Page 8 of Deceiving an Earl
“Very accomplished gentleman,” O’Leary said. “President of the Royal College of Surgeons. Teaches some classes at the Kings College. Medicine, obviously. I hear he’s a nice gent, extremely focused.”
Oliver turned his glass of ale around on the desk, studying the liquid as it sloshed around. Accomplished, nice and focused. A surgeon. Not of nobility, but also not of a class too low for Ellen’s interest.
Ever since her husband died Ellen had dabbled in the arts. She was known as a great patroness—yes, Oliver had kept track—but where did a surgeon come into that picture?
“Was he there last night?” O’Leary asked.
Oliver grunted.
“Strange place for a surgeon to be, but I’ve heard that Lady Fieldhurst is a beautiful woman. She would be quite a catch for someone like Needham.”
“He’s not married?”
“I seem to remember that his wife died a few years back. From Scotland, she was.”
Quite a catch.
Those words bothered Oliver for some reason.
“Tell me about Antoine Bertrand,” O’Leary said. “Were you able to speak to him?”
“There was no opportunity. He was surrounded by people most of the night. I did meet his daughter, however.”
O’Leary seemed to brighten. “He has a daughter?”
“Amelie.”
Maybe not speaking to Antoine had been a good thing last night. Now he’d have to return to another salon, and he would get a chance to see Ellen again.
Would she take offense if he asked her what she was doing in the company of a surgeon?
Chapter Three
“Philip, please.” Ellen did not want to resort to begging her son, but she was out of options. The boy simply would not listen to her. He listened to no one.
Philip did what Philip wanted to do and damn the consequences.
He’d been like that his entire life. It had not helped that his father had doted on him and had excused any bad behavior. Ellen had tried. Lord knew she’d tried to discipline her son, but she was merely the mother, and her words had held no weight with Philip or his father, Arthur.
He was sixteen now and out of her control. Truth be told, he’d been out of her control for years.
“You simply cannot quit Eton. It’s not done.”
He was sprawled on his bed, half propped up by a mountain of pillows. Clothes were strewn about, and she winced at the thought of his valet having to clean up after him. Her son was a slob.
“Oh, please, Mother. This is getting tiring. I don’t need Eton. There is nothing more they can teach me.”
How about manners?She swallowed the question because that would lead to another row, and she was so weary of arguing with him.
“Your father would be furious if he were here.”
“Father would say that I am the Earl of Fieldhurst now, and it is time I took the reins.”
“You are not ready for that responsibility.”
He swung his legs over the bed and stood, the motion so graceful that she was put in mind of someone else. Someone she’d forced herself not to think about for many years. But more and more Philip reminded her of Oliver, and it broke her heart.
“It is not up to you to determine if I am ready for the responsibility. I became the earl when Father died. I know you hate the idea, but there is nothing you can do about it.”
