Page 3 of Deceiving an Earl
“Nothing,” Oliver said. “I’m ready to depart.”
Richard put his brush down. “Very good, my lord. Your carriage is waiting.”
Oliver was in a contemplative mood on the way to the salon. He’d been at odds for the past few weeks.
Bored. Restless.
His friend, Jacob Baker, the Earl of Ashland, was usually able to divert Oliver’s moods, but Ashland was newly married and had undergone a great ordeal when he was almost killed by a man who had murdered at least five women.
It had been a horrendous time, and Oliver did not begrudge his friend the moments he wanted to take with his wife, but Oliver missed his weekly meetings with Ashland.
And maybe, he might be a tad jealous that Ashland had someone to go home to every night.
Oliver’s carriage pulled up to the Fieldhurst home, and Oliver took a moment to gather his thoughts before exiting. This sort of hesitation wasn’t like him. He tackled all his problems head on, but he was suddenly stricken with the memories of the last time he had been here.
It had been for the wedding of Lady Fieldhurst. A grand affair it had been, too. She’d looked elegant and oh, so beautiful. The groom had been twenty years her senior but had stared at his bride with love and longing.
He should not have gone. He knew that now, and he’d known it at the time. His pain had been fresh, raw. But he’d had to see for himself that she was truly going to wed a man twice her age. Afterward, he’d gone to his club and gotten so pissed that his father had to retrieve him. His father had never asked why, when Oliver had never been drunk like that before or after, and Oliver had been relieved to not have to say.
The footman waited patiently for Oliver to exit, and the carriages behind him were no doubt wondering what was taking him so long. Reluctantly, he hopped down and straightened his jacket.
Maybe scarlet had not been a good choice for the waistcoat.
There was no announcement as he walked in. This was not a formal ball, but an informal salon where people who normally did not mingle, mingled. There were few of his mates here. Those whom he spent time with were not impressed with the artsy nature of such a gathering.
Truth be told, he wasn’t quite certain what went on at these events. He was here on a special request from his friend, Detective O’Leary, from Scotland Yard, because he was the one person in Society that O’Leary knew. If he’d known he was walking into the lion’s den of Lady Fieldhurst, he would have passed on the offer.
Or would he have?
He saw her long before she saw him. She was standing with a strange group of people, fops, rogues, and women of dubious reputations, her raven hair curled and draped over one creamy shoulder. Ironically, she was wearing red as well. More of a burgundy, but red nonetheless.
He circled the edge of the room, keeping his eye on her as he snagged a glass of wine from a passing servant. He’d been told there would be a poetry reading later. He was not looking forward to that. Poetry was not his thing. Theater was good, and he enjoyed a good orchestra. But he’d never understood poetry.
Ellen loved it.
He remembered that. He remembered a lot. Too much, maybe.
He found his prey after about fifteen minutes of searching and leaned a shoulder against a white pillar to study him from afar. He was a twitchy little man. Short in stature, with a most horrendous mustache, heavy brows, and beetle-like eyes. Or maybe the unfavorable description was Oliver projecting his dislike on the man. He did seem the nervous sort, though. Looking around as if he trusted no one in the room.
Oliver wondered what Ellen saw in the man to invite him to her home. Did she know he was a Chartist? A threat to the Crown?
Oliver grimaced. Damn Chartists were causing all sorts of problems for Queen Victoria. Normally, Oliver didn’t get involved in politics, and never had he done any work for the Crown. He could say that he wasn’t working for the Crown right now.
Oliver had acquiesced because…well, he wasn’t certain why he’d agreed. Boredom, most likely. He wanted something interesting in his life. Socializing, gambling, drinking—all of his favorite pastimes—were wearing thin and, truth be told, after watching Ashland fall in love, Oliver had felt a twitch of something in the region of his heart.
He sipped his wine and watched the man. He was speaking with his hands. Grand gestures that almost knocked a tray from a passing servant and he didn’t even notice. His captivated audience seemed more like a captured audience. Not too keen to be with him, but not knowing how to disengage themselves.
For their sakes, Oliver hoped the poetry reading—another grimace—started soon.
“Lord Armbruster.”
Oliver was in the process of taking another sip of wine when his arm froze halfway to his mouth. Every muscle in his body clenched, and he had a very strange impulse to not turn around, not face her. To walk away. The hurt, the shame, the anger, all came crashing back, but he was good at shoving those unwanted emotions away and ignoring them.
He forced a smile on his lips and turned to her.
“Lady Fieldhurst.”
Seventeen years ago she had been beautiful, all lovely curves and wide eyes and luscious lips. Now she was stunning. She’d filled out in the years, her hips more rounded, her waist still impossibly small even after giving birth to the current earl. There was not a hint of gray in her hair, but there were tiny laugh lines at the corners of her eyes that only added to her beauty.
