My Brown-Eyed Earl (33 page)

“Cook's daughter had a baby boy. Everyone seems to be well. Hobbes runs a tight ship.” His steward and the staff kept the estate functioning perfectly, even in Will's absence. He paid Hobbes handsomely for his service but made a mental note to give him a raise.

The innkeeper rubbed a towel over the bar's dented wood top. A bar that old surely had heard a lot of stories and seen a lot of fights. “Staying long this time?” Jack asked.

“No.” Not if he could help it. He needed to discover the extent of his father's involvement in the Laceys' deaths and return to Meg, soon. Somehow, he had to convince her to marry him, and his gut told him that with each day that passed, his odds worsened. Will lowered his voice. “I'm trying to uncover some of the details of a coach accident that happened years ago.”

Jack nodded. “The vicar and his wife.” At Will's raised brow, he added, “It's the only real tragedy we've had here in the last decade. Who are you looking for?”

“I thought I'd start with the one witness to the accident, the Laceys' driver. I don't even know his name.”

The innkeeper pulled a pint and placed it on the barmaid's tray. “That'd be Dan Ostrey. Sad what's become of him. He hasn't been the same since the accident.”

“Was he injured?”

“Not seriously. But he rarely leaves his cottage these days. His wife relies on the charity of neighbors for all the necessities.”

“I'll talk to him.” Will threw back the rest of his ale and slid his glass forward for a refill. “Wrap me up a couple of shepherd's pies and a loaf of bread, would you? I'll take them with me.”

*   *   *

“The invitations have all gone out.” Beth delivered the news to Meg with the same gravity as one relates the death of a beloved pet. “There's nothing we can do but ready the house for the ball.”

Meg pressed her fingertips to her temples. “This is awful. We have only a week to prepare. Maybe no one will be able to attend?” she asked hopefully.

Julie waved a handful of responses. “All but Lady Tutley have accepted. She's taking the waters in Bath. We haven't yet heard from a few others, but it's going to be a crush.”

Wincing, Meg asked, “How many are coming?”

“Including us and Uncle Alistair?” Beth asked.

“Yes.” She may as well know the worst-case scenario.

“By my estimate … sixty.”

All three sisters sat, staring at the crowded parlor, wondering how on earth they were going to manage to accommodate sixty people.

“We shall have to tidy Uncle Alistair's study and push the furniture against the walls,” Julie said.

“If we move the table, the dining room could be used for dancing,” Beth said uncertainly. Both Meg and Beth squinted their eyes, trying to picture it.

“Where would the musicians go?” Meg asked—as if they could afford musicians.

“If it's a nice evening,” Julie ventured, “we could put them just outside the French doors, in the garden.”

Meg and Beth exchanged a look. It wasn't a bad idea, except their
garden
was little more than a weed pit.

“We have a lot of work to do,” Meg said. “Let's make a list of all the tasks we must complete and split them up.”

“I'll spruce up the garden,” Beth said. “I've been meaning to, anyway. And I shall ask Patrick if he and a few of his friends would be willing to provide the music.” Patrick was a baker who was fond of playing the cello. He'd probably never performed for an audience before, but neither beggars nor the Lacey sisters could be choosers.

“I'll attempt to make the study presentable,” Julie offered.

Beth and Meg gasped as if she'd announced she'd just volunteered to charge into battle. Tidying the study was the most daunting task of all because it required maneuvering around their uncle, who did not take kindly to interlopers—even his beloved nieces—in his hallowed room.

Julie shrugged slender shoulders. “If I do a little each day, while Uncle Alistair naps, perhaps he won't notice.” But they all knew he would, and he wasn't going to be happy about it.

Meg volunteered to prepare the parlor and foyer and speak to their overworked housekeeper about the menu. It was all a bit overwhelming, but at least they had a plan. And if there was one thing that Meg and her sisters enjoyed, it was a challenge.

Maybe she'd be so busy with ball preparations that she'd be able to put Will out of her mind. Unless … surely he wouldn't … “May I see the guest list?”

Julie leaned across the settee and handed it to her. There, nine lines from the top, was his name—
William Ryder, Earl of Castleton
.

“Blast,” she muttered.

“What's the matter?” Beth asked.

“I'd hoped Lord Castleton wouldn't come.” She should have known he wouldn't respect her request for time to consider his proposal. Perhaps because he knew she wasn't truly considering it. How would she be able to bear seeing him?

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Julie said. “You received a package this morning. I fear it was buried under all the ball responses.” She shuffled through a stack of papers on the desk, produced a large envelope, and handed it to Meg. The front read:
To Miss Margaret Lacey
.

She'd recognize that bold, scrawling handwriting anywhere. Will's.

Inside she found the wad of bank notes he'd offered her the day before, wrapped neatly in a crisply folded letter.

Dear Meg,

This money is rightfully yours. You've earned it, and I suspect you need it. I'm sorry if I've offended you—that was never my intention.

My offer from the other evening still stands. It will be good tomorrow, next week, and next year. In case you were wondering, it stands for all eternity, so take as much time you need.

You still have a choice, Meg, and I pray to God you choose me.

—Will

Meg pressed a hand to her chest, as if that could slow the beating of her runaway heart.

Beth gasped. “That looks like…”

“Money,” Julie finished for her.

“It's my last week's pay … and three month's severance.” In truth, it was so much more. The money was security, but the letter was even more precious, because it gave her time and autonomy—and hope. Hope that in spite of all she'd said and done, Will wasn't giving up on her.

“You look very pale, Meg,” Beth fretted. “Do I need to fetch the smelling salts?”

“No. But we do need to add one more item to our list of preparations.”

“Ready!” Julie piped up, her pen poised.

“You must purchase ball gowns.”

Julie and Beth sat in stunned silence.

At last, Julie said, “But that's so … impractical.”

Beth nodded. “And frivolous.”

“And completely necessary,” Meg retorted. “We cannot possibly host a ball while wearing rags. If we're going to make suitable matches for you, we need to create an illusion of wealth and well-being, and that begins with appearances.”

Beth raised a skeptical brow. “So you will buy a gown for yourself as well?”

Julie clasped her hands together. “If anyone deserves it, Meg, you do.”

“I will buy a gown,” she said, but failed to mention that it wouldn't truly be a ball gown. Her sisters would provide enough beauty and sparkle for the family. She would purchase something pretty but practical—something she could wear on her next interview. Which she'd already decided would be another governess position.

“I can't believe we're really hosting a ball,” Beth breathed.

“I can't believe it's only seven days away.” Julie, who was probably contemplating the cluttered state of Uncle Alistair's study, bit her lip.

“All the more reason we should go dress shopping today,” Meg announced. “Fetch your bonnets and gloves, ladies. We're off to Bond Street.”

 

Chapter
THIRTY-SEVEN

 

Will ducked through the doorway of the cottage where Dan Ostrey and his wife lived. Inside, it appeared even smaller than it did from the outside, and the air tasted stale and warm. Will handed the shepherd's pies to Mrs. Ostrey, who smiled gratefully.

Her husband sat in a rocking chair in front of the dormant fireplace. His sunken cheeks and hunched body probably made him look a decade older than he was. He barely glanced up as his wife announced he had a visitor.

“It's the earl, Dan. Lord Castleton. He'd like to speak with you.”

“I have eyes in my head, Hazel.”

She threw up her hands and gave Will a look that said
you try dealing with him for a while
before donning her apron and returning to the pot of potatoes she was peeling.

“There's a matter I'd like to ask you about,” Will began.

Ostrey scowled. “I don't need a job.”

At the kitchen table behind them, Hazel snorted. “Yes, you do.”

“That's not why I've come.” Will clarified. He looked out the small, smudged windowpane, envious of the branches swaying in the breeze. “It's a fine day. Would you like to go for a walk, Mr. Ostrey?”

Hazel guffawed at this, as though it had been an age since her husband had stepped foot outside the cottage.

“You know, Lord Castleton”—Ostrey gave his wife a spiteful look—“I believe I would.”

He stood slowly, his knees unsteady, and Will handed him the cane propped beside the fireplace. Ostrey hobbled along with Will behind him, and when at last they emerged from the cottage, the older man staggered into the sunlight like a newborn colt finding its legs.

They'd only walked to the narrow, tree-lined road when Ostrey asked, “You'll be wanting to know about the accident, won't you?”

“How did you know?”

“It's the only significant event in my life,” he said bitterly. “A horrible, tragic event, and I relive it every day.”

“So, you were driving the coach that afternoon?”

“Aye. The weather 'twas not fit for driving, but the Laceys insisted on visiting Castleton Park. They said it was imperative that they meet with your father immediately. So I pulled the coach around and they climbed inside.”

Ostrey was already huffing from the short walk, so Will led him to tree stump situated in the shade. “Come, sit.”

The old driver sank gratefully onto the stump and continued. “When we started out, I thought we might reach our destination after all. The horses were able to maneuver in spite of the snow and ice. But then, as we were crossing the bridge, the coach wheels turned into ice skates and the whole cab slid sideways. It crashed into the low, stone wall on the edge of the bridge, and balanced there. I was thrown from the driver's seat and landed hard on the frozen ground.

“I heard the vicar and his wife screaming from inside the cab.” His voice cracked as he recounted the tale. “I scrambled to my feet—I was much faster then—but just as I reached them, the cab shifted and toppled into the icy river, dragging the pair of horses with it.

“I jumped in and nearly drowned trying to rescue the Laceys. The door was jammed shut and the cab filled … By the time I pulled them to the shore, it was too late—their faces were already blue.” The agony in his voice was palpable.

“I'm sorry,” Will said. “It sounds as though you did everything you could. No one blames you for what happened to them.”

“Not true, my lord. I held the reins that day, and I blame myself.”

“Mr. Ostrey, this may seem an odd question, but is it possible that someone had access to the coach or horses prior to the accident? Could someone have tampered with the equipment, causing it to fail?”

“No, sir. I had been concerned about the weather, so before I climbed into the driver's seat that day, I inspected everything twice—the axles, braces, reaches, wheels, and fifth wheel. All were sound. I checked the horses' harnesses, too—every strap, band, and buckle.”

Will considered this. “The extra precautions you took that day, were they all due to the weather?”

Ostrey inhaled deeply before he answered. “You'll think me strange for admitting it, but I had a feeling in my bones—a feeling that something dreadful was about to happen. I don't know how, but I knew. And still, there was nothing I could do to stop it. I'd never had a sense of foreboding so strong before then, and I haven't since.”

In spite of the heat, a shiver stole down Will's spine. “What about the bridge itself? Was there anything suspicious in the road, any sort of slippery substance?”

“Besides the ice?” Ostrey shook his head sadly. “No, that was treacherous enough.”

Will felt as though a weight had been lifted off his chest. He had no reason to doubt the truth of the man's claims, which meant his father, in this case at least, was not a murderer. But neither was Ostrey.

Pacing slowly in front of the tree stump where the old driver sat, Will said, “I remember that day, too. You were right—the weather wasn't fit for driving, but you didn't have a choice. If you hadn't driven the Laceys, they would have found someone else to do it. You must accept that the accident was just that—a horrible, tragic accident. You bear no responsibility for their deaths; if anything, you should be commended for your valiant attempt to save them.”

Ostrey dragged a bony hand down the side of his face. “Guilt is an insidious thing, Lord Castleton. A man can know a thing as fact in his head”—he tapped his temple—“but guilt can convince him otherwise where it matters”—he patted his chest—“in his heart. It hobbles a person and weighs him down. Do you think I want to waste the rest of my life like this, a prisoner in my home and a burden to my wife?”

“Come work at Castleton Park. I could use someone knowledgeable and safety-minded in the stables.” A lie, but an extra body in the stables certainly couldn't hurt.