Not Your Average Earl: The Curse of the Weatherby Ball, #1

Chapter One

Leo Bennett’s week started with a disturbing letter from India. The tattered note had been traveling to him over the past several months. Judith, his wife of nine years, had passed.

He braced his hand against his desk and closed his eyes. Regret weighted his shoulders. In his mind, he whispered a forgiving prayer, more of a rehearsed response rather than real clemency. He wasn’t ready for that just yet.

There were no details in the missive, and Leo knew better than to ruminate on potential causes. Cholera and other diseases of the tropic were common. She’d been buried in India at the Bellary Cantonment Cemetery, a colonial field of remembrance for those expatriates who’d found a home in the far-off land. There was no mention of him.

His wicked self whispered that it was what she deserved, but he donned a black armband, rode to Judith’s parents’ and imparted the tragic news. Lord and Lady Farthington asked few questions. Lord Farthington rested his beefy hand against his wife’s shoulder but said nothing. Belve Cavinder, Lady Farthington, dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes then turned a shoulder to Leo, as if it were his fault Judith had left him for another man.

Upon leaving, he was calmed knowing the Cavinders’ three other daughters were all suitably married and living as proper Englishwomen. They would provide the comfort Leo could not.

There was no mention of her. The child. The bastard child, now without a mother.

The second letter came the following Friday, also dated some weeks ago. Judith’s daughter, two-year-old Celeste, was being returned to London in the company of her governess. In spite of Judith’s behavior, and the resulting illegitimate child, there was little Leo could do except bring her into his home. Celeste was a Bennett, by law.

His not-so-wicked self could not abandon a child who likely had no one else, including the British East India Company officer and nameless father for whom Judith had succumbed, heart and soul, as she claimed. He could not blame little Celeste, the child he had never met, though the gossip had been spread far and wide in London when the child had been born sans husband. That bit of gossip had arrived on falcon’s wings.

The ton would likely be very unforgiving of the child, once grown. They would tut and sigh about Judith’s lovelorn tragedy, even though this was all her doing. They would whisper behind their fans, asking what it was the Earl of Hythe had done to cause his wife to abandon him. He’d always born a healthy dose of shame, and he knew it would take all his pride to face the ton after this. He could only hope some other fool would have an even greater scandal to eclipse his own.

The Weatherby Ball was still months away, where one could be assured of such a scandal.

His family had never discussed the child. Judith’s family had been too ashamed to admit their daughter’s failure. Leo wasn’t surprised they hadn’t asked about her when he had gone to deliver the news of Judith’s death. Shamefully, Leo had not inquired of the child either, and might not have, had the second letter not arrived.

Lord, would he ever forgive Judith? Oh, he had tried.

Well, his mother said. Leo, his shoulder braced against the unlit fireplace mantel, fiddled with his pocket watch. Mother’s dog ambled toward him and curled into his bed near Leo’s feet. It’s not like this is unexpected, she said.

Mother peered up at him through her silver-framed reading glasses. She folded the letter and placed it on the wooden small table near her chair, then removed her glasses and laid them atop the missive.

What am I going to do with her? Leo asked.

Now that she is upon your doorstep, you will do your Christian Duty, of course.

I cannot be her father.

What noble is a father to their children? The governess will raise her. You will see her off to a young ladies’ seminary, paying for her room and board. With a proper dowry, she will marry well enough. I’ve heard the school in Bath is quite good. A comprehensive education will go far in polishing her to a shine. But the best marriage will be crucial.

"I noticed you don’t mention the finishing school your daughters attended."

Your sisters might tell you they would have rather gone to Bath for their education.

Little good all that planning does now. The girl is only two.

When will she arrive?

I don’t know. Two months at the outside, depending upon the weather, I suppose. The ship’s information is listed there and left within a month of that notice. He pointed his chin toward the letter, not bothering to pick it up.

Plenty of time to make arrangements then. 

I am a widower. What do I know about taking in a ward?

Is that how you see it?

Between us, yes.

You know how I feel about children. We must do our best by her.

Mother, why don’t you take her in? You are much more suited to such a task. I have nearly a year of mourning ahead of me. I will provide a handsome stipend. Please?

It has nothing to do with your painting commission?

No, that has been a difficulty which has nothing to do with Celeste. Will you at least consider it?

"Any other woman of my rank would probably agree to this, tucking the child away in some cupboard to come out again when she is sixteen. Not I. I am far too busy with the orphanage and the foundling hospital. I am sorry, Leo. There are times when we all must bear unexplainable difficulties. Yours started when you married Judith.

"You won’t be in this alone. I will help as I can, but if the ton knows you have rejected her, they will be all the more unforgiving. If she is to have a chance, they must know you are not ashamed of her," she said.

Mother was right, as usual, but seeing the child would bring back all the anger and cynicism Judith’s rejection had wrought.

Why do you not stop by the orphanage one day this week, and you will see the necessity of caring for this child as a Bennett. Girls especially need a name and a protector.

The orphanage? What would I do there?

Teach young children how to draw, of course. Who better?

Leo’s eyes bulged. If they need to earn a living wage, I would not recommend the arts.

It is only a suggestion. Yet one that would help greatly. I cannot find enough Good Samaritans to assist. Oh, there are several do-gooders who pay lip service, but none who are willing to get their hands dirty.

"They, you, don’t need a widowed earl."

An argument for another day. Sometimes I think the children just need a living, breathing man, or woman, to direct them. But your daughter more so. Why, you wouldn’t believe some of the stories we hear, kidnapping, child-stripping. Can you imagine, plucking a child from a park and stealing the child’s garments? And much, much worse. The elements they are exposed to would shock an outsider.

For now, let me worry about the daughter I don’t have.

When she arrives, Leo, keep her safe. Love and care will come.

Leo poked his booted foot at the fireplace grate. Mother, what if the child isn’t English? When Judith left England, she had one lover. Perhaps she found another.

The countess pursed her lips. Well, then the child will need you all the more. Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. You will know what to do when the time comes.

I don’t know how I would...

Whatever happens, you are a good man and will do the right thing.

I’m not as virtuous as you seem to think.

I suspect you will find virtue through this trial. But if you are in doubt, you can demonstrate your rectitude by escorting me to the Matthews’ musicale this evening.

Of course.

She lifted the paper she had been reading. Why didn’t you tell me there was going to be a story published about you?

"Hopefully not the Satirist?"

"Dear boy, what have you done to be in the Satirist? You know what I am talking about. The exhibit you are putting together for the museum."

It will be months in the making, but it’s never too early for a little publicity. He took the paper she offered and glanced through the article, glowing a bit at the effusive compliments regarding his artistic talents, and that he killed a lot of birds for posterity. But he laughed at the tongue-in-cheek title. Not Your Average Artist: A Life in Color.

Two months later, Leo stood at the East India docks in Blackwall, waiting for the merchantman to tie off. He paced in front of his carriage. Would he recognize the girl? Would he see Judith in her? Or would he know her because she didn’t look like Judith?

The Charles Grant was a beautiful Indiaman—at least Leo could appreciate the craftsmanship of the Bombay-made ship, its teak wood glossy and trimmed in black and white. It must have been magnificent, fully-rigged, and tearing through the waters for home. Certainly, an adventure he would never get to enjoy. Not now.

The upper deck was lined with passengers, returning to London from parts unknown. When the gangplank was lowered and secured to the dock, a crowd of people lunged forward, into the arms of loved ones. He pushed to his toes, trying to see over the wave of arrivals. There was a shift of bodies, making way for the travel chests, and the crowds broke up as the ship emptied. Several minutes passed while large trolleys loaded with chests and bags pushed by him, company men swearing but efficient.

His stomach lurched. Leo wasn’t a praying man, but he had prayed, nonetheless. He’d read the much-discussed pamphlet: Thoughts on How to Better the Condition of Indo-Britons. How many nights had he digested the sage advice, downed decanters of whisky and acknowledged that he was not the man his mother believed?

What would he do if his daughter, this Bennett, was half-Indian? What would he do, other than hate himself when he looked in the mirror? How could he explain to a child why Papa—oh, dear God—he couldn’t even say it to himself.

Horses, carriages and their aggressive coachmen wormed away from the dock, leaving him alone, waiting for them. A knot of anxiety had built in his chest. He had no reason to feel embarrassment, but the idea that everyone knew had grown into a chronic stress, building in the cords of his neck and running into his head.

A tall, thin woman stood at the head of the plank, a leather valise at her feet along with a worn wooden trunk. Dressed severely and poorly, she held the hand of a small child. The girl was dressed in a white dress that fell above her ankles. She wore a satiny blue jacket with a matching ribbon about her waist and a little straw bonnet. The ribbons blew about her like butterflies in spring.

The woman waved at a porter and he helped with her baggage. The woman said something to the girl and they marched forward, the girl leaning close to her governess. When they were but a few steps away, Leo removed his hat and nodded at the woman without taking his gaze from the child. They stopped in front of Leo, finding him in spite of not knowing, though his carriage had the Hythe crest. And he was alone in the waiting.

Beneath the child’s blue hat, unruly dark curls escaping, he could see the wide-open gaze of her blue eyes. Judith’s eyes and porcelain skin.

Lord Hythe, the governess said, bobbing quickly. Celeste, make your greeting to your father.

A wave of profound relief washed over him. Prejudices were rarely acknowledged within his set, but Leo tamped down his shame and found he was weak with gratitude.

Celeste blinked, owl-eyed, grasped the edge of her swinging skirt and made a proper bow. Hello, Papa, she said shyly before half burying her face in her governess’ skirts.

I brought something for you, he said, squatting in front of her. Just this week, he had panicked at the idea the child might not have a toy or doll to comfort her on the journey. Now that he saw her well-dressed and healthy, he wondered why he had feared for her welfare.

No, that was a lie. Leo had feared for his welfare and name. Mother was wrong—There was no virtue in hoping his child was English rather than half Indian but there was no denying her life would be easier for it.

Judith’s quarterly was generous and should have easily provided a lavish existence for both of them, but he could not know what Judith was thinking and would not assume that she acted with the best interests of her daughter in mind.

He carried a small box beneath his arm and displayed it for her. Do you want to open it?

She shook her head no, but peered up at him, her curiosity obvious and warm.

Let me. Tell me if you like her. Leo opened the lid and pulled out a porcelain-faced doll, costumed with a frilly yellow dress. What a little English girl might want. It’s for you. He held out the doll. She took it with one hand and cradled it beneath her arm. You’ll have to give her a name, though.

What do you say, Celeste? the governess prompted. Leo glanced up for a moment, feeling another rush of gratitude that someone cared for his daughter.

Thank you, Papa. She blinked at him, her eyes shining and her smile half there. Auburn curls brushed her face. He wanted to kiss those round, reddish cheeks. Or better, have her throw her arms about his neck.

Leo had never believed in love at first sight. He was wrong.

* * * * *

Rachel Rose Stewart breathed a sigh of relief, but maybe that was premature, as she was ready to topple over. She didn’t want to embarrass Lord Hythe by fainting on the dirty docks or having to explain why she’d given up part of her food ration in order to keep Celeste happy and healthy. It was just as well, Rose had been sick much of the journey.

Rose had made a calculated decision to wait until Judith Bennett’s next quarterly arrived so that she could settle Judith’s affairs in India and book passage to England. It was a mistake. The solicitor who handled her affairs had heard about Judith’s death and refused further payment. Rightly, but it was a huge hardship for Rose.

She did not have enough money for the complete passage fare, so she’d sold the odd household bits, packed up Judith’s personal belongings and sent them on a much slower route to England and her family. She could have used that money, but Rose felt a strong compulsion to finish all the family’s affairs before departing.

Then she’d negotiated the fare with the ship’s captain for her and Celeste. She’d had to share the room with two others. It was a small concession, but one that made the voyage possible.

The captain had been an honorable man, though, understanding her plight, and probably thinking Celeste was her daughter in spite of the very true story she had shared.

She’d feared the worst, even shedding tears of relief when he’d had compassion for her and Celeste. Rose was familiar with a man’s need and she’d been prepared to offer one other thing. Dishonor was nothing when compared to the two of them dying in India.

At least when Paul was alive, she’d felt somewhat protected from dread diseases and subversive revolts.

The lesser of two evils had been reaching out to Judith’s, Lady Hythe’s, husband—Celeste’s legal father. Rose’s family would have done something, had she asked, but toting along a bastard child would have been a mistake worse than her mother’s. And her brother’s.

How many bags do you have? His forehead wrinkled.

Yes, I am Mrs. Stewart, she said in answer to his unspoken question. This is everything, Lord Hythe.

His black brows shot up, examining her in that way nobles did when they found something to dislike. You have no travel trunks? Nothing for the girl?

It is all here. We are ready when you are.

He waved to one of the runners on the coach and the uniformed man came running to relieve her of the slight weight of a battered valise and the wooden trunk dropped near her feet. She had two dresses and one smock inside the bag, along with her hairbrush, pins and a thin washcloth.

There were blankets and towels, a few small soaps, her needles, threads and scissors. Practical necessities were in the trunk.

There were other things. Three books. A few pieces of jewelry. Cherished little keepsakes. Sewing projects she meant to finish. Pillowcases her mother had embroidered. Paul’s insignia. Nothing anyone would want, except it was all that Rose had.

Celeste had several everyday dresses and smocks and stockings and the pretty new outfit in which she was to meet Lord Hythe. Rose had sewn the ensemble on the long days of the trip. Daily, Celeste had asked if she could wear her new clothes.

She didn’t blame the child; they’d had few things to entertain them on the massive Indiaman other than walking the deck, and the dress was something new and distracting and very pretty. There were no other children on board to play with, so Rose spent as much time as possible teaching the girl basic things like her letters, using salt water to draw on the deck. There were lessons in French, history and ship mechanics too. Basic, she knew, but it was the only way to keep Rose sane and Celeste from crying over every little thing.

They’d gotten used to being without, but Celeste was unaccustomed to the confines of a small space. Everything about India had been a grand adventure, except for the antics of Celeste’s mother and father, which were more troubling for Rose than Celeste. She’d had gardens to run through, flowers to smell, animals to play with—everything except her mother and father.

They arrived at Lord Hythe’s home shortly after lunch. Celeste had fallen asleep in Rose’s arms. Lord Hythe jumped from the carriage and turned to remove the sleeping girl from Rose’s embrace, but Rose shook her head. She wasn’t ready to let go of her charge, but she did place her hand in his as he helped her from the conveyance.

Was it a good sign that Lord Hythe seemed mesmerized by the child? He’d barely noticed the accompanying governess. Perhaps also a good sign.

She was prepared to beg Lord Hythe to retain her, just as she had begged the captain. Pride was easily shed for such an important cause.

Inside the house, Rose could smell the fresh bread and, she was certain, a roasting chicken. Saliva filled her mouth and her stomach made an undignified growl. No matter how it tasted, she was going to revel in every bite.

Mrs. Waddell will show you to your room. And the room for Celeste, he said.

Thank you, Lord Hythe.

Once you have freshened up, I would like a moment of your time, Mrs. Stewart. He plucked his pocket watch from his waistcoat. Say one hour?

She nodded, shifted Celeste, wedging her new doll between them. Yes, my lord.

The rooms were two stories up and at the end of a long hall. She clung to Celeste, hoping to keep her secure, while feeling lightheaded and warm. Small, black spots peppered her vision.

Mrs. Waddell opened one of the doors. This is the child’s room. The bed is made up. And your room is the end door. There was a crib on rockers. Stuffed with blankets and pillows, the bed was Rose’s idea of paradise and she wanted to crawl into it and sleep for a week. There were two other small poster beds—definitely a child’s room.

Thank you, Mrs. Waddell. I’ll be fine. I want to see to Celeste’s needs first.

Your valise and trunk are already in your room and there is warm water in the pitcher on the bureau. Perhaps later, I will arrange for a hipbath? Mrs. Waddell took the doll first and set it on the bureau.

Yes. Thank you. Would it be possible to have a tray sent up? And some warm milk for the child? We went without this morning what with all the excitement of landing. Rose smiled tightly but tried to convey the warmth of gratitude. Safe, at last. A home, even if Lord Hythe wasn’t Celeste’s father. He’d done the honorable thing, for which she had earnestly prayed and was beyond thankful.

Or maybe he had just let the situation take its course. Lord Hythe hadn’t responded to her letter, not that there was time. Or had he responded, but they’d already departed and would never receive it?

But he’d waited for them at the dock. That must mean something. At the very least, he wasn’t indifferent. Or hateful. She carefully suppressed her opinion, having only the late Lady Hythe’s one-sided judgement of her husband.

Oh, certainly, my dear. Let me help you. Mrs. Waddell tossed back the small bed coverings, then rolled Celeste from her arms and placed her in the bed. Rose watched as Celeste’s shoes were slipped off and her little blue jacket removed with care.

Rose’s arms went limp at her side.

Celeste moaned a bit, then turned to her side and popped her thumb in her mouth.

Thank you, Mrs. Waddell, she whispered.

Your tray will be up shortly. Mrs. Waddell slipped out the door quietly.

Tears filled Rose’s eyes. Such a weight fell from her shoulders. Only one thing remained, and that was to convince Lord Hythe to keep her as Celeste’s governess.

She knelt beside the crib and stroked Celeste’s warm face, tucking the damp curls behind her ear. We’re safe now, darling. At last, we are safe.

* * * * *

Leo paced in the library, waiting for Mrs. Stewart. Already she was fifteen minutes late—a cardinal sin perhaps, had she not just