Page 2 of The Earl Takes All
“Albert—”
“Be on your way, Edward.”
The impatience mirrored in his twin’s voice warned Edward that if he continued on this course, he would gain nothing except distancing himself from his brother. After giving them a slight bow, he strode away from the couple, the roses, the shadows.
He needed a glass of scotch. A bottle would be better. He needed to drink himself into oblivion until he could no longer remember the warmth of Julia in his arms or recall how glorious it had felt to have her mouth moving beneath his. He needed to forget that he had ever—for the briefest of moments—wanted her for himself.
Chapter 1
Mr.Edward Alcott, brother to the Earl of Greyling, met an untimely end during their recent travels in Africa. Sadder still is the knowledge that he failed to accomplish anything of note during his twenty-seven years upon this earth.
—Obituary in theTimes, November1878
Heneeded scotch—badly.
But duty required that he stand outside the residence at Evermore, the ancestral estate in Yorkshire, and express his gratitude to the few lords and ladies who had attended his twin’s funeral that afternoon.
“Awfully glad it wasn’t you, Greyling.”
“Such a fine dancer, although he did tend to hold the ladies scandalously close during the waltz.”
“Shame he had to go before amounting to anything.”
“Drank me under the table more times than I can count, I tell you.”
The acknowledgments continued, painting the portrait of a wastrel and scoundrel. Not that he’d ever before minded how the earl’s younger brother was viewed, but today it bothered him, perhaps because the epitaphs expressed were so damned accurate.
His childhood friends, the Duke of Ashebury and Viscount Locksley, stood nearby garnering their share of condolences, as everyone knew the four of them were as close as brothers, having been raised by Locksley’s father. Although he’d had very little opportunity to visit with them before the funeral, he wished they were both climbing into their own conveyances right about now, but along with Minerva, Ashe’s wife, they were staying the night. Julia had extended the invitation, thinking her husband would welcome more time with them. She couldn’t have been more mistaken, but he knew she’d meant well.
Graciously expressing her appreciation to those who had come, she was a vision of loveliness even draped in black. She had handled most of the arrangements, sending out the mourning cards, informing the vicar of how the service was to progress, ensuring that refreshments were on hand for their guests before they began their trek home. He’d barely had occasion to speak with her throughout the day, not that he would have known what to say if he had. Since his return, they’d had far too many moments of awkward silence. He knew that needed to change, and quickly.
As the last of the carriages finally rolled down the drive, Julia wandered over, slid her arm around his, gave a slight squeeze. “Rather glad that’s over with.”
Even swollen with child, she was the most graceful woman he’d ever seen. Reaching up, she placed her black-gloved hand against his cheek. “You look tired.”
“It’s been a long week.” He’d returned from his travels ten days ago. Most of his grieving and mourning had occurred during the long and arduous journey home. For him, today was simply a formality, something to get through before moving forward.
“I could use a good stiff drink,” Ashe said as he, his wife, and Locke joined them.
“I know just where to find one,” he assured his longtime friend. After leading the group into the foyer, he placed a hand on Julia’s lower back. “Will you ladies excuse us for a bit?”
She hesitated, a thousand questions swirling in those lovely blue eyes of hers. He didn’t mean to dismiss her, but he was desperate for a drink and hoped she mistook his craving for wanting time alone with his friends. After searching his face for what seemed an eternity, she nodded. “Yes, of course.” Turning to Minerva, she smiled softly. “I’ll ring for some tea.”
“We won’t be long,” he assured the women, before heading down the hallway, his two friends not even half a step behind.
Once he entered the library, he charged forward to the sideboard, poured scotch into three tumblers, and dispensed them before holding his up. “To my brother. May he rest in peace.” He downed the contents of his glass in one long swallow.
Ashe merely took a small sip, then arched a brow. “That’s hardly likely to happen, is it? What the bloody hell are you up to, Edward?”
His body froze while his mind reeled with the possibility of denying the accusation, but too much was at stake. He walked to the window and spied the spire of the village church where only a few hours earlier the funeral service had been held in his honor. Visible in the distance, ribboning through the rolling hills, was the road over which the black and glass hearse bearing the French-polished casket with its elaborately carved moldings and gleaming metal handles had journeyed, while mourners followed, to the family mausoleum. “When did you figure out I wasn’t Albert?”
“Shortly before the funeral began,” Locke said.
“Did you say anything to Julia?”
“No,” Ashe assured him. “We thought it best to hold our suspicions until we had them confirmed. What the devil is going on here?”
“I promised Albert as he lay dying that I would do all in my power to ensure Julia did not lose the babe she carries.” During their short marriage, she’d lost three, never carrying any of them to term. “Pretending to be my brother seemed the best way to go about it. I need to know how you deduced the truth. If Julia suspects—”
