Page 31 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
Chapter Twelve
The garden was brilliant with moonlight, its silvery glow shining over the hedgerows and cobblestone paths. Thomas crouched low behind the dense cover of a sprawling hawthorn hedge; his breath was steady as was his gaze as it lingered on the tableau unfolding before him. The new countess, lovely in the modest light of the evening, stumbled slightly on the uneven gravel path. Lord Mountwood, ever the gallant nobleman, reached out to steady her.
Thomas’s eyes narrowed. It was not the act of assistance that drew his attention, nor the polite concern etched on the earl’s face. It was the lingering hand and subtle intimacy that sparked through the layers of propriety. The earl’s hand rested against her waist, and for a heartbeat longer than necessary, he held her there. His thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle against her side, his touch hidden beneath the layers of fabric but unmistakable in its intent.
Thomas's jaw tightened as he watched, calculating every nuance. His grip on the hedge’s branches tightened, the faint prick of thorns biting into his palm, grounding him. The interaction between Lord Mountwood and his new wife was brief but damningly telling, and it did not escape Thomas’s notice.
As abruptly as the moment had begun, it ended. Lord Mountwood stepped back, his posture as rigid as the marble statues that adorned the estate grounds. He offered the countess his arm, his voice a low murmur of courteous inquiry, but Thomas had seen enough to confirm the earl's happiness was not merely a facade. That was enough to cement the cold fury that simmered within him.
From his concealed position, Thomas eased back, his movements fluid and silent as he slid deeper into the shadows of the garden. His purpose, though unvoiced, crackled in the electric tension of his departure. He retreated, his steps deliberate, threading through the labyrinth of hedgerows with the ease of one who had spent years mastering the secrets of the grounds. His lips curved in a sardonic fashion, revealing a cold expression born of unyielding determination.
For all the earl’s charm and apparent contentment in the arms of his new bride, it would take him quite unawares. The earl had allowed his brother, Thomas’s brother, to perish in the chaos of war, which had been a sacrifice made with all the detachment of a man passing a coin to a beggar. And now, amidst the earl’snewfound domestic bliss, Thomas would ensure that the scales were balanced in a way Lord Mountwood would never anticipate.
Years of service as the loyal gardener had rendered Thomas invisible. The soil-stained hands, the bowed posture, and the quiet obedience were all weapons, cloaking his true intent in harmless subservience. He had been patient, biding his time while Lord Mountwood rebuilt his life, unwittingly laying the foundation for his own undoing.
Thomas could still recall the letter he had received years ago, the letter that bore the chilling words of finality.
“Regret to inform you…“Thomas could not bear to remember the rest, but Lord Mountwood’s name had been etched into every line of that missive, not in ink but in implication. It was his command that had led Thomas’s brother to his death, his orders that had robbed Thomas of the only family he had left. And now, beneath the guise of civility, Thomas nurtured his revenge as carefully as he tended the estate's roses. The foolish earl had no idea as to who he was in reality. And that was just the way that Thomas intended to keep it. Until it is too late to retaliate...
He paused at the garden gate, the wrought iron cold against his fingers. His smile deepened, while his eyes were alight with the fire of purpose. The earl’s happiness was a fragile, delicate construct that could shatter with the slightest pressure. Thomas would be the hand that applied it. The countess’ laughter echoed faintly in the distance as she and Lord Mountwood retreated toward the grand house, their silhouettes disappearing through the heavy oak doors. Thomas stood alone in the garden once more, the shadows embracing him. He exhaled softly, his breath misting in the chill of the night.
Revenge was not a matter of impulse. It was a slow burn, a strategy requiring precision and patience. It was not merely the earl’s downfall that Thomas sought. He also wanted to witness the complete dismantling of his world, the stripping away of every joy and every comfort Lord Mountwood had foolishly allowed himself to believe was secure.
Thomas turned away from the gate and began his walk back to the gardener’s cottage, his steps confident and unhurried. Behind him, the grand estate loomed, its brilliance a stark contrast to the shadowy depths where Thomas’s plans were taking root. As he reached the edge of the rose garden, he stooped to pluck a single bloom, the deep crimson of its petals vivid against the pale moonlight. He twirled it between his fingers, his expression unreadable. The earl’s downfall would bloom just as exquisitely as this rose, vibrant and inevitable. With deliberate care, Thomas crushed the flower in his grasp, his smile flickering for a moment before vanishing entirely.
The gardener’s cottage was warm and unassuming, but as Thomas crossed its threshold and closed the door behind him, the chill of his intentions lingered. Alone in the quiet, he allowed himself one final thought before the night claimed him.
The earl will pay, he thought. And when he does, he will find no refuge. There would be none to be found, not in his countess, not in his title, not in his estate. Thomas would ensure it was done.
***
Genevieve adjusted the folds of her gown as she entered the grand dining room, the light from the oversized chandelier casting a warm glow across the polished oak table. The air was filled with the mingled aromas of roasted lamb, honeyed carrots, and the faint, heady sweetness of mulled wine. Gabriel was already seated at the head of the table, his expression calm but distant, as it often was during formal meals. His presence loomed larger than his reserved demeanor, an aura of authority that even the opulence of the room seemed obliged to recognize.
James, by contrast, was all geniality. He rose from his chair to greet Genevieve with a warm smile, his hand gesturing toward the vacant seat beside Sophia.
“I was beginning to fear you would leave us to Gabriel’s stoic company,” he said, teasing lightly, his tone devoid of malice but rich with familiarity.
Genevieve smiled faintly, shaking her head.
“If I did, I imagine you would compensate admirably,” she said, settling into her seat. Across from her, Sophia’s face brightened as she smoothed the intricate lace at her cuffs, her delicate features framed by the soft curls of her golden hair.
“One could do better than my brother’s usual brooding,” she said with a wink. “Though, perhaps from bias, I must say that one could do worse, as well.”
Genevieve blushed, trying not to think of the encounter in the garden with Gabriel. She merely nodded and smiled politely.
“One could surely do worse,” she said softly.
Gabriel entered just as the first course of the meal was served. He did not speak to anyone, merely greeting everyone with a brief nod. But for just a moment, he gave her a small, secret smile. Her cheeks burned, and she focused her attention on her meal. But she could not forget the way his arms had burned her skin, and how cold it felt without having them wrapped around her.
Dinner commenced without fanfare, the clink of silver against fine porcelain forming a subdued rhythm as the meal progressed. For a time, conversation lingered on pleasantries such as the weather, the ripening pears in the orchard, and the improved quality of the bread since Mrs. Fawley had dismissed her troublesome apprentice.
Then James set down his wineglass with a quiet deliberation and turned to Sophia.
“Did you notice the southern hedgerow this morning?” he asked. “I passed it on my way to the stables. It appears your pruning efforts have triumphed. The roses have resumed their climb with remarkable vigor.”
Sophia gave a small smile, pleased.
“They only required sunlight and a firmer hand than my predecessor ever dared offer,” she said. “It seems that applies to roses as well as troublesome tenants.”
