The Dragon Earl Read online

  It took a moment for Evelyn to realize that Jie Ke meant for the purse to be placed in his bowl as if it held alms. It was a disgusting thought, and one that soured her on him. Christo­pher had the exact same reaction.

  "This isn't a holy act!" he snorted. "It's highway robbery, and—"

  "What does it matter," Evelyn interrupted softly, "so long as it means he leaves?"

  Christopher turned to her, his body rigid and his eyes blaz­ing. She could hardly bear to look at him, knowing that he was justified in every furious thought. She had been kissing the madman, and now she saw the effect of her betrayal. "I'm sorry, Chris," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."

  Then she knelt down and picked the purse off the ground. It was heavier than she expected, but then she had never held fifty pounds in her hand. The weight indicated that there were probably golden guineas in there as well, and her guilt multiplied with every ounce she held. How had he gotten the money so fast? What sacrifices had he made to get this for her?

  She glanced back at the men. Neither Jie Ke nor Christo­pher had moved, so it was up to her to quiedy hand the purse over.

  "Please forgive me," she whispered. She had no idea to whom she spoke. She had meant the words for Chris, but as she talked, Jie Ke's gaze abruptly jumped to hers. Their eyes met and held as she carefully dropped the purse into his bowl. His arms dipped for a fraction of a second before steadying, but that was his only reaction beyond the dizzying storm she still glimpsed behind his eyes.

  Then his gaze dropped again, and she was left with the sickening sensation of falling back to earth. Her stomach clenched, and her body jerked as if from the impact. Then Christopher turned away.

  "Evelyn," he said, his voice tight, "the Reverend Smythe-Jones is here to speak with us. He waits with your mother in the breakfast parlor."

  She knew her duty. She quickly fell into line a half step be­hind him.

  Christopher walked too fast, and the path was too narrow for her to stroll by his side. Worse, his every step was rigid with fury. To keep pace, she had to scurry to match his longer strides. She slowed only once. Right before she rounded the shrubbery, she had time for one last glance at Jie Ke before he left their lives forever.

  He had not moved. He still held his bowl upraised before him. His servant was kneeling in front, slipping on his shoes. His Chinaman companion was lifting his own bowl in the same reverent attitude. There was no sound at all, not even the chirping of the morning birds, and Evelyn wondered at the templelike feel of the clearing. It was a ridiculous thought, she knew, since they'd just bribed a thief to leave them alone. But Jie Ke didn't feel to her like a thief, and she couldn't shake the sense that she was leaving holy ground.

  She stepped inside the manor, and Christopher took a mo­ment to wipe the morning dew off his feet. That gave her a chance to try to make amends. "Chris, I didn't mean . . . I'm so sorry ... I don't know what came over me. I just didn't think . . ."

  He held up his hand to silence her. The struggle to contain himself was visible in his closed eyes and a shudder that came before a slow exhalation. When he finally looked at her, his expression was calm and his eyes rather dull, especially when compared to the stormy gaze of Jie Ke.

  "Swear to me," he said. "Swear that it won't happen again. Swear that you're the girl I've known since I was ten." He grabbed her shoulders and squeezed her painfully tight. "Evelyn, I won't be one of those pitiable fools who are cuck­olded within hours of their wedding."

  "Of course, I swear!" she cried. "I would never hurt you that way! It's just been so confusing—"

  His mouth descended on hers. It was harsh, it was posses­sive, and it was completely unlike Christopher. Evelyn and her fiancé had shared kisses before, but not like this. Not with raw emotion and brutal strength. She barely had time to gasp in surprise before he thrust his tongue inside her mouth. Was this another one of his tests? Was she supposed to push him away with disgust? But she didn't want to. If things had gone as they should have, he would be allowed that and so much more. But when he pressed his hand to her breast, she found herself shrinking away. He had every right to touch her body. He had every right to take what he wanted from her . . . and yet as much as she longed for someone to touch her just like this, this caress felt hollow and empty, a mundane press of flesh without the raw power of . . . of Jie Ke.

  She flinched away from the thought. She was meant for Christopher. She was going to be a countess. She had been trained for it since the day she was born.

  As gently as she could, she pressed her hands to his shoul­ders. She didn't struggle. She simply allowed him to do as he would and waited for him to finish. Then, when he eased his passionate assault, she slowly pushed him back. "The rev­erend," she whispered, "and my mother, not to mention the servants. Anyone could see."

  She could see a bitter retort forming on his lips. She hadn't much cared who would see out in the garden. But he didn't say this, and she was eternally grateful.

  "He will leave today," she whispered. "We can have the wedding tomorrow, and a wedding night such as you want. Whatever you want, however you want." Those words, especially, were hard to say. Not because she didn't want to experience it, but she couldn't help but wonder what a night spent with Jie Ke would be like. Did Chinese monks know levels of passion well beyond what an Englishman was taught?

  Christopher didn't answer her. He was scanning her face, searching for deceit. In the end, she said the words she knew he needed to hear.

  "I will not shame my husband, Christopher. I swear."

  He sighed in relief and dropped his forehead to hers. "I know," he said. "I know you, Evie . . . but I am afraid." He straightened, his heart in his eyes. "I have never said it before, but I do love you. You are everything I want in a woman. I can't let that slip away. I can't!" The words were like a vow, and they echoed deep inside her. She had never felt so loved or so wanted. Then he added one last push. "But you have to act the station, Evie. Always. A countess is watched even in her own home. Especially there."

  She nodded, ashamed because the reproach was well de­served. She had been kissing another man.

  "I will do better," she promised. Then she pressed her mouth to his—a brief touch that he accepted not with a fierce possession but with gentle understanding. It was sweet and kind, and she forced herself to feel grateful for his forgiveness. A moment later and the touch was done. He pulled back with a sigh of regret.

  "Tomorrow night," he whispered. "Then we will explore at our leisure."

  She nodded and gave him a trembling smile. They would rub along well together, she told herself. She only had to con­trol her impulse to wildness. And she certainly would never wander in any more thunderstorms.

  He answered with a smile of his own. Then he straight­ened just as a future earl should, and she placed her hand on his arm just as a future countess would. They walked together into the breakfast room.

  Mama looked tired. That was Evelyn's first thought when she entered the room. Mama's skin looked pale, and her shoul­ders drooped. Clearly the last twenty-four hours had been quite a strain. While Evelyn supervised the servants, Mama or­chestrated the conversations. And yesterday's conversations-— beginning with the "wedding" breakfast, through "please have tea," on to after-dinner cards before bed—had all been a minefield of sneering speculation and outright ridicule. As the mother of a future countess, Mama had weathered it all with aplomb, but the strain showed on her face. Sitting next to Mama, Maddie also looked subdued. Given that the girl had the resilience of a young, very high-spirited horse, her current silence screamed as loud as the dark circles under Mama's eyes. This whole wedding nonsense simply had to end. It was too great a strain on everyone.

  By contrast, the Reverend Smythe-Jones looked positively bright-eyed. He had Mama's hands cupped between his as he exuded sympathy and concern, but Evelyn did not miss the selfish gleam in his eye. The reverend was a true gossip, and anything he heard here would make its way around the parish by noon. />
  As she and Christopher entered the room, the reverend re­leased Mama's hand and pushed to his feet. "Dear Evelyn," he intoned, "I cannot express how worried I have been for you. Such a terrible happening on your day of days."

  Evelyn experienced a moment's panic when she realized the reverend had been right here during her . . . well, dur­ing her moments in the garden. If anyone had seen her . . . If he had chanced to hear the servants gossiping about it. . . Oh heaven, the disaster would be monumental! And the shame to Christopher would be insupportable. She had to find a way to nip any possible gossip in the bud before it even began.

  Disengaging from Christopher, she stepped forward into the reverend's fatherly embrace. "You are so kind," she mur­mured. Then she straightened and turned her most infatuated smile on her fiancé. "But I have faith that everything will work out just Perfectly. I prayed, Father, I truly prayed hard all night long. And I know the earl is doing everything he can in London." She turned back to the reverend. "With God and country on my side, how can I fail?"

  "Oh!" cried the cleric with true delight, "I knew you were a strong child. I knew . . ." His eyes widened and his voice faded away.

  For the second time in as many days, Evelyn had that terri­ble feeling that something behind her was woefully out of place. To the side, her mother wore an equal expression of dumbfounded shock, and even worse, Maddie giggled. Noth­ing proper ever happened when Maddie started giggling. Steeling herself for the inevitable, Evelyn turned to look.

  The monks were filing into the room. The Chinese monk was in the lead, followed by Jie Ke. Both had their bowls lifted high before them, both shuffled forward with their heads bowed, their attitudes reverent. Behind them came the servant, equally bowed, but without a bowl of his own. Stretching up on tiptoe, Evelyn could see that Christopher's purse was still in Jie Ke's bowl.

  The monks shuffled forward like a glacier—slowly, and pushing everything in their path aside. They were only halfway in when a footman appeared. The poor man pulled up short, chafing dish in one hand, serving tongs in the other. Jie Ke stopped before him, bowl raised right in front of the man's eyes. Evelyn gasped and stepped forward, though what she intended to do she hadn't a clue. It didn't matter. Christo­phers large hand wrapped around her upper arm and held her still.

  The footman, of course, had no idea what to do either, but Jie Ke did not move. In the end, the servant shrugged. Care­fully juggling his platter, he uncovered a dish of steaming sausage. With excruciating care, he dropped one, then two, then a third fat tube into the bowl right on top of the purse. Evelyn barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes. At least it wasn't kippers. Imagine the mess!

  Apparently satisfied, Jie Ke turned away from the servant and once again the line of Chinese began moving . . . straight at the reverend. The elderly man's eyes bugged out and he began to look desperately at his half-eaten breakfast— poached eggs on toast with the yolks already broken and ooz­ing about his plate.

  Evelyn stepped forward. It was one thing to make sport of a servant, but to do so to an elderly cleric was beyond the pale. She would not allow it in her home. But Christopher did not release her. He held fast, and so she had no choice but to press her lips together and silently will her fiancé into stop­ping this farce.

  Unfortunately, Christopher seemed all too willing to al­low the monks to appear foolish before one of the biggest gossips in the county, no matter that it embarrassed the reverend at the same time. The monks lined up before the clergyman with their heads bowed and their bowls upraised. From this distance, Evelyn could see additional money in the Chinese monk's bowl. Then the Chinese servant slipped for­ward and spoke in high, melodic voice. His words were heavily accented and somewhat stilted, but they were clear enough.

  "Beg pardon, sir," he said. "You are highest ranking abbot?"

  The Reverend Smythe-Jones's gaze hopped about from the bowls to the monks to the servant, but in the end, he nod­ded. "I, um, yes. I'm not an abbot, so to speak. I'm called—"

  "Beg pardon, sir. In our temple, alms walk is most sacred. Did I say correct? You understand giving of alms?"

  The reverend cleared his throat, then nodded most sagely. "Of course, of course, I understand. Giving alms is a most sacred pillar of the Christian faith—"

  "Beg pardon, sir, alms walk is silent. The monks do not speak. I must speak for them."

  The reverend's head had begun to bob up and down. "Yes, yes. Um, am I supposed to give alms then? Right into their bowl?"

  "Beg pardon, sir. We are long way from temple. Monks do not hold money. We give to temple abbot who gives to those in need. But we cannot hold alms for many month return. Monks give alms to local temple." The boy paused a long moment. "Alms give to you, English abbot."

  It took a moment for the reverend to understand. Then his eyes abruptly widened. "You are giving me the alms? For the church?"

  The boy bowed in the just same way that Jie Ke had: left fist against open right palm. "Yes, yes, sir. Monks do not hold money. Alms for your temple."

  The reverend looked down at the bowls. He didn't have the same height as the monks, but he was tall enough to see the money lying there. With shaking hands, the man began to pull out bills and coins, making a small pile on the linen tablecloth. To Evelyn's stunned amazement, Christopher's purse was the least of the wealth. Coins of every denomina­tion fell on the table.

  "There must be close to four hundred pounds here!" the cleric gasped. "How did they get so much?"

  "Beg pardon, sir. Alms giving is... is... no name, sir."

  "Anonymous? Yes, of course it would be." The man was still pulling coins from Jie Ke's bowl, though these were rather greasy from the sausage.

  "Heaven knows names of people who give gifts. The monks do not speak."

  "Of course, of course." The reverend was clearly distracted as he stacked up the coins. "This is most generous, most generous indeed." All waited in silence as the man finished his accounting, then poured it all back into Christopher's purse. It wasn't large enough, so Mama gestured to the slack-jawed footman. Within another minute, a napkin was produced. The reverend dropped the last of his pile on the cloth and tied it into a neat bundle.

  At last he straightened, looking back at the Chinese servant, then to each monk. His eyes were still wide, but his attitude was of heartfelt gratitude. "I humbly accept your gift and promise that all will be spent for the glory of God." And with that he gave his own awkward version of a bow. But after he straightened, no one moved. The reverend paused, his chin quivering with confusion as his gaze hopped from monks to servant, then back. Flushing scarlet, he bowed again, this time to the servant. Still, the monks did not leave. They remained directly in front of him, their bowls still raised before them. "Er, is there something else?" the reverend finally asked.

  "Beg pardon, sir," the servant responded. "Temple abbot must take all alms. All given ... to glory of God."

  Smythe-Jones blinked. It was clear he didn't understand, and the monks weren't speaking. In the end, it was Maddie who piped up, an indecorous note of humor in her voice.

  "The sausage, Reverend. I think you're supposed to take the sausage, too."

  "Oh! Er, really?" he asked the servant.

  The boy bowed. "Food is most glorious alms."

  "Sausage? Oh, er yes, I suppose it is." Then with a rather wan smile, the reverend reached in two long fingers and picked up a sausage. It slipped right out of his grip, but he per­severed and eventually lifted one out. Unfortunately, he didn't know where to put it and stood there holding the thing and looking confused.

  Evelyn repressed a sigh and snatched up the saucer from be­neath his teacup. She held it out while the reverend dropped one sausage, then the second, and finally the third upon it. At last Jie Ke's bowl was empty. In one motion, both monks and the servant bowed deeply before the reverend.

  "Thank you, honored abbot," the servant said. Then he added something else in Chinese—a benediction perhaps, it was hard to tell—befor
e all three resumed their shuffling walk to the door. But before they could leave, the servant gasped as if he had forgotten something. He quickly dashed back to bow once again before the reverend, who froze halfway down into his chair.

  "Beg pardon, sir. Monks pray now." He glanced at the oth­ers in the room. "No one disturb."

  "Yes, yes, of course," agreed the reverend. "I completely understand."

  The servant bowed again and repeated his strange Chinese words. When he straightened, he flashed a quick grin and whispered, "I speak blessing on all." After one last bow, the boy dashed away.

  No one spoke until the door swung shut behind the ser­vant. All then released a collective sigh of relief. The rev­erend's was loudest, as he was finally able to drop into his chair. Mama shook her head as she stared at the purse and wrapped pile of money.

  "Is it truly four hundred pounds?" asked Maddie.

  "Four hundred ten pounds, six shillings, and thruppence," answered the reverend.

  "But that's. . ." Mama apparently could not find an ade­quate descriptor. "That's . . ."

  "A farce of the grandest order!" snapped Christopher, his glare centered straight on Evelyn.

  "Chris. . .," she began, but she had no idea what to say. He was right. She had made him find £50 as a bribe to monks who had just given it—plus another £360—all to the church. It made no sense.

  "I am going out for a ride," he ground out. "They had best be gone by the time I return."

  "But. . . but. . ." sputtered the reverend from the side. "They are praying!"

  Christopher's gaze didn't so much as flicker toward the man. "By the time I return, Evelyn. Make sure of it." Then he spun on his heel and left.

  How long did it take a pair of monks to pray?

  Evelyn paced outside of the "Chinese bedroom," as the servants now called the room. She had been out here for two hours now, wearing holes in the carpet while every servant and guest made an excuse to visit the hallway. Everyone knew about Christopher's decree that the monks be gone, that he had left it to her to see to the impossible visitors, and that she would be the biggest ill-bred lout to interrupt cler­ics at prayer. Especially clerics who had just given over four hundred pounds to the church! Everyone knew and waited to see exactly what she would do next. She wouldn't have been surprised if the question were being printed on broad­sheets in London.