Chapter Eleven

For Ellen the day was endless. She had no idea where Oliver had taken her son or what they were doing. She kept reminding herself that she had asked for Oliver’s help and she must trust him.

However, her long-held secret hung between them, and her fear of being discovered was very, very real. Why had she asked for Oliver’s help? Because there really was no one else to ask.

She spent the day floating between rooms with nothing to do. Or at least nothing that would stay her rambling thoughts.

As soon as Oliver had told her that he was picking Philip up at such an ungodly hour, she’d sent a footman to find her son. It was embarrassing, not knowing where he was.

The footman had found Philip with an hour to spare—drunk, with a black eye that had made her wince in mortification. She’d poured as much coffee into him as she could while explaining what he had to do.

He’d been furious, as she’d expected he would be. He’d argued and refused to change his clothes, while she’d fallen into the predicted pattern of wheedling and bribing him.

And sending him off with Oliver had been her greatest fear. How did others not see the resemblance? It was so clear to her that they were father and son. The cut of their brows, the solid jawline, the matching blue eyes. Philip had not fully grown into the man he would someday become, but Ellen could see he would be shaped like his father. Loose-limbed, wide of shoulders, slim of hips, and the same blond-leaning-toward-wheat-colored hair.

Evening turned into night, and the clock was striking nine when she heard a carriage outside.

Throwing off all sense of decorum, she rushed to the front window and spied Oliver’s curricle, but Oliver was alone, dismounting in a graceful leap and taking the steps to her front door two at a time.

She was at the door before the butler had time to open it.

“Where is he?” She was breathless, her heart hammering. What had Oliver done with her son?

His eyes were gleaming in amusement as he entered her foyer.

“He’s coming in through the servants’ entrance in the back. Trust me, you do not want him to come through your front door.”

“Why? What happened? Is he hurt?”

“Just his pride.” Oliver looked at her oddly. “Did you think I would let anything happen to him?”

Her shoulders drooped, and she passed a hand over her eyes. Pull yourself together, Ellen. You’re behaving like a fool.

“No. Of course not. I was just worried.”

She motioned for him to follow her into the parlor. In the better light she could tell that he was weary and there was dirt on his boots.

“Where were you?” she asked as she sat. Oliver chose to remain standing. “I was becoming worried that something had happened to the both of you.”

“We are fine. Philip needs a bath, and you will have to discard his clothes. They are unsalvageable, I’m afraid. I took him to Fieldhurst where he worked with Mr. Potter and the pigs.”

Her brows drew together. “The manor house? But that’s hours away. In the country.” And then the rest of what he said hit her. “Pigs? Philip worked with pigs?”

Oliver finally perched on the edge of the couch and leaned his elbows on his knees. “Yes, to the manor house and yes, he worked with pigs. The boy needs to know his land. Being an earl is so much more than the title, as I’m sure you’re aware. But Philip seems to think it comes only with privileges and no work.”

Her hands clenched in her lap, and she suddenly became defensive of her son. “His father loved him to the ends of the earth. In Arthur’s eyes the sun rose and set on Philip. Arthur tried to teach him how to be an earl, but he passed so suddenly.”

Oliver waved her words away. She remembered that about him. He made no excuses and accepted no excuses. But she wanted him to know that Philip had been loved by his father.

“Nevertheless, the boy has an unrealistic view of what being an earl means. He had an eye-opening experience with the pigs, and I daresay he learned something valuable along the way.”

“Arthur adored Mr. Potter. He used to help him when the sows gave birth.” How had she forgotten that about Arthur? He’d loved to get his hands dirty, to come home with calluses on his palms. He’d said he felt like he’d accomplished something important.

And how like Oliver to realize that this was what Philip needed.

“Has he seen the estate’s books?” Oliver was asking. “Has he met with the land manager?”

“I won’t let him. He needs to finish his schooling before he worries about those things.”

Oliver sat back and studied her. His eyes were hooded, his expression neutral, but she feared that he thought she was an inadequate mother.

“Maybe it’s time to let him do these things. Let him see that running an estate the size of Fieldhurst takes work. Hard work. Hard decisions have to be made, and they need to be made quickly.”

Her head shot up, and a thrill of fear raced through her. “Why? Fieldhurst is a fully functioning estate. Rents are coming in as they should be. There are maintenance issues that we have been putting off—”

“Ellen.”

She snapped her mouth closed and raised her chin. Just the one word seemed to put her in her place.

“I’m not making any accusations and I’m not passing judgment. Please stop being so defensive. You asked me to help and that’s what I’m doing. If you would like me to step back, I will. But if you want me to continue to help, then you need to stop fighting me.”

Suddenly she deflated. He was right. Of course he was right. But her fear of discovery was overpowering every thought. She wanted to push him away, but he was the only one willing to help.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Oliver leaned forward again and studied her in such an intimate way that it made her cheeks heat and she had to look away, flooded with memories. There had been a connection the first night she’d met him at the ball, and there was still a connection. A visceral feeling deep inside her, a feeling that Oliver was special, once in a lifetime. Her body began to remember Oliver in ways she had tried to erase—that first kiss underneath the tree in Hyde Park. The shocked feeling that he was actually kissing her, then the acceptance that she liked him. She really, really liked him.

He was the only man who had made her heart and body sing.

Oh, it had been such a horrible mistake inviting him back into her life.

“What is wrong, Ellen? You’re not yourself.”

She lifted her chin again. “It’s been seventeen years, Oliver. I’m not the girl you remember.”

“You never told anyone? About us?”

“Of course not!”

“Arthur never suspected?”

“Oliver. Please. Stop. We can’t talk about this.”

“He’s dead, Ellen. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

But it did matter. It mattered greatly, and his look told her that he thought the same.

“He never suspected,” she whispered. But there were times she’d wondered. Over the years, Arthur would say something about how lucky he was to have Philip. Or how sad he was that they’d never had another child. She would catch him sometimes looking at Philip when he thought no one was watching, a deep crease between his brows, as if looking for something of himself in the boy.

Her guilt would consume her, and she would desperately try to distract him.

“To see you with him…it was difficult. Especially after…”

Please, stop. Please. But she sat silently, wringing her hands, her words locked in her throat.

Oliver suddenly stood, startling her. “I must go. It’s been a long day. Tell Philip I will be by soon to go over the books with him. His tutelage on how to be a real earl will start then.”

She stood on shaking knees, feeling as if she had just escaped something life changing. “I will tell him.”

…

A week later Oliver was still kicking himself for mentioning his and Ellen’s past relationship. Why the hell had he asked her if she’d told anyone about them? Had he wanted her to? Had he secretly hoped she had said something to Arthur? What kind of twisted thought was that?

He’d certainly never told anyone, and he would expect Ellen not to have, either, since she had chosen Arthur over him.

He wouldn’t say anything to her again about that night. It obviously made her uncomfortable, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

But he also couldn’t stay away from her. It had nothing to do with his promise to her and to the headmaster regarding Philip. It had nothing to do with Philip and everything to do with Oliver and his strange, awful need to see her again and again and again.

He had no reason to continue to attend her salons. O’Leary had said that they were no longer looking at Antoine Bertrand as a threat to the Crown, that Bertrand seemed to be working on his own without any serious backing from anyone in France. Oliver’s services were no longer needed. And yet he found himself dressing for tonight’s salon and eagerly looking forward to it as if he were still that lad from long ago.

He didn’t even care if tonight’s performance was another boring poetry reading.

Good Lord. He shouldn’t go. He should go to his club, drink himself into oblivion, and lose some money in cards. And that was exactly what he had decided to do, but instead he found himself in front of Ellen’s home, staring at the bright lights coming from the windows and listening to the laughter and chatter floating out the open front door.

And he found himself not entering his club, but walking through Ellen’s entryway, taking a glass of wine off a passing tray and moving farther and farther inside, away from his club.

He saw her immediately. Tonight’s color was green. He was not wearing green but rather a boring black. She was laughing at something someone said. He thought it was an actor but really didn’t know. Next to her was William Needham, smiling, nodding, and talking.

And suddenly, Oliver had an urge to put his fist through Needham’s perfectly ordinary face and rearrange his thin nose. He didn’t know why he didn’t like the man. There was no reason to not like him. He was a well-known surgeon, serving the royal family, for God’s sake. He had a sterling personality and was obviously very gifted.

Oliver turned his back to the couple and took a sip of his wine. He should leave before Ellen saw him. He felt like a fool, mooning over her this way when she was being courted by Needham. Their past meant nothing to her and should mean nothing to him as well.

Just as he was about to leave, a glimpse of color caught his attention. Or rather, a glimpse of pale ivory, the hem of a gown around the corner.

Amelie Bertrand.

He hadn’t seen her at the last few salons and was curious as to how she was getting along and if Josie had been a good friend. He followed the gown and entered into the music room where he came face-to-face with not only Amelie but Josie, too.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

Josie looked startled, then guilty. Amelie took a step back, her gaze flitting between brother and sister.

“Oliver.” Josie licked her lips.

“This is not a place for you to be, Josephine.”

She winced, hating the use of her full name.

“I brought her,” Amelie said softly, stepping forward. “I invited her.”

“Amelie is allowed to attend the salons,” Josie said defensively.

“Amelie has the permission of her father, and he is here with her. Did you get permission from Mother? Is Mother your chaperone?” He was absolutely certain that she had not received permission, nor that his mother was here, because their mother would never allow Josie’s reputation to be tarnished by being seen at a salon that hosted actors and actresses and singers.

By Josie’s guilty look Oliver knew he was right.

“You must return home. Now.”

“But Oliver, I was so looking forward to this night. Amelie says it is interesting to meet all of these different people from different backgrounds.”

She sounded so much like Ellen when they were that age that he almost winced.

“Mother will have a fit and no doubt blame me.” He may be a grown man of thirty-four, but he still feared his mother’s wrath.

“I will tell her it was my idea,” Josie said, nearly pleading.

“Go home.”

Her lips pursed and her eyes took on a mutinous expression he’d seen too many times in the mirror.

“Josie,” he warned.

“Armbruster. Who do we have here?”

Oliver closed his eyes before turning around. He knew that voice too well and, by the look on Josie’s face, she was taken by the lad behind her. Of all the bad luck. Oliver had never seen Philip at any of his mother’s salons. Why this one?

He stretched a smile across his face and turned around. “Fieldhurst, fancy seeing you here.”

But young Philip had eyes for only Josie.

“It is my home,” Philip said, still not taking his gaze off Josie.

And Josie was looking at Philip with an expression that Oliver didn’t even want to contemplate. This was not happening. This was not going to happen. Over Oliver’s dead body would Philip come within ten feet of Josie.

“Will you introduce us?” Philip asked, a sly smile curving his lips.

The boy knew exactly what he was doing, and Oliver wanted to blacken his eye again.

“Lord Fieldhurst, this is Lady Josephine McCaron, my sister.”

“Josie. Most people call me Josie.” She smiled at Philip, and Oliver wanted to step between them and sweep Josie out of there.

“Most people call me Philip,” the boy said. His voice rose an octave.

“Josie was just leaving,” Oliver said.

“Why so soon?” Philip asked. “The entertainment hasn’t even begun yet. Poetry, I believe.”

Josie fluttered her lashes. She actually fluttered her lashes! Oliver had never seen her do that before.

“Ah, poetry,” Josie breathed. As if poetry was her very favorite thing when they both knew it wasn’t. Josie was like Oliver. She preferred numbers and facts to silly words strung together.

But tonight she seemed to be changing her tune.

And Oliver felt he was losing this battle, and he was desperate to stop it. He didn’t like the looks in either of their eyes.

“Lord Armbruster.”

Oliver was entirely too pleased to see Ellen glide up to them, looking between her son and Josie.

“Philip, you didn’t tell me you would be attending tonight,” she said in veiled reproach.

“I thought I would wander through before meeting friends. You didn’t tell me that your guests were so…fetching.”

Josie blushed, and Oliver bit back a groan.

Their mother was going to be furious when she found out what happened tonight, and she would blame Oliver for not taking care of the situation from the beginning.

“Lady Fieldhurst, this is my sister, Lady Josephine.”

“Lady Josephine,” she said. “Your sister?”

“Yes,” Josie said.

Ellen had gone white, and for a moment Oliver feared she would faint. He had no idea what would cause such a reaction. It wasn’t as if he’d kept Josie a secret. His mother had been pregnant with Josie when he and Ellen had been together.

“May I speak to you for a moment?” Ellen asked him.

Oliver hesitated, not wanting to leave Philip and Josie alone.

“Philip, aren’t your friends waiting for you?” Ellen asked.

“I believe tonight I will forgo that entertainment and stay for this.”

Ellen made a choked sound and forcibly yanked Oliver away from the group.

“This cannot happen,” she hissed once they were out of earshot.

“I agree.”

“Philip and Josie cannot… You agree?”

“Of course I agree.” But Oliver felt a rising anger. Josie was a beautiful, accomplished young woman, and any man would be lucky to have her. Why Ellen thought she wasn’t good enough for Philip, he didn’t know, but he wholeheartedly agreed that the two couldn’t be together.

“Why do you agree?” she asked, confused.

“Because Philip has a hot temper and he’s spoiled and thinks only of himself. I don’t want my sister with someone like that.”

Ellen’s shoulders drew back, and fire flared in her eyes. “How dare you.”

“How dare I?” They were whispering, but the words and tone were angry on both sides. “He’s too quick to temper and uses his fists. Don’t forget I’ve spoken to the headmaster. I know exactly why Philip was kicked out of Eton.”

Her shoulders seemed to fold in on themselves, and her anger retreated. “Of course.”

“Why in the hell you don’t think Josie is good enough for your boy is beyond me, but I can tell you that Philip doesn’t hold a candle to my sister.” He was letting his anger take over, and he knew that he would regret the words. But right now he wanted to say them. He wanted to hurt Ellen, and he realized that the anger was not coming from the fact that Ellen thought Josie inadequate for Philip, but from a deep well of anger that he’d been carrying inside for years.

“I’m not… Do you think…?” She stood straight. “Just keep them away from each other,” she said and marched off.