The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Read online

  “You’ve drifted off on another of your journeys.” His brow furrowed. Mother had called them spells at one time, before a physician informed her that Calliope was nothing more than a daydreamer.

  Calliope shook her head. “It’s merely the effects of a long day’s ride and the chill in the air.”

  Stepping out of the carriage, she stopped short. There, on the stone landing, was none other than Lord Brightwell. His pale features and attire stood out in sharp contrast to the dark door behind him. The last time they’d all been standing together like this had been at Pamela’s wedding breakfast.

  “Brightwell,” Griffin said in greeting. “It’s good to see you again. I hope our spontaneous visit will not cause trouble.”

  Brushing an errant forelock from his brow, he nodded to both Griffin and Delaney. “I’m certain our hosts would agree that your timing couldn’t be better.”

  Their hosts were the three gentlemen who rented Fallow Hall. Calliope knew little of Rafe Danvers or Lord Lucan Montwood. As for Lord Everhart . . .

  Once upon a time, she’d been in the same circle of friends with him, but that had ended abruptly. In fact, Everhart had ceased their acquaintance on the same night she’d refused Brightwell’s proposal.

  “I heard Danvers mention the damage.” Brightwell gestured to Rafe Danvers, who was a short distance away, speaking to the driver while examining the wheel of their carriage. “For your sakes, I hope it is an easy repair. For my wife’s sake, however, I hope for an extended visit.”

  Then his gaze shifted to Calliope. In that moment, her refusal seemed like a living, breathing entity between them. Adjusting her grip on her satchel, she felt the tension in her muscles climb up her arms and settle at the base of her neck.

  “Miss Croft,” Brightwell said with a familiar smile. “How serendipitous that you should be among the traveling party. Your cousin will be most pleased by the news.”

  “Thank you, Brightwell”—she paused, correcting the too-familiar address—“Lord Brightwell.” Years ago, he’d just been Brightwell. He’d been her friend, and in their close circle no one bothered with formality. Now, it was impossible to refer to him as such. Adding the title helped to remind her of the choice she’d made.

  She’d chosen a letter over him—and thus, a broken heart.

  Sweat dripped from Gabriel’s brow as he neared the top of the circular staircase. If he’d have known that hopping on one foot up stairs took such skill, he would have added it to his regimen ages ago. Apparently, neither broadswords nor boxing had anything on hopping. He suddenly had a new respect for his younger half-sister, Raena, and her tendency to hop and skip from one room to the next—as long as she wasn’t caught by her mother.

  “Only months away from town and you’ve already gone soft, I see,” a familiar voice called up from the open doorway of the map room. But it wasn’t Montwood or Danvers.

  In bewildered disbelief, Gabriel ducked his head to peer down behind him. “Croft?”

  “The one and the same,” Griffin Croft answered. “When we were last at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon, you knocked me on my arse. I thought I’d return the favor with an unexpected visit.”

  “You have succeeded.” Gabriel turned to make his way back down, one step at a time. Croft and he were more sparring partners than friends. In fact, this was their first social call of any sort. One did not typically make friends with the man who’d blackmailed you and threatened to end your life, after all.

  Normally, Gabriel wasn’t of a superstitious nature. Yet after the drunken wager he’d made last night—along with his thoughts concerning Croft’s sister—he was beginning to wonder if he ought to be.

  Then again, there was a perfectly obvious reason for the visit. “I imagine you’ve come to see how your cousin fares.”

  Croft offered an absent gesture as he stepped into the room. “Since we are journeying to Scotland regardless, I would have been remiss not to at least entertain the idea . . . although, knowing my cousin, I feel I should ask how Fallow Hall fares instead.”

  We. That was all Gabriel heard. The perspiration on his skin cooled considerably. Was the “we” simply Croft’s referring to his wife? Or was he traveling with one or more of his sisters as well?

  Croft’s amusement abruptly transformed into frown. “Say, how bad is that break? You’ve gone pale.” He stepped forward as if to offer assistance, but Gabriel waved him back.

  “It’s nothing. In fact, I should be able to remove the splint within a fortnight.” To prove that he was fine, he descended the length of the penultimate curve, the sole of his boot clanking against each iron tread. “So, you’ve come here with your bride, then?”

  Before Croft could answer, Danvers strolled into the room. “I went to tell Montwood that we have guests, but he has disappeared again.”

  “He has a knack for doing that whenever I am around,” Croft said. “And in my opinion, he should keep to that habit.”

  Danvers laughed. “Strangely, you are not the first to have said that. Apparently, Montwood collects ill favor as one collects snuff boxes.” He walked over to the mahogany sideboard and poured a dram of Irish whiskey into each of three glasses. “But all in all, he isn’t a bad fellow.”

  Croft accepted a glass with a salute. “Perhaps you would think differently if he’d threatened to elope with your wife.”

  “Then I need never worry.” Danvers tossed a nod in Gabriel’s direction as he set the third glass on the oval table in front of the sofa. “Nor Everhart, I imagine.”

  “True,” Gabriel agreed, but the word came out dry, parched. He sensed a need for the fortifying drink but didn’t trust his good leg to hop down the final two steps and across the room to get it. Unfortunately, that was also where he’d left his cane.

  Croft tossed back his drink. “Gentlemen, my curiosity is piqued by your certainty.”

  “Some may call it an oath. While others . . . ” Danvers added as he returned to the sideboard, “might call it a wager.”

  “Do not tell me you’ve tossed your coin into the same pot against Montwood.” Croft shot to the heart of the matter quickly. When he looked from one man to the other, he shook his head and laughed. “For your sakes, I pray it was a small sum.”

  Danvers shrugged. “This is no card trick; therefore, no risk involved. It comes down to a choice of will or won’t.”

  The words were stated with such simplicity that it was impossible not to believe them.

  Croft shook his head again. “The same way you choose to take each breath, I suppose? I will breathe—I won’t . . . ”

  Gabriel swallowed. Hard.

  He knew precisely what Croft was saying. Gabriel had once felt so consumed by love that he’d had no choice in the matter. Or at least, that’s what he’d imagined at the time. Thankfully, he need not worry about being so foolish again. Croft’s interference had helped Gabriel come to that realization five years ago.

  They’d been at Vauxhall Gardens. Croft had accompanied his sister on an evening tour. Gabriel, Brightwell, and their small circle of friends were also among the party. When the fireworks distracted the group, Croft had pulled Gabriel aside, shielding them from the others. “You have wounded my sister, Everhart, and for that I could easily kill you,” he’d said in a lethal hiss. “If anyone harms my family, I repay them tenfold.”

  Gabriel remembered taking an involuntary step back. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

  “I am speaking of the letter. Yes, that letter.” And that was when Croft had taken him by the throat. “If you thought that omitting your signature would keep me from discovering your identity, you were mistaken. You encouraged her affections only to toy with them, the same way you’ve done to those other young women to whom you wrote. With what I know, I could have you arrested under charges of Unlawful Intent and Licentious Seduction of an Innocent. Upon conviction, they would burn a brand into your flesh that you would wear for the rest of your days. Do you want to bring utter humiliation to y
our father and grandmother? Is that what you choose?”

  “To make amends . . . I could marry her,” Gabriel had rasped, unable to swallow. Delirious, he clearly hadn’t known what he was saying. Essentially, he’d offered to exchange one form of death for another.

  “And have my sister married to a man who would so easily dally with her emotions? Never.” Croft had tightened his grip. “There will be no more letters. And you will not see my sister again.”

  Now, years later, Gabriel still felt the chill of the memory. Absently, he slipped a finger beneath his cravat. He tried to shake it off, but it was difficult when the man who knew his secret was standing here in the same room. “Speaking of marriage—yours, of course—you and your wife are welcome to break your journey here.”

  “If you will have us, I thank you,” Croft answered graciously. “The wheel of the carriage is in need of repair and may take a few hours.”

  Gabriel relaxed marginally. He need not worry that Calliope Croft had journeyed with them. In fact, the last he’d heard mentioned from Lady Brightwell’s mother was that the Crofts were traveling to Bath. Likely, all the Crofts but the one before him now were far, far away from Fallow Hall. And all the better for Gabriel.

  Feeling restored, he began to hop down the remaining stairs—

  “Though my sister is here as well,” Croft added offhandedly, placing his empty glass on a nearby table.

  Gabriel slipped. The heel of his boot missed the bottom tread and sent him reeling backward. Fortunately, with the stairs so steep, his fall was brief. Still, he hit the rigid iron treads soundly, knocking a grunt of pain from his lungs.

  Danvers stared at him in open-mouthed shock. Gabriel wasn’t usually clumsy, but one had to account for the broken leg. In the very least, Danvers could have offered assistance.

  In the end, it was Croft who came forth to lend a hand in a timely fashion. “Here. Allow me to assist you to the sofa.” He took Gabriel’s arm and placed it over his shoulder. Since they were primarily sparring partners—and with a sordid history—this degree of familiarity felt somewhat . . . awkward.

  Gabriel had known for some time that it was odd for him to spar with Croft, of all men. Yet in his own mind, he saw those weekly sessions—of letting Croft pummel him—as a penance of sorts.

  “Your stamina must be waning.” Croft issued one of his typical provoking remarks, reminding Gabriel where they stood. “Then again, you never could best me.”

  Gabriel wanted to taunt him in return but found himself shaken by the previous announcement. “Your sister, you say?” He cringed as the words came forth. This degree of obviousness was even worse than rhyming when he was drunk. He might as well have asked “Which one?” and listed them all by name.

  Still, there was a possibility that it wasn’t Calliope . . .

  Once they crossed the room, Croft released his arm and stepped away. “Yes. I believe you’ve met,” he said, as if for Danvers’s sake, “but it would have been years ago.”

  Croft was keen on torture, Gabriel realized. He resisted the urge to shout, DAMN IT ALL, JUST SAY HER NAME! Instead, he reached down for the glass on the table. “Ah, years ago? Then it would have been . . . ”

  “The eldest of my sisters, Calliope.” Croft slid a cold stare his way. A clear warning. “And speaking of her, I suppose it’s time to offer her a reprieve from our cousin’s illness. I’ll see you at dinner, gentlemen.” He moved to the door and then added one parting remark. “Although with Fallow Hall being such a grand estate, I imagine that it would be difficult for someone in your condition, Everhart, to wait upon his guests. Please do not trouble yourself. We would not be able to live with ourselves if you were left with a permanent mark or injury because of us.”

  Croft left, but his threat remained. Gabriel’s hand shook. Amber ripples disturbed the surface of the whiskey. Calliope was here at Fallow Hall? And not even twenty-four hours from the time of the wager. Clearly, the Fates were laughing at him.

  “I’ve never seen you flustered or known your wit to be absent,” Danvers said, watching him closely. Too closely. “Croft’s insult was an easy jab to counter, yet you said nothing. You seemed tongue-tied. And when you unknotted it, you were more concerned about . . . ” He paused, studying him. Gradually, one corner of his mouth lifted. “About the identity of his traveling companions. Hmm . . . You’ve gone pale, my friend, like a man haunted.”

  Gabriel knew that look, the I know you’re holding the trump’s ace look. He needed to put Danvers straight and erase the calculating gleam in his eyes. “Or like a man who’d imbibed too much the previous evening.”

  “Or perhaps”—his friend grinned—“like a man who is about to lose a great deal of money.”

  “You’re acting like Montwood. Greed is causing you to see things that are not true.” That austere tone had returned to his voice, nearly making him wince. “I never thought you would plot against me.”

  “I never thought you would make it so easy.” Danvers’s ribald laughter echoed off the walls as he moved to the door and quit the room.

  Gabriel blew out a breath. The arrival of their guests had taken him unawares. If he’d been prepared, he never would have revealed his cards to Danvers. Now, the only option left was to prove that he was completely unruffled. Since it was the same mask he wore each day, it would be easy to secure for a single evening.

  Then, by tomorrow, the Crofts would be gone and Gabriel’s ten thousand pounds—along with his life—would be safe once again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “A bite of bread, please, cousin,” Pamela said, her voice weak and frail. “I prefer it without the crust. Just a small piece, barely large enough to fit on my tongue. And if you could butter both sides, I’m certain I would be content.”

  Calliope reminded herself that she’d volunteered to keep her cousin company while the others were dining. She’d had no desire to sit across from Brightwell.

  So far, all she’d managed to accomplish in the past hour was to serve broth that was “a trifle too hot” at first, and when she blew on it, became “a trifle too cold.” The bread pieces near the center of the loaf were too moist and the outer part too dry. The wine was too sweet. The cheese too salty. The tart too crumbly.

  “Of course.” Calliope clenched her teeth in a smile. “For what is bread without butter?”

  Queen Pamela sat propped up against a mound of pillows draped in rose silk, the same color of ribbon woven through her pale tresses. All around her was designed for her comfort—a wine-colored velvet coverlet, matching brocade bed curtains tied to each corner post, sumptuous furs draped over her feet, mulled wine in a pewter goblet on a Pembroke table, a softly crackling fire in the hearth, and a portrait of fluffy white lambs frolicking on a hillside above the mantel.

  Still, Pamela was not content. Her next sigh proved as much. “It is unfortunate that the servant girl had to assist with dinner. I should like to hear more harp music. It relaxes me.”

  Calliope stiffened. A golden harp sat in the corner, and likely with tiny droplets of blood on the strings because of how long poor Nell had been asked to play. “As you know, I never learned. So in this one thing I cannot ease your burden,” Calliope said, producing a small laugh in order to keep censure from her tone. “Besides, the girl needs to rest at some point.”

  Her cousin sniffed. “I don’t see why. If I prefer her to remain here, the household staff should make allowances.”

  Incredulous, Calliope’s mouth fell open. She nearly dropped the tiny piece of bread before she had the chance to lay it on the spoon. “I’m certain not even the greatest houses keep harpists on hand.”

  “Then the world we live in is cruel, indeed,” Pamela whined. Then, blinking up at Calliope, she shook her head. “I am too distressed to eat another bite.”

  Calliope looked from her cousin to the miniature square of perfectly buttered bread. Irritation made her fingers tighten around the spoon handle. Turning, she placed the spoon on the tray—minus
the deliciously buttered bread. There was no point in letting it go to waste, not when servitude made her so hungry. “Then we shall have a nice visit instead. I could share with you news of our travels thus far.”

  “I should rest,” Pamela whispered, letting her eyelids droop. Any topic of conversation that did not revolve around her was usually too tiresome. “If I shan’t have a harpist, then nothing but dreams can comfort me now. Tomorrow, I shall tell you about my letter.”

  Calliope wasn’t interested in any letter that her cousin received. In fact, she was already looking forward to leaving at first light. “If only you could. Likely, we will be gone before you awaken.”

  “I’m certain it was one of those letters,” her cousin continued as if Calliope hadn’t spoken. “You remember, don’t you? They’d caused quite the scandal years ago, but I can’t think of the name. Cupid’s letters? No, that wasn’t it . . . ”

  Calliope’s heart stuttered to a halt.

  There was, perhaps, one letter that she was interested in reading. Could it be that her cousin had received a letter such as that?

  No. Surely, not. There hadn’t been any reported for years now. In fact, Calliope had thought the author had either died or married one of the other letter recipients. Secretly, she’d mourned for him for months, wearing only gray and lavender frocks.

  “The Casanova letters,” Calliope whispered, a tremor coursing through her.

  “Oh, yes. That’s what they were called.” Pamela lifted her arms, expecting Calliope to tuck the coverlet around her. “It is a pity that you are leaving so soon. The letter came as such a surprise too. I’m certain no other married woman has ever received one from him.”

  This was the first instance Calliope had heard of as well. Curious, more than she cared to admit, she was even willing to endure servitude in order to hear more.

  Leaning down, she situated the blankets over her cousin. “We could talk about the letter now. Or if you are too tired, perhaps you could direct me to it and I could . . . read the letter to you while you rest.”