Page 23 of Joy to the Earl

Staring up at the sprawling three-story townhouse constructed of cream stone with large windows facing the wide, neatly swept street, Rosalind shivered. How was it possible to fear a building?

“I don’t like this.”

“The sooner we get this over and done with, the sooner we can leave,” said Jack, but he made no movement whatsoever to climb the steps and rap the brass knocker shaped as a lion’s head.

“I know why I don’t like this place. What is your excuse?”

“I don’t know, it just makes me uneasy. Nothing to do with what it looks like. The building appears sturdy and elegant, and you couldn’t ask for a better outlook. Come on, sweet, if we walk together, it will be half the bother.”

“Did you just call me sweet?”

“Maybe I did,” he said, looking at her so defiantly, she almost giggled.

“I suppose sweet is all right. But if you call me buttercup, your instep won’t thank you.”

Jack tugged her closer and trailed his lips down the side of her neck, seemingly oblivious to the raised eyebrow stares of those passing by. “There is something else I’d like to call you. Something beginning with W.”

“Oh?” she said, her heart pounding so hard it would surely fly from her chest. “Witch? Wolf, of the ‘she’ variety? Wretched Wanton? Wicked Widow? I’ve heard them all.”

He made a growling sound. “Never from me. Ever.”

“No,” Rosalind conceded, resting her head on his chest, wondering if it were possible to expire from joyful anticipation. Even though they’d only been in London together the shortest of time, already her fears about remarrying had faded. They were too perfect together. All she had to do was acquire a proper lawyer, and her daughter’s future would be secure. But a future without Jack in it was unthinkable. “Our time together has been so splendid. And Fliss adores you, you know.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Now, where was I…” Jack trailed off as the front door opened and an immaculately dressed, silver-haired butler moved out onto the front step.

The man’s expression was forbidding as he started to say something, but then he stared directly at Jack and gasped. “Master Jo—er, Mr. Reynolds? And Lady Nelson?”

“Yes, that is us,” said Rosalind, even more uneasy. The older man looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“Please do come in, madam. And you…sir.”

Jack offered his arm and she curled her hand around it, grateful for the strength and security as they walked into a marble-floored entrance hall that could probably fit her own townhouse entirely within it and still have room for a rose garden. Jack’s boots and her slippers both sounded unbearably loud in the eerily silent building, and she gripped his arm tighter, wanting nothing more than to turn around and flee this cold, pristine mausoleum. There was no love or softness in this house, no whimsical landscapes, trinkets, or thick, colorful rugs. Only dark painted wood and stark white papered walls, and the heaviness was near-suffocating.

“I keep thinking, at any moment someone from Macbeth is going to leap out and begin chanting,” she muttered, stretching up on tiptoes to speak directly in his ear.

“I am expecting the same thing,” he whispered back. “Shall we make a run for it? Without our captain or Wellington for protection, I’m feeling a trifle vulnerable.”

Rosalind laughed as her tension eased a little. “Oh, Jack, you—”

“His name is not Jack,” announced the coldest voice she’d ever heard in her life, and she spun around to see a stunningly beautiful older woman with silver-touched red hair, dressed in an unadorned gown of stiff black bombazine, her pale fingers heavy with diamond and ruby rings.

“Excuse me?” said Rosalind in confusion.

“Are you simple? I had not heard that. Merely that you opened your bedchamber to all and sundry as London’s reigning strumpet.”

Rosalind’s breath hissed between her teeth at the blatant insult, but before she could answer, Jack stepped forward. “Lady Lynthorpe? If you are, I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue toward Lady Nelson.”

The woman tilted her head, her frigid gray eyes measuring, assessing, like a viper about to strike, and Rosalind’s palm positively itched to slap her. “Your protest is noted and discarded. To answer your question, I am indeed the Countess of Lynthorpe. I realize I should ask you to call me Mother, but the thought is so repugnant I find I cannot do it, John. Beg pardon, my lord.”

Rosalind’s gaze flew to Jack, her throat abruptly so dry it felt like no amount of wine could ever lubricate it again. “What is she talking about?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, but there was something in his pained frown, something in his unsteady tone that spoke of a different truth.

Lady Lynthorpe walked closer and unexpectedly dipped into a shallow curtsy. “You know exactly what I speak of, Lord Lynthorpe.”

Oh God. The poor woman’s mind had been turned by grief. She actually thought Jack, a carpenter from North Yorkshire, was her son!

“No, my lady,” said Rosalind, gentling her tone and regretting her earlier harsh thoughts toward someone suffering so terrible a bereavement as losing a child. “This is Mr. Reynolds. An employee of the late earl’s, who happened to be traveling in the carriage when it overturned. I am very sorry for your loss.”