To Catch the Candid Earl: Regency Historical Romance

by Eleanor Keating

  To Catch the Candid Earl

  Regency Historical Romance

  Eleanor Keating

  Copyright

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2020 by Eleanor Keating

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  Contents

  A Sweet Gift for you

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Please review this book!

  A Sweet Gift for you

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Let’s be friends

  About the Author

  A Sweet Gift for you

  I want to personally thank you for purchasing my book. Having you beside me on this wonderful journey means everything to me. It's a blessing to have the opportunity to share with you my passion for writing, through my stories.

  As a FREE GIFT, I am sending you a link to my lovely collection of regency-era romantic short-stories, including among others "A Governess for the Earl". It has more than 100 reviews, with an average rating of 4.5 out of 5.

  It is only available for free to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by clicking on the book image or this link here.

  Prologue

  Wilshire

  Mid-October 1845

  "Come on now, dear child. Come and have supper with Mrs. Hilbridge and the rest of the parsonage," Jeremiah Hothembury, the vicar of Whitechapel, urged. "Your mother is at peace; she is resting in the Lord's bosom now."

  Lucette ‘Lucy' Walsh didn't turn or bother to acknowledge the kind-hearted old man's words. She was preoccupied with the gravediggers, watching through clouded eyes as they dug their shovels into the sand and slung steadily, filling the rift slowly.

  Lucy didn't understand what the vicar meant by being at peace, especially for someone deceased. Except peace meant no more hours of laboring and scrubbing, hunched over buckets and pails of dirty washing, with the sharp smell of lye and ash lingering in the cramped space of the workhouse laundry room.

  Perhaps being at peace meant relief from the master and matron's cruel words, threats and punishments when they broke the rules of the workhouse, by going out to do extra work to settle their gargantuan debts.

  She was sure her ma felt at peace now, not having to bother about bills, or food or the landlord's hefty rent of twelve shillings and fifty pence at the cottage they'd lived in before moving to the workhouse. It hadn't been easy for a widowed woman to find that kind of money on her own, and Ma had done every kind of work in the village—from weeding to sewing—to earn it. Early on, Lucy realized that a woman needed a man of means if she were to be provided for. Pa had been a farm laborer with foolish notions of fighting for his country. So he signed up when Lucy was a toddler, vanished to a foreign land, and was killed—leaving Ma destitute. Lucy swore that nothing such as this would ever happen to her. She would grow up and marry into money and never suffer terribly as her ma had done. The daughter of a village laundress and a dead commoner soldier she may be, but she aimed for a life better than the horrors of the current one she lived.

  Autumn's speedy approach had begun to show in the trees grouped about the graves, as the leaves of the horse chestnuts and elms changed color to yellow, lending a solemnity to the atmosphere at the cemetery.

  The few who'd attended the pauper's funeral had returned to their business and labors, including old Mrs. Cartwright, who'd been sobbing loudly and dramatically, even if she and Ma hardly spoke since they'd been forced to live at the workhouse.

  Horrid old woman! She'd been the first to leave after patting Lucette on the shoulder as if she were a poor downtrodden puppy, not a young woman of twenty-four, before departing for the fish market; leaving Lucy and the vicar, who seemed to be in a hurry to return to the host of duties waiting at the parsonage.

  For a moment, Lucette felt small and alone. It had always been just her and Ma. She rubbed her small, pert nose, feeling the chill of the afternoon through her thin worn-out gloves, loose and threadbare in apparent places.

  She didn't mind; at least her hands were gloved, unlike those of the other maidens in the village. She didn't pay them any mind when they sneered and giggled at the tattered state of the gloves she'd sewn with painstaking details from discarded window curtains under a candle that was burning low. They could never understand what it took to be a lady of means, or wished with a fervent longing to become one, as she did.

  She had spent hours watching the ladies at the manors and country homes where her mother often worked, before her husband died. Hours of blending in so inconspicuously that no one noticed or paid her any mind. The way the gentry carried themselves was what fascinated her. You could tell on sight that they were classy and mingled in proper society even if they were mere wives of baronets and war admirals. They knew everything about the latest fashion and high society, and she often heard them discussing the seasons in London.

  The way they spoke and giggled with excitement when they talked about the city had filled Lucette with a pang of great hunger and desire to go to London.

  She often fantasized about being wealthy and privileged, like the Hawthorne girls down at Wyndham Manor. She'd spend the entire day doing nothing much but receiving visitors, wearing fancy gowns of deep purple and pale

  blue; although, she figured the idleness of that would probably get dull over time. Still, she wanted to know how it would feel to be financially secure, to have time for more in a day that brutal manual labor.

  London ... the word alone filled her with awe and longing. She'd always dreamt of going there, right into the center where it all happened. She wanted to mingle with affluent members of society.

  She wanted to belong!

  It had been quite a while since she'd come to the realization that she didn't belong in a small village in Wilshire. She wasn't derisive or mocking of her roots, neither did she feel better than the poor struggling folks at the workhouse where she'd lived with her mother before the illness; far from it. She just craved and wanted something better for herself, something better than what fate had dealt her.

  Lucette hoped for a favorable opportunity; something that didn't involve long hours laboring over pounds of laundry, scrubbing till her fingers bled from the harsh lye, and developed callus
es, as well as pinprick sores from all the mending and extra sewing that she and her mother took in, along with their allocated sewing tasks at the workhouse.

  Looking down at them right then in the graveyard, Lucette brooded, frowning and pursing her mouth in a distasteful fashion. She didn't want to ruin her fingers with harsh soap and incessant scrubbing anymore. She didn't want to go hungry after a meagre breakfast.

  She wanted to escape from the dismal, grinding days at the workhouse, where everything she did was watched and judged, when she worked all day to see her most of earnings taken from her by the master, and slept poorly at night, listening to other people coughing in the chill, damp air. She wanted to own thoroughbred horses, enjoy long walks in Hyde Park, and attend exciting balls and soirees. Lucette had given these imaginations a great deal of thought. She knew the only way for any of them to have a speck of reality was to reinvent herself and leave Wilshire altogether.

  However, her situation had just worsened dramatically with her mother's death. She was an orphan now, and without any means, except perhaps for marrying the butcher's son, Raymond, who'd been sniffing after her before she and her mother went to the workhouse. Marrying Raymond would at least mean better accommodation from the workhouse where she was destined to return. Yet it was doubtful that even Raymond would want her now, since she had sunk to the lowest level of society: the desperately impoverished.

  Lucette felt a fresh wave of tears cloud her eyes as she thought of the dreariness that life presented and the horrible memories of having to do without.

  There was no way she was accepting that life, at least without trying to better herself first. Her heart began to beat anxiously as soil rattled onto the lid of her mother's pitiful coffin.

  "Lucette?" the vicar broke her out of her sad thoughts. "It's almost time for supper. Mrs. Hilbridge gets irritated with dillydallying of any sort. We need to return now before it darkens any further."

  After a second and a deep, steadying breath to gather her wits, Lucette wiped the cold tears on her cheeks and turned to the vicar, whose expression bore hints of annoyance as his tone had done.

  "Please call me Lucy, Mister Hothembury. I've always hated the name Lucette."

  "Oh." The vicar looked taken aback at the forcefulness in her tone and frowned with disapproval but said nothing as they made their way to the parsonage.

  Lucette felt color flood her cheek at the way she'd sounded. "I’m sorry, Mister Hothembury," she hastily apologized, trailing behind him. The vicar's response was a small huff under his breath, falling silent as they slowly approached the square brick house, painted a dull shade of brown and white. Lucette wondered with a shaky heart, just what the vicar must be thinking of the presumptuousness in her tone.

  Despite that, her convictions were unwavering, and she had no plans of lingering in Wilshire longer than necessary. She was going to London to seek her fortunes, and there was no one to stop her from doing so. She was legally of age and the only option left was dreary and dispiriting.

  She had the perfect story ready. She'd be Lucy Middleton; the only child of an old baronet from South Yorkshire, who'd, gambled and lost his landholdings, left with nothing but a few pennies to her name and seeking employment to be a governess, a companion, or an assistant.

  She'd overheard the Hawthorne ladies talking about a friend of theirs whose father had lost everything and left them destitute. The girl had been forced to seek employment as a governess for three young wards of a duke and had ended up marrying him, restoring her family's tarnished glory. Lucy had been quite taken with the story and found it perfectly suitable to copy if she ever found the nerve.

  Except, she wasn't gentry. Her father wasn't a baronet, and she had never known prosperity or affluence of any kind. It didn't matter a whit. She just had to be careful. The details of the story would require a little while working out, but it was something she badly needed to do. She just had to remain in Wilshire for now, spend some time getting herself ready by rubbing salve of herbs and beeswax into her hands every day to heal their roughness, and perfecting her façade a little longer. When she finally felt convinced and assured of her readiness she was going to leave Wilshire and begin on the course to improve her life forever.

  Chapter One

  Belgrave Square,

  West London

  March 1846

  Lucy Middleton sat on a spindly chair, rereading aloud old letters about the Bronte's voyage across seas, her eyes occasionally flickering to her employer who lay propped up by plush feather pillows encased in satin pillowcases. Lady Agnes Barlow stared out the window, her eyes drooping. Her cheeks were devoid of color, wan and sickly, with a pale sallow cast; shrunken by age and bouts of frequent illnesses over the months.

  The Earl of Langford's aunt was a very sick woman, but she was also stubborn and had no intention of going down without a fight.

  Lucy had been employed as her companion and carer for five months now and marveled at Lady Agnes's tenacity and zest for life, unbeaten by old age, London's terrible weather, or fate. She was a fighter, which was why Lucy was perplexed as to the state of her mood for the past few days.

  It seemed like she was suffering from a terrible bout of depression. She insisted on having the velvet curtains drawn, permitting only a flicker of light streaming through. Lady Agnes was the old earl's last sister who'd never managed to snag a husband through all her seasons in London and had remained a spinster afterward, living in her father's house till the earl had died, relinquishing the earldom to his only son, John Barlow.

  According to the gossip which Lucy had overhead in the kitchen and lavatories, the old Earl Langford had been the kindest, sweetest man, who treated his employees, tenants, and servants with the utmost politeness. He'd been a good old, saint, a perfect contrast to his ruthless uncaring son, the current Earl of Langford.

  Lucy was distracted from her reading by a small sound, almost like a weak call and turned to Lady Agnes.

  "Can I have a cup of water, child? After that, can you hurry along and check if my nephew has returned from Parliament?" the old lady croaked.

  "Certainly ma'am." Lucy was up in a flash, hurrying to the brown oak table across the wide bedchamber to pour her a cup of water from the full pitcher she'd placed there earlier in the day.

  "I'll go and check on Lord Langford now, ma'am. I'll return shortly, so do try to put a smile on your face. I am saddened when I see you looking this distressed."

  Lady Agnes smiled and coughed, waving off Lucy's haste to attend to her. "Don't fret, dear girl. You can't do anything about this dratted bronchitis in my lungs. If only it would take me quickly and offer a reprieve, rather than keep me unwell and weak-spirited."

  She coughed again, this time roughly and loudly, and she shook with pitiful wracking expiration every time.

  Lucy wished there was something she could do to aid the poor woman, beyond for plumping her pillows more comfortably, brushing and tucking back some escaped tendrils of hair into the lace cap she wore, and squeezing her hand for some seconds before leaving the bedchamber.

  Despite the circumstances surrounding the job of being a companion and carer to the earl's aunt, Lucy come to grow fond of the sweet, gentle woman who treated her kindly and never had a harsh word to say to her; not even when she'd misplaced a ribbon-bound bundle of letters that held significant importance to the old lady. Lucy had been shaking with fear and had seen the demise of all her dreams and plans, as she stood there waiting for a sharp reprimand or worse, a termination entailing immediate vacation of the property. Lady Agnes had only appeared sad and told her that the letters had been from an old beau who'd died in a bridge accident years ago.

  The confession had dug into Lucy's conscience, and she'd striven to find the letters, even it meant tearing up the entire house, quizzing the housemaids, and going toe to toe with the formidable housekeeper, Mrs. Wilburn, who didn't seem to like her one bit. Finally, the letters had been found pressed in the back of the escritoire
in Lady Agnes's bedchamber, and Lucy had been beyond delighted and startled when the woman had hugged her warmly for finding them.

  Over the months, since her employ at the earl's residence, she had gotten quite protective of the earl's aunt, going about her job with a great deal of heart while being careful to safeguard her big secret. She had seen the advertisement for the position in a paper that the workhouse matron had discarded, and had used the address of an old friend in the village as her own. She could hardly expect to be given employment if she used the address of the workhouse. An elegant letter of character recommendation had been written for her by the governess at one of the big houses; she had known Lucy from a very young age and always had a fondness for the child.

  Descending the white marble staircase, supported by lacy wrought iron balusters, Lucy took great care not to cause any unnecessary racket to warrant the earl's displeasure.

  Her position as companion to Lady Agnes was entirely above that of the housekeepers, the maids, butler, and footmen, but at the same time, far below the nobility and upper-class, enough that she must take constant care not to displease or offend with her country manners.