My Kind of Earl Read online

He growled at her smug expression. “Listen to me carefully, Jane. I have no desire to become a new project to research, like your primer. It may start off with a bird in a book. But I know where it will lead. You’ll get it in your head to discover what it must have been like to grow up an orphan in the Dials, and put yourself in another precarious predicament.”

  At first, she took umbrage to this presumption, imagining that he thought she was an idiot. But then she saw a shadow flicker beneath his heavy brow and high cheekbones, his features set with firm resolve. An uncanny light seemed to shine from within his gaze, burning white-hot in the icy depths with warning, and yet, something about it warmed her.

  “Are you actually . . . concerned for my welfare?”

  He issued a low, gruff grunt through his nostrils and turned back to the books, thumbing through them absently. “I’d be more worried about the rogues of St. Giles coming to my doorstep and blaming me for unleashing a bluestocking plague upon them.”

  She nodded, easily accepting his truth. After all, she’d already theorized the true reason he’d come here and it wasn’t because of her. He was interested in information about the mark, even if he refused to admit it.

  Seeing him pause on a page she’d marked with a slender red ribbon, she moved beside him and pointed to the illustration. “I thought, perhaps, the bird might have resembled a cormorant instead. The wings are similar, you see.”

  “Mmm . . .” he murmured in agreement. “But the bill is wrong.”

  “Precisely. Yours is rather like”—she drew an invisible arc over the book’s depiction—“that.”

  “No, it’s more like this,” he said, covering her hand with his, guiding her fingertip.

  “I beg to differ, but it’s like . . . this . . .”

  It was only when the roughened pad of his index finger glided with tingling friction along the length of hers that she realized they were essentially holding hands. Miss Churchouse would be scandalized. And they were standing quite close, too. Close enough that, if she were to tip back on her heels, her head would rest against his shoulder, and the superfluous cushion of her buttocks would brush his thigh.

  Her skin contracted at the realization, drawing tight beneath her clothes. But she made no move to stand apart from him. She lingered instead and listened to his steady, even respiration and felt the instant that her own lungs assimilated to his rhythm without conscious effort.

  A strange development in her own physiology, indeed. A current seemed to flow between them as if they were both holding the coil of a Volta battery.

  Infinitesimal seconds passed. She studied their fasted hands—his nails trimmed nearly to the quick, the skeletal rise of scarred knuckles beneath tanned flesh, and a dusting of dark hair peeking out from beneath his cuff. His manus was a fascinating combination of elegance and strength and savagery, much like the man himself.

  “How does that memory of yours work, exactly? What did you call it . . . nee—”

  “Mnemonic sketchbook,” she said distractedly, rambling on as his finger continued an analysis of her digits. “And I’m not entirely certain. When I was much younger, I used to imagine a tiny artist standing at a paint-spattered easel on the front portico of my brain. Then an army of bespectacled clerks would take each page and file them away in an endlessly cluttered cabinet that has never been sorted to this day. Regrettably, the process frequently keeps me from recalling information precisely when I need it.”

  “Mmm,” he murmured low and deep, as if it made perfect sense to him.

  Strangely, she wasn’t sure what she’d just said. It was all a blur. And it only became worse when he turned her to face him with a tug of her fingertips. Lifting her hand, he examined the lines of her palm, the pad of his finger tracing tingling paths along each shallow trench.

  “Such soft little hands,” he said. “I should think you’d want to wear gloves to protect them. And yet, I noticed that you were only wearing one earlier. I have to wonder where the other might have gotten to.”

  A ragged breath stumbled out of her as her mind conjured the image of her lost glove dangling scandalously from the statue’s appendage. And when she looked up at Raven to see a glint in his eyes, she felt a flush of embarrassment rise to her cheeks.

  There was no way he could know . . . Could he?

  Before she responded with a declaration of innocence, a familiar crash and cheer rumbled through the house from the direction of the north wing.

  Raven glanced toward the door. “What was that?”

  “The twins trying out the toboggans on the stairs,” she said, furtively slipping free. She stepped over to the little stove, busying herself as she waited for her blush to ebb. “For the past fortnight, they’ve scrambled out of bed at dawn to see who can fly faster. We have a tradition to race down the hill toward the canal every Christmas, and the winner always earns the right to keep the family trophy at their bedside. The boys like to practice when they feel the first nip in the air. But don’t worry, it will be over the instant that Mrs. Rice heralds her trumpet and orders them back to the nursery to breakfast on porridge.”

  Just then a rather pathetic bleat of a trumpet sounded, followed by a more robust call to arms.

  Jane nodded toward the hall. “See?”

  He came to her side, his brow furrowed as he looked to the arched corridor. “Is it always like this?”

  “Of course not. It’s usually much worse. When Theodore, Graham and Henry are home from school, those devil-may-care lads actually rattle the windows. Admittedly, Henry has become more sedate in recent years. Though, my nine-year-old sister Phillipa, has taken up the reins he left behind. Fair warning, if you happen to hear someone shout ‘take your marks, get set, go’ be fully prepared to glue yourself to the wall and wait until the blur dashes by. She is forever challenging our brothers to races and besting them every time.”

  “And what do your parents have to say about all this?”

  She shrugged. “They pass through the halls and, if they happen to notice something amiss, summon the servants.”

  “And what do the servants do?”

  “Come to me. Then I see to the children and sort things out. Oh, you needn’t look so surprised. It is a method that has proven successful for years, ever since I was Phillipa’s age.”

  He was quiet for a moment, considering. “What will happen when you marry?”

  It was kind of him to say when and not if, she thought as she busied herself by adding a splash of tea to her waiting cup.

  “My husband and I will live here and look after my siblings,” she said. “Of course, that is easier said than done. Thus far, I haven’t met anyone who wants to return to my house after the first visit, let alone one who is eager to bestow his heart and soul to me.”

  “Heart and soul, hmm? Is that all you want?”

  “It is all I demand,” she clarified after a sip and primly dabbed a bead of moisture from the corner of her mouth. “There has to be something more to marriage than procreation and the exchange of capital. The future readers of my book will want to know how to find love.”

  He issued a grunt of disappointment. “I thought you were more levelheaded, Jane. How about I save you loads of wasted time by telling you that a heart is just a blood-pumper? That’s all it does. As for a soul . . . well, I wouldn’t know. If I ever had one, I’m sure it has shriveled to dust by now. Trust me, you’d be better off keeping to your scientific theories and leave the romantic delusions to the poets.”

  “I find it hard to believe that a man who has read Romeo and Juliet does not believe in love.”

  “I’ve never seen actual evidence of it. Have you?”

  His accusatory tone put her on the defensive. “Perhaps if you spent more time away from a brothel you might have done.”

  He jerked his chin up and a smirk bracketed his mouth. “But I’m not the one writing a book on it. Aren’t you supposed to prove it?”

  “I plan to,” she said crisply. “In fact, I’ve alr
eady created a hypothesis regarding the emotion. I compare it to a skill one possesses, much like a head for mathematics. You either have the ability, or you do not. After all, there are those who go their entire lives with never having fallen in love or”—she paused to swallow down a slight catch in her voice—“having been loved in return.”

  It was her greatest fear that she would be one of those people.

  He stared at her, his gaze far too probing for her liking.

  She shifted from one foot to the other, holding her teacup in front of her like a shield and feeling as though he could see directly through her. She might as well have proclaimed herself unlovable right then and there.

  Mortified, she turned back to the books and continued in haste. “In order to prove any scientific theory, one builds up from the bottom. Knowing what love is not, aids in defining what it is. Much like your birthmark.”

  “Also another pointless quest,” Raven said, but his tone was gentler now.

  She didn’t want his pity. Needing to resume a less embarrassing topic, she set the teacup down and tapped her index finger against a stack. “In this pile, we’ve already established what it doesn’t look like. It’s simply too detailed and upraised to resemble one of these drawings. In fact, it’s like a scar that has healed over time.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed, the return of his mocking tone driving away her momentary discomfiture. “Do you actually think that someone carved into my infant flesh to brand me?”

  “Well, not when you say it like that. It would be cruel to consider. All I know is that it is no ordinary birthmark. In fact, it’s quite out of . . . the ordinary.” She gasped as a fresh new thought sparked to life. “Yes, of course!”

  She turned away from the table and went to the library cart, shuffling through the contents in a haphazard fashion.

  “And what has brought on your sudden excitement?” he asked, peering over her shoulder.

  “I’ll tell you in a minute as soon as I’ve—ah ha! Here it is.” She held up the hefty book with triumph. “This is a book of ordinaries, a heraldry of family crests.”

  Her finger skimmed quickly through the index. Finding the page number, she riffled over the cut edges until she found her place. Then she went back to the trestle table and spread open the book.

  There were a dozen crests on either side, but only one that stood out from the rest. His mark. Her breath caught the instant she spotted it and, behind her, a strained hush settled over Raven like a breaking wave suddenly withdrawing from the shore.

  The image was nearly identical to the supposed birthmark on his shoulder. The only alteration was the arrow and laurel branch in the raven’s talons.

  She knew they both saw it, but she laid her finger beneath the drawing and the surname of Northcott, regardless. While she wasn’t familiar with the family, she also knew that it was only a matter of looking through the right book. Debrett’s would have it, to be sure.

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” he said after a minute, every syllable drawn tight as if gathering momentum for an argument.

  “Prove? Perhaps not,” she said logically. “However, it is clearly something worth investigating further. Something that possibly links you to this Northcott family.”

  He turned his hard glare from the page to her and growled in warning. “Why are you bent on disrupting my life, turning everything upside down? For your own amusement?”

  Stung, she straightened every vertebra in her spine. “Because everyone deserves a chance at a family!”

  “Even if I don’t want one?”

  “You may have a sister out there who is alone, or a little brother who needs guidance. Would you really turn your back on them? Leave them feeling as if they didn’t matter?”

  She was breathing hard now, her question reverberating in pings that bounced against the glass overhead. It was only then that she realized she’d raised her voice. Her throat was somewhat raw. Her heart and lungs felt raw, too.

  He didn’t respond, but a pair of inscrutable eyes assessed her in the tense silence. She might as well have been standing before him, garbed in the gauzy Grecian robes of those cyprians.

  Embarrassed by how much she’d just revealed, again, she said, “I fear it’s been a rather long night, and my passions have gotten the better of me. I’m not usually so sentimental.”

  His brow quirked in doubt, and the grim line of his mouth softened. But whatever Raven’s thoughts were, they would remain a mystery.

  Mr. Miggins cleared his throat from the doorway. “The children are ready to begin their lessons, miss. Will the gentleman be joining you?”

  “I don’t believe so, Mr. Miggins. This gentleman was an unfortunate casualty in one of my experiments and he only dropped by to—”

  “She turned me pink,” Raven interrupted with a dubious grin. “But she set me back to rights.”

  “Miss Pickerington always manages to find a way,” the butler said, his monotone never revealing his unfortunate high degree of firsthand knowledge.

  “As I was saying,” Jane added. “Raven will be leaving us shortly. However, if he should choose to stay, he is welcome to look over our copy of Debrett’s Peerage. I believe it can be found in the library.”

  “Very good, miss,” Mr. Miggins said with a bow before he withdrew.

  Turning her attention back to Raven, she said, “I mean it. You are welcome. However, I have a feeling that this really is the last we’ll be seeing of each other. You’ve made it perfectly clear that you like your life just the way it is. So, I shall desist making a nuisance of myself and keep whatever findings I discover far from your doorstep.”

  “You’re not still going to—” He broke off on a curse, raking a hand through the inky layers of his hair. Then he expelled a lengthy sigh as if he finally realized the futility of asking her to stop her quest. “It doesn’t matter what I say. You’re too stubborn to listen.”

  “I prefer tenacious,” she said with a grin and held out her hand. It wasn’t her practice to bid farewell in such a manner. A nod of the head usually sufficed. But some inner mechanism had lifted her arm beyond conscious understanding.

  The answer came to her the instant he enfolded her hand in his grasp, securing her palm to his. Her skin reacted to the touch, tingling as the caress of his fingers teased warmth into her blood. Then her brain and heart and stomach all spun together in a single revolution. The force of it caused her body to sway ever so slightly, listing forward on the balls of her feet.

  Raven stepped closer, steadying her with his other hand over the small, rounded curve of her shoulder. “At least promise me you’ll get some rest.”

  “I will,” she said, feeling strangely tipsy all of a sudden. “I have a particularly cozy chaise longue in the corner behind those palms. It has proven to be the perfect spot for a nap while the children are in the garden. Many brilliant ideas have come to me there. It is also an excellent place for mulling things over and . . . reading books on the peerage.”

  Slowly, he released her and withdrew a step. “I’m years ahead of you at mulling.”

  “I understand,” she said, prepared to walk him to the door.

  But just then a small bouncing giggle interrupted from the corridor and she turned to see a naked, curly-headed two-year-old toddling toward her with his arms outstretched. “Janejanejanejanejane . . .”

  Leaving Raven, she scooped up her brother, his plump, fuzzy bottom resting on the underside of her arm. “Peter, whatever are you doing out of the nursery, and where are your clothes?”

  “Blocks,” he said with simple gravity.

  “As you can see,” she said to Raven, “Peter is our philosopher. He just imparted the meaning of life in a single word.”

  “A lesson I shall remember always. Play blocks with Jane and never wear clothes.”

  She pressed her lips together to hold back a laugh. The man was such a scoundrel, even now. “Peter, this is Raven. Can you bid him a good morning?”

>   In response, her brother timidly buried his face in her shoulder. “Bird.”

  “And a good morning to you, as well, Peter,” Raven said with a bow.

  Peter giggled and lifted his head. “Bird. Book.”

  “Hmm . . .” Jane said with an arched look down to the cart. “My brother is very wise. Not only is he expressing his mastery of all words beginning with the letter b, but he’s telling you to look through that book before you leave.”

  “Well, Peter, I’m afraid I have to go.”

  “Blocks,” Peter said with an understanding nod.

  “Yes, you’re quite right. I must go to my own house to play with my own blocks and sadly,” he said, shifting his gaze to her, “without Jane.”

  She drew in a breath, tasting the staleness of finality in the air on the back of her tongue. It was bittersweet. There was nothing more she could do to persuade him. It was his life, after all. And yet, part of her wished she could change his mind.

  Keeping that thought close to her breast, she inclined her head and committed this moment to memory. Then she turned and left the conservatory.

  Chapter 10

  The blast of a gunshot jolted Raven awake.

  He bolted upright, a rush of blood roaring in his ears, pounding hard in his chest. His lungs heaved like an overworked bellows. Looking around, he half expected to see the crimson-stained stones of the wharf. To taste copper on his tongue. To hear the slap of water against ship hulls and the gulls screaming overhead.

  But he wasn’t by the docks at all. That had been three years ago. He had the puckered scar on his side to prove it.

  Instead, he was in some sort of wilderness, surrounded by trees and climbing vines and the rapid shuffle of footsteps nearby.

  “Set that one there, thank you,” he heard someone say and the familiar feminine voice brought him to full awareness.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face to clear away the drowsy haze, realizing where he was—in a jungle conservatory in Westbourne Green. With Jane.

  To be fair, he’d never intended to linger. He’d been on his way out the door and ready to put this futility and madness behind him. Then curiosity had got the better of him.