The Revenge of Lord Eberlin Read Online Free PDF Page B

as had Mr. Greenhaven, the man he’d employed to be his groundskeeper, he would have told them that he was.
    From that point in that interminable supper, Tobin had been counting the moments until he might leave, but in the course of the meal he’d had one of his spells.
    These bloody spells—he’d never had one until that moment on the road to Hadley Green, but now they seemed to come on him with alarming regularity. That worried him greatly, particularly as they seemed to occur when there were people about and he was away from the comfort of his private estate. He feared some sort of fatal malady. Or worse, something so debilitating, so emasculating, that he would be nothing but a shell of a man, capable of lifting nothing heavier than a goblet . . . not unlike the men seated around that dinner table that night.
    Tobin hadn’t mentioned the spells to anyone, not even to Charity, for fear that he would be perceived as weak. Or sickly —if that were the case, he’d just as soon be dead. But the spells came over him without warning, triggered by things that seemed so innocuous that he couldn’t help believing he’d been invaded by some demonic fever.
    That evening, at the Mortons’ dinner table, he’d felt a growing discomfort. Someone made a jest that had prompted several people to laugh, and that was it. Thesound of adults laughing made Tobin suddenly flush, and his neckcloth felt as if it were tightening around his throat. His chest had tightened painfully; his hands had trembled so badly that he’d dropped his spoon into his soup bowl with a clatter.
    It had horrified him. He’d had to excuse himself for a few moments, walking almost blindly outside onto the walk, gripping his fists so tightly against whatever invisible thing had him by the throat that his fingers still ached the next morning. He’d recovered within a few moments, thankfully, and explained it away by saying he’d swallowed wrong. But he’d spent the rest of the evening in mortal fear that it would happen again.
    The Mortons had blamed his attack on the tepid soup, apparently believing he was the sort to lose his composure over an unsatisfactory meal. They’d exclaimed over him, threatened to dismiss the cook and, for all Tobin knew, spiked the poor woman’s head on the fence. They believed they’d all but poisoned Lord Eberlin, or poor Tobin Scott, the improbable new owner of the newly grand Tiber Park.
    The son of a condemned thief.
    Seeing the Mortons turn from him now—even after he’d extended the invitation to the winter ball he would host at Tiber Park—redoubled Tobin’s determination for revenge.
    He’d extended the invitation to the ball to all of Hadley Green’s meager bon ton. He intended to givethem a fireworks display the likes of which they’d never seen, wanted them to see the palace he was making of Tiber Park; wanted them to know who was the son of Joseph Scott.
    Mr. Morton turned and glanced back at Tobin. It appeared as if he was having second thoughts for his retreat, for he touched the brim of his hat with a nod. Tobin lifted a pair of fingers, acknowledging him. But the last-minute gesture did not appease him.
    He moved around his horse to mount him, and in doing so, his gaze caught a flash of blue. He paused; that was Lily standing on the walk with her two agents. She saw him, too, and fixed him with a look so glowering that he nearly laughed. She was wearing a dark blue gown and spencer that hugged her tightly, and a hat set at a slight angle and with as much plumage as the bloody coach. Just looking at her, Tobin felt a tug of something in his chest. A tic of . . . lust? Or a spell? Whatever it was, he clenched his hand in a fist, nodded at her, and swung up on his horse.
    Lily turned away from him and walked down the street, the two men casting dark gazes at him as they followed her.
    Tobin touched his horse’s mane. It was black, as black as Lily’s hair. He thought of her skin, like cream, with rosy