Redeeming The Reclusive Earl

Thanks to him, she was wasting her morning on a wholly unnecessary mission of diplomacy when what she really wanted to do, what she had spent all of yesterday and most of the long, sleepless night impatiently itching to do, was to excavate the rest of the magnificent pot still partly submerged in the ground. Unfortunately, a great well of patience was not a virtue that she naturally possessed.

In all the years she had been digging at Rivenhall she had never uncovered anything which had looked quite like the treasure she had discovered yesterday. Just thinking about it made bubbles of sheer excitement fizz and pop within her. Not liberating it from the soil for further study and not thoroughly digging around its current location would be a tragedy. She paused a few yards from the horrid Earl’s front door and forced herself to inhale several slow, calming breaths before she marched into the breach.

‘Tart words make no friends.’

Not that she currently had any friends left, but that sad fact had little to do with her occasional tart mouth and more to do with her unique peculiarity, but the new Lord Rivenhall wouldn’t know about that yet. Unless the good news had already travelled to him via the gossips or his servants, which in itself made a bit of a mockery of being a recluse.

Hoping her father’s often-repeated words of wisdom would calm her, Effie said the phrase over and over in her mind. Not that the house intimidated her. She had been visiting the previous Lord Rivenhall alone since she had been about ten. The old man had always been thrilled to see her and took an active interest in her passion for antiquity. She had had free rein to explore his vast scholarly library as well as dig in the ruins. Right up until his death twelve months ago, Effie had taken tea with him at least twice a week. Unfortunately, this wasn’t tea with her father’s old friend. It was critical to all she held dear and her fate rested entirely in the hands of his scowling curmudgeon of a nephew.

Out of politeness to the new master, Effie knocked on the imposing front door rather than let herself in through the kitchens as usual. In the spirit of friendship, she also carried a basket of freshly baked cakes for the surly Earl as a peace offering, hoping a few sweet treats and the fine bottle of brandy from her father’s old stash might make him more agreeable.

Smithson, the butler, appeared amused that she had done so and even more bemused by the sight of her in a frock, but embarrassment soon clouded his face, his darting eyes saying much more than his mouth. ‘I believe Lord Rivenhall is indisposed again, Miss Euphemia. Perhaps you would like to leave your basket and I will tell him that you called?’ His wary gaze was pleading now, begging her to leave.

Effie had expected this. The village was awash with gossip about how the new owner of Rivenhall Abbey had refused to see anyone thus far. Aside from her, the vicar and his wife had been turned away both last week and the week before when they had called to welcome him to the parish. So, too, had the local magistrate and the physician, Dr Samuels. Although after her run-in with Lord Surly yesterday and his curt ‘I have a deep well of loathing for the medical profession’, she wasn’t particularly surprised the latter gentleman had been denied an audience. But he would see her today.

By hook or by crook, he would see her today!

She had even donned a dress for the occasion, something she rarely needed on the long and solitary days filled with digging, but she knew from bitter experience the male of the species always reacted more favourably towards her if she resembled what they expected a gentleman’s daughter to resemble. As if the mere presence of skirts and ribbons somehow made her less intimidating or odd. To that end, and because he was new to the parish, she had also vowed to disguise the bulk of her intellect, too. Nothing terrified or aggravated a man more than an excessively clever woman—even if she wasn’t in breeches.

She smiled at the butler apologetically. ‘No, thank you, Smithson. I shall wait here until His Lordship is disposed. Can you please tell him that I have taken root in the parlour and will not be budged until I have an audience with him?’

Smithson nodded slowly, a slight wince on his face. ‘I will try, Miss Euphemia.’ Then he leant closer to whisper, ‘Although I do not fancy your chances. He is not the most sociable sort and prefers privacy.’

He moved off down the hallway, so she showed herself into the parlour and sat in her preferred seat nearest the large French doors which overlooked the beautiful garden, wishing she was outside working rather than stuck indoors wasting valuable hours on this ridiculous errand.

The butler returned in minutes, obviously agitated. ‘I am to tell you that His Lordship is indisposed and will remain so for the foreseeable future, Miss Euphemia. Furthermore, I am to remind you that you have been...’ he looked down at his highly polished shoes as he swallowed uncomfortably ‘...banned from setting one foot on this land henceforth. I am so sorry.’

Effie rolled her eyes, then pasted a cheery smile on her face. ‘Thank you for appraising me of His Lordship’s position, Smithson. But as I have already stated, I am quite determined to wait.’ Because everything hinged on him granting his permission. Effie wasn’t cut out for the traditional spinster’s life and she certainly wasn’t marriage material. Experience had taught her that as well. Her unusually active brain would send her mad if she was forced to embroider or knit, or, heaven forbid, sit through endless polite teas pretending to care about the typical inane nonsense ladies talked about over tea. Her brain needed constant feeding with new knowledge and challenges, not tired, well-worn gossip. ‘No matter how long that takes.’ She sat primly in her seat, attempting to look every inch the lady for once while poor Smithson visibly paled.

‘He is not going to take that well. I am under strict instructions to get rid of you.’ And it was patently obvious the servant much preferred to get rid of her, the woman he had known since she was baby, rather than deliver this unwelcome news to his belligerent new master.

Effie shrugged then offered the butler a regrettable smile in apology. ‘Then tell him if he wants me gone, I shall be gone quicker if he sees me. And while you are about it, please tell him I believe we got off on the wrong foot yesterday and that I wish to make amends for upsetting him. Tell him I come bearing gifts.’ Only the most hardened, rude curmudgeon could refuse both an apology and a present. ‘Edible gifts.’

Smithson nodded and she watched his shoulders slump a little as he went off to impart the bad news. Less than a minute later she heard Lord Rivenhall’s explosive reaction echo down the hallway.

‘Get rid of the blasted woman now! When I told you that I do not wish to see anyone I meant it, Smithson. How dare you come to me and tell me that she will not budge? You should never have let the chit in! Get a couple of burly footmen and throw the wench out.’

Effie knew the house too well not to know his bellowing shouts came from the study. She also knew that she was not going to stand by and allow the man to abuse one of his servants so abominably on her behalf regardless of the need to butter up the new Earl. She stood decisively and marched out of the French doors gripping her basket, determined to take the mountain to Mohammed. The quickest route to the study was outside and around the rose beds to the side. The study also had a pair of French doors connecting it to the garden. His Lordship would certainly not expect her to use them.

Steeling herself to do polite and reasonable battle, she slipped outside and dashed past the roses. Fortunately, the doors were cracked open to let in the fresh spring air. She grabbed the handle and, before she sailed through imperiously, reminded herself of her mantra.

Honey, not vinegar.

‘Good morning, Your Lordship.’

The butler gaped at her intrusion. Effie had no idea how Lord Rivenhall initially reacted because he had his back to her. She watched his shoulders stiffen before his head whipped around. Despite the tousled, long black hair practically covering his face like a shroud, she had the satisfaction of seeing he appeared to be temporarily lost for words.

‘Isn’t it a lovely morning, my lord?’

‘Have you no respect for either etiquette or boundaries, madam?’

‘Usually—but I urgently needed to speak you.’

‘And you assumed barging into my private study was appropriate when you had already been refused an audience?’

‘Desperate times call for desperate measures and I knew you were in because I heard you shouting.’

‘If you heard me, then you should already know I have no inclination to suffer your presence, Miss Nuisance.’ Lord Rivenhall turned his back rudely and addressed the butler instead as he started towards the hall. ‘Show her to the door and make sure she uses it!’

‘If you wish to be rude to someone, my lord, I would appreciate that you direct it at me. It is not Smithson’s fault that I have refused to leave or encroached on your privacy. And to be clear, I have no intention of leaving until I have said my piece, Lord Rivenhall, so you might as well hear it. Seeing as you are plainly here...’ she let her eyes travel around the pristine study until they settled on the completely clear desk. ‘...and hardly strike me as particularly indisposed.’

He paused mid-stride and slowly turned, clearly unsure of quite how to react to her bold statement. Bravely, Effie smiled, then walked towards the big, mahogany desk and sat in the chair opposite his vacant one to emphasise her intention to remain exactly where she was. Lord Rivenhall did not move from his spot on the Persian rug, piercing her with a glare which could have curdled milk.

‘Thank you, Smithson,’ she said, dismissing the servant with a smile she did not feel. ‘I shall see myself out once I am done. It shouldn’t take long.’ She fixed her gaze defiantly on her new nemesis. ‘Or at least I hope it won’t.’

The butler eyed them both warily, then bobbed his head once and swiftly fled the room at a speed that was not at all dignified. Lord Rivenhall let the silence hang ominously, but made no move to approach the desk. Instead, he folded his arms insolently and positively glared at her as he tapped one large booted foot impatiently. Effie decided to take his lack of shouting as a good sign.

‘Forgive the intrusion, my lord, but I felt it imperative to apologise for yesterday.’

Honey, not vinegar. Honey, not vinegar...

‘With hindsight, I imagine it came as quite the shock to see a stranger digging up your land so early in the morning, so it is hardly surprising we got off on the wrong foot.’ For good measure, she wiggled the basket now resting on her lap before sliding it on to the desk. ‘I brought fruitcake and brandy as a peace offering. A bottle of my father’s finest and one which goes particularly well with our housekeeper Mrs Farley’s famous fruitcake. It is her own secret recipe and she guards it with her life—much to the consternation of the rest of the village who would kill for it. But she baked this one yesterday upon my instruction. Just for you.’

‘That...was very kind of her...and you.’ He practically had to choke out the simple pleasantry through gritted teeth as it appeared to take a great deal of effort—but at least it proved he did possess some gentlemanly good manners and was capable of using them if pushed. ‘But wholly unnecessary.’ She watched his jaw set stubbornly. ‘It changes nothing.’

But changing the subject might give her a few more minutes’ leeway. She beamed as if she hadn’t heard his latest refusal. Pretending not to hear insults or see the pointed looks was second nature to her nowadays and certainly made life easier than chastising herself for being so unnaturally different. ‘What I urgently need to talk to you about is a pot.’

‘A pot?’ As she had hoped, the abrupt and seemingly bizarre change of topic confused him. ‘Why the hell should I care about a pot?’

‘Because this is not just any old pot, my lord.’ Her cheerful smile was met with open hostility. She could feel the anger at her intrusion shimmering off him in waves despite his statue-like, wary posture. But she would persevere regardless. What other choice did she have? It was only her entire reason for being he was determined to deprive her of. ‘This is different. Unique. In the two years I have been seriously digging around the ruined Abbey, I have never seen anything quite like it.’ While she apparently had the floor, there seemed little point in pausing. It would only give him the chance to dismiss her out of hand, when he needed to realise first exactly what it was he was dismissing. Whether he wanted to or not.

‘I discovered it purely by chance yesterday in the new trench I have started on the eastern boundary. I am not even sure what possessed me to dig there when there are still such rich pickings coming out of the ground near the Roman settlement by the western foundations...’

‘Roman? As in Ancient Roman?’ Curiosity was getting the better of him, something which clearly disgusted him as he remembered to follow his question with another scowl.

Beyond the scowl, she could not help but notice the Earl of Rivenhall was a handsome devil in a brooding sort of way, when she had been trying so hard to avoid noticing such pointlessly futile if pleasing aspects of the male form. Two dark brows furrowed in consternation over equally dark hooded eyes. A straight nose, strong jaw. The unfashionably dark and windswept hair only adding to his mysterious appeal. Excessively broad shoulders filled his coat and made him appear almost menacing from her angle in the chair below, although why he was buttoned into such a warm coat, the tall points of his shirt collar swathed in a cravat practically tied to the chin when the weather was unseasonably warm was beyond her.

Then she remembered the scars she had seen only briefly yesterday and felt oddly compassionate towards him. Effie had seen similar scars before on a blacksmith in Teversham. They were caused by burns, which must have been agonising to receive, yet while the blacksmith’s tight, gnarled scars had been on his arm, from memory and the briefest glimpse of them yesterday, Lord Rivenhall’s marred left cheek below the eye had scars which probably travelled down his neck, too. Hence the high collars and the long curtain of hair. And perhaps the open hostility?

She understood what it was like to feel different from others. Most people, in her experience, could be quite judgemental and wary of things they were unfamiliar with—like scars or unusual intelligence. And tactless. As if the person who had the misfortune to be different through no fault of their own was immune to their stares or unsubtle whispers, or, if the people were particularly thoughtless, the insulting words uttered directly to one’s face. In all her years on the planet, she had never quite found a way to truly cope with the phenomenon beyond ignoring it. Perhaps Lord Rivenhall’s natural form of defence to being different was attack?

‘Indeed. This area is teeming with Roman history. We are sandwiched between Duroliponte, the old Roman name for Cambridge, and their English capital Camulodunon—modern-day Colchester. The Abbey was built on the original Roman foundations of what I suspect was once a fort of some sort, judging by the nature of the artefacts I have found. The Normans did that sort of thing a lot and who can blame them? Why waste months digging and laying fresh foundations when there are already perfectly sturdy ones in situ? Colchester Castle and indeed the Tower of London, too, were both constructed on the original Roman foundations and still stand just as strong to this day. They were excellent builders, the Romans. Excellent at everything really. Such an advanced civilisation...’ She was losing him with her impromptu, rambling history lesson rather than charming him. She could see his impatience to be rid of her mounting and she had still not told him what she had come here to say.

‘Anyway... The pot I began excavating yesterday is particularly exciting. Or at least it has the potential to be. So far, it does not have the finesse expected from a piece of Roman or medieval pottery, appearing to have been shaped by hand rather than thrown on a wheel by a skilled potter. It’s rudimentary in construction, practical and lacking in any attempt to raise it from what it was made to be.’ All the Roman pottery she had previously found around the foundations of the ruined Abbey bore intricate painted decoration, carved inlays or raised reliefs. Even the very plainest medieval pottery from the site had turned rims and a glazed finish.

‘Therefore this pot has to be older. Significantly older.’ She paused for effect, offering her most dazzling smile. ‘If I am right, it is an artefact of unprecedented importance because we know so little about the people who occupied our islands two thousand years ago. It needs to be studied by the Society of Antiquaries. Therefore, you need to allow me to dig it up.’

‘I need do nothing, madam. This is my land.’

‘And I would only be digging on the furthest edge of it. The ruins are a good mile from here. Well out of your way and—’

‘No.’ His back was towards her again, his big, vexing, impatient feet already heading towards the door.

‘But...’

‘There is no but, Miss Nitwit. Leave. Now.’

Two years of hard work, everything she cared about, her entire purpose, the only thing she had left was being callously torn away. Unfamiliar panic made her heart race. ‘Really, my lord, if I could just explain...’ She couldn’t allow that to happen. Couldn’t contemplate exactly what she would do without it. Aside from drive herself directly to Bedlam. Her rapid, constant thoughts like an itch she could never scratch. ‘The site is truly of the utmost historical importance.’ And to her personally. It was all she had left. Her future and her sanity. Should she beg? Desperation and fear made her sorely tempted to. Pride made her set her shoulders and apparently took over her vocal cords.

‘Your uncle understood all that. But then he was a reasonable and affable man—not a bully.’ So much for honey. ‘Frankly, and if I might speak plainly...’

Do not speak plainly. Whatever you do, do not speak plainly. Whenever you do, it never ends well...

‘You should be ashamed of yourself for your boorish behaviour both yesterday and today!’ And now she was positively dousing the brute in vinegar. ‘It is most unneighbourly and without provocation.’

He stiffened and she winced at her forthrightness, yet couldn’t quite bring herself to apologise for her outburst. It was unneighbourly. Effie had never been particularly good at remembering either her place or her sex. She blamed that failing on her excessively large brain and growing up with a father who had always actively encouraged her to use it. Nor had she ever had much patience for wilful ignorance or downright unfairness. She had been perfectly polite to him up until now, but that forced politeness only stretched so far. ‘Have you no respect for history sir? For your legacy or for knowledge? You do not strike me as stupid. Or anywhere close to being an idiot.’ That, she was prepared to concede, was undoubtedly a step too far. Slowly, he turned and beneath the cloak of his hair she saw his mouth was partially open at her insolence. ‘So I fail to understand how you can wilfully stand in the way of progress!’

‘I am the stupid one? I asked you to leave, madam.’ This time his voice was icy calm and, frankly, quite terrifying as he slowly stalked towards her. ‘As I am well within my rights as the owner of this property to do. What part of that instruction are you struggling with?’

‘I am not easily intimidated, Lord Rivenhall.’ It was a lie, she was exceedingly intimidated now that he was stood less than a foot away, but she felt her delivery of the lie had been reasonably convincing thanks to her legendary stubborn streak and unhelpful lack of diplomacy in trying to convince him to see sense. She had never had much patience for blind ignorance.

Honey, not vinegar.

‘I should like us to have a rational discussion about the future of the dig like mature and polite adults.’ The stubborn streak made her lift her chin defiantly and fold her arms like a petulant, sulky child—although, to be fair, she was only mirroring his stance.

‘Then you give me no other choice, madam. If you continue to outstay your welcome, I shall have to remove you forcibly from my premises.’ He leaned until their eyes were level, scant inches apart, intent on intimidating her. Intent on letting her know in no uncertain terms he meant business and was heartily unimpressed with both her and her arguments to sway him to the contrary. ‘I think I would enjoy that.’

‘Am I supposed to be terrified now, Lord Rivenhall?’

Despite all the bluster and noise, all the overtly hostile evidence to the contrary, she somehow knew that this man would not lay a finger on her. Knew that in her bones. How odd, because she wasn’t usually one for nonsense like feeling things in her bones. Yet she was so certain he was harmless, her eyes locked on his brazenly as he continued to stare and remained so when he gripped the arms of her chair to lean closer, making no effort this time to conceal the scars marring his cheek. Almost as if he expected her to recoil disgusted at the merest sight of them.

‘If you are expecting me to burst into tears and scurry away, then I must tell you that you are doomed to be disappointed.’

He blinked, looked away and hastily stepped back. She smiled again because she could see he was confused by her reaction and perhaps a little uncomfortable with his own attempts to intimidate her, if his sudden inability to look her in the eye was a gauge. He was clearly all bluster. Just as she’d suspected. A lion with a thorn in his paw.

‘I need to excavate that pot and will not be deterred from that goal.’

‘And I need to be left alone, madam.’ His arms were crossed again and he stood far too tall and much too close for comfort. ‘Do I need to build a wall encasing my land to keep you off it?’

‘You have a lot of land, my lord. If you start building it today, it might be finished in three years and by then, I can assure you, the pot will be long out of the ground.’

However, the rest of the Abbey’s secrets would still be buried there—taunting her. Effie tried to ignore the way he overwhelmed her and pretended to look nonplussed while her clever mind ran every possible scenario through to the end in the hope of finding a way to make him see reason and concluded, with her customary rapidity, she had to face facts.

Thanks to her poor efforts at diplomacy, he wasn’t going to budge today—in reality, if she continued to push he would only dig his heels in deeper. Something she had quite the knack for making people do even when she tried not to.

He might not budge at all come to that, but the scant remains of the former optimist she had once been and the strategist in her refused to believe she couldn’t get him to ever see sense once he listened to her superior and irrefutable arguments. In truth, he really didn’t strike her as an idiot. Surely between the pair of them they could come to some agreement—when he had calmed down, of course, and was more agreeable. And there was more than one way to skin a cat or excavate a pot for that matter. The pot was her most pressing priority now that it was exposed to the elements and nature and clumsy horses’ hooves. For now, though, it was probably best she retreat and allow the dust to settle, then approach him again when he wasn’t feeling so belligerent.

‘I can see I have inadvertently called upon you at a bad time, putting you in another bad mood with my irritating over-enthusiasm for the quest I hold dear. Something which was never my intention. Nor was insulting you with my forthrightness. Occasionally, I forget myself and I apologise.’ It took a great deal of strength to get those insincere words out without sounding as disgusted by them as she felt. But she managed another magnanimous smile regardless for the sake of the pot. ‘When would be a more convenient time for our discussion?’