Ethan: Lord of Scandals

Sixteen

“How old is Uncle Dolph?” Jeremiah posed the question to his father as their horses walked back to the barn at the end of the one weekly ride that did not include Joshua.

“Nineteen, maybe.” Ethan realized he wasn’t quite sure. “Or maybe eighteen. I don’t know. Why?”

“He’s still at school. He’s been at school a long time.”

“Not so long. Dolph spent only a couple of years at public school, and he’s been up at university for two years, I think. Before that, he was tutored at home, as you and Joshua have been.”

“You went to public school,” Jeremiah said, his tone diffident.

“I did, for a few years, as did your uncles Nick, Beck, George, and Dolph. Do you want to go to public school?”

Ethan’s tone was equally casual, though a cold knife of anxiety sliced at his guts. Children did go away to school as young as six, and Ethan wondered at their parents for allowing it. Was Jeremiah somehow so unhappy he wanted to leave home?

“A young man goes away to school,” Jeremiah said, his gaze even more intent on his pony’s mane, “and you said I’m on the threshold of young manhood.”

“I did say that. Give me your reins, Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah looked puzzled but complied, and watched as his father tied the reins to a ring on the front of Waltzer’s saddle.

“Up you go.” Ethan grasped Jeremiah under the arms and lifted him from the pony’s back to the front of Ethan’s saddle. Waltzer paused, adjusted to the new load, and sauntered on while the pony obediently trailed beside the horse.

“You might have asked.” Jeremiah looked down at his pony and reminded Ethan for all the world of Alice Portman when she was displeased with her high-handed employer.

“I might. I’m sorry. Next time I will. What is this interest in public school? Are you ready to leave your papa and strike out on your own?”

“Soon. Joshua should come with me, and he’s still too young.”

“I’m glad he’s too young.” Ethan had one arm around Jeremiah’s waist, which meant he could feel the tension in his son’s body.

“Why would you be glad about that? Miss Alice says we’re growing like magic beanstalks,” Jeremiah said, fiddling with the horse’s mane.

“Why?” Ethan paused and tried to find words to explain the hole in his heart, in his life, in his soul, that would result if his children left his household now. He was just coming to know them, to be a father to them in any meaningful sense, and here his six-year-old—his six-year-old—was calmly suggesting Ethan abandon them to the likes of Stoneham and Hart Collins.

“Because, Jeremiah Nicholas Grey, there is nobody I love the way I love my sons, and I would miss you very, very much.”

Before him, Jeremiah stopped fiddling with Waltzer’s mane. “You would? You’d miss us?”

“Because I love you.” Ethan emphasized the words Jeremiah had tried to ignore. “Because you are my family, and too soon you will grow up and become a young man who wants to make his own way in the world. Then I will have to let you go, but I won’t like it then, either.”

“Even when we’re old, like Uncle Dolph or Uncle George?”

“Even when you’re old like me. I didn’t go to school until I was fourteen, Jeremiah, and then only because my father thought Nick and I should be meeting other boys our age.” This was a lie, but Ethan forgave himself for it before the words had left his lips.

“Fourteen? That’s twice as old as me, and more.”

As I, Ethan thought with a parent’s inherent need to edit grammar. He kept his parental editor quiet and hugged his son instead. “It’s forever from now, and there are plenty of young men who go to university without ever having gone away to school.”

“I don’t want to go,” Jeremiah said on a huge sigh. “Mr. Harold said we ought, because we were an embarrassment and gutterswipes.”

“Guttersnipes. It means orphans or little criminals in the making. Children who have no supervision or manners or home.”

“I have supervision and manners and a home,” Jeremiah said with a touch of defiance. “Mr. Harold was wrong.”

“Very.”

And when Jeremiah might have burdened his father with yet more memories of the execrable Mr. Harold, Ethan chose that moment to tickle his son gently. “Are you ready to return to your own saddle?”

“Not yet. I like it way up here. When can Joshua and I have bigger ponies?”

“Horses, you mean?” Ethan tousled his son’s hair with a gloved hand. “Not for a while. Joshua is a demon on that pony, and I’m frankly scared of what he’d do with a larger mount.”

“Thunder and Lightning are good boys,” Jeremiah declared staunchly. “I wouldn’t want to sell them.”

“So we won’t. This estate can support a couple of ponies who’ve done their share of work.” Ethan did not examine too closely the notion that other children might come along to interrupt Thunder and Lightning’s retirement.

“We don’t have to sell them?” Jeremiah turned to regard his father. “Mr. Harold said the only things more useless than me and Josh were those fat, lame ponies of ours. He said they should go to the knackers, because they were a complete waste of money.”

An accurate description for Mr. Harold. Ethan batted aside the paternal guilt following that sentiment.

“Mr. Harold was likely jealous. Your ponies are first-rate, and you ride them like a pair of Cossacks. And Jeremiah? It’s ill-bred to mention it, so I beg your discretion, but what we do with our wealth is none of Mr. Harold’s damned business.”

“You said damned. I won’t tattle. Do you think Miss Alice will ever canter?”

If Ethan had his way, her heart at least would be galloping that very night. “I don’t know. For her to get on Waltzer, much less to hack out at the trot, took a lot of courage. We should be proud of her.”

“She’s proud of us. She tells us all the time. I like her, even if she makes us do lessons.”

Ethan tolerated another filial inspection and realized Jeremiah had cast one of his subtle lures. “I like her too, Jeremiah. I like her a great deal.”

“More than you liked Mama?” Jeremiah sprung the trap with casual innocence.

“That’s complicated.” Ethan searched for useful truths amid the painful and surprising realities. “I will always treasure your mother because she gave me you and Joshua, but she’s in heaven now, and we are left here to live out our lives without her. I do like Miss Alice a lot, and I respect her. Those are probably the same feelings you have about your mother’s memory.”

“Sorta.” Jeremiah started to braid a hank of mane. “Mama wasn’t always nice.”

“Nobody is nice all the time.”

“She yelled.” Jeremiah shrank back against his father’s chest as he spoke. “She yelled a lot, at you, and at us too.”

“Some people yell.” Ethan tried to keep his tone level, but God above, Jeremiah had barely been out of nappies when his mother had died. Was his only memory of his mother her temper? “It doesn’t mean they don’t love you. I yell. Uncle Nick yells.”

“He yells, but mostly when he loses his ball in the weeds. Uncle Nick went to public school too.”

Back to this?

“He did. A different one than I did.”

“Mama wanted to send us away.” Jeremiah gave another one of those sighs, as if his entire soul was heaving away a burden, and Ethan felt his heart breaking. He wanted to argue Jeremiah out of these memories, to tell the boy Barbara had only been teasing or exasperated or trying to raise Ethan’s temper in response, but he couldn’t. Barbara had been fiendishly expert at ferreting out Ethan’s sensitive issues, and though they’d argued about everything at some point, she’d honed in on public school as one of the most sensitive issues of all.

Ethan pressed a kiss to his son’s crown. “Isn’t it interesting that your mother is the one who did go away, thankfully to a better place, while you and Joshua are here, with me, right where I want you?”

“I don’t miss her,” Jeremiah said, undoing the braid. “Sometimes I go look at her picture so I’ll remember what she looked like. Mostly I try to remember for Joshua.”

“It’s all right not to miss her. And you were very, very little when she died, Jeremiah. I’m surprised you recall her at all. My mother died when I was little, and I can’t put my finger on any particular memories, though the scent of lilies makes me think of her. I used to look at her portrait too.”

“Was she pretty?”

“She was.” Ethan realized it was true. “She was tall and blond and had happy eyes.”

“Joshua has those. Miss Alice is tallish, but not blond, but her eyes are happy too, mostly.”

“And she’s pretty,” Ethan reminded his oldest son. “Maybe even prettier than either of our mothers.”

That seemed to address the topic to Jeremiah’s satisfaction, because he remained quiet—and up before his father—for the entire remainder of their ride. When Ethan and Jeremiah turned up the lane toward the Tydings stables, the Marquis of Heathgate emerged from the bridle path on his chestnut mare.

“Greetings, your lordship.” Ethan wasn’t exactly glad to see his neighbor, though he was glad to have Jeremiah up before him. “Finding some peace and quiet on a summer morning?”

“Nearly autumn.” Heathgate smiled at the boy, a surprisingly friendly expression Ethan could not recall seeing before. “Master Jeremiah, good morning. Did you finally wear that pony out?”

“He did.” Ethan answered for his son, unwilling to hear Jeremiah explain to his lordship that Papa had plucked him off his mount’s back for sentimental reasons no grown man would want to confess to another.

“Enjoy your place of honor while you can, young man,” Heathgate said. “Another year, and you won’t be fitting so handily in your papa’s saddle.”

“Another year, and Papa will buy us horses from Lord Greymoor.”

“Down you go for now.” Ethan settled his son on the pony’s back. “Look after your beast, and tell Miller to get his lazy arse out here to tend to his lordship’s mare.”

Yes, Ethan’s gaze said as he met Jeremiah’s, Papa said arse.

“Yes, Papa.” Jeremiah winked at his father, and Ethan had all he could do to keep a straight face as he dismounted.

“Sometimes”—Heathgate’s voice was thoughtful—“the hardest part about being a parent is not laughing. That young man is going to break hearts when he’s older. He has the family good looks, and he pays attention.”

“Sometimes he pays too close attention.”

“And then they ignore you completely,” Heathgate commiserated, climbing off his mare. “If children sat in the Lords, it would be a very different place. Probably better.”

Ethan regarded his companion as Miller led their horses away. “Do you spread sedition like this among your peers?”

“Of course. It isn’t treason to speculate on methods of improving governance, though that’s hardly why I trotted up your lane.”

Ethan walked in silence beside the marquis, realizing the call wasn’t entirely social. With a sense of foreboding, Ethan escorted his lordship to the house, signaled a footman, and led his guest into the library. “One hopes you came to enjoy a cold drink and a little neighborly company.”

“One can hope that,” Heathgate countered when the door was closed, “but one would be attributing to me a delicacy of manners I lack.”

And the true Marquis of Heathgate subtly stepped forward.

“You don’t come bearing another picnic summons, do you? Pardon me. They are invitations, not summonses.”

“More like writs of habeas corpus, issued by the womenfolk.”

“Right.” Ethan did not smile, since having Heathgate in his home was not quite comfortable. He liked the man, respected him, and enjoyed his family.

And yet, he made Ethan… uneasy.

“Tydings is pretty,” Heathgate said, glancing around the room. “Greymoor claimed this was so, and was intrigued that you’ve achieved a graceful home without a lady in residence. Did your late wife take the place in hand?”

He was clearly stalling until the refreshment had been delivered, and Ethan was willing to delay whatever Heathgate came to tell him.

“Barbara was not much inclined to domestication,” Ethan said. “I’ve done what I thought necessary to the place, and thank you for the compliment.”

“I knew the lady.” Heathgate turned his attention to the view beyond the French doors. “You are kind to her memory.”

Ethan was not going to ask his neighbor in what sense he’d known Barbara. She’d taken lovers before and after they’d married, and she’d been a devastatingly attractive woman—physically.

Heathgate surveyed his host. “You are silent. I wasn’t one of her amours, if that’s what you’re wondering, but you probably knew exactly with whom she disported, where and when.”

“I kept close enough track of her,” Ethan responded, and then—thank God—the footman’s tap on the door provided a distraction. When Heathgate was ensconced in a cushioned chair, a cold glass of lemonade in his hand, Ethan settled in the opposite chair and consciously relaxed his shoulders.

Heathgate withdrew a thin sheaf of papers from his waistcoat. “You won’t want to leave this where it can be easily stumbled across by prying eyes.”

“What is it?” Ethan set the papers aside, sensing instinctively he did not want to know their contents.

“My notes, taken when interviewing Benjamin Hazlit regarding certain individuals I’d asked him to investigate.”

The idea of Heathgate and Hazlit coupled like hounds on a scent made Ethan’s blood run cold.

“This would be of interest to me?” Ethan wanted to toss the papers out the French doors, but kept his expression bland.

“I’ve already warned you Collins is back in the country,” Heathgate said. “I thought it prudent to know what he and his former associates were up to, so I set Hazlit to the task.”

“In God’s name, why?” Ethan rose, unable to maintain a cool facade. “It’s damned near twenty years in the past. Why do you insist on bringing this up?”

“I don’t know.” Heathgate sipped his drink, a man in no hurry to cease prying into Ethan’s old wounds. “Greymoor’s countess claims I have a cruel streak.”

“You surely didn’t discuss this with your sister-by-marriage?” Ethan’s voice was tight, and he let his temper show in the glare he leveled at his guest.

“I haven’t discussed your personal business with anyone. Not even Lady Heathgate knows the details, and I do not keep secrets from my wife.”

“I wish to hell you wouldn’t discuss this with me.”

“I don’t believe that’s so.” Heathgate rose and went to stand beside Ethan where he stared out his mullioned windows. “You don’t like what I know of the crimes against you, Ethan Grey, but you’d like it even less were you completely alone with the knowledge yourself. You’d begin to doubt your memories, tell yourself you exaggerated and embellished when you did not and you do not. Read those notes, my friend. Those jackals ambushed you once. You must not let them ambush you again. Think of your sons and your family.”

“I am thinking of my sons. What would you have me do? Turn myself in to the constable as a sodomite to implicate Collins in something easily dismissed as distasteful schoolboy nonsense?”

“You don’t have to do anything.” Heathgate put a hand on Ethan’s shoulder and just let it rest there. To be touched by another man while discussing Hart Collins was at once unbearable and oddly comforting.

Heathgate removed his hand, but apparently wasn’t done passing out advice. “There’s a middle ground between calling Collins out in some misguided attempt at revenge and ignoring him completely. The middle ground is to be informed and prepared, and thus to give yourself the upper hand if and when he acts. He has lingered longer in England this time than at any point previous, and no longer has the funds to debauch his way across the Continent.”

Ethan let out a held breath, his mind comprehending Heathgate was offering him wisdom, even if his body was more prepared for a fight. On some level, he’d been prepared for a fight ever since the day Collins had assaulted him as a boy in the Stoneham stables.

“We’re not boys anymore,” Ethan said. “What makes you think Collins is any threat to my peace of mind at all?”

Heathgate’s glacier-blue eyes gave away nothing. “I saw the condition they put you in, and that wasn’t schoolboy nonsense, and believe me, having attended Stoneham for four years, I saw plenty of nonsense. Something is wrong with Collins. He was tossed out of at least three other schools for either extreme violence or incidents similar to the one you were involved in. There’s probably a word for the kind of man he is, but if he were a horse, I’d put him down.”

“He did the same thing to others?” The heart in Ethan’s chest took up a heavy drumbeat, not dread exactly, but a sense of the moment bearing portents with far-reaching effects. “How many?”

“At least two others whom Hazlit spoke to personally,” Heathgate said. “Hazlit says Collins was engaged briefly, but the lady wouldn’t have him. And as quickly as Benjamin has assembled a very thorough report, the man has to be nigh notorious. Then too, Hazlit has some personal animosity toward Collins which I do not doubt goes back as far as your own. They’re both from Cumbria, though Hazlit keeps his antecedents quiet. You’ll read the notes?”

“I will.” The idea of Collins originating from the same shire as Alice made Ethan want to retch.

Heathgate continued to study Ethan. “You wonder if it’s ever going to completely go away, don’t you? You bury yourself in your commerce and immure yourself here in the woods of Surrey, and all the while, in the back of your mind, it lurks, waiting to pounce.”

“Do you expect me to admit that to you?” There were depths to Heathgate, and not necessarily happy ones.

“Oh, of course not.” Heathgate’s smile was humorless. “Whatever you’re dragging around, whatever memories you’re trying to ignore, they don’t learn their proper place until you turn around and stare them down.”

“Have you taken up hearing confessions too, your reverence?” Ethan’s tone was dry, just short of desperately disrespectful.

His guest’s expression was utterly serious. “My name is Gareth. I will thank you to use it henceforth, should we be informally private.”

Ethan’s eyebrows rose, for such an invitation was beyond peculiar—also blatantly flattering. As neighbors, someday Ethan might have been expected to address the marquis simply as “Heathgate,” but never by his given name. Only a brother might have presumed to call him by his name.

“I will read your notes, Gareth.” Ethan said the name carefully, feeling the strangeness of it, but thinking the name suited the very masculine specimen before him. “And you have my thanks for taking an interest in my situation.”

“I’m off, then. I’ve invited James and Will to ride out with me tomorrow morning, weather permitting. Amery might bring Rose if he can’t weasel out of it, but the boys learned you mean to take your two cubbing this fall, and so you see before you a doomed papa.”

When Heathgate dropped a subject, at least he dropped it entirely.

“Cubbing is harmless enough,” Ethan said as he walked his guest to the front door. “I have no appetite for true blood sport.”

“Neither do I, but Nick enjoys it, doesn’t he?”

“I think he enjoys a good gallop and a romp with the hounds. A man his size is not permitted to cringe at a grisly death, or to sympathize with poor Renard.”

“A man his size?” Heathgate’s gaze traveled Ethan’s length, which exceeded his own by a couple of inches.

“I am a veritable sylph compared to my brother. Just as you are ancient compared to yours.”

“Just so.” Heathgate pulled on his gloves. “My marchioness found a gray hair on me yesterday. Don’t have daughters, my friend. They age a man as sons cannot.”

“You’re a font of wisdom, at least today.”

“‘A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country,’” Heathgate quoted. “I have to dispense my wisdom where it will be appreciated—so see that you heed me.”

Ethan let him have the last word because, after all, the man had made sense—except for that blather about daughters. But rather than head back into the library and read the damned notes, Ethan turned the other way and sought his younger son. He had plans for his day, and his night, and reading sordid history did not comport with those plans at all.

The gentry were proving accommodating, suggesting to Baron Collins that he’d been remiss not to frequent English house parties in years past. While enjoying fine food, decent drink, and the occasional housemaid—or footman—Collins could keep an eye on Ethan Grey and meet easily with that handy tool known by the locals as Thatcher.

“I can’t be sneakin’ about like this,” Thatcher grumbled. “Miller watches me, and the work won’t do itself when I’m waiting for ye to come strollin’ along.”

“Stable work is completed before dark,” Collins retorted. “And I wasn’t about to risk hanging felonies without corroborating your characterization of Grey’s situation.”

“Ye done what?”

A handy tool often sported a dull blade. “Without making sure Grey is as rich as you say he is. Many a fine lord is living on credit.”

“He ain’t a lord. He’s a right bastard.”

“He’s a wealthy man.” An affront to the natural order, that was, when the scion of an old and noble house had to scrounge for accommodations while a lowly bastard prospered. “He will soon be much less wealthy.”

Except as Thatcher reported the routine in the stables, Collins realized the timing of his plans would be delicate. Ethan Grey’s stables were busy, with grooms on hand at all hours and the tyrant Miller overseeing every detail. Worse, the children were closely supervised, and Mr. Grey himself often in company with them—and having Grey about would not do at all.

“I shall be patient,” Collins decided. “I’ve waited nigh twenty years to put this particular upstart in his place. I can wait a bit longer.”

Thatcher shuffled away in the shadows, leaving Collins to study the edifice up the hill from the paddocks.

Ethan Grey had indeed prospered, and that… that simply wasn’t to be borne.