To Catch the Candid Earl: Regency Historical Romance

by Eleanor Keating

  With that Edmund covered her lips in a desire-soaked kiss that left her insides rioting and made her toes curl in their slippers.

  Lucy felt her heart beating in sync with his as he deepened the kiss and crushed her against him, his warmth filling her with a peace she'd craved.

  Right then, she felt contentment. Not with a portmanteau filled with expensive ball gowns, or a large mansion and array of servants. Just with Edmund himself.

  Lucy felt contentment in the knowledge of being truly loved by an amazing man, and getting to spend the rest of her life experiencing the feeling over and over again.

  There was nothing that could equal it; not all the money in the world could rival being well and truly loved.

  When Edmund broke the kiss, he pulled her closer, his head resting on hers as she snuggled deeper into his chest.

  There would be time to tell him about the letter from his tutor she held with her.

  The letter detailed the barrister's interest and willingness to prosecute the Earl of Langford and Viscount Hilgrove for fraud, while ensuring Edmund kept his inheritance.

  For now, Lucy just wanted to bask in the euphoria of Edmund's love and the unbelievable happiness she'd found at last. The future was bright and filled with promises, and it could wait for a few more minutes.

  * * *

  The End???

  But there is more…

  Eager to learn what the future holds for Lucy and Edmund? Then you might enjoy this extended epilogue.

  Simply tap here to read it for FREE.

  EXTENDED EPILOGUE

  Please review this book!

  Thank you for reading my novel. If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review on Amazon, Goodreads or BookBub.

  It might seem like something simple but to an author, it is quite possibly the most essential thing! This is a great way for me to improve and write better stories, for you!

  Please use the links below:

  Amazon:

  REVIEW ON AMAZON

  Goodreads:

  REVIEW ON GOODREADS

  BookBub:

  REVIEW ON BOOKBUB

  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.

  Do you want more romance?

  If you are a true fan of the Regency Romance genre, here is the next book in Earl Diaries series, "The Queen's Traitor".

  Turn the page to start reading.

  An adventurous romance: Will they get caught and executed for treason and murder? Why somebody would go that far to discredit them against the Queen and set obstacles to their love?

  Griffith Blackstone, Earl of Garstonshire, is accused of plotting against Queen Elizabeth, and is forced to flee his castle in the middle of the night. In seeking aid to prove his innocence, he meets the mysterious and beautiful Lady Sorcha Eldon. He has no idea what his future will hold.

  A witch and a seer, Sorcha foresees Griffith having a great impact on her life. But when she saves Griffith from the Queen's murderous agents, she is bound to him in ways she never expected. She must go into exile with him as he seeks to clear his name and prove his innocence.

  Griffith and Sorcha are falling in love. It is her sight that often helps them to escape their enemies, but it is not always perfect. No matter how they disguise themselves, they are followed. They begin to suspect that perhaps one of Griffith's men is a spy. He never expected a friend to betray him...

  Chapter One

  Icy rain slashed his face like tiny blades, half blinding him as it dripped and oozed into his eyes. The freezing wind cut through his heavy cloak, yet riding his horse through the darkness kept him warm enough. His mount’s hooves, sloshing through mud and muck, ground out the miles between him and his enemies.

  He, Lord Griffith Blackstone, the Earl of Garstonshire, had been named traitor by the queen’s men.

  Treasonable correspondence with Philip of Spain. Engaged in evil plots to dethrone Her Royal Majesty. Warrant for the arrest and execution of Garstonshire.

  Turning in his saddle, he gazed behind him, seeking signs of the pursuit he knew was back there. Somewhere. He saw little save the endless darkness, and heard nothing save the pounding of his horse’s hooves and the wind in his ears. Cursing under his breath, Griffith let his mind return to the past few hours and the beginning of this madness.

  He had been asleep in his upper chambers within his home, Castle Blackstone, in the wilds of Northumberland. A savage pounding on the stout oak door had him tumble out of his bed, and seize his sword in the same motion. Griffith crossed the room in quick strides and flung the door open. He blinked, lowering his sword.

  “Riordan?”

  “Griffith.” Sir Riordan Jones stepped past him, followed by a handful of henchmen led by Sir James Brockton, Griffith’s steward. “We have trouble and your name heads the list.”

  “What is going on?”

  Riordan flung open a chest and tossed Griffith clothes—shirt of linen, doublet, hose—and eyed Griffith’s near nakedness with a lifted brow. “Get dressed unless you want to ride in your skin.”

  Confused, questions running rampant through his head, Griffith obeyed, set his blade aside, and started pulling on his clothes. “Will you tell me what is going on, Riordan?”

  “My lord,” Sir James said, stepping forward with a tightly rolled scroll in his hand. “You are being accused of treason.”

  Griffith halted, one leg in his hose, the other bare, as he gaped, staring from Riordan to James and back again. “No,” he snapped. “I am loyal to the queen. She knows that.”

  “Not when her spies in King Philip’s court intercepted letters offering your support to His Majesty,” Riordan stated, making impatient, hurry up gestures. “Your hand, your seal, Griffith, calling for Elizabeth’s downfall.”

  “Forgeries,” Griffith growled, fear and anger making his voice harsh. “I did not write those. I wouldn’t.”

  “We know that my lord,” Sir James told him firmly. “Your ancestors fought for England all the way back to Agincourt, even further. The queen can be convinced of your innocence and loyalty, but you have to be alive to prove it. Right now, her agents are on their way to arrest you.”

  “You can’t let them,” Riordan declared. “Ride now, stay ahead of them. We will clear your name somehow.”

  Sitting on the edge of his bed, his tangled mop of yellow-gold hair tumbling into his eyes, Griffith pulled on his boots. “Are you implicated in this, Riordan?” he asked. “Being my friend?”

  “No. At least not yet.” Riordan blew out a gust of breath, folded his arms across his chest, and glanced around the chamber. “It may happen, however.”

  “Can you delay them?”

  Riordan’s dark blue eyes, deep-set under his heavy brow ridge, closed for a moment. “I already did, which is why they haven’t gotten here yet.” He gestured toward the scroll in James’s hand. “That’s how I got a copy of the warrant.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I suggested they search for you at your village of Dunbill,” he replied, his white teeth gleaming as he grinned. “I told them I was headed back to London, but after they rode away I came straight here. They will not be far behind.”

  “My thanks.”

  Griffith buckled his sword belt around his lean hips, then donned his coat lined with fur. “You need to ride, then,” he said, glancing at Riordan. “You must not be seen here.”

  Riordan
ran his fingers through his black shaggy hair, clearly torn. “Should I not ride with you?”

  “No. Just ride. And go with God, my friend.”

  Griffith embraced him quickly, sharing a brief moment of mutual friendship, and released him with a nod and a smile. Riordan left the chamber as Griffith turned to Sir James. “Is my horse ready?”

  “Indeed, my lord. I ordered your saddlebags packed, and here is gold in case you need it.”

  Sir James pulled a leather pouch from under his cloak and handed it to Griffith. Taking it, he tied it by its thongs to his belt, then clapped James on the shoulder. “I will ride for Yorkshire, to the castle of Lord Harpton. Follow me tomorrow with the henchmen. But do not be seen.”

  “Right, my lord.”

  “Go with God, my friend.”

  “And you, my lord.”

  Griffith rushed down the stone steps to the main floor of the castle, then jogged across the bailey to the stables. The heavy drizzle wet his hair and dribbled down his neck, but he stopped long enough to watch Riordan swing into his saddle. He rode his dapple grey to Griffith’s side and reached down his hand.

  “Best of luck, Griffith.”

  Griffith gripped it tightly, then released it. “Ride now.”

  Riordan offered him a flashing grin and a half salute, then kicked his horse into a gallop. After he vanished into the night and the rain, Griffith trotted into the stable to the grooms who held the reins to his big bay stallion. A heavy wool cloak lay across his saddle, and he threw it on over his coat.

  Before mounting, Griffith paused long enough to run his hands down the horse’s white blaze in affection. “We have a long way to go, my friend.”

  The stallion snorted as Griffith swung into his saddle. The grooms let go and dodged to the side as the horse sidled sideways while Griffith found his stirrup. Relaxing his tight grip on the reins, he released the stallion. The big horse broke instantly into a gallop, crossing the bailey, then the lowered drawbridge.

  Reining his mount to the south, Griffith caught sight of three riders cantering toward his castle. Of course, they saw him instantly under the flaring torches before he could duck into the covering darkness. Listening to their shouts, Griffith leaned forward over the stallion’s flowing mane.

  “You’re fresh and fast, Brutus,” he murmured, using his hands and knees to urge the stallion into a faster pace. “You’re the fleetest in the north of England. Let’s show them what you can do.”

  In the dark and the rain, Griffith could not tell how far behind the agents were. They could be a mile or a league. Or several hundred rods. If their horses had carried them from London, then no doubt they were close to spent. If they had hoped to get fresh mounts from his stable, they may not have acquired new horses along the way. The problem was: Griffith didn’t know.

  At long last, the rain ceased, and the cold wind soon dried his hair. Yet, no moon glowed down over the northern moors, both a curse and a blessing. He could not see his pursuers, yet they could not see him either. Slowing Brutus’s hard pace to a brisk trot, Griffith reined him to the right. A short line of small hills rose up from the moors, crowned with pillars of heavy rocks.

  Cresting them, Griffith dismounted, and tied Brutus, blowing and sweating freely, to a stunted hawthorn tree. Keeping his body low to the ground, he crouched behind a pile of rock and watched the road below. Though he could see little, without the rain he could and did hear clearly.

  Within thirty minutes, he heard the tromp of hooves, the jingling of bridles, and the creak of saddle leather approaching. Like shadows darker than the night around them, the three riders trotted their mounts past his position. Brutus, well trained, made no sound as the queen’s agents rode into the west.

  “Time to lose them,” he said, striding back to Brutus.

  To give his horse a brief rest, Griffith walked him back down the hill, and headed south and slightly west, across the moors. He knew this land as well as he knew his own castle, and the Earl of Harpton’s home lay in that direction. However, the road also passed near it as well as the village of Harrow, and the agents would reach it before he did.

  Even so, he mused inwardly, the earl could honestly tell them he had not seen or heard from Griffith Blackstone. Hearing the rushing water of a stream, he headed toward it. An owl hooted from a nearby thicket, and the delicious scent of the water tickled his nose.

  Lying on his belly, Griffith scooped the icy water to his mouth as Brutus sucked it down greedily. His thirst quenched, he opened his saddlebags and pulled from them dried meat. Permitting the stallion to graze on the rich grass beside the stream, he sat on a nearby rock to munch.

  As he ate, he pondered his dilemma, and how to prove his innocence to Elizabeth’s satisfaction. And how he became tangled in this particular web of lies, deceit, and treachery. “Someone forged my signature, my seal, embroiled me in this plot. But why? Why me?”

  Griffith found no answers.

  Chapter Two

  “They are the queen’s men, my lord.”

  Lady Sorcha Eldon sat beside her father at the high table, gazing down at Sir Richard Sheffield, the castle’s steward. She was confused by the odd tension Sir Richard exuded, the tautness of his cheek muscles that never failed to speak of trouble, she absently wondered what the trouble was. She glanced sidelong at her father, Lord Henry Eldon, the Earl of Harpton.

  “Are they messengers?” Henry asked, frowning as he, too, recognized the subtle signs of agitation in the steward.

  “No, my lord,” Sir Richard replied. “While they did not state their business, they clearly have been riding for some time. Their mounts are nearly broken, their clothing stained from much travel, and they themselves appear on the point of exhaustion.”

  Picking up his heavy goblet of ale, Henry drank a deep gulp as he thought. “If they are not messengers, then what could they possibly want?” he mused aloud.

  Sorcha toyed with the end of her long braid of black hair that fell over her shoulder and rested in her lap. A silk snood covered her head, bound to it with a fine chain that dangled a tiny pearl over her brow. It was not her place to speak, but her nerves informed her that nothing good could come of this visit.

  Her mother was a Cailleach, an Irish witch who claimed descent from the Morrigan and had once silenced the banshee. Though her mother was a healer, and well respected among the people, her blood was yet feared. Sorcha inherited much of her mother’s predilection for foresight. She caught her father’s eyes and shook her head slightly.

  Henry returned a brief nod, indicating he understood the possibility of trouble, but said, his face toward Sir Richard and the great hall, “We have little choice. I must know why they are here and dare not turn them away. Show them in.”

  Sir Richard bowed and walked up the aisle between the rows of tables and benches where the Harpton henchmen ate their morning meal. Sorcha, no longer hungry for the trencher of hard bread and meat, waited as the three men were escorted in. With Sir Richard in front, his hand on his sword’s hilt, they trooped toward the dais appearing as bedraggled as kittens caught outside in the rain.

  They lined up and bowed in unison. Then the man in the middle took a single step forward. “I am John Howard, my lord, late from London.”

  “Greetings, John Howard,” Henry replied cordially. “What brings you to my castle here in Yorkshire?”

  John Howard flicked his glance toward Sorcha, and she stiffened involuntarily. Though he appeared weary unto death, she caught the faint gleam of lust in his hazel green eyes. Careful, man. I was taught the powers of blessings and curses both, and I have a stone chip weathered from a great standing stone in the sacred circle of Kenmare. It has been enchanted by witches since before time.

  Howard turned his attention to the lord of the land.

  “I have come at the behest of our monarch, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth. I have a warrant for the arrest of one Griffith Blackstone, the Earl of Garstonshire.”

  “I fear you have come
in the wrong direction,” Henry replied, frowning. “Lord Blackstone’s castle is six leagues to the north of here.”

  “We were there,” John Howard continued. “He escaped us and rode in this direction. We were hoping that perhaps he came here to ask for food and shelter.”

  “No, he has not. I have not seen Griffith for over a year now, and that last time was in London, at Her Majesty’s court.”

  Sorcha knew, without reading the man’s mind, that he was on the verge of calling her father a liar. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, and his lips thinned. Yet, he merely gazed at Henry, then flicked his gaze to Sir Richard. “We thought perhaps he would seek you out, my lord,” he went on. “As you and the old earl were friends before his death.”

  Henry lifted his face, glowering. “That is true,” he said, his voice tense. “We were. And I have extended that friendship to his son.”

  John Howard’s facial expression and voice also tensed. “I trust that if he arrives at your door seeking aid, you will turn him away. And you will send word to me.”

  “What has he done to warrant this?”

  “He stands accused of treason,” John Howard replied. “Plotting with Philip of Spain to overthrow our beloved Queen.”

  “Nonsense.” Henry snorted. “Griffith is loyal and serves Her Majesty well. He would never plot against her, not with Philip, not with anyone.”