The Earl Next Door: The Bachelor Lords of London Read online

  DEDICATION

  For my mother. Whose spirit of selfless caregiving inspired the theme of this book. And who knew I was a writer before I did.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from The Viscount and the Virgin

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  No. 21 Henrietta Place

  Mayfair, London, England

  May 1809

  Nothing of record ever happened in Henrietta Place.

  Carriages did not collide. Servants did not quarrel in the mews. No one among the street’s jowly widowers remarried harlot second wives. No one tolerated stray dogs.

  Families with spirited young boys boarded them in school at the earliest possible age.

  A calm sort of orderliness prevailed on the street, gratifying residents and earning high praise from Londoners and country visitors alike. It was a domestic refuge. One of the last such sanctuaries in all of London.

  Certainly, the stately townhome mansion at number twenty-one was a sanctuary to Lady Frances Stroud, Marchioness Frinfrock, who had been a proud and attentive resident since her marriage in 1768. With her own eyes, Lady Frinfrock had seen the degradation and disquiet that had become prevalent in so many London streets: noble-born men fraternizing with ballet dancers in The Strand; week-long ramblings in Pall Mall. And the spectacle that was Covent Garden? It wasn’t to be borne.

  What a comfort, then, that Lady Frinfrock would always have Henrietta Place, where nothing of record ever happened. Where she could live out her final days in peace and tranquility.

  “It looks to be fair for a second day, my lady,” said Miss Breedlowe, the marchioness’s nurse, crossing to the alcove window that overlooked the street.

  “A fog will descend by luncheon,” said the marchioness, frowning.

  “If it pleases you, we could take a short walk before then,” the nurse said. “To Cavendish Square and back? Spring weather is so unpredictable, we should take advantage of the sun before it disappears again for a month.”

  “Cavendish Square is not to be tolerated,” said Lady Frinfrock.

  Miss Breedlowe looked at her hands. “Only so far as the corner and back, then?”

  “Not I,” said the marchioness, pained.

  A sigh of disappointment followed, as it always did. How unhappily accustomed Lady Frinfrock had become to her nurse’s chronic sighing. It was obvious that Miss Breedlowe endeavored to be patient, although, in her ladyship’s view, not nearly patient enough. In return, the marchioness rarely endeavored to be agreeable enough.

  And why should a woman of her age and station be prodded through an inane schedule of someone else’s design? To be forced to engage in robust activities intended for no other purpose than to move her bowels? If her inept solicitors felt that her alleged infirmity warranted the nurse-maiding of sullen, sigh-ridden Miss Breedlowe, then so be it. They could cajole her to compensate and house the woman, but they could not force her to abide her. Or to walk to Cavendish Square when she hadn’t the slightest desire to do so.

  Miss Breedlowe cleared her throat. “Perhaps tomorrow, then.”

  Lady Frinfrock made a dismissive sound. “If you wish to walk to Cavendish Square, Miss Breedlowe, pray, do not let my disinterest detain you.”

  The nurse turned from the window and studied her. “I had hoped to discover an activity that we might enjoy together.”

  “A vain hope, I fear. I am a solitary soul, as the tyrants at Blinklowe, Dinkle, and Tuft, would comprehend if their service to my estate extended beyond calculating my worth in shillings and pounds and subtracting their yearly portion. Instead they have shackled me to you.”

  To her credit, the nurse did not blanch, but she also did not reply. The marchioness looked away. If such frank language could not elicit some measure of honesty from the woman, perhaps it would scare her into not speaking at all. Either would be preferable to her current trickle of disingenuous small talk, not to mention the incessant sighing.

  “I dare say your planters are the most beautiful for several blocks, my lady,” Miss Breedlowe said after a moment. “Do you direct your gardener in their care?”

  “They are not the loveliest on their own accord, of that you can be sure.”

  “How talented you are.”

  The marchioness snorted. “You can but see what becomes of a garden when left unattended, even for a week. Just look at the deplorable state of Lord Falcondale’s flower boxes and borders, if you can bear it. Such an eyesore.”

  “Oh, yes. The new earl. Which house is it?”

  “Number twenty-four. There. Directly across the street. It’s been in his family for an age.” She gently tapped the window with her cane. “His late uncle, the previous Lord Falcondale, paid fastidious attention to the upkeep of those planters. Tulips and ivy mostly, this time of year. Simple flowers, really. No effort to maintain, but perfectly lovely if kept headed and weeded, which he did. Not to mention his staff swept the steps and stoop several times a day, even in the damp. But now his far-flung nephew has inherited, and I fear the entire property will fall into disrepair.”

  “Hmmm,” said Miss Breedlowe. “That would be a great shame.”

  “Doubtless it seems like a small thing to you, but this sort of irresponsibility can bring about the demise of order and calm in a quiet street like our Henrietta Place. It doesn’t help that number twenty-two,” she gestured again, “next door to Falcondale’s, has been unoccupied and for sale these last five years. The house agents keep it up, but there’s no substitute for the loving care of a devoted owner and staff.”

  “Indeed.”

  “To make matters worse, the new earl is completely unresponsive to neighborly suggestion. I dispatched Samuel to speak to his gardener, only to be told that the man has let him go, the careless sod.”

  “Dismissed his gardener?”

  “He sacked the whole lot. I’ve since learned that every servant has been turned out. Now I ask you, how is a house of that size to be maintained without staff?”

  “I can only guess, my lady, but do take care. It would not warrant you to become overset.” She ventured small steps toward the marchioness.

  “The demise of order and calm.” Lady Frinfroc
k tsked, waving her away. “The demise of order and calm.”

  As if on cue, a carriage, buffed to a sun-sparkling sheen, whipped around the corner, thundering down the cobblestones from the direction of Welbeck Street.

  “Who the devil could this be?” the marchioness whispered. She drew so near to the window, her breath fogged the glass. The carriage careened toward them at a breakneck pace, slowing slightly as it neared Lady Frinfrock’s front window. With eyes wide, the marchioness watched it jostle past her house and well beyond the weed-ridden planters of Falcondale’s front door. Only when it reached the unoccupied house at number twenty-two did it lurch to a stop, the coachman yanking the reins as if his life depended on it.

  “Such traffic in the street today,” Miss Breedlowe said.

  “Nonsense.” Lady Frinfrock pinned her gaze on the carriage. “There is no traffic in Henrietta Place. Not on this day or any day. Such recklessness? A conveyance of this size? It’s wholly irregular!”

  “Indeed. Perhaps a neighbor is expecting out-of-town guests?”

  “No relation to the occupants of this street could afford a vehicle so grand,” she said. “Except, of course, for me. And I have no relatives.”

  “Not even the new earl, Lord Falcondale?”

  The marchioness harrumphed. “He cannot afford even a gardener.”

  The carriage door sprang open, and Lady Frinfrock leaned in.

  “Oh, look,” said Miss Breedlowe, cheerful interest in her voice. “It’s a young woman. How beautiful she is. And her gown. And hat. Oh, she’s brought someone with her. A companion. Hmm. Perhaps a servant?” Her voice went a little off, and she crooked her head to the side, studying the two women collecting in the street.

  “Is that an African?” Lady Frinfrock nearly shouted, planting both gloved palms on the spotless glass of the window.

  “I do believe her companion is an aboriginal woman of some sort,” Miss Breedlowe said, her voice croaking, as she moved herself closer to the glass.

  “But whatever business could they have in Henrietta Place?”

  Miss Breedlowe reached out a hand to steady her. “Do take care, my lady. Perhaps we should return to the comfort of the chairs.”

  “I shall not be comfortable in chairs,” said the marchioness, swatting her away. “But has the young woman come alone?” She tapped a bony finger on the glass. “Where is her family? Her husband or parents?”

  “Perhaps the men who have accompanied her are her—”

  “Servants, clearly,” interrupted the marchioness. “Look, Miss Breedlowe. Trunk after trunk. Crates and baskets. Oh, God. They are conveying it to Cecil Panhearst’s old house. It’s been sealed like a tomb since 1804.”

  “So they are. Perhaps you’re to have a second new neighbor.”

  “A lone young woman and an African?” She placed her hand on the window with no mind to the smudged glass.

  “Highly likely, I’d say. It would appear they are . . . Yes, they are unpacking.”

  “Well, that cannot be,” Lady Frinfrock declared, shaking her head at the street. “I won’t stand for it. Not without knowing who she may be or where she came from. And why she is accompanied by an African.”

  “Oh, do not worry,” Miss Breedlowe said. “The servants will learn her story soon enough. If she has any staff at all, they will talk with the other servants on the street.”

  For the first time since the carriage arrived, the marchioness lifted her eyes from the window and turned to stare at the nurse.

  “Why, what an excellent idea, Miss Breedlowe.” She raised her cane and jabbed it in the direction of the startled younger woman. “How resourceful you are. The servants will talk.” She raised one eyebrow. “They will learn her story soon enough.”

  As Miss Breedlowe stared in disbelief, the marchioness scrunched her face and then swung the tip of her cane in the direction of door.

  “Oh, no, my lady,” said Miss Breedlowe, backing away. “You cannot mean me.”

  “Oh, yes, ’tis exactly what I mean. Finally, a suitable application for your indeterminate hovering and resigned sighs. We shall devise a reason for you to approach her, and you will discover her business in my street. It is our duty as mindful, responsible residents to know.”

  “But I was speaking of the maids, my lady. The kitchen boys.”

  “The maids are unreliable. The kitchen boys are inarticulate. You, however, are ideal for this sort of thing. Steel yourself, Miss Breedlowe. We cannot know what manner of objectionable thing she may say or do. Better fetch your gloves. And your hat.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  No. 24 Henrietta Place

  Later that same morning

  Bored, tired, and cagey, Trevor Rheese, Earl of Falcondale, hunched over the chessboard, ignoring the game, and wanted.

  Wanted privacy, wanted freedom, wanted out.

  It was a sin to want—scripture was very clear on it: Thou shall not covet—but Trevor had been only loosely adherent to scripture in his life, and generally when it aligned with whatever his first inclination might be.

  At the moment, he was inclined to want.

  It was not broad, his list of wants. He did not wish for wealth or possessions, fame or prestige. Honestly, he did not even care about bloody respect. No, the things he wanted were trifling, bordering on humble. A scant duo of circumstances, nothing more.

  Firstly, he wanted to go. To leave. To depart the sodden, sullen, perpetual chill that hung over the islands of Britain like a shroud and to arrive anywhere else in the world. Anywhere except, he was careful to add, the scab-like string of baking rocks known as the Grecian Isles. Even more than he wished to depart England, he wished never to return to the crumbling shores of the Ottoman Empire’s island paradise, ever again. Leaving Athens had been only temporary fix; his enemies would search for him in England next. True freedom, he knew, lay anywhere else.

  After Trevor left England, his second burning desire was to be left alone.

  Utterly, entirely, completely alone.

  He didn’t want to mingle with people of his own class. He didn’t want to mingle with people of his own country. He didn’t want to mingle with people of any country.

  He did not want a mistress or a wife or an heir—or even a bloody house cat.

  Truth was, he didn’t even want to be earl, but his uncle had succumbed to lung fever before ever taking a wife. It had been his mother’s dying wish that, if it fell to him, he would make some effort toward the estate.

  How ironic, then, that when Uncle Peter cocked up his toes, the old goat had been neck-deep in debt. Trevor spent his first month as earl selling his uncle’s assets—the last of which (assuming he could find a buyer) was the Henrietta Place townhouse.

  Not much longer, he hoped. Two weeks. Perhaps a month.

  Until then?

  Until then, he would keep a close watch over his shoulder and pass the time playing chess.

  “You are forcing me to think, Joseph.” Trevor gazed at the chessboard, scrutinizing his defense. “Ah, moved the knight? Clever. Remind me not to leave you alone to strategize for longer than five minutes.”

  “Who was at the kitchen door?” Joseph asked, smiling. “Cook?”

  Trevor shook his head. “No, it was a boy from the market. The cook, I’m assured, has finally come to terms with the fact that he needn’t return, ever again, regardless of any fresh rage that might rise to the surface of his wounded pride.”

  “You look for vermin in the market crate?”

  The earl sat back. “I did actually, not that it’s any of your concern. I didn’t see you leaping up to receive it.” He slid his queen’s rook across the board. “I think you’re the laziest manservant ever to survive a house-wide sacking.”

  “Oh, I’m a manservant now? As in a paid valet?” He smiled again.

  “Right. I’ve spoken too soon. A valet would require a pension, holidays, an afternoon off.”

  The boy laughed. “I’d claim a proper salary before I bothere
d with that.”

  “Ah, yes. Now I remember why I can’t get rid of you. I don’t pay you.” He advanced his king’s pawn, angling for a kingside castle.

  He was just about to tell the boy that he would take the first turn in the kitchen, when a noise split the air. A loud noise. Shrill. The sound of wood scraping against stone.

  “What the devil was that?” Trevor’s head snapped back.

  “Sounds like something’s split in two,” said the boy, wide-eyed.

  “It’s coming from upstairs. The third floor—no, the second.” Trevor stared at the ceiling. “The empty second floor. Where there’s nothing left to split.” He shoved from his chair and crossed to the stairway, looking up.

  He’d grown accustomed to this during his years in Greece—sounds, scrapes, things that went bump in the night. Barely a week went by without the sleep-robbing sound of an argument, the shrieks and clatter of a raucous party, or, perhaps loudest of all, the clunk-clunk-clunk of something heavy and stolen being dragged up the stairs.

  But they were in Mayfair now. Unexpected, jolting noises were out of place. Likely, it was nothing—a rodent or a bird flying against a window—but the hairs on the back of Trevor’s neck still bristled. He frowned at the ceiling, straining to hear.

  “Perhaps you missed one of the maids,” Joseph said, trailing him to the stairs. “When you sacked everyone.”

  “We’ve been alone in this house for nearly a week, Joe. No one has been missed.”

  An unsettling second sound screeched from above. Next, a bump.

  “Bloody, bleeding bother,” Trevor said under his breath, climbing the stairs, while keeping his eyes on the landing. “What now?”

  “I told you the house would be haunted,” Joseph said.

  “Yes, and I told you I couldn’t think of a less likely dwelling for the supernatural. Ghosts, I’ve been told, seldom congregate in light-filled rooms, swept clean, and devoid of all furniture. Nowhere to hide.”

  A new noise—this one, unmistakably human—wafted from above. A sigh. Followed by a whimper. And then laughter.

  Brilliant. Someone was laughing on the second floor.

  Someone female.

  He paused and held out a hand. The boy stopped.