Page 3 of The Earl's Disguised Governess
He much preferred Army surgeon Ernest Barnes, medic in the king’s army. For that was where his passion in life lay: in helping others. Two weeks prior, he had received a visit from a crown barrister, who informed Ernest of his uncle’s death—alongside their heir to the Bannerdown fortune. The title and estate had been passed onto him. Once the war was over, Ernest would not return to his normal life, where the Ton was of little importance to him. He would return to life as an earl.
He glanced at the opening of the tent, half wishing the war would end and half wishing it would not. For he did not know if he could continue such a title. Besides that, he would need to find a wife, especially now. But romance was the furthest thing from his mind.
The Countess of Bannerdown. Who would she be? How would she feel to inherit such a title? No doubt she would love it, as would her mama. He thought of every marquess and duke above him to whom he would be compared. His title ranked him above even the viscount. Archibald was above him as a captain in this tent, but back in London, it would be him above Archibald.
The thought was sobering, so he poured another glass of rum. He did not wish for responsibility. He wished for freedom and the ability to continue his work as a medic, but he would have to give that up.
“Well, men,” Archibald said when the rum was almost two-thirds gone. “We do not know what shall start—or end—this war. Be it casualties or victory, I shall be honoured to return to London with you both as my friends and comrades.”
“Indeed,” Graham answered. “It is an honour to serve with you both, and I look forward to when we are back in those ballrooms, wishing we were on the battlefield.”
“At least the alcohol shall be better,” Archibald joked, looking at them both. “I shall woo My Lady Samantha with my tales of bravery—”
“—and Ernest shall woo his prospective wife with his tales of heroic dealings.”
He grimaced. “Men, I shall learn the dance of war before I understand the intricacies of marriage as an earl.”
“It is rather easy,” Graham said. “As we said, the ladies will simply flock to you.”
“I am not a tossed piece of bread for birds to peck at,” Ernest grumbled. “Besides, it is not just romance that I must think of. My cousin, Matthew, the deceased heir, had a daughter who survived. She is ten and six years old, and I shall be her guardian.”
“Oh, heavens help her, then,” Graham teased. Ernest just shook his head, but he agreed.
“Two female adjustments, then,” Archibald added. “A wife and a ward. That makes a good family, does it not?”
“Not,” Ernest muttered. “I fear there shall not be enough wine in London to help me through it all. How do I speak to her since all the family she knows is dead, and I shall be her new guardian? And that it will not be her father presenting her to suitors but me. She might despise me.”
“She might.” Graham nodded, and Ernest swatted him over the head with a laugh. Together, the men all pushed through the tent’s entrance, breathing in the thick, earthy smell of the field. “But for now, we are in arms with one another, serving our king.”
“Indeed,” Archibald answered. “One last toast.” He disappeared inside to get the rum.
Ernest made the toast this time as their glasses were refilled. “To returning home as one.”
Their glasses clinked, and they finished their drinks, toasted to the hope—and dread—of new horizons together.
Chapter 1
The air was crisp and cold, and Ernest shuddered in the winter wind. January was not kind in Bath that year, and he wished for a warmer coat.
Still, it was a morbid reminder. At least he could stand there, in a coat, trying to find a semblance of warmth.
His eyes tracked over the war memorial, and he knew that many men no longer had the option of standing in the cold even, for their bodies were long put in the ground. He shifted, his hands in his pockets, as he looked at the other lords from the area in Bath. He stood outside Bellott’s Hospital, a stranger among war veterans. A stranger yet honoured all the same. There was a dour mood in the air: the knowledge that they were all alive to tell their tales and the tales of the fallen, but their dead comrades were not.
“He fought valiantly, did he not?” the quiet voice next to him asked. Sometimes Ernest thought he had got used to the yelling of Graham Courtenay in the field hospital, the constant sound of his cries to help him, to announce a new patient, to call out to ground a man who lingered close to the precipice of death. So, when the man was quiet and his voice soft in grief and respect, Ernest could only see it as yet another unfair change.
War changes men, land, and lives. For what else would it do? He thought morbidly. He did not feel more accomplished for serving. Perhaps if he had been a soldier, then maybe. But mostly, he felt guilty. That he was not one of the names etched on the monument in front of Bellott’s.
“He did,” Ernest finally answered. “He was a good captain.”
Graham held out a flask for Ernest. “Here. He would appreciate it if we drank to him.”
“Indeed, he would,” Ernest sighed as he took a mouthful of whisky and passed it back to his old friend.
Together, they looked at the monument, swallowed their mouthfuls, and nodded when they were done. “To Archibald White,” Ernest murmured. “Brave captain, audacious viscount, and a most wonderful friend. May they honour you in your afterlife.”
“I thought we would make it through together,” Graham admitted. “Is that foolish?”
“War takes good men,” Ernest sighed.
