Page 3 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)

Matchbreaker meeting—make a plan

Find a book on military tactics. Maybe it will help?

W hen Oliver Vincent’s mother, the late Countess of Southwyn, had been in residence, his father had referred to their ancestral seat as Bitchwood Court instead of Birchwood Court.

Suffolk was normally a lush, verdant landscape by this time of year.

Today, as a freezing drizzle spit down with a relentless sort of inevitability that soaked him layer by layer until his very bones ached with the cold, his surroundings were brown and gray.

Mud and fog dominated everything he’d seen since rising with the sun—such as it was—in his childhood bedchamber that morning.

Pitifully few scraggly plant shoots dotted the fields.

As the Earl of Southwyn, he owned acres upon acres of muck.

If anything, his estate manager had understated the situation in the last letter.

Oliver stood on the bank of the river dividing his property from Sir William’s and lifted his mount’s foot to inspect her hoof.

Using a stick, he pried out clumps of dirt and a decent-size stone.

No wonder the mare had been limping. Unfortunately, she was still limping as he led her along the riverbank to test her gait.

“At least you waited to get a bruise until we’d finished our rounds. Thank you for that.” The mare whuffled in his face with warm, hay-scented breath, and he chuckled.

Wandering along the bank, he nudged a rock into the water with the toe of his boot to ensure the horse didn’t step on it.

For years, he’d envisioned a locks and transportation system in this spot.

After the wedding this summer, ownership of this river would revert back to the earldom, and Oliver could monetize this narrow strip of land in a way that would eventually support the entire estate, and help farmers and artisans in the surrounding area.

Much of England teemed with canals full of narrow boats transporting goods to market. Thanks to his father’s fiscal mismanagement and lack of caring about anyone other than himself, this part of Suffolk remained underserved. Soon, that would change.

To fulfill the original agreement between Sir William and the late earl, Oliver would marry a Thompson daughter and get the land back. Unfortunately, Althea Thompson wasn’t eager to become a countess, which meant the plans he’d been meticulously laboring over for years might never see fruition.

More than once, the subject of purchasing the river outright had been set before Sir William, and each of those conversations had been nothing short of disastrous.

So, in light of Althea’s reluctance, the logical and most direct solution was out of the question.

As was simply scrapping the whole endeavor and walking away, because given what he knew of Sir William’s character, Oliver refused to end his engagement without some assurance that Althea’s future would be taken care of.

Her father was likely to refuse her a dowry out of spite.

What an awful muddle.

Plunk . Another rock kicked into the river.

Stuffing his hands deeper into the pockets of his greatcoat, he let the reins hang loosely from his fingers as he meandered toward his favorite tree.

It boasted a thick branch that jutted out over the deepest part of the water, making it the perfect place to launch oneself into the river on summer days.

A frayed length of rope dangled, bedraggled by time, from the ancient oak on the Thompsons’ side of the bank. In the distance, he could just make out the orchard. Branches struck up at the sky, alarmingly gray and nearly bare of foliage, despite the time of year.

Worry gnawed at him, as it had for weeks. Staring at the reality of barren trees and empty fields made his concern grow exponentially.

This afternoon he’d visited the estate storerooms and tenants to glean an idea of what they’d need to make ends meet.

He hoped that looking the farmers in the eye would soothe their rising panic.

Oliver might not have the power to make the weather cooperate, but he could reassure them that no one would starve.

It didn’t matter if it cost him dearly. Their welfare was his responsibility.

Please, God. Don’t let it come to that. The weather has to turn soon.

Many families working the Southwyn estates remembered the erratic, unreliable late earl, and still viewed Oliver with distrust. Or, if not outright distrust, they treated him the way his mother had taught him to interact with the animals housed in the menageries she’d loved.

Cautious, careful, aware of his ability to hurt them.

“No one is ever truly tamed,” he remembered her saying as she held his hand in hers, gliding over the leathery hide of a young rhinoceros.

“Our wild nature lingers under the surface, relying on instincts rather than logic. Humans are no more than animals that have declared ourselves in charge. Be cautious, my love. Even though we treat this beast with respect, and although he’s accustomed to people, we aren’t safe from instinctual urges.

” As a grown man, Oliver wondered if she’d referred only to the rhino or was subtly speaking her piece about his father.

In the distance, the house loomed from the fog like some kind of legendary castle.

His childhood home looked exactly as it always had.

Imposing and solid. It gave the impression of something that had been standing since the beginning of time and would remain in place until the end.

Birchwood Court had once been an abbey. During the Reformation, Queen Elizabeth gifted it to the first Earl of Southwyn—after stealing it from the Catholic church, of course.

Oliver’s earliest memories were of playing hide-and-seek with nurses, nannies, and occasionally his mother in the many priest holes built into the place.

They hadn’t been able to find him on one occasion, and he’d fallen asleep in the narrow space, only to wake hours later hungry and disgruntled.

Apparently, after some time had passed, the nurse tried to raise the alarm, but the earl declared that if his “boy was stupid enough to get himself lost, he deserved whatever he got.”

The mare snorted in his ear, pulling Oliver back to the present.

Every negative feeling about his home involved his father in some way. The rest of his memories—and there were many, because the late earl was rarely in residence during those early years—painted the picture of a privileged and happy childhood.

Unfortunately, that childhood had been too short. The games and laughter stopped when his mother died. After that, the only play he found was with the girls next door.

Dorcas, the older Thompson girl, whom he’d expected to marry, and Althea, the blond pigtailed little sister who followed them everywhere.

It would have been nice to simply enjoy them as playmates, free of the ever-present duty that damned betrothal agreement brought.

None of it seemed real back then. More a reoccurring topic of make-believe they created as children were wont to do.

“Pretend you’re a knight, and you have to rescue me from the dragon.”

“Pretend we are exploring ancient ruins and this tree is a doorway to the land of the fairy folk.”

Pretend our fathers bet our futures in a card game and we have to live with the consequences.

Many important life decisions stemmed from hating the old earl.

When a comely barmaid had given Oliver his first kiss, his father had been drinking with friends on the other side of the pub.

He could still feel his shame and humiliation when the earl lumbered over, drunk off his arse, and slapped a coin on the table.

“Here. Your first time is on me. She’s a sweet one, Oliver. You’ll enjoy her.” Like he’d been recommending a bottle of wine, rather than a woman.

Oliver had run, ignoring the riotous laughter from the table full of his father’s drinking partners. He’d vowed not to be like his sire. He would be reliable. Honorable. Honest. Steadfast. Responsible. Loyal.

The cold bit at his extremities, urging Oliver to return to the house. Saying a silent farewell to the river and depressing orchard, he led his mount away from the bank. With each step, his boots squelched in the muddy turf.

Birchwood Court sent memories—good and bad—flitting through his mind like ghosts.

They didn’t lessen the trepidation he felt about Althea’s continued resistance to their engagement.

Once upon a time, he and Althea had been friends.

Perhaps that old relationship would help them create a peaceful marriage.

Provided, of course, Althea ever stopped hating him for going through with the wedding.

His parents had been ill-suited and never had a chance at happiness.

They’d had no prior friendship upon which to build.

By the end, they’d despised one another, and the earl never forgave Oliver for his devotion to the late countess.

She’d been intelligent and kind, deserving of devotion.

Loving his mother so deeply had been the easiest part of his life.

This mare, in fact, was the offspring of her favorite mount.

Oliver ran a hand down the wide flat of the horse’s cheek, then patted her thick neck.

“What do you think about going home with me to London? If your hoof is fine by morning, I’ll bring you along.

” And bring a piece of his mother with him.

The advice she’d given that day with the rhinoceros lingered as he made the uphill trek to the house.

Mother had been wrong about one thing. Unlike that rhinoceros, there was no wilder nature lurking beneath Oliver’s calm facade. Any baser instincts had been well and truly ground to dust long ago.