In a society where morality, fidelity, temperance, and respectability were cherished, valued, and idealized, Nick was painted as a dark, drunken, womanizing, violent American brute. Yet in the end, there wasn’t enough evidence to prove he had actually set the fire that had burned Patricia to death. More important, in the end, he paid a famous London madam whom he frequented quite regularly to testify that he had been with her all night. And he was acquitted of all charges.
He was acquitted of the charges, but not of his new title, for now they called him the Lord of Darkness.
It was an epithet that would haunt him the rest of his life.
17
He was tense and angry.
The earl was so tense and angry that he’d ridden his gelding back across the lawns at a gallop. Now he left the blowing bay drop-reined in front of the manor beside a bed of roses. He bounded up the stone steps. Where in hell were they?
The earl had traversed Dragmore from the south end to the north in the course of his day, and there had not been a sign of Lindley and Jane. He told himself his mood was not foul because of this, but, rather, because he was hot and sweaty and distinctly malodorous. Just where the hell had they been all morning?
In the corridor he bellowed, “Thomas!”
The butler was behind him, unruffled. “Yes, my lord?”
“Where is Lindley?”
“He is in the morning room with Miss Jane.”
Nick felt something like daggers within him. He strode aggressively down the hall, then paused to regain calm. He heard her bell-like laughter, accompanied by Lindley’s rich baritone. He stepped in. “How cozy,” he commented. It was as close to a snarl as a human being could get.
They both froze, like two guilty culprits, which, clearly, they were. They were sitting on the same settee, very close together—Jane’s skirts touched Lindley’s leg. A book was spread across their communal lap, Lindley holding one end, Jane the other. Both heads had been bent close together. They had popped up at Nick’s comment like a double-headed Jack-in-the-box.
Lindley grinned. “Hullo, Shelton. About time. We’ve worked up quite the appetite.”
“Oh? Am I keeping you?” The earl’s tone was cool. His gaze left Lindley. Jane was a pink-and-cream vision in a rose dress. Her cheeks were tinged with a healthy, outdoors blush, and her thick, pale hair was pulled back with one big velvet bow. Half of the tail spilled over her shoulder and down her right breast.
“Rough morning?” Lindley was sympathetic.
Nick didn’t answer. He cut them with a look and strode to a silver butler’s table, pouring himself—what the hell was it anyway? Lemonade? “What the hell is this?”
“Lemonade,” Jane responded.
He shot her an ugly look.
“Look at this one,” Lindley said, pointing. His hand moved to Jane’s side of the book; his shoulder pressed hers.
“It’s beautiful,” Jane said.
They were looking at pictures, of what he didn’t know or care. Could they possibly sit any closer? With disgust, he slammed his glass of untried lemonade down. Both heads popped up and swiveled toward him. Nick stepped closer and saw that they were admiring pressed butterflies, for God’s sake. He turned and left.
He splashed his face with water and changed his shirt quickly, fuming. He did not bother with his breeches. Why should he? Lindley was impeccable—if she wanted a peacock to admire, she had him. If she wanted to smell spices and musk, she had him. He pounded back downstairs. He almost fell on his face in the hall, skidding to a stop and catching himself on the door jamb just in time—the floors were wet! “What is going on!” he exclaimed through gritted teeth.
Then he spotted the maid mopping the corridor. He righted himself to find Jane standing in the doorway, hands on her slender hips. “You are tracking mud and manure everywhere,” she scolded.
He stared.
Behind Jane, Lindley muffled a laugh.
“So?” Nick challenged, bringing his gaze back to hers. She was, for some reason, angry.
“We are not in Texas. Maybe there is no mud in Texas. But you do have horses and cattle there, do you not?”
The earl felt himself start to blush.
“We have a guest,” Jane said pointedly. “If he wanted to stroll in filth, he would go to the stables. This”—she gestured grandly, blue eyes flashing—“is not a stable.”
