would be welcome.”

Frost smirked. “I think not, dear brother. This is when I will quietly take my leave. Please, carry on with your evening without me.”

He turned away from his family and friends. Alone. Just the way he preferred his life.

Chapter Three

In a small country graveyard, Emily stared solemnly at the headstone that marked the final resting place of her beloved older sister.

Lucille Charlotte Cavell

Born February 2, 1801

Died August 19, 1821

Family and friends had called her Lucy, and everyone had loved her. Betrothed to Lord Leventhorpe, she should have been happily planning her autumn wedding.

Instead she had perished by her own hand.

Five years had passed since that tragic night when Emily had discovered her sister alarmingly pale and bleeding on the floor of her bedchamber. Lucy had been barely conscious when Emily screamed for her father as she gathered her dying sister into her arms.

“Hold on. Father will know what to do!” she had assured her sister, her slender fingers unable to halt the blood spilling from the ragged wounds on Lucy’s wrists.

“Love,” her sister murmured almost sleepily. “It ruins what it should treasure.”

“Stop talking. Conserve your strength,” Emily had told her.

She shouted for her father again, but the muscles in her throat had constricted with growing horror that her sister was too far gone to be saved by anyone. Her voice cracked as she sobbed in frustration.

“Emily?”

Lucy had sounded surprised to see her.

“Yes.” Emily glanced about the room wondering if there was something she could use to bind Lucy’s wounds. She was reluctant to leave her side, but no one had heard her cries for assistance.

Her sister’s glassy green gaze seemed unfocused, and her increasing lethargy frightened Emily.

“I have to go find Father. You need a surgeon.”

“No,” Lucy replied with unexpected strength. It quickly faded on her exhale. “Just listen. I need you to listen.”

Emily bowed her head over her sister. Her last words were a confession of her sins. It was a burden she did not wish to carry forth in death. So Lucy had passed her darkest secrets to her.

“Tell no one,” she had begged. At Emily’s blank stare, she demanded, “Swear.”

“I swear” had been her numb reply.

Her mother’s high-pitched scream snapped Emily out of her stupor.

“What have you done?”

Turning away from her daughters, she called for her husband and the servants. Lucy had been pulled from Emily’s arms and placed on the bed.

Emily sat in a pool of her sister’s blood as they had tried to save her. She did not have the voice to tell her mother and father that Lucy had no desire to be saved. She had wanted to die.

And she had succeeded.

“You have to let her go,” her mother said gently, coming closer until she was standing behind her. “Lucy loved you. She would insist that you be happy.”

“I am happy, Mother,” Emily replied somberly, her gaze still focused on the headstone.

“You might have your father fooled, but a mother knows what’s in her daughter’s heart.” Her mother placed her arm around Emily’s waist.

She thought about Lucy’s last words. “Truly? Did you know what was in Lucy’s heart when she sliced her wrists open with Father’s blade?”

It was rather spiteful of her to ask a question to which she already knew the answer. Her mother had not been privy to her eldest daughter’s secrets. A soft choking sound of shock and the loss of her mother’s comforting embrace was the least she deserved.

“This melancholy is about London, is it not?” Her mother’s voice had hardened at the not-so-subtle reminder that Lucy was beyond their reach because her family had failed her. “You are looking for a reason not to join us.”

“Of course not, Mother.” She leaned down and placed the bouquet of flowers she was holding next to the headstone. “I look forward to joining the family in London.”

Emily offered her mother a slight smile.

Her mother still looked unconvinced. “You have avoided—”

She resisted, rolling her eyes. “This old argument. First, I was too young to join you, and other years, I wished to spend my time with friends.”

“In the country,” her mother lamented.

“It is not a sin to have good friends.” Emily teased to lighten the mood. “Besides, I will see them in London this year. This should please you.”

She had won the battle without much effort, and she was suspicious. “And you intend to join us in the festivities. Balls, the theater, the museums—”

“All, and more,” Emily assured her.

“Oh.” The lines in her forehead eased. “Well, that’s wonderful. Your father will be delighted to see us.” Her mother clapped her hands together. “Just wait until we go shopping. You will be amazed by the assortment and quality.”

Emily did not interrupt her mother as she spoke of her favorite shops. She had not lied. After all, she was looking forward to traveling to London. Her mother and father had high hopes for her this season, and she planned to enjoy all the amusements the town had to offer.

Nevertheless, there was one small task she intended to keep from her family.

While she was in London, Emily intended to find the gentleman who had ruined her sister and use everything at her disposal to return the favor.

Chapter Four

There were very few things that could ruin Frost’s mood.

Unfortunately, the lady who had written the note he had clutched in his fist was at the top of his list. To add to his annoyance, she had not bothered making an appearance at the meeting she had requested.

It was so typical of her.

Frost strode across the lobby of the hotel and stepped out onto the street. He raised his hand, blinking against the glare of the afternoon sun. Belatedly, he recalled that he had ordered his coachman to return for him in one hour.

Softly cursing under his breath, he debated on whether he should return to the hotel. There was always a chance his companion was late for their meeting.

He swiftly discarded the notion.

The lady was playing unpleasant games with him. If she required his assistance, she could bloody well seek him out. He had no intention of lurking around the lobby in the hope of catching sight of her.

Too agitated to sit, Frost crossed the street with no specific destination in mind. The exercise would do him good. It would clear his head and work off his temper. He was not going to let her ruin his afternoon. The days when he was at the mercy of her whims were long gone, and she knew it.

Old habits were difficult to shed.

The hotel was respectable, but it wasn’t situated in the most fashionable section of town. However, this time of day, pedestrians and hawkers selling wares filled the walkways, and there was a steady stream of horses, wagons, and coaches on the streets. As long as he avoided the narrow mews and alleys, no one would challenge him. And if some unlucky fellow was foolish enough to cross him—well, then, he was willing to accommodate him.

With his walking stick in hand, he kept his pace leisurely as he noted the passing carriages. It was probably too much to hope that his coachman would make a timely appearance. A light breeze teased his hair, reminding him that he preferred to be outdoors rather than closed up in a stuffy room.