Taking the Earl (Heiress Games Book 3) Read online

  Titus wasn’t his servant, and he wasn’t subservient; they’d reunited five years earlier, when Max was twenty-three and Titus was nineteen, and the intervening years had meant that Titus no longer deferred to Max as a younger brother might. But then, Max never asked him to.

  In this case, though, Titus seemed to recognize that he would be better served by staying quiet. He nodded. “Let’s ride on — you need more practice even if you aren’t going to be an earl.”

  They nudged their mounts into a trot, then a canter, then a gallop. By the time they’d exercised the horses, a half hour had gone by — mostly without talk. But on their way back to the stables, Max reined in again. “Have you learned anything yet?”

  “Anything other than how I shouldn’t have let you piss off your riding lessons in London?”

  “When we’re done with this job, you can give me riding lessons and I’ll give you grammar lessons,” Max said. “What’s your report?”

  Titus looked toward Maidenstone Abbey. In bright sunshine, the place already looked like something out of a daydream — but with that day’s overcast skies, the Gothic spire seemed vaguely menacing. Formal gardens stretched out around the house, and the effect was pretty enough — but it was also a proclamation of power, cultivated over generations.

  They were both silent for a moment. Max didn’t know if Titus shared his thoughts — maybe Titus was thinking about forgeries, or horses, or women. But the silence felt powerful, too — as though neither of them could quite bring themselves to speak of plots against Maidenstone when Maidenstone seemed to watch them.

  It was superstition. It had to be.

  Titus shifted in his saddle. “I haven’t talked to everyone — grooms, mostly. The visiting grooms are bored stiff. Some of the gents go riding, but they mostly spend their time drinking through the earl’s wine cellar. The ladies ride, too, but not all that often. And the earl’s stables didn’t have much in the way of horseflesh before the guests arrived. The guests haven’t added a lot of horses either — mostly carriage horses, not riding stock.”

  “We’re not here to steal horses,” Max interjected.

  Titus rolled his eyes. “Horses tell you more than you might think, all-knowing one. Namely, who has money and who’s pretending to have it.”

  “And what’s your estimation of that?”

  “Not good,” Titus said flatly. “Which is not to say they won’t have jewels and other things we might walk away with. But most of the guests are here because they are desperate for the chance to win Maidenstone Abbey. They’re not the richest people in the land.”

  “Maidenstone surely holds enough treasures even without raiding the guests’ rooms.”

  A bit of wind gusted around them as he said that, and Max pulled his hat lower over his eyes. Titus looked at the house again. “I hope so. Would be a shame if all those documents I forged came out to nothing.”

  It would be more than a shame — it would be a death knell for their hopes of escaping England. They’d have to run without any money to support them, which meant finding a new city where they could blend in and start thieving immediately. And that, Max knew, wasn’t so simple.

  “What do the local servants say?” Max asked.

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Titus said. He rubbed the back of his neck absently, frowning as he continued to watch the house. “They don’t say anything at all.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Oh, they’ll say they’re pleased to meet you, etc., etc. Nice enough, I suppose. But they won’t say a word about Miss Briarley or Lady Maidenstone. They won’t say much about the previous earls, either, although they’re happy to talk about how bloodthirsty the first Briarleys were. Seems like the whole neighborhood wishes that the Briarleys would go back to murdering each other — must have been entertaining, if you weren’t caught in the middle of it.”

  It had been the same when they were reconnoitering before their official arrival at Maidenstone. Exeter was far enough from Maidenstone that people there were willing to talk about it, but none of them had relevant stories. But as they got closer to Maidenstone, they hadn’t found anyone at all who would tell them about the Briarleys.

  He’d attributed it to bad luck earlier — but if all the servants at Maidenstone were that tight-lipped, there was something strange at work.

  “What are they hiding?” he asked.

  It was mostly rhetorical — he didn’t expect Titus to have an answer. Titus shrugged. “Can’t say. I’ll keep digging. There’s a scullery maid who looks like she might want some passing amusement from a London groom. Maybe she’ll whisper secrets in my ear along with sweet nothings.”

  Max snorted. “Careful if you start talking about jewels around her — she might think you intend to marry her.”

  “I’m not the one who stumbled into a secret engagement,” Titus said smugly. “But I agree that they must be hiding something. No servants are this discreet, no matter what their masters would like to believe about their loyalty.”

  Max nodded. Servants were often loyal, to a degree — but gossip usually won out over discretion. Titus should have already found half a dozen servants who were eager to trade stories for ale.

  They rode toward the stables. Max needed to prepare himself for the day ahead — and for the meeting with the Duke of Rothwell that would settle whether they could stay for another few days or whether it would be better to escape immediately.

  But it wasn’t Rothwell he was thinking about, even though it would have been smarter to focus on that foe first. Lucy kept strolling, unbidden, into his thoughts.

  She was beautiful. She was direct. She knew what she wanted. And for some reason, she’d decided that he was what she needed.

  She couldn’t think that he was actually her best chance of inheriting Maidenstone. Marrying a total stranger, especially one whom she believed to be a charlatan, made no sense at all. And whatever Lucy’s faults were, he doubted that she was a nonsensical woman.

  Which meant, of course, that she was hiding something. Titus’s reports only confirmed it.

  He shouldn’t care. He should steal the jewels and leave. But he needed to get close enough to her to find out where the jewels were — and if he was going to get that close, he needed to ensure that her secrets wouldn’t impact his mission.

  So that left only one option.

  “We have to learn what is really going on here,” Max said.

  “I can ask some more questions,” Titus said.

  “No — I think the local servants will be suspicious if you ask too many questions. Start with the scullery maid and see if she volunteers anything. But otherwise, focus on finding out whatever you can about the other attendees at the party and whether they have anything we might want.”

  “And what will you do?” Titus asked. “Plan your nuptials?”

  Max threw him a look. “No nuptials. But I think it’s time to find out what my fiancée is hiding from me.”

  Chapter Seven

  Lucy hadn’t been to her grandfather’s study in months, but, as she walked inside, a single breath was enough to blossom into memories.

  Expensive beeswax candles. Smoke. Claret. Newsprint and ink. She didn’t believe that her grandfather haunted Maidenstone, but for a moment it felt like he was there with her — ready to manage his empire from behind the desk or bounce Julia on his knee.

  Claxton had already brought the tea cart and left it near the fireplace for her to arrange. The study was far enough away from the main entertaining rooms that her morning meeting with Max and Ferguson was unlikely to be interrupted. But she regretted her choice as the scents and her memories flooded her.

  What would her grandfather think of Max? Would he be happy that she was taking a risk, as he’d ordered her to? Or would he be furious that she was considering giving his title to an interloper?

  She shook her head. Her grandfather’s feelings on the matter weren’t relevant anymore. The Briarleys had always prioritized the needs of
the living over the sensibilities of the dead. And her most pressing need was for Max to accept their engagement.

  She didn’t hear Max enter until he spoke. “Miss Briarley,” he said from the door. “May I interrupt your contemplation?”

  Lucy turned. The doorway framed him, and the light from the uncovered windows illuminated him better than the lone lamp in his room the previous night. She was struck, again, with how confident he appeared. If he had spent the night lying awake and remembering their kiss, as she had, it didn’t show on his face.

  She hoped her own face gave nothing away.

  There was power in the width of his stance and the steady, direct way he met her gaze. His lips curved a little in greeting — perhaps hinting at the secret that sat between them, and that too-short kiss.

  “You’re not interrupting,” she said, a little too quickly. “This is the time we agreed to.”

  He opened his watch and checked it against the clock on the mantel. “Three minutes and twenty-eight seconds to walk here from my room,” he said. “I could walk a few streets in London in less time.”

  Lucy laughed. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a long journey through the house. Would you care for tea to refresh yourself?”

  “If it pleases you.”

  He moved into the room, placing a leather case on the desk before taking an interest in the paintings and hunting trophies that lined her grandfather’s walls. Meanwhile, she unlocked the tea caddy with one of the keys from the chatelaine she kept on a chain at her waist. The collection of keys, along with useful items like a pair of scissors, a vinaigrette, and a thimble, proclaimed that she was in command, at least of the domestic affairs. She’d only worn the chatelaine sporadically since her guests had arrived — Emma had suggested that Lucy leave it off. In theory, Lucy would be less intimidating if she looked more like an innocent debutante.

  It was no great mystery to her why she chose to wear it today. She always felt more confident when the objects — mostly gold and silver, although the oldest keys were iron and brass — jangled pleasantly at her side. They reminded her that she could open any door and fix any problem, at least as long as she stayed at Maidenstone.

  If she didn’t win, someone else would wear the chatelaine. She would have to leave it somewhere for her successor — she couldn’t bear the thought of putting it into Octavia’s or Callista’s hands herself.

  She readied the tea leaves and hot water before placing the lid on the teapot so the leaves could steep. Then she looked up. Max was watching. She couldn’t read the expression on his face.

  “You’re quiet this morning,” she said.

  He quirked an eyebrow. “How do you know that I’m not always this quiet?”

  “You weren’t this quiet when you arrived.”

  “It’s all a lot to take in, you know.” His accent was curiously indistinct — London-based, most definitely. He seemed to veer, unconsciously, between the tonier accents of Mayfair and the cant of the East End and the docks.

  And yet he stood there, attempting to claim an earldom, like he had not a care in the world.

  The audacity of it struck her again. She didn’t particularly care whether his claim was real — she’d make him the earl regardless of the facts, as long as he let her stay at Maidenstone.

  Still, she knew virtually nothing about him. It might be wise to understand something of why he’d decided to claim the title.

  “Why didn’t you make your identity known while my grandfather was alive?” she asked abruptly.

  He laughed. “I thought the questions wouldn’t start until the Duke of Rothwell arrived. Shall I answer even though he will surely ask the same question again?”

  “Give me your real answer. You can tell Ferguson whatever you want.”

  “You don’t like Ferguson very much, do you?”

  She glanced toward the open door. “That’s not an advisable avenue of conversation, especially since he’ll be here at any moment.”

  He laughed again — warmer this time. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

  “Forgive me if I’m not convinced.”

  She couldn’t help being direct with him. He didn’t seem to mind it. If anything, his lips curled in a grin that might have been approval. “Your lack of trust would serve you well on the London streets. I didn’t know country misses were trained so well.”

  “I had my season in London. You might be surprised to know that ballrooms aren’t so different from taprooms when it comes to learning not to trust people.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me at all,” he said. “Although I would be very surprised to find you in a taproom near the docks. Someday, you’ll have to tell me how you liked London.”

  It was odd, and rather unsettling, to talk to a man who had been a stranger a mere eighteen hours earlier — and to know that, if her plans worked, there would be endless “somedays” for them to learn more about each other. London was usually a safe topic of discussion, the kind of desultory conversation that most people in society performed flawlessly.

  But the choices she’d made in London weren’t at all safe — neither safe at the time, nor safe to discuss now.

  She would have to tell him about Julia eventually.

  Not today, though. She checked the tea. It was still weaker than she liked it, but she needed something to do with her hands. “Do you take milk, sugar, or lemon?” she asked.

  “Sugar, when I can afford it,” he said. “Lemon is an extravagance reserved for earls, and I’m not the earl yet.”

  “You’re too polite,” she said, dropping a lump of sugar into his cup. “The rest of the guests here haven’t hesitated to eat and drink everything in sight.”

  “I’ve learned to be frugal with what will be mine.”

  Their hands brushed as he took the cup from her. It was the merest touch of his thumb, barely grazing her skin — but it was enough to remind her of the night before and how he’d held her hand. How he’d pulled her in and kissed her to seal the bargain between them.

  She should have spent the night planning how to get him to commit to her. But she’d relived that kiss instead, more than once. She wanted to feel his lips on hers — to let herself enjoy it this time, instead of giving in to the fear that she was making a mistake.

  She glanced up into his eyes again. And again, she couldn’t read him. The question — the too bold, too direct question — of what he would do when she was his hovered between them. If she had a bit more courage — or a bit more reckless stupidity — she might have asked it.

  But the moment died when Ferguson strolled through the door. And it was only much later that Lucy realized that Max hadn’t answered her question about why he hadn’t claimed the estate earlier.

  “Mr. Vale,” Ferguson said. “Did you sleep well in your alleged ancestral home?”

  Max shook his head. “It was too strange, your grace. None of my own ancestors slept in that room, of course — it’s too new. But sleeping there was quite…surprising.”

  He said it without looking at Lucy, though she knew from the way his voice caressed her that she was the surprise, not the house.

  “And is Miss Briarley making nice?” Ferguson asked. “She doesn’t like anyone who tries to take Maidenstone from her.”

  This time, Max glanced at her. “I believe I can win her over.”

  She gave him a mock scowl. Ferguson laughed. “If you become the earl, you won’t have to settle for a woman you need to win over. They’ll be tripping over themselves for an introduction to you.”

  Ferguson’s tone wasn’t quite right. There was something in the sharpness of his gaze that said he was evaluating Max, even if his words were friendly.

  If Max sensed Ferguson’s evaluation, he didn’t acknowledge it. “Women like me wherever I go. I’ll grant you, the ladies I’ve known aren’t as particular as debutantes are. But I think I’ll like the challenge of winning over a drawing room full of ladies if Miss Briarley is representative of the rest of them.�
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  He winked at her — and somehow it was reassuring, even though he was playing the cad. She smiled a little before she thought to stop herself.

  And the warning bells chimed. She shouldn’t let herself be charmed by him. Charm could be pleasant — but it could also lead directly to a trap.

  Ferguson gave a disbelieving snort. “Miss Briarley is not at all biddable, Mr. Vale.”

  “Oh, I never thought she was biddable,” Max drawled. “But I am surprised that you would talk to me about her when you must think I’m an interloper.”

  “Shall we move to our business, then?” Ferguson asked. “I forgot how skilled you might be at negotiations, coming from the shops as you have.”

  It was all polite — but there were dangerous undercurrents. Max narrowed his eyes slightly at the mention of the shops, but he held his tongue.

  Lucy never played the peacekeeper, but she couldn’t let this get out of hand. If Ferguson tossed Max out after this meeting, her plan would be ruined. It was better to convince Ferguson as much as possible now, before any of his doubts grew.

  “Let’s examine his documents,” she said to Ferguson, handing him his tea. “I don’t want to be left in suspense.”

  She couldn’t say, yet, that she thought Max’s claim was valid. But she knew the family tree better than anyone — she could surely smooth over any questions, as long as Ferguson stayed amenable.

  Ferguson didn’t make it easy for her to play nice, though. He took the chair behind her grandfather’s desk. She had never seen anyone sit there other than her grandfather — it was another small loss, after a year of losses.

  He looked at her as though daring her to say something. She silently took the chair across from him. Max joined her. “My papers are in my business case,” Max said, nodding toward the leather case. “Some are only handwritten copies of church records, but you can send messengers to the churches to verify them.”

  Ferguson pulled the papers out of the case. They spent the next hour poring through the documents — family trees, references to births and deaths, property deeds, letters, an old Bible, and other remnants of Max’s ancestors.