“For bravery in the face of the enemy, and for saving the life of my godson, Percival Seaton …”
Something Evan couldn’t even remember doing.
“I confer upon you the title of Earl of Whitelock, Viscount Slaugham, with the lands and holdings entailed to that title.”
Evan wasn’t sure if it was everyone else in the room who gasped or himself. What?
The sword lightly bounced on his left shoulder, then his right, then his left again. “Rise, Earl of Whitelock.”
This was a farce, right? Somewhere, there was a hidden joke, right?
Him?
An earl?
Hoisting himself upright, trying not to favor his wounded leg, his mind galloped like a horse loose on the battlefield. A flash went through his mind, a shudder in his soul. Why had that image—a horse loose on a battlefield—rocked him? A cold snake of anxiety coiled up around Evan’s torso, and his hand gripped his sword handle.
There must be some mistake. He wasn’t an earl. He was a soldier. He was Evan Eldridge, not Whitelock or Slaugham or whoever else—
“Well done, my good man. Never let it be said that the Prince Regent does not reward those who serve him faithfully.”
A buzz went through the room as Evan bowed again. What did he do now? There was some rule about not turning your back on royalty, right?
He took a few steps backward, careful not to stumble. A hand reached out and touched his arm, and he glanced at a man of about his age, dressed in knee breeches and satin coat.
“This way.” The man drew him to the side to merge with the crowd.
Evan followed him, grateful for the direction, wishing they could’ve gone all the way to the door and out onto the street. People continued to stare, and many whispered to one another with shocked expressions, frowns, disdain. No one could be more astonished than he. What had just happened here? Evan wanted to escape the speculation, the bewilderment, and … the guilt. Guilt that rose up to smother even the shock.
He’d been rewarded for an act of bravery he couldn’t even remember, saving the life of someone he didn’t know. Rewarded with an earldom? A title and … lands?
What did any of this mean to his future? His mates in the regiment weren’t going to believe this. When he returned to the Peninsula, he’d never hear the end of it.
The man beside him leaned in. “Ninety-Fifth Rifles, correct?”
Evan stared straight ahead as a young woman in a wide-hooped pale-pink gown floated down the aisle in front of him. He felt out of place in his military dress, but he’d rather that than the antiquated costumes of the rest of the assembly. He felt as if he’d stepped into a fifty-year-old painting. “That’s right.”
“I recognize the uniform. Marcus Haverly, late of the Fifty-Second Oxfordshire Light Division.”
Some of the tightness went out of Evan’s shoulders. A fellow military man, someone to whom he could relate in this alien world.
“We can talk more once the presentations are over. Stick with me when things break up.”
Evan nodded, wanting to turn and shake the man’s hand. He felt as if he’d been thrown a rope to pull himself up the cliff he’d been pushed over.
Three more young girls were announced, curtsied before the Queen, and were shepherded into the ranks along the walls. The audience stirred when Her Majesty rose, took the arm of the Prince Regent, and was escorted through a doorway. Those nearest to her bowed and curtsied, and she nodded right and left. Once she was out of the room, everyone seemed to relax a fraction. Voices rose, and Evan found himself the focus of much scrutiny.
Marcus steered him back toward the wall. “Best to only have to defend one front.” He smiled as he said it. “Did you have any inkling? Were you given any indication in the invitation?”
“Not so much as a warning shot across the bow.” And what it all meant was still a mystery. Perhaps once he got out of this crowd, which pressed in on all sides, cutting off his escape routes, he could start to make some sense of what had happened. Until then, the growing noise of the people around him sent fluttery, anxious feathers across his chest and tightened his throat. He hated crowds at the best of times.
“Well, congratulations, I guess.” Marcus shrugged, his shoulders sliding under the dull bronze of his embroidered coat. “What are your plans?”
“Plans?” Evan’s mind blanked at the notion. “Beyond passing my physical and getting back to my regiment?”
A quick bark of laughter from Marcus had heads turning. “Put that notion away for good. You’re a peer now. A war hero. You’re going to be the talk of the Season. And here’s the Home Secretary. By the way”—Marcus lowered his voice even further—“you now outrank him.”
Evan shot Marcus a look. What did he mean Evan couldn’t return to his regiment? What else was he to do? They needed him, and he needed them. And he had unfinished business on the Peninsula, something he’d left undone. He could feel it, even if he couldn’t remember it. All this fuss and frippery with the nabobs was temporary, right?
Marcus turned to Viscount Sidmouth. “Good afternoon. Quite a ‘Drawing Room’ session today, wasn’t it? Five debutantes and a new earl.”
“Indeed.” The Home Secretary looked as if he’d just tasted puddle water as he turned to Evan. “I had no idea when I met you in the hospital so recently that the Prince Regent would be conferring such an honor.” Pure vinegar couldn’t have puckered his mouth more. “I’ve been sent to discuss the properties and responsibilities that come with the Whitelock title.” He opened a sheepskin-wrapped bundle of papers sewn down the side with legal tape.
The Home Secretary scanned the front page, flipped to the second, and said, “There is a townhouse here in London that is currently being rented. You will have to decide if you wish to evict the current tenants or let them finish out the Season in the property. And there is an estate and manor house in Sussex south of Crawley. The earldom has been vacant for twenty years or so, and the manor has been closed up for that time. I understand there was a caretaker. The previous earl’s executor wasn’t up to the job, it seems, and things have gone untended for too long.”
Land? A manor? A townhouse? What was he supposed to do with an estate? He felt as if shackles were closing about his wrists and ankles.
Sidmouth cleared his throat. “There’s also the matter of funds. The last Earl of Whitelock was not known for his circumspection when it came to personal finances. He left behind a meager bank account that has accrued some interest, and of course there is the income from the townhouse rents.” He handed the papers to Evan, his finger on a number at the bottom of the page. His lips were pinched, and his brows drawn together, as if he felt the task of educating the newest peer of the realm beneath him. He clearly didn’t approve of the Prince Regent’s generosity. At the moment, he looked at Evan as if he were a stray mongrel sneaking into the pedigree kennel.
Which was just how Evan felt.
Letting his gaze land on the page where the viscount pointed, Evan tried not to show his surprise at the amount. Who called a bank account of over five thousand pounds meager? He would never amass that amount as a soldier if he stayed in the army for the next fifty years.
“Those documents will allow you to take possession of the properties and accounts. Have them with you when you go to the bank and when you receive the townhouse and manor keys from the law firm of Coles, Franks, and Moody on Orchard Street, near St. James’s Park.”