Terri Brisbin - The Earl's Secret

“The Marquess of Dursby,” Berkley called out as he stepped aside and allowed David’s father to enter. With a bow, he pulled the door closed and a sense of impending doom spread through the room.

“Father,” he said, standing at once and bowing. “I am surprised to see you this early in the day.”

His father simply nodded, not deigning to answer the question implicit in his greeting. The door closed quietly; Berkley at his post.

“Would you care for something to eat or drink, sir?”

“I do not waste my time on such things when the fate of the nation is on the line.”

“I would not say it is as grim as that, sir.”

“And that, Treybourne, is most of your problem. The responsibility granted to you—”

“Forced on me, rather,” David interrupted. In private he could admit that being the spokesman for the Tory party’s position in this war of words had not been his choice.

He looked at the man who fathered him and marveled that in spite of their close resemblance in appearance—same brown hair cut shorter than current style would dictate, same chiseled angles in their faces, same pale blue eyes ringed in midnight blue—their personalities and approach to honor and family were completely different. And when serving as the target of his father’s attempts to intimidate, he thanked the heavens above for the differences.

“A nobleman honors his word.” The words were more demand than statement, more insult than declaration. The Marquess of Dursby did not look lightly on shirking one’s duties, especially when the family honor was involved.

“And I will carry out what I have agreed to do, sir.”

David clenched his jaw and waited for his father’s displeasure to be demonstrated. Never a man to waste time, the marquess seized the topic.

“You should have seen this rebuttal coming, Treybourne. Anyone with a modicum of education or experience in the oratory and debating arts would have known.”

Crossing his arms, David stared off into the corner of his study while his father continued in his well-controlled diatribe over the latest Whigs’ arguments and the insults leveled at the Tories through him.

“You are not paying attention, Treybourne, another of your weaknesses. How do you expect to quash this opponent and make it clear that his party is seeking that which will undermine the good of the nation?”

David did not answer immediately, for he was cognizant that his father would point out another fault of his—that of taking action without adequate thought and planning. Since no amount of arguments or evidence could sway the marquess once he adopted an opinion or position, David saved his efforts for when it would matter.

“What answer would you like from me, sir? If you do not feel that I can accomplish your aims, then give this honor to someone else in whom you have confidence.”

This was not new ground for them. Every time his father berated him over this role as party spokesman, he asked to be relieved of it.

In truth, he only did it for the money it brought to him. And for what he could do with those funds. Activities that would have his father in palpitations if he knew the extent of them. Projects which were too important to let this animosity between father and son interfere.

“I will continue to honor our arrangement as long as you do—ten thousand pounds per annum for your own use, unquestioned, though I do wonder over what sordid uses they may be, in return for you using your persuasive abilities to convince those in Commons and in Lords who are in thrall to the Whigs of the error of their ways.”

David swallowed deeply when he thought of losing the funds. He would not control the family’s strong and still growing fortunes until he ascended to the marquessate, at his father’s death, so he was still beholden to his father’s whims and wishes and demands.

If there were some other way, he would have gone it long ago, but writing various essays and giving speeches as an MP from one of the Dursby pocket boroughs was the easiest legal way to get the blunt he needed.

“I usually take a day or two to mull over the newest article before writing my own, sir,” he offered as he turned back and met his father’s steely gaze.

“Excellent,” Dursby said. “Remember you can always call on my man Garwood if you need assistance.”

He would never use Garwood for anything. “My thanks, sir.”

Then, with but a curt nod to warn that his visit was at an end, the marquess turned and walked to the door. He cleared his throat and waited for Berkley to open it for him, and then the sound of his heels on the floor of the entryway told David of his hasty departure.

The entire encounter took less than ten minutes of his time, but he felt as though countless years had passed since his father’s arrival. David relented on his own practice of avoiding spirits before midday and sought the decanter of brandy in the cabinet. Another regrettable lapse in control, but for now, David decided to fortify himself before his next battle…with the Scottish essayist known as A. J. Goodfellow.

A few hours later, when Berkley dared to encroach into the study to remind him of his dinner and evening engagements, David felt no closer to a suitable retort to the written assault contained in the magazine. Leaning back in his leather chair and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, he considered sending his regrets to Lord and Lady Appleton even at this late hour.

No, the ball this evening would be attended by those who would know not to mention the essay in polite company. Conversation would be filled with talk of horses, soirees and the latest on-dits of acceptable gossip and not the weightier topics of politics and economics. Though he knew he was the subject of much discussion among the best of English society, David also realized it was more about his income per annum and the titles he would assume at his father’s death than the arguments in his essays.

Women controlled the ballrooms and gatherings of society and their interest was nothing so complicated as the latest bill in the Commons or Lords. Titles, wealth and lands were the yardstick of judgment and, with enough of those, most or all of a man’s foibles could be overlooked. And he had enough of all of those.

So, as Earl of Treybourne, he would take refuge there for the night. Indeed, for once, he preferred the questionable and possibly foolhardy adventures in the ton’s social schedule to facing an adversary more dangerous than any he’d faced before. That self-knowledge worried him more than his father’s appearance here before eleven in the morning.

Edinburgh, Scotland

Anna Fairchild walked briskly over the Water of Leith from Stockbridge toward the New Town. Anxious to get to the offices of the Scottish Monthly Gazette, she barely spent a moment returning the greetings of those familiar faces she passed as she made her way through the fashionable area toward Frederick Street. There would be time to stop and chat on another day, but this one was special. This one could determine her success or failure in her endeavors.

This was the morning after the latest issue had been delivered to households and news sellers all over Edinburgh and London. By now, A. J. Goodfellow’s nemesis, Lord Treybourne, had read the answers to his essay and was probably still reeling over it. This was the first time that Goodfellow took the earl on directly and Anna could not wait to see the results. It was Nathaniel’s reactions that she was not so certain about.

Her usual journey of about thirty minutes from the home she shared with her sister and her aunt near the newly built Ann Street houses to the offices on the corner of George and Frederick Streets seemed to rush by, much evidenced by her out-of-breath condition upon arrival at the door. Anna looked around the office and found Nathaniel speaking to his secretary. Taking a moment to remove her pelisse and bonnet and to put her appearance back to rights, she smoothed several strands of hair loosened by her brisk pace and the city winds back into place in the rather severe bun at the nape of her neck.