Chapter 3

3

"So, where did you go?" Naomi Liu came up behind Andrew when he was washing his hands at the pump outside the inn.

His cousin had come down from the cottage where she lived with her husband, as she always did at this time of day. That meant she'd passed through the village. The tone in her voice made him think that she'd already heard the gossip.

Andrew was going to have to get used to talk.

"Nowhere much." Andrew shook the water off his hands. "Bringing Lily's trunk to her."

"Lily Bei?" There was something offensive about her intonation.

Naomi worked the pump behind him, filling her bucket with water.

"No," Andrew replied dryly. "Lily of the valley."

"Very funny." Naomi shook her head. "So, Lily Bei has come back. I was sure Mrs. Tottenham must have been mistaken. I never thought we'd see her again."

"As did I." Andrew straightened and headed to the backdoor of the inn.

"Sooo." She drew the syllable out as they stepped into the cool interior. "Tell me about you two."

Andrew toed his shoes off and followed his cousin into the kitchen. "What's to tell? She's back. I brought her trunk to her."

Oh, and Lily was trying to ruin Andrew's life with well-meaning interference. Nothing much.

"I want to hear every word." She said it with a waggle of her eyebrows as she poured the water in the pot that had been set to simmer.

"Have you no chopping to do? No stirring?"

"I can chop and gossip. And you can help me stir and gossip. How is she? Still the same?"

Andrew let out a sigh. "She's very much like herself. Jumped into the middle of a conversation after seven years overseas without so much as a ‘nice to see you, Andy, how have you been?'"

Naomi grabbed a handful of carrots and scrubbed them in a basin of water. "I always thought you were holding a candle for her or something."

They had an easy flow of working together—something they'd been doing for years. He took the carrots from her as she cleaned them, chopping them as they worked.

"That's not the way things work, my dearest cousin. I don't hold candles for women. Women hold candles for me."

"Unbelievable." The word was invested with as much scorn for Andrew's humility as a cousin could manage. "Has she inveigled you in one of her schemes yet? I seem to remember her always getting you in trouble."

Andrew tried not to grimace. He and Naomi had been born months apart, and they were closer to twins than cousins. Naomi knew him very, very well. And yet there were things she'd never been told. For instance: the fact that Andrew's mother was technically a countess.

Secrets remained hidden only if nobody knew them.

"What nonsense," Andrew said. "That implies I am easily led, when in fact, I often kept her out of trouble."

Naomi slammed six more carrots next to him. "Really. Because I seem to recall a story about a suffragist meeting she took you to?—"

"Apocryphal." Andrew slid the chopped carrots into the simmering broth.

"You personally told me about it."

"I did," Andrew agreed. "But consider—am I a source to be trusted?"

Naomi seemed struck by this extremely cogent point. Rather than answering, she picked up the thistle shoots and began gingerly peeling the prickly leaves away to expose the tender stalk.

"There," Andrew replied. "You see? You can't possibly believe everything you hear. I've never needed a friend's help to get in trouble."

"That, I will grant you." She didn't say anything for a little longer. They worked side by side, moving from thistle to onion, before starting on potatoes.

"I'm glad," Naomi finally said.

"Glad of what?"

"I'm glad your friend, who you have absolutely no romantic interest in, has returned. May you have fun times together."

Fun. Andrew was a man of simpler pleasures. He was growing yard-long beans finally: what else could a man want? Except now, in order to grow enough long beans, he had more to do than just monitor his seedlings for pests and mold. He was going to have to purloin a logbook.

He would have helped Lily find furniture without an ulterior motive, but this was better. This way, he could assist her in putting drawers and shelves in, and he would know everywhere she might hide things. If there was a key to the chest of drawers, he might slip it into a pocket and forget to give it to her for a day or two. And if she had a captain's log in need of stealing, he'd know where to find it.

In a way, Andrew mused, it was something like concealing his yard-long bean seedlings from Wedgeford. It was a surprise. The outcome of the surprise would make everyone in Wedgeford happier. Did he need to reveal all the details?

"I'm sure we will," he said diplomatically. "Lily and I have always had a grand time together."

In a way, Andrew told himself, shoving aside the uneasy feeling gathering in his gut, it was very much like helping Lily. Without the logbook to worry either of them, they could focus on Lily's needs. He could be her friend. And with her talk of printing presses and the like, she already had some scheme in mind. She didn't need to waste time giving Andrew things he didn't want.

They slid the last of the potatoes into the pot, and Andrew began stirring.

"Oh, that reminds me!" Naomi jumped. "Just before you got here, the post came. You've a letter. I put it in my apron pocket to give to you."

"Have I?"

She pulled it out. "It's postmarked from…Eton?"

Andrew could hear the curiosity in her voice. Of course she would want to know what he was doing, receiving letters from a town known for its prestigious public school.

He put on his best sage frown to hide the unease. "In that case, I know who it's from."

"Who?"

"Please, dear cousin," Andrew said. "Think of the soup and stir more assiduously." He opened the envelope and pulled out the letter as she sputtered in protest.

"I can stir and speak!"

"Yes, but I can't read and listen."

She began to argue, but he held up a hand, and she grudgingly fell silent, allowing him to continue.

My dear brother Andrew, he read.

Seeing those words, even scrawled in such an execrable hand, made the back of Andrew's neck crawl. He wanted to stamp them out. Of course, Alan would go and put such a thing in writing. Andrew was going to have to burn this.

"It's from Mr. Wilderhampsher," he informed his cousin.

"That little hanger-on? He's writing to you? Whatever for?"

Alan hid his unconscious bristle. Naomi, he reminded himself, didn't know the truth about his half-brother, and he couldn't tell her.

Alan had shown up at the Wedgeford Trials, a sort of village fair-slash-competition, several years ago. At first, he'd been one of thousands of visitors descending on their tiny hamlet.

He had proceeded to attach himself to Andrew as if he were a limpet seeking a rock. In the aftermath, he'd confessed that he was Andrew's little brother.

Andrew had denied everything, frightened and scared that his half-brother would reveal the truth to everyone.

Alan had persisted, though, returning to Wedgeford the year after, all while sending exaggerated missives at odd intervals.

"Allow me to read, and I will tell you what he says." He'd think of some kind of lie as he was reading.

Once again, Alan had written, I address you from my particular spot, hiding behind the hedge in Luxmoore's Gardens where I cannot be found by the TOMMY-NODDIES and BUSYBODIES who plague me. The matter is urgent and must be conveyed without interruption.

I appear to have failed to impress upon you the dire straits in which we find ourselves. Our father will soon PERISH (this time I believe it—the doctor has said he is on the verge of passing for years, but now the nurse also claims it is imminent, and SHE is actually to be trusted). My uncle (damn his ears) has reached out to his friend on the Committee for Privileges, so that I can be CONFIRMED AS EARL as soon as possible after this unfortunate event occurs. He sees this as a mere formality. I see it as the death knell for my entire future.

Alan was always overly dramatic. Andrew had no idea where he got his flair from; it certainly couldn't be from his dour upbringing. Capital letters, underlines, and words made bold by repeatedly going over each letter with a pen littered the page at random, giving the impression of a battlefield between good sense and sensationalism.

It was a rout. Sensationalism was winning.

I am warning you, I will not go to my FATE without a fight. Although I LOVE and ESTEEM you as a proper younger brother must, I will tell everyone—the ENTIRETY of Parliament and thereby the whole of the world—of your existence and superior (in fact, only) claim on the earldom.

Andrew could not imagine a worse outcome. He looked up from the letter to see Naomi watching him with interest. "Almost done!" he informed her.

For that reason, on the coming Saturday, I shall APPEAR BEFORE YOU in order to strategize, assuming my Uncle Hortense and Eton can be collectively fooled into providing me with leave. I WILL make sure that you, and not I, are left with this odious earldom, as God and Country no doubt intended it.

"Oh, no, you won't," Andrew muttered aloud.

"Excuse me?" His cousin was still waiting.

"He's being foolish," Andrew informed her.

I say to you what my uncle always says to me: Keep a stiff upper lip! You're going to be an earl, after all. It's an honor, you damned fool, so stop your whimpering or I shall give you something to whimper about.

The paper crinkled between Andrew's thumbs. Those last sentences illustrated why it was so hard for Andrew to be harsh with his little brother. Alan had made occasional comments about the uncle who looked after him due to his father's illness.

His mother had met his little brother's uncle Hortense before. The man bore the unfortunate appellation of Hortense Sallet. He was twice related to Alan. First, he was Alan's mother's brother. Second, he was his paternal aunt's sister. He'd made Andrew's mother's life a misery in the short time he'd known her.

Alan had known the man longer.

With all due respect,

Your adoring younger brother,

Alan Tisbitt

And no, I am not the Viscount of Elton, no matter what courtesy title is technically assigned to me by the ignorati. YOU are.

Andrew folded the letter and stuffed it in his pocket, the better to burn it later on. Alan was a problem. A large problem, in a fifteen-year-old package.

"Well?" Naomi was tapping the spoon against the side of the pot. "You look annoyed."

"Mr. Wilderhampsher often has that result."

"He's written to you before?"

Andrew nodded. Usually, he got the post. Today, it was only his diversion in bringing Lily her trunk that let his cousin get to it first.

"He's a bit…" Naomi made a little motion with her fingers, as if thinking of something impolite and not wanting to say it.

"Taken with me?" Andrew waggled an eyebrow. "He has excellent taste. I'm an extraordinary specimen of manhood." Nothing like a joke to avoid explaining the letter, and the longer he put Naomi off, the more it allowed him to think of a believable story.

"An odd case of hero worship," his cousin mused. "An extremely odd view of heroism."

"What are you talking about?" Andrew grinned at her while his mind raced. "I am the very definition of heroic. I even have a motto and a cause."

"Since when did you acquire a motto?"

Andrew spread his arms wide, as if depicting a flowing banner. "‘Everyone should have enough.' It's also my cause. We love efficiency in our heroic endeavors."

Naomi narrowed her eyes at him. "I know you're trying to distract me, which tells me that he wants something overly familiar, no doubt. I knew that boy had been pestering you. Do you need us to take him aside next Trials and tell him to leave you alone?"

"He wants to come early before the Trials," Andrew said, now that Naomi had reminded him of an excellent and believable excuse. "And don't worry about it. There's nothing wrong with Mr. Wilderhampsher. He just recognizes quality when he sees it."

"He wants to come early?" Naomi winced. "That's when we're most busy! Tell him he can't. That boy has no sense. He's becoming a problem."

He was a problem. Just not the kind she imagined.

Two years ago, Alan had shown up at the Trials, with an unbelievable assumed name. He'd demanded to work with Andrew, and when he hadn't been allowed, had gone along with the instructions gamely, trying to prove his mettle. Afterward, Alan had found Andrew and taken him aside in order to reveal the truth: he was Alan's half brother.

"Illegitimate," he'd confided, looking around the quiet space behind the barn. "But nobody knows I'm a bastard, and I'm not supposed to tell. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Andrew's heart had been thumping at a great pace. He'd had a lot more experience in not telling. "I don't know anything about what you're talking about," he'd prevaricated.

"Come," Alan said, "you can't hide it. My father has a photograph of your mother hidden in the Bible on his nightstand. She still looks exactly the same."

"English people often confuse foreigners for one another." Andrew had folded his arms piously.

"Besides, you look like me," Alan informed him.

Andrew had laughed. "You're joking."

At a first glance, they looked nothing alike. Alan had freckles and sandy-brown hair. He was young, but even two years ago, scarcely thirteen years of age, he'd almost been Andrew's height. Last year, he'd shot way above him. But he also wasn't wrong. They had the same nose, the same shape to their face.

Alan had looked at Andrew beseechingly. "I prayed and prayed for an older brother so I wouldn't have to be earl, and now I have one."

It was hard to lie when your little brother looked at you like that.

Up until that afternoon, Andrew had given little thought to the young Viscount Elton that appeared in Annals of the Peerage and other such publications. If he'd considered his half-brother, it would have been to lump him in with the whole unfortunate side of his family. He'd imagined a snobbish, aristocratic scion who would think himself so far above his elder brother that if he ever discovered Andrew's existence, would have no qualms in squashing him like a centipede.

The reality of Alan had been completely different. It had interrupted all of Andrew's fears about how he must flee.

"Don't talk nonsense," Andrew had laughed. "Of course you want to be an earl."

Alan's lip had trembled. He'd looked away. And Andrew had thought of what that side of the family had done to his mother.

Instead of a superior, nose-in-the-air brother, Alan was deeply vulnerable, and deeply, deeply impressed with Andrew, and Andrew had done everything he could to drive the boy away short of physical violence or insults. Apparently, "not being actively cruel" made Andrew his younger brother's new favorite relation.

Unsurprising, when he reflected on it. Nothing he'd heard from his mother had made him imagine a family that traded in kindness.

"I know," Alan had sniffled. "Have a stiff upper lip. Please think nothing of this. Nobody's ever had a stiffer upper lip."

"Nonsense," Andrew had replied. "Crying is good for you. It'll make you feel better."

That was how he had ended up with an armful of blubbering younger brother—the kind of bawling that seemed to go on and on with no end. For someone pretending not to be an older brother, he'd scolded himself, he was doing an awful job of it. But what was he supposed to do? Let him cry alone, thinking himself completely uncared for?

Unsupportable.

He'd patted his little brother's back and thought about what it would be like to have a brother, even one he couldn't acknowledge.

"There, there," he'd said. "I understand. I don't want to be an earl, either. It's just easier for me, because I'm not one."

His brother had lifted red-rimmed eyes. "Don't lie to me. I know the truth."

"Would I lie?"

"Of course you would! I would, to get out of this. But I don't have to lie. And you're my…brother." He looked up again with shining eyes. "Just what I imagined. I always thought, if I had an older brother, he would be kind to me. If you're anything like me, you lie all the time."

"I'm not your brother," Andrew had said.

"You see?" Alan had responded. "You're doing it right now. You should come visit our father and make it official."

Andrew did not want to ‘make it official.' He did not want to visit the man who had sired him. If the earl had wanted anything to do with his son, he would have treated his wife with a bare minimum of respect. Andrew hoped the man died, never knowing of Andrew's existence, never seeing his face.

"He's not my father." That much was true spiritually, if not legally. "I will never visit him. Ever."

Some of Andrew's vehemence must have leaked out, because his younger brother just sighed.

"You must never mention to a soul that you believe this about me," Andrew had said. "Not your uncle. Not your father. They might get the wrong idea."

"No!" Alan had looked horrified. "I would never say anything until I can prove that you're the earl. Otherwise my uncle would…"

He didn't say what his uncle would do. He didn't need to.

Andrew had thought, and carefully, very carefully, decided that perhaps he could wait to vanish from Wedgeford in the middle of the night. He really didn't want to go. And, at least for now, he and his younger brother were in agreement.

"May I write to you?" Alan had asked.

Andrew knew he should have said no. He needed to remind this young child that they were nothing to each other.

But lying with words was bad enough. Alan obviously had nobody who cared for him, and Andrew wasn't villain enough to tell his actual little brother that they must never speak again.

So instead, he'd given Alan the best bow one could give while seated. "I should be honored to correspond with the future earl of…what was it again?"

"The Earl of Arse," Alan had grumbled.

Andrew blinked. "Well. No wonder you don't want that specific title. Good luck foisting it off on me. Pick a less discriminating victim next time."

"Technically, it's the Earl of Arsell. But if I am forced by circumstance to become an earl, I will be the Earl of Arse and nothing else."

Andrew had patted his back again. "You'll be the best Earl of Arse ever."

Alan laid back in the new grass, smiling. "It will be grand. I'll be the best kind of earl: an earl who isn't. And you're going to help me not be one."

"No, I won't."

"Yes, you will."

Arguing was pointless, so Andrew had tickled him, and they'd spent the rest of the hour talking of other things, before Alan had to go back to his "horrible school," which was apparently the incredibly prestigious Eton.

Andrew sighed. His soft spot for his younger brother had been a problem. If Andrew had any good sense, he would have been strict before now. But he hadn't.

"I know he is somewhat familiar," he told Naomi. "But some young men lack positive examples in their life and crave good direction."

"All the more reason to wonder why he's latched onto you."

"Desperation is the only explanation I can think of." He tapped his pocket where the letter lay. "I'll write back immediately and tell him he absolutely is not to come before the Trials."

"Good. You must be incredibly firm on this."

Andrew looked over at his cousin and winked. "He can stay a few extra days after."

"Andy!"

He laughed and left her with the soup.