Chapter Twelve

“Come, Josie, we’re leaving.” Oliver grabbed his sister’s elbow and practically dragged her away from Philip, who was standing far too close, in Oliver’s opinion.

And if Oliver wasn’t mistaken, the lad had a smirk on his face.

“Leaving?” Josie squeaked. “But why?”

“Because this is not an appropriate place for you.”

“But Amelie is here. And Philip.”

He bundled her into his carriage as she continued to protest.

“This is a great opportunity for me to learn,” she said.

“Learn what?”

“About the theater. And poetry. And music.”

“Then attend the theater, and the orchestra, and buy some poetry books.”

“Ooh. You are vexing.” She crossed her arms and turned her head toward the window. She refused to look at him the entire way home.

Oliver sat in the corner and stewed. Why did Ellen not think that Josie was good enough for her boy? If anything, Philip was nowhere near good enough for Josie. She was far too refined for such a lad, and their mother had groomed Josie to be the perfect wife to the perfect husband.

Even though Josie had been insisting for years that she didn’t want to marry except for love. But that was neither here nor there. Oliver would never allow Josie and Philip to be so much as in the same room together. Love was out of the question.

In that he agreed with Ellen.

…

Ellen found her son lounging in the corner, a glass of wine in his hand, as he surveyed the people milling about with hooded eyes and a guarded expression. Since when had he become so cynical? So closed?

“Armbruster dragged his sister off,” he said by way of greeting.

Good.

“He doesn’t like me much,” Philip said.

“And yet he’s willing to help you get back into Eton.”

He took a swig of wine and dangled the glass between his fingers. If she wasn’t careful, she could see him becoming quite the rogue, and Josie would merely be the first eligible woman forbidden to him by a respectable family. He was already cultivating an air of ennui, his gaze constantly roving for the next exciting adventure. He would not stop at swiving the help in the linen closet, and that frightened her.

He needed a strong male presence, and she had hoped Oliver might provide that, however twisted it was to ask Philip’s real father for help. But she feared that she’d angered Oliver and pushed him away by insinuating that his sister was not good enough for Philip when that wasn’t the case at all. She quite agreed with Oliver that Philip was not good enough for Josephine. But her determination to keep the two apart had nothing to do with any of that and everything to do with the fact that Josephine was Philip’s aunt.

She closed her eyes at the tangled web she had woven over the years, never once thinking that things would get this complicated. Keep Oliver away from Philip. It had been her goal for sixteen years, and she’d done a decent job of it until recently. Until Philip had messed everything up so badly that she’d been forced to turn to Oliver for help.

“And why is he willing to help me get back into Eton, Mother?”

“Because the headmaster asked him to.”

“Mmmm.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Philip. You are impossible. And you need to leave Lady Josephine alone.”

“She was quite fetching. Stunning, really.”

“And she is not for you. Not ever. You stay away from the Armbrusters. Do you hear me?”

He seemed taken aback by her vehemence. There was little that Ellen was strict about, and she was well aware that was the cause of most of Philip’s problems. But in this she would not be swayed.

“Tell me you will stay away from her,” she insisted.

He pushed himself from the wall. “She seemed a bit too prim and proper anyway.”

“Her mother would have a fit if she knew the girl had been here tonight. Lady Armbruster is a stickler for propriety, and she is not a person we want to anger.”

In truth, Ellen had always been in awe of Oliver’s mother. Maybe even a little scared. Especially after Ellen discovered that Philip carried McCaron blood.

“I think I’ll be off to find my friends,” Philip said, and sauntered away.

Ellen was in no mood to stop him and in fact was relieved that he was leaving. Hopefully, he would forget about Lady Josephine.

…

Ashland sank down into the chair opposite Oliver and eyed the stack of papers on the table beside him. It was their weekly meeting at their gentleman’s club where they discussed current events and unsolved mysteries.

“Anything new?” Ashland asked.

“Not really. Things seem to be quiet.”

“What about the murders O’Leary was telling us about?”

“Murders aren’t uncommon in the East End.”

“True. But I find it intriguing. Different.”

Ashland accepted a port from the servant and sat back. “You seem preoccupied tonight.”

“I have a lot of things on my plate right now.”

“Such as Lady Fieldhurst?” Ashland grinned, but Oliver was not in a humorous mood and didn’t want to discuss Ellen, especially with Ashland, who was still in the first stages of marriage and thought everyone should subscribe to the institution.

“Not Lady Fieldhurst,” he lied, hating himself for lying to his best friend.

Ashland laughed, seemingly sensing the lie and not caring. “Come now, Armbruster. Lady Fieldhurst is a beautiful woman, around your age, I’m thinking. And a widow.”

“And?” Oliver eyed Ashland unkindly. He didn’t want to discuss Ellen at all.

“And you should court her.”

Oliver huffed out a breath. “She’s already being courted by Sir William Needham.”

“Is she?”

Oliver sat up straighter. “What do you know about any of this?”

“Nothing at all. But what does it matter if she’s being courted by Needham? It’s not as if it’s official or anything.”

Oliver waved his hand in the air and sat back. “I’m not interested.”

Ashland tilted his head and studied Oliver in such a way that made Oliver uneasy. In his former life, before he’d become an earl, Ashland had been a solicitor. His mind was astute, and he was quick to draw mostly correct conclusions.

“By your admission, she meant something to you a long time ago, before she wed Fieldhurst. I don’t believe you’re not interested.”

“That was a long time ago. Affections die. People move on.” Or so he’d once believed, but now he wondered if that was entirely true.

“I just find it interesting that she asked for your help. Why you?”

Oliver felt himself bristling over the inquisition. “Why not me? I have good standing at Eton. I’m well respected in Society.”

“Of course you are, but so are many other men.”

Oliver didn’t dare think of Ellen approaching any other men to ask for their help. That idea was not at all appealing.

“Have you accomplished anything with young Fieldhurst?” Ashland asked, changing tactics.

“I took him to the pig farm on his estate and made him work on it for a full day. At first he was angry, and when I picked him up he was exhausted. I don’t know if it opened his eyes to the life of his tenants or not.”

“What were you trying to prove to him?”

“That he is no better than a pig farmer.”

Ashland chuckled. “I am fairly positive that did not change his opinion but rather reinforced his belief that he is happy not to be a pig farmer.”

Oliver sighed. “I don’t know what to do with him. I’m not a father to tell him what he should do and not do.”

“Pretend you are. If he were your son, what would you do to turn him around?”

“I would tan his hide.”

They both grinned, but Oliver’s faded first. If he were the lad’s father he would have taught him from the cradle what it took to become an earl and the responsibilities it would entail.

And for a small moment he suddenly yearned for a son to teach and pass all of this on to.

In his head he knew that someday soon he would need to wed and produce an heir. His mother reminded him every time she saw him. But his heart had never grabbed onto the idea, and he had yet to meet someone he wanted to bear his children.

Ellen.

No. Not Ellen. Maybe at one time, but no longer. She had her own life. Her own son and an enamored surgeon.

He should probably make more of an effort to find his elusive countess.

“So what are you going to do?” Ashland asked, and for a moment Oliver thought Ashland was asking what he was going to do to find a countess, but then he realized that Ashland was referring to Philip.

“I am going to do what I did with you. We’re going to sit down and go over the books, and he will learn about profit and loss.”

Ashland groaned. “The poor lad.”

…

Oliver entered his childhood home just in time for breakfast. His mother and sister were in the dining room, eating and discussing whatever it was they discussed in the mornings.

“Oliver!” His mother offered her cheek, and he bent to kiss it.

Josie looked less than pleased to see him and more than a little distrustful.

“What brings you here so early?” his mother asked.

He dumped about a dozen white envelopes beside her plate and sat next to her while the footman poured him coffee.

“What is this?” She sifted through the envelopes a bit before her head popped up and her eyes went wide. “They’re…” She poked through them some more. “They’re invitations. To balls. And picnics.”

He sipped his coffee and watched the joy cross her face, all while feeling his fate seal up tight.

“Why are you bringing invitations here?” Josie asked.

“Yes, dear, why?” Nora folded her hands beneath her chin and pierced him with her dancing blue eyes.

“I believe it’s time that I make an appearance or two.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This was more difficult than he thought it would be, and he didn’t like the gleam in his mother’s eyes.

The idea of finding a suitable wife would not leave him. It was time. He was thirty-four years old with nothing to show except a very successful earldom that was earning money faster than he could invest it.

After speaking to Ashland, and watching Philip attempt to piss it all away, he was more convinced than ever that it was time to produce an heir. And who else to help him find a suitable wife than his mother.

“I see,” she said, studying him closely. “And what brought this on?”

“Come, Mother, you’ve been telling me for years that it’s my duty to carry on the title.”

“And suddenly you agree with me?”

He found it hard to believe that she wasn’t jumping up and down in excitement and planning his nuptials already.

She picked up an envelope and pulled out the invitation, then proceeded with the rest of them, sorting them into two piles. Oliver was known as a math genius, able to smell a good investment. He had no issue with dirtying his hands and his money in businesses that no aristocrat would touch. His mother was also a genius, except her genius leaned toward manipulating Society to do what she wanted. People feared her, because a snub from Lady Armbruster meant social ruin.

She pushed two invitations toward him. “These two,” she said. “They will provide the most debutantes. Personally, I recommend Lady Sylvia Evendale. She is of fine stock, her reputation unblemished, and her bloodline impeccable.”

Josie snorted then covered her mouth.

Nora raised a brow at her daughter. “You don’t approve?”

“Lady Sylvia is dull. She has not an original thought in her head. Oliver would be bored to death within five minutes.”

Oliver grinned at his sister, who seemed to know him far better than their own mother. Lady Sylvia might be all of the things his mother said, but if she did not have an original thought, he didn’t want her.

“Who else?” he asked.

Nora sighed. “Really, Oliver. You must think of things such as bloodlines and reputation.”

“Not if she’s dull. Who else?”

“What about Lady Fieldhurst?” Josie hid her expression behind her cup of coffee that she raised to her lips. All Oliver could see was her mischievous eyes. He glowered at her.

“Lady Fieldhurst is old,” Nora said, dismissively.

“She’s my age,” Oliver said, a bit miffed that his mother thought him old.

“That’s different. Men age differently. Lady Fieldhurst is almost past her child bearing years, and your purpose is to produce an heir.”

“I find her fascinating,” Josie said.

Oliver shot her another look that said if she persisted he would spill her secret. She simply smiled back.

“Fascinating is not good,” Nora said. “She completely stepped out of the norms of Society after Lord Fieldhurst passed away, with her salons and the people she chooses to keep company with.”

Josie shrugged. “I like her. And she seems to have the correct temperament for Oliver.”

Nora’s eyes narrowed on her daughter. “When have you met with, let alone conversed with, Lady Fieldhurst?”

Josie looked down at her plate and concentrated on her eggs. “She has a son,” she finally said.

Oliver’s head whipped around, and he glared at her. She refused to look at him.

“Notorious, too. You don’t want a wife who already has a son and a bad one at that. I hear he’s nothing but trouble.”

Oliver felt the need to defend Philip but kept his mouth shut. How in the hell had the conversation become so derailed?

“Just the other day you mentioned her as a possibility,” he said.

“I did? I don’t remember.” She sorted through the stacks of rejections.

“In your garden. You thought her acceptable then.”

“I changed my mind.” She waved her fingers in the air. “Too many bohemians and that son is no good.”

There were times he couldn’t follow his mother’s logic, and this time he let it go. It didn’t matter why she thought Ellen was not acceptable. He had his own reasons for not pursuing her.

“Aside from Lady Fieldhurst and Lady Sylvia, who else would be appropriate?” he asked.

Nora sat back and looked into the distance, apparently sifting through all of the eligible young ladies of the ton.

“I’ll make a list,” she said. “This afternoon. We’ll discuss them tomorrow. Come by at the same time and we can have breakfast again.”

Oliver felt uncomfortable making a list of eligible young women. It wasn’t as if he were purchasing livestock. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Except he knew this was how it was done in houses throughout London. And he was certain he was on a few of those lists. It was the reason he avoided these social events. But if he wanted an heir—and a wife was a requirement for an heir—then he must do what they all did to procure one.

“Very well,” he said, wishing this whole thing done.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Josie said, standing hurriedly and throwing down her napkin.

“Is this a case you’re working?” she whispered as they walked through the foyer.

“Case?” His mind was still on the list.

“Are you spying on someone? Is that why you are suddenly going to balls?”

“What? No.” He shook his head. “Really, Jose.”

“I can’t think of another reason that you would want to attend a ball. You hate them.”

She was right. He did hate them, but he didn’t know how else to meet his bride.

“It’s time for me to get a wife, and this is how one gets one.”

“It sounds very unromantic.”

He thought so, too.

“I saw the way you looked at Lady Fieldhurst.”

They were at the door and he turned to her, his heart suddenly hammering. “And how was I looking at Lady Fieldhurst?”

She shrugged. “Differently. I’ve not seen you look at anyone like that.”

“You’re just being silly.”

“I think you like her.”

“I don’t like her. Not like that, at least.”

But he felt like he was betraying Ellen by saying that. She held a special place in his heart and always would. He often wondered what would have happened if she had followed through with their plans. Would they have a son like Philip? Better behaved, of course.

“I think you do like her,” Josie said.

“I think you should mind your own business.”

“You didn’t tell Mother about last night.” This was just like Josie, to change the subject so fast.

“And I won’t, if you behave yourself.”

“I was behaving myself last night. I acted like the perfect lady. Mother would have been proud.”

“After she beat you for nearly damaging your reputation. You heard her in there. She doesn’t hold Lady Fieldhurst in high regard and would have thought your appearance there last night appalling.”

Josie pouted. “She really needs to stop being so judgmental. I saw nothing wrong with those who attended. You were there.”

“It’s different for me.”

“Because you’re a boy and I’m a girl?”

“I’m a man and you’re still too young for such things.”

“Well, when I’m grown I’m going to host salons just like that and invite all of the interesting people and not the boring people that Society thinks are acceptable.”

Oliver bit back his grin. Josie was nearly seventeen, but there were times she still acted like a little girl. “You do that,” he said.