The Sins of Lord Easterbrook Page 7

  He had never explained it. Not to her. Not to anyone. It was the sort of thing that sounded insane. For a long time, he had been sure it would eventually make him deranged. A man cannot live like that, invaded at every turn by instincts regarding others’ private selves. Worse, the temptation to use the curse to his own ends was almost unbearable, and he still occasionally succumbed.

  He tested himself as he walked, blocking the vague energies first with concentration on his thoughts, then with a rigorous pace that provided the peace found in sport.

  All of the strategies derived from the first, however. If he had never found the utter silence of the selfless center, he would have never known what to strive for in experiments that required less oblivion.

  His path eventually brought him to a fine house on the edge of Mayfair, near the park. Like many others it still showed the glow of lamps through its windows. London did not fall silent at night, and Mayfair during the season did not sleep until close to dawn.

  A footman escorted him to the library. The men assembled there looked over when he entered.

  A table of four went back to their game of cards. Christian walked over to another group occupied only with glasses of spirits.

  “What ho, Easterbrook. Did not think you would show this time. We are in need of a fourth tonight too. Been left with naught to do but drink and gossip until now.”

  Drink and gossip were the real purpose of these informal meetings, and games of whist mere filler, so the absence or presence of one or another person really did not matter.

  Christian had inherited this circle along with his title. An invitation to join them had come as soon as his father died. For generations, it was explained to him, Easterbrooks had been members of this very small, very private club.

  Six peers and four bishops comprised the circle, all with titles and sees among the oldest in the realm. The club's origins were shrouded in political plots so dangerous that each member was also known by one of the face cards in a playing deck, in the event secret communication were necessary.

  As Easterbrook, Christian was the King of Hearts. The bishops had taken the aces for themselves. Some times members still made use of those designations in their reference to each other, but the club's function now was mostly social.

  Mostly. They still swapped political favors. On a few rare occasions the members decided how to privately punish a peer for crimes that would be too embarrassing to the peerage if he were publicly tried in the House of Lords.

  “I rearranged my plans just for you, Denningham,” Christian said to the tawny-haired, corpulent man who greeted him. The Earl of Denningham was the only member of this club whom he occasionally saw outside these nights. He and Denningham had been friends at school, in part because Denningham was so amiable, so lacking in guile or ulterior motives, that his only emotions were the ones written on his face for all to see.

  “You have had a change of habit. Out and about quite a lot these days, or that is the on-dit. Would it have anything to do with the handsome woman seen with you yesterday in the park?” Rallingport said.

  Viscount Rallingport was a regular at these card parties and had been for five years, since he inherited his title. His attendance was so predictable that the meetings now took place in his home. He was basically a good man, just too fond of brandy.

  “Miss Montgomery is an old friend,” Christian said.

  “I wish my old friends looked like that. I am stuck with Meadowsun here, and he resembles an old apple.”

  Meadowsun did resemble an old apple. An older man, his face possessed a pattern of wrinkles much like fruit develops as it begins to dry. Since he was slight of build and sparse of hair, that face was really all one noticed about him.

  It would be easy for a person to dismiss frail, pale-eyed Meadowsun as inconsequential. That would be a mistake. He was a favored cleric in the Archbishop of Canterbury's court. He had the ear of one of the most powerful men in the realm, and through the archbishop exerted influence throughout the church and the House of Lords.

  In the oldest days the archbishop himself had attended these meetings, but for generations now archbishops had sent proxies. That proxy had been Meadowsun as long as Christian could remember.

  Meadowsun's sobriety lent little to the convivial mood in the library. He observed most nights, not participating. The necessity of discretion to his position meant Meadowsun buried his emotions so deeply below the surface that only bland indifference emanated from him in public.

  “Say, I spoke with the King of Spades today,” Rallingport said. He referred to the Duke of Ashford, a senior member of their group who rarely attended during the season. “He begged off tonight, but mentioned that he has heard from our friend in Kent. The fellow is most unhappy.”

  “Pity,” Christian said. Rallingport referred to the subject of one of their private judgments. The peer had been offered a choice between permanent house confinement in the country or ruinous scandal and insurmountable disgrace at a trial.

  “He was petitioning for relief. Wants to come up to town. Wants to be rid of that housekeeper he was given. Wants to have a party.”

  “That is not possible,” Christian said. “Not this season. Not next season. I would say not for twenty seasons to come.”

  “I expect so. Of course.”

  “It would displease the archbishop most grievously if your friend left his estate in Kent,” Meadowsun said blandly. “I will explain that to His Grace if you prefer not to.”

  “I did not say Ashford thought otherwise, did I? No need to explain anything, either of us.”

  “Denningham, you should write to our friend and recommend he find an interest to occupy his time,” Christian said. “Gardening, for example. You could share with him the restful delights that you enjoy in your horticultural experiments.”

  Denningham took the suggestion seriously. He nodded to reassure everyone that he would deal with the problem in Kent.

  Christian strolled over to the bookcases to choose a cigar from Rallingport's selection. Denningham followed to fetch one too.

  “So, how did you come to know Miss Montgomery? Not like you to cavort in public with a woman.” Denningham's grin was that of one young blood goading another, even though he had never qualified for the role even when of age to do so. “I see that you are also looking less barbaric these days. Her influence?”

  “It was only a ride through the park.”

  “Your first in memory. Everyone says you threw over Mrs. Napier too. Everyone is curious about your new interest. Lots of questions buzzing around.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Who is she, why is she here, what is her history with you. There are suggestions that she is other than she says, and here for purposes other than she claims.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “A lady of mystery, and there are those collecting the clues.”

  “Where did you hear all of this?”

  “Why, right here. Before you came.”

  “From whom?”

  Denningham lit his cigar and glanced at their company while he puffed. “Damned if I can remember. It was just there, before the cards started, the way talk is. How you were seen with this woman from China, and someone wondering who she is and what she is doing here, and in your company no less. That sort of talk. I can't really say who raised the matter.”

  But someone had. Here, among the men who probably knew him as well as any men other than his brothers. It might have just been talk. The speculations about Leona were probably just curiosity.

  Christian took his place at the table across from Denningham. To his right sat Meadowsun the Obscure.

  That evened things out. Denningham's cards might as well be printed on his face, after all. Whatever advantage Christian had with the fourth person at the table was balanced by the advantage that both of his opponents had with his partner.

  Dear Readers,

  Allow me to introduce myself. I am the daughter of three countries. My mother was P
ortuguese and my father was English, but I have lived my life in China.

  Leona read her salutation three times before deciding it would do. She dipped her pen.

  She spent a half hour describing Macao. She visited her home in her mind while she wrote about the white houses rising in terraces and the promenade along the quay. Giving an accurate picture of the Cathedral of St. Paul and the famous Camoen's Cave required some thought.

  She turned to the residents, the Chinese who comprised half the population, and the Portuguese families with their women so often garbed in black. She introduced the English, who included eccentrics like Mr. Beale who had an aviary in his gardens, and dozens of caged birds on his veranda. She ended with a glimpse of the walls of Canton.

  She paused. This would be her first of several letters, if published. This introduction would be sufficient. She should finish now with the promise of what would come in later essays.

  And yet—

  She dipped her pen.

  I look forward to describing this exotic land to you. Its rituals and beauty are of great interest. However, I also must tell you of matters less colorful and more serious. For great evil lurks in the waters around China, evil that the currents of time and trade will inevitably bring to your shores.

  She hesitated. It might be wiser to avoid announcing her interest in this subject. However, exposing this evil was one of the reasons she had come to England. Nor was it a purpose apart from her desire to aid her brother, but intimately entwined with it.

  Fate had handed her an unexpected opportunity in Lady Phaedra's request for these letters. Her father had always said to be alert to such moments and to make the most of them.

  She dipped her pen and jotted two more paragraphs. Satisfied, she brought her letter to a close.

  Let another correspondent restrict herself to stories about dress and manners. I promise you all of that, but also mystery and intrigue and secrets that are not even heard in your Parliament. I promise you both the exotic beauty and the terrible sorrow that is China today.

  She set down her pen just as Isabella entered the library, carrying a stack of letters. “The mail has grown today.”

  Leona broke some seals. Easterbrook had been correct. Invitations were arriving already. She would have to exercise more judgment than she possessed in deciding which to accept.

  Isabella could not read English, but she understood the contents well enough. “Do we sell some jade now?”

  Leona made some quick calculations. Her current wardrobe would not last through many of these events before looking tired. “I suppose that we must. Tell Tong Wei to see what offers he can get. This evening you and I will look through the trunk of silk that we brought with us too, and choose some fabric for dinner dresses and ball gowns.”

  That afternoon Leona sat in Lady Phaedra's drawing room while her hostess read her letter to the journal readers. There were smiles during the first half, but a deep frown formed over the second.

  “You did say that I should write about matters of importance too,” Leona said.

  “You took me at my word, I see.”

  “If it is too important, I could—”

  “You will not change it. It is not what I expected, but it is compelling. Do you have the next one written yet?”

  “I did not know if you would want a next one.”

  Lady Phaedra laid the page on her lap. It glowed there in sharp contrast against the black garment on which it rested. If Lady Phaedra had appeared odd in the park, she looked theatrically so today, with her black dress and flowing red hair and no jewelry or adornments.

  Leona occupied herself admiring the drawing room. The furnishings comprised an odd mix of styles, but each item was exquisitely crafted in its own right. The combination of surfaces, colors, and textures created a vaguely exotic total that appeared more sumptuous than any particular item warranted.

  “Does Easterbrook know that you wrote this, and plan more?” Lady Phaedra asked, her brow still furrowed over the paper.

  “Why would I inform him of it?”

  She received a sharp glance in response, then Lady Phaedra folded the letter. “My journal will be titled Minerva's Banquet. It would be appropriate if, among the fruits and sweets, there were a serving of meat. I will publish this, but only if you promise three more letters in a similar mode.”

  She offered a modest sum for the letters. Leona was accepting when a footman arrived, bearing a card.

  Lady Phaedra examined it. Her eyebrows rose. “Surely he wants my husband,” she said to the footman.

  “He does, Madam. Lord Elliot, however, asks that you receive the visitor while he completes a letter that he is writing.”

  Lady Phaedra told the footman to bring the visitor. She handed Leona the letter. “Tuck this into your reticule for now.”

  The reason for doing so entered the room.

  “You honor us, Easterbrook,” Lady Phaedra greeted. “Another daytime excursion, and to call on our humble abode no less. Society will not know what to make of it. I do not believe you have experienced so much sunlight in years.”

  Easterbrook accepted her tease with smooth grace. “You are incorrect. My chambers do not block out the light. They are awash in it. Miss Montgomery, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

  He turned his attention to the chamber, examining its furnishings with curiosity. “I see that you are settled in.”

  “It has been six months, Easterbrook. I hope even a woman bad at settling in could manage it in that time. However, it was generous of you to wait to call until I was able to prepare for your visit. Permit me to have refreshment brought for you.”

  “There is no need. I came to see Elliot, but he is occupied and threw me off on you.” He pierced them both with a sharp gaze that gave lie to his casual, distracted manner. “I sense that I have interrupted something, however.”

  He strolled toward them, his attention focused on Lady Phaedra. Her amusement took on a sardonic edge while she faced him down.

  “Phaedra, you would not be leading Miss Montgomery astray, would you? Involving her in some scheme that will bring her no credit?”

  “I am incapable of leading any woman astray. Nor is Miss Montgomery a child who requires your interference.”

  “Lady Phaedra is hardly leading me astray. Quite the opposite. I came here to ask her advice on which invitations to accept. She was so friendly in the park that I felt confident she would aid me.”

  “I said that I would be happy to give that aid,” he said.

  “I thought that a woman would understand nuances that a man might not.”

  “Phaedra does not often deign to partake of the society you seek to frequent, so her advice cannot be relied upon. You might spend the next month in the company of fools who waste your time.”

  “Since you do not partake of this society either, and are my only other friend in London, I must be left to my own judgment then.”

  “Perhaps two flawed opinions can together aid you better than one alone,” Lady Phaedra said. “Easterbrook will not mind joining his to mine, for whatever they are worth in sum. Will you, Easterbrook?”

  For the next half hour Leona named names and Easterbrook opined on who was a fool worth knowing and who was a fool unworthy of her time. On several occasions he pointedly said she must attend a particular ball or party.

  For the most part Lady Phaedra agreed with his assessments. Leona did not know if their combined intelligence had just mapped a true path for her, or if their combined ignorance would send her to wander in circles.

  Lord Elliot entered just as they finished. With the skill of a practiced courtier, he permitted a little more conversation, then removed his brother to the library.

  As soon as the door had closed on the gentlemen, Lady Phaedra held out her hand for the letter. “Easterbrook has this unnerving ability to know when people are dissembling, and we raised his curiosity. Lest he decide that I am indeed leading you astray, and find a way to interfere, you
had better write your other letters as quickly as possible.”

  “How could he interfere?”

  “I think he has his ways when he chooses to use them. It is always a mistake to underestimate that man, or to forget that he is Easterbrook.”

  “Your home is very pleasant. Airy.” Christian offered the compliment as Elliot closed the library door.

  “I find it odd that you chose today of all days to investigate just how pleasant it might be. There have been invitations aplenty that were not accepted.”

  “I do not mind your attempts to draw me out, Elliot. But I do not have to cooperate with them either.”

  Elliot accepted the fairness of that. “So what finally did draw you out?”

  “I have been contemplating something, and realized that I should consult with you.”

  “You are full of surprises today. Are you saying that you would like my advice?”

  “I feel obliged to discuss this matter with you because it bears upon you. If you are compelled to offer advice, I have no choice but to hear it.”

  Elliot made himself comfortable on one of the library's pale blue sofas. “You have my attention.”

  He certainly did. Elliot's great gift was an ability to concentrate without losing hold of reality. No doubt that accounted for his success with those history books he wrote. And also for an evenness of temperament that suggested he had escaped the worst of the bad blood coursing through the Rothwell veins.

  “Elliot, I find myself wondering if you have any expectations of one day having the title.”

  Elliot's amazement filled the library. “You wonder about the oddest things, Christian. Of course I have no such expectations. Third sons never do.”

  There was no dissembling in that astonishment. No guile or secret resentment. “I am relieved to hear it. Once Hayden's son is born, the line will bypass you, of course. My anticipation of that happy event was clouded this morning by the thought you might not share the joy.”

  Elliot peered over, perplexed. “It may not be a son. I trust that you will still find joy if it is not.”

  “Of course, but it will be a son.”