The Earl's Complete Surrender Read online

  One of Chadwick’s eyebrows shot upward. “I thought you said you had no interest in that regard.”

  “I don’t. But I do have an unsavory appetite for knowledge.”

  Chadwick snorted. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to forego your meal in this instance, for indeed I do believe I’ve said enough already. If you wish to know more, you’ll have to ask the lady directly.”

  James wasn’t surprised. As carefree as Chadwick often seemed, he was honorable to the bone. He would never do anything but praise those whom he cared about and would certainly never say a word that might be used against them. “I might just do that,” he said as he got to his feet, abandoning his drink on the table. He started to turn away.

  “Woodford,” Chadwick said, forcing him to look back. “Spencer and I always enjoy a game of cards after supper in the evenings. You’re welcome to join us if you like.”

  “Are you sure?” Nobody ever invited him to play cards.

  “Perfectly so,” Chadwick told him.

  Grateful for the invitation, James nodded his thanks. “In that case, I’d be happy to,” he said, especially since it would allow him to make some inquiries and perhaps get one step closer to finding the journal.

  “Are you all right?” Lady Oakland asked, her voice warm and soothing as she came to stand beside Chloe who was leaning against the railing of the Chinese pavilion while staring down at the water below.

  “I don’t know, Mama.” She watched a mayfly dart across the water while another gave chase. “Perhaps coming here was a mistake.”

  A painful pause followed, and then, “I had the impression that you were enjoying yourself here at Thorncliff.”

  “And so I was. But . . .” She shook her head, lacking the ability to explain.

  Her mother moved closer, her hand coming to rest upon her shoulder with the same degree of reassurance she’d always offered all of her children. “What is it, Chloe? What has changed your mind?”

  “I barely know, except that I felt as though I was finally doing better. My heart still aches of course, but I’d found a way in which to hold it together—­to not fall apart—­and then . . .” She sighed, unable to forget the degree to which Woodford had managed to undo her. And all because of his brooding eyes, that firm mouth set in hard lines and a touch that drove away her composure.

  “Then what?” her mother asked with a growing amount of interest.

  Pushing out a deep breath, Chloe straightened herself. “I met the Earl of Woodford today,” she confessed.

  “And he unsettled you?” Lady Oakland’s otherwise pleasant expression turned to one of apprehension. “In what way?”

  “I suppose . . .” Chloe paused, uncertain of how to go on. “Newbury is the only man I’ve ever loved—­the only man who’s ever affected me in any way.”

  A dangerous spark lit Lady Oakland’s eyes. “That man was—­”

  “I know, Mama, but that doesn’t change the way I felt about him. At least not in the beginning. It was different later, I realize that, and I eventually learned to hide my emotions—­to only show what I wanted others to see. But today, when I was introduced to the Earl of Woodford, there was a moment when he broke through my defenses and saw me! I daresay it’s been a while since I’ve experienced something quite so distressing.”

  “His parents were close friends of ours,” Lady Oakland said with a measure of sadness. “After they died, the Marquess of Hainsworth took Woodford in and became his guardian. From what I gather, the earl is reputed to be something of a genius, though it’s hard to know to what extent, since he does have a tendency to keep his own company. Either way, Hainsworth is thrilled that he’s agreed to join him on his visit here.” A secretive smile touched Lady Oakland’s lips. “I think he’s hoping to show Woodford off a bit if you ask me.”

  “I see,” Chloe said, unsure of where her mother was going with this.

  “Woodford has lost a great deal—­far more than you, really,” Lady Oakland said gently. “Perhaps an acquaintance between the two of you would not be the worst thing in the world.”

  “You think we might benefit from sharing our tragic experiences with each other?” An inconceivable notion in Chloe’s opinion.

  “No . . . I was thinking that you might understand each other and—­”

  “And what, Mama? I have loved and I have lost. My heart has been torn to shreds, trampled on and discarded.” She took a breath to calm her agitated nerves. With greater control, she said, “Newbury was dashingly handsome, attentive and in possession of a heroic streak that always turned my knees to pudding. In short, he was the very image of masculine perfection in my eyes—­and I, foolish romantic that I was, allowed myself to be charmed. Well, not again, Mama. Never again.”

  “Woodford might prove to be more grounded and . . . dependable, I think.”

  Chloe could feel her patience wearing thin. “He’s a man, Mama. How dependable can he possibly be?” The silence that followed was acute. Chloe closed her eyes, squeezing them tightly as if the effort might somehow erase her words. “Forgive me. I did not mean to imply . . . I spoke in anger just now. You know how much I love Papa and my brothers. I—­”

  “It’s all right, Chloe. I understand,” Lady Oakland said as she drew her daughter into her arms. It was a brief embrace, but it was soothing and full of love. “Come. Let us walk back to the terrace and order some tea and I shall promise not to mention Lord Woodford again.”

  Managing a weak smile, Chloe accepted her mother’s offer and fell into step beside her. Tomorrow, she would double her efforts in finding the journal, thus pushing the Earl of Woodford completely from her mind. A touch of relief filled her veins. It was an excellent plan and it would work, just as long as she kept her mind on her task.

  Chapter 3

  When James entered the Turkish salon two days later, he was relieved to finally find the room empty. Closing the door softly behind him, he glanced around, absorbing the plethora of color that shimmered on bright satin cushions. Hanging from the ceiling and deliberately placed on various surfaces, were a stunning array of lanterns: mosaics of glass encased in filigree bronze. The walls reminded James of the rhododendrons his mother had planted at Woodford House in the city. He’d been there when she’d issued instructions to the gardener, informing him that she wanted the patio to be an oasis—­an escape from the gray tones filling the streets.

  Forcefully, he pushed the memory aside and placed the book he’d brought with him on a table between two chairs. He then crossed to a series of low built-­in cabinets that ran along the length of one entire wall. Crouching down, he opened the first one on the left. It contained some decks of cards and a chess set, which James immediately dismissed. Instead, he ran his fingers against the top of the cabinet checking for latches or other clues to a secret compartment. Finding none, he did the same on the bottom before finally checking the back of the cabinet to ensure that it did not slide aside or pop back to reveal another space beyond.

  He found nothing, but was not discouraged. It was a large house and finding the journal would likely take time, but it was also important to consider every possible hiding place, which was why he’d searched the library. Finding it there had been unlikely, even though it had resulted in an interesting conversation with Lady Newbury.

  He hadn’t seen her since, except during dinner, but she had always been seated too far away from him to allow for any conversation between them. Which was probably for the best. He had a job to do after all and could not allow himself to be distracted by anyone.

  The next five cabinets were investigated just as thoroughly as the first, but resulted in nothing more than the discovery of some boxed-­away candles, spare cushion covers, rags for cleaning and a small brush and dustpan. Not a single cabinet contained a hidden compartment that might have offered a secret hiding place for the journal.

  Rising, Jam
es studied the remaining furniture. Reaching beneath the edge of each table, he quickly determined that they did not contain any additional space for a book. His gaze shifted to the wall on his right—­the only wall that did not contain a door or a window. The paneling there matched that of the other walls with frame molding placed at precise intervals. Crossing to it, James closed his eyes and allowed his fingers to trail along the length of the wall. A subtle imperfection drew his attention and he opened his eyes to see a faint groove hugging the molding from floor to ceiling. Setting the palm of his hand against the wall, he applied a small amount of pressure. A click sounded, and the wall popped back by a quarter of an inch.

  His heart jolted a little with the thrill of his discovery, and he quickly placed his fingertips against the edge of the secret doorway and began pulling it backward. A gentle tap arrested him. It was almost imperceptible, but he could not allow himself to ignore it in his eagerness to see where the door might lead. Instinctively, he pushed it shut, raced across to one of the chairs and grabbed his book, barely managing an easy look of relaxation by the time the door from the hallway opened and a flurry of white met the corner of his eye. He allowed a moment to pass before raising his gaze, the casual greeting he’d planned completely forgotten the moment he saw her.

  She gazed back at him, eyes wide and curious—­surprised even. Training her expression, she shifted her feet as if she couldn’t decide whether to enter or leave.

  Closing his book, James rose and offered a slight bow—­the gentlemanly thing to do. “Lady Newbury,” he said, gathering his composure after the initial shock he’d experienced at seeing her.

  For a brief second her face had come alive, banishing the stoicism she otherwise presented. A fading flush still lingered upon her cheeks, but her lips, which had initially parted on a small gasp, were now tight and unyielding.

  “Will you join me?” he asked for the sake of being polite. Behind him, the passageway yearned to be explored.

  She paused, seemingly hesitant, and for a second James thought she might refuse. He almost hoped she would so he could get back to work. “Very well,” she said in a tone suggesting that she might as well accept since she had nothing better to do.

  With a sigh, James set aside his hope of immediate adventure and gestured toward the chair that stood adjacent to his own.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said as she took her seat. “It was not my intention.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t. May I offer you a drink?” he asked, hoping she wouldn’t detect his frustration. “Perhaps a sherry?” He wouldn’t mind a brandy himself.

  “No thank you, but if you don’t mind ringing for a maid, I would appreciate a cup of tea.”

  “Of course.” He did as she asked, then crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a large glass.

  “Do you mind if I take a look at your book?” She nodded toward the discarded volume lying on the table and for a moment, James just stood, appreciating her beauty. Her hair, always perfectly coiffed with no stray locks, reminded him of autumn, when the trees turned a rusty shade of golden red. Her eyes, a shade lighter than moss, spoke of innocence and loss, while her plump lower lip would make any man wonder what it might be like to kiss her. It was certainly a thought that had entered James’s mind more than once since seeing her for the very first time at the side of the road.

  A knock sounded and a maid entered. “Her ladyship would like some tea,” James said.

  As soon as the maid was gone, James picked up his book, and held it toward Lady Newbury, his fingers brushing hers as she moved to retrieve it. A deep vibration drove along the length of his arm, producing a shiver, and his gaze instinctively shot toward hers. Her eyes—­those lovely green eyes—­were alive with emotion, a sense of confusion at war with something else that he couldn’t quite define. Despair, perhaps? Before he could analyze it further, she tugged the book away from him and sat back.

  For a fraction of a second, she looked as though she might apologize, but apparently decided against it. Instead, she turned the book over to look at the cover and suddenly smiled. Christ! If he’d thought her beautiful before, he scarcely knew what to think of her now. Radiant, came to mind, but it didn’t suffice.

  “It looks as though I’m not the only one who enjoys adventure stories,” she said, halting his search for a perfect adjective.

  He took a deep breath and expelled it again. “Occasionally.” The word sounded just as indifferent as he had intended.

  Tilting her head, she studied him acutely. “I enjoyed reading this myself a few years ago.”

  James stared at her. “Really?” His interest in her increased.

  “What? Does that surprise you?” She sounded a little affronted.

  “Forgive me, my lady, but I—­”

  “You didn’t think I’d enjoy non-­fiction? That I wouldn’t be interested in learning about Captain Cook’s travels to the Pacific Ocean?”

  “I confess I don’t know,” he said with caution. “It’s very different from Mrs. Radcliffe’s work.”

  “True,” she conceded.

  “And you did say that you favored her work,” James said, taking a sip of his drink.

  “Also true. But does that confine me to reading only her books? For if that is the case then I fear my choice of reading material will be rather limited since she has only published five novels. As you have probably guessed, I have read them all.” She knit her brow. “That doesn’t necessarily mean that I am narrow-­minded.”

  “I did not mean to imply any such thing.”

  The maid returned just then with a tray that she set down on a low table in front of Chloe. James returned to his seat and the maid excused herself while Chloe poured herself a cup of tea. She did not add milk or sugar.

  Reaching for her teacup, she cast a dubious look in his direction. “It is very easy to make misguided assumptions, my lord.” Her fingers pinched the ear of the cup as she picked it up, placing it gently against her bottom lip.

  James watched her drink, struck by the appreciative glow in her eyes and half expecting her to purr as the tea passed down her throat. But she did no such thing. Instead, her hand faltered slightly—­enough to suggest that she wasn’t as composed or confident as she was trying to let on. “I generally make an effort not to,” he said and then hesitated a moment before saying, “I think you’re the first lady I’ve seen in the library since my arrival.”

  “Does that surprise you?” She looked genuinely curious.

  “That you would choose to browse books rather than spend time outdoors when the weather is so pleasant? Certainly.”

  She took a breath. “I love the outdoors, my lord, but I also love to read. Thorncliff has an impressive collection of books, so I could not help but take a look.”

  “You never did share your favorite subject with me, but since you were studying the history section, I cannot help but conclude that, with all due respect to Mrs. Radcliffe, you often favor fact over fiction.” He wondered if she might protest his analysis of her, but rather than look affronted, she seemed to consider his question seriously, which pleased him.

  “Indeed you are correct,” she said just as the tea arrived. “Aside from Mrs. Radcliffe and linguistics, which I confess I’m rather enthusiastic about as well, history books are my preference. I find that they can oftentimes be far more fascinating than any novel because they tell of events that have actually happened. Consider Catherine the First, who was born into a low-­income family. Her parents died from the plague when she was no more than five years of age, after which she was raised by a Lutheran pastor.”

  “Johann Ernst Glück,” James supplied, fascinated by Lady Newbury’s passion for the subject that she was addressing.

  “You know the story?”

  “I’m enjoying your retelling of it,” he said. He hadn’t wanted to stop her and now regretted m
entioning the name. “Please continue.”

  She eyed him carefully for a second before saying, “She never learned to read or write, worked as a servant and eventually ended up in Prince Aleksandr Menshikov’s household where she would later be introduced to Tsar Peter. Captivated by her beauty, he took her as his mistress and then went on to marry her, making her Tsarina and Empress Consort of All the Russias. Quite the fairy tale, wouldn’t you agree? And so much more interesting because it actually happened!”

  By deuce, he could sit and listen to her speak all day without tiring of it. And the manner in which she spoke . . . her voice wasn’t just passionate; it was imbued with warmth and sensuality in a way that riveted him. “I see your point,” he said, because he felt as though he needed to say something.

  “What’s your favorite subject?” she asked.

  “Everything,” he told her honestly.

  “Surely you must have an area of particular interest.”

  He considered that a moment. “Like you, I tend to avoid poetry. I suppose if I had to pick a singular topic, it would be science, but I enjoy history, geography, architecture and politics just as well.”

  Picking up a sweetmeat, she bit into it as she eyed him with understanding. “You were being honest when you said that you wish to understand the world and all that is in it.”

  “I am always honest,” he said, as he watched her lick away some sugar from the corner of her mouth.

  As if arrested by his comment, she studied him closely for a moment, then nodded. “Good.”

  Clearly she did not trust that what he’d just said was indeed true, which filled him with the most peculiar need to prove himself to her. Somebody—­her husband, no doubt—­had let her down in the past, and she was not about to trust anyone again. Not without good reason at least, which spoke to his own cautious nature. Sensing a need to change the subject, he said, “You mentioned linguistics before, so I assume you must be proficient in a few different languages, other than the obvious ones like French and Latin?”