Earl Lessons: The Footmen’s Club Series

by Bowman, Valerie

  But in their entire upbringing, nothing, nothing had given them the slightest hint that Father had been an earl’s son. Apparently, he’d had a falling out with David’s grandfather over the desire to marry David’s mother, and instead of relenting, David’s father had seen fit to renounce his future title and raise his family in Brighton, away from the crowds of London and his former life. But even on his deathbed, Father had not mentioned who he really was. It sometimes made David hope that the entire thing had been an enormous mistake. But General Grimaldi himself, Head of the Home Office, had been the one to track down the truth, and apparently there was no mistaking the fact that David’s father had been the only son of the Earl of Elmwood. Which meant that David, as his surviving son, inherited the title upon Father’s death.

  “See, over there,” Bell pointed to a group of men all hovered around a large book in the corner of the main sitting room. “That’s the infamous betting book. All sort of things are wagered upon between the pages of that tome.”

  David didn’t have the heart to tell Bell that he’d never heard of the betting book and furthermore, he didn’t care about it. Wagers were placed by fools. Fools who were soon separated from their money. David had seen more than one poor sop in the army lose a month’s pay or more by being far too ready to gamble it away on a silly chance.

  “Come with me to the next room,” Bell said. “Perhaps some of my friends are here.”

  Bell had barely taken two steps when another man materialized from the corridor and stopped him. “There you are, Bellingham. I’ve been looking for you. Might I have a word…in private?”

  Bell glanced back at David, who gave him a quick nod before turning around, his hands clasped behind him to find something to occupy his time while Bell spoke with the gentleman.

  David had learned that Bell had another life when he’d come with Marianne to rescue him from a French prisoners-of-war camp. Bell, as it turned out, was a spy for the Home Office, and furthermore so was Marianne. Although David was sworn to secrecy on both counts, he was also accustomed to looking the other way when Bell was called away suddenly.

  David turned back to look at the group of men near the betting book. It was the last thing he wanted to do, the very last, but he might as well be cordial to these men of his newfound class. He walked over to the small group and cleared his throat.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. What are you betting on today?”

  The men looked up at him, confused, as if a goat had wandered into the club and asked the question.

  “I beg your pardon.” David cleared his throat and wished he was anywhere else but here. “I suppose I should have begun by introducing myself. Terribly sorry. I’m… My name is…”

  “You’re Elmwood, aren’t you?” one of the younger men asked, narrowing his eyes on David.

  David tugged at his lapel. He still wasn’t used to the bloody fine cut of cloth he was wearing these days. Bell had dragged him to one of the best tailors on Old Bond Street and now he was the proud owner of over a dozen shirts of the finest linen, two dozen pure white cravats, perfectly fitted breeches, and boots so shiny you could see your reflection in the toes. Not to mention the trousers, and socks, and waistcoats, and handkerchiefs. Monogrammed handkerchiefs. It all cost more than he might have made altogether in his previous life, David reckoned, but he’d soon learned that the title of Elmwood also came with a significant fortune. Apparently, his grandfather had been a very wealthy man.

  “Yes, I am,” David replied, admitting to his title, and feeling like a complete fool. Of course they all knew who he was already. Bell had warned him that his name had been in the papers nonstop since the news of his arrival had spread through London like wildfire. Marianne had to hide in Lady Courtney’s town house for weeks for fear of being plowed down by a gaggle of ladies eager to make the acquaintance of the sister of the new earl and the fiancée of one of the most elusive bachelors in the country.

  The men shot each other uncomfortable looks, while David wished he was wearing brown so he could slink back against the wooden walls and hide. Had he said something wrong? Done something gauche? Apparently he had, because none of them were answering him, and some of them were shifting awkwardly in their seats.

  “Can you keep a secret, Elmwood?” one of the men said, an unpleasant smile on his face.

  “What sort of secret?” David replied, already wanting nothing to do with any sort of a secret this set might have.

  “Don’t tell him,” the first man said. “He’s tight with Bell.”

  “Yes,” David replied nodding. “I’m quite tight with Bell.” If these chaps had a secret to keep from Bell, David certainly didn’t want to hear it. He began to slowly back away from the group.

  “We’re betting on a lady,” the smug man continued.

  David winced as if the act of shutting one eye, might cut off the access to his ears too.

  “A lady?” he replied, already turning on his heel. He didn’t want to hear another word. “Very well. Sounds good. I’ll just go—”

  “To be precise,” the man continued, “we’re betting on which of us a certain lady of the ton will marry.”

  For some reason, the lady outside at last night’s dinner party sprang to mind. The woman was a handful, but she seemed like the type of lady one might place a bet upon. Perhaps on how rude her next act would be. After he’d returned to the dining room last night, David had ended up making his excuses to his hostess and leaving for the night. He’d briefly considered not giving the rude blonde the satisfaction of thinking she’d chased him away, but the more likely scenario was that she wouldn’t give him a second thought. She obviously had a great deal of experience being rude to men in private. She’d no doubt forgotten their encounter the moment he’d left her company. It seemed it would take longer for him to forget her. Was that what being an aristocrat would be like? Getting used to beautiful women being rude? He’d much rather go back to Brighton and find a nice, unassuming local girl to marry. He would need a countess eventually. Or so Bell had told him.

  David shook his head, bringing his attention back to the company behind him. Certain he was about to regret it, he turned back to them and asked, “What does betting on a lady’s marriage have anything to do with Bell?”

  “Don’t tell him!” the second man repeated.

  A sinking feeling spread through David’s gut. Damn. He shouldn’t have asked that question. The bet did have something to do with Bell, after all.

  “The lady in question,” the smug man replied, still smiling in a way that made David uncomfortable, “is Lady Annabelle Bellingham.”

  David released his breath in a whoosh. Lady Annabelle was Bell’s sister. He’d yet to meet her. She was not in London at present and hadn’t been all winter. She and her mother were due back from the countryside for the Season any day now. All David knew about Annabelle was that she was several years younger than Bell and unmarried apparently. Marianne had been worried for weeks that Annabelle might not like her when they met. But Marianne had come back from her visit with Bell’s mother and sister in the country, claiming they were both perfectly lovely and approving of her, which pleased David immensely.

  David cleared his throat and tugged on his lapels again. He would certainly regret asking this next question, as well, but curiosity had got the better of him. “Why are you betting on who Lady Annabelle will marry?”

  A crack of laughter came from one of the chaps in the group. David didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. These men were supposed to be the cream of Society? They were being crass and ungentlemanly as far as David was concerned.

  “Have you ever seen Lady Annabelle?” the smug man asked, with a far-too-smug look on his face.

  David shook his head. “I’ve not yet had the pleasure.”

  Another crack of laughter from the group made David narrow his eyes.

  “Well,” Lord Smug said. “Let’s just say that Lady Annabelle has been out for five Seasons and has y
et to pick a husband despite having at least a score of offers, according to the gossips.”

  David had to work to keep his face blank and not show his distaste for the subject matter. “So, you’re betting on who the lucky winner will be?” He was being facetious calling Lady Annabelle’s future husband a ‘winner,’ but his word choice only served to make the other men chuckle and elbow each other in the ribs. Vulgar, if you asked him.

  “Who it will be, and when,” Smug replied, steepling his fingers together over his chest.

  “I see,” David replied. Though he didn’t see at all. It seemed to him that grown men with fine educations and fat pockets should have a score of better things to do than bet on such nonsense, but that wasn’t for him to judge. He merely wanted to leave their company immediately. Being a nobleman wasn’t for him. If this was the sort of foolishness he would be forced to participate in to be a suitable earl, he wanted to go back to Brighton and work in his father’s woodshop, thank you very much. None of these men had spent a single day in battle. None of these men had watched their mates die in agony. None of these men knew anything beyond this privilege and rubbish wastes of time like placing bets.

  Lord Smug narrowed his eyes on David again. “You don’t happen to know if Bell has given her a deadline by which to choose a husband?”

  David shook his head, his jaw tightening. “Lord Bellingham and I have never discussed his sister’s marriage prospects, I can assure you.” The nerve of these blowhards, thinking that he’d betray his friend’s trust to a gaggle of loud-mouthed strangers.

  The group laughed. “So formal? ‘Lord Bellingham?’ We call him Bell.”

  Of course David had messed up that bit. He was still trying to learn how precisely to call everyone by their formal titles. He was far from mastering nicknames. “Yes, well, Bell and I have never discussed Lady Annabelle. I’ll just be getting back to—”

  He turned to leave as Lord Smug said, “Don’t tell Bell we’re betting on his sister, Elmwood. We wouldn’t want you to spoil the fun.”

  David pressed his lips together and nodded once before nearly running from the group to the far side of the room where he’d come from. He had no intention of telling Bell anything about his ridiculous encounter with those men. Not only would it be in the worst taste to repeat anything they’d said, he would not do his friend the disservice of repeating that nonsense in his presence. However…what if the proper thing for Bell to do would be to call them out? Perhaps he should tell him they were being disrespectful to his only sister. Wouldn’t David want the same if someone was being so crass about Marianne?

  Bell was back at his side moments later and David breathed a sigh of relief when they strode together into the next room away from the prying eyes of the group of men at the betting book. They entered a smaller room similarly outfitted as the first, with plush leather chairs and carpets, wood-lined walls, and expensive-looking paintings covering nearly every space on the dark-green walls.

  “Made some new friends near the betting book, did you?” Bell asked, as they took seats across from each other.

  David expelled his breath. “Not hardly.” He bit his lip. Should he tell Bell what the men had said? Was now the time to say something? Or would it be in poor taste? Damn. Damn. Damn. “Who was the man in front of the book? The one sitting in the chair?” Lord Smug.

  Bell cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes, obviously trying to recall. “Oh, that was Murdock. The Marquess of Murdock, that is.”

  Murdock? The name sounded vaguely familiar, but David had heard so many new names over the last several months. Names, rules of comportment, titles, politics. It was overwhelming. In fact, Bell had informed him that he had enlisted his sister, Annabelle, and his mother, Lady Angelina, to teach David how to go about in Society. The two women were unimpeachable members of the Beau Monde and if David needed anyone, it was a pair of experts. He wasn’t precisely looking forward to his ‘earl lessons,’ as Marianne had dubbed them, but he was clever enough to know he was sorely in need of them. It was kind of Lady Annabelle and her mother to volunteer to tutor him. Which was another reason he didn’t particularly care for Murdock and his group of smugs in the other room betting on Lady Annabelle. The young woman was about to do him a favor. The least David could do was keep those fools from besmirching her name.

  A footman rushed forward to hand them each a drink they hadn’t ordered. Bell’s was tea, David’s was port. He’d developed an affinity for the wine when he’d been stationed in Portugal. He blinked at the glass and frowned. How the hell did the footman know what he liked to drink? The servant scurried away again before he had a chance to ask him. David shook his head. Privilege.

  “Make any bets?” Bell asked next, the side of his mouth quirking up in a half-grin.

  David expelled his breath. Blast the ton and all its ridiculous rules of comportment. In this situation, he had no idea how to proceed. He hadn’t had his earl lessons yet. But back in Brighton he would have bloody well told his mate and got it over with. Yes, fine. That’s precisely what he would do. “No, and in fact. I’m not certain I should be the one to mention it, but…” He took a fortifying sip of wine.

  “They were betting on Annabelle again, weren’t they?” Bell asked, leaning back in his chair, and straightening his shoulders. He looked perfectly calm. Not at all like a man who was about to call someone out.

  David choked on the port he’d just ingested. “What?” he managed to say. “You knew?”

  Bell sighed and shrugged. “They do this every year, right as the Season begins.”

  David blinked at him, his eyes still watering from the choking. “You allow it?”

  “Allow it? I’d bet on it myself if they’d let me. But they say I have an unfair advantage in knowing when to place my bet.” Bell winked at him. “They may have a point.”

  David narrowed his eyes on the marquess. “It doesn’t make you angry?”

  “You’ll learn everything is a bet here, Elmwood,” Bell replied with a wry grin. “And as for Annabelle, well, you’ll see for yourself soon. She and Mother just returned from the countryside yesterday afternoon. In fact,” he pulled his timepiece from inside his coat pocket and glanced at it, “we’re meeting them at my town house at four o’clock. Mother and Annabelle are both greatly looking forward to your earl lessons, Elmwood. I cannot wait for you to meet them.”

  Chapter Four

  Annabelle sailed across her bedchamber in her brother’s town house with a wide smile on her face. Today was a good day. Not only was she back from the confoundingly dull countryside, she would finally see Beau again. There were few people in the world whose company she enjoyed more than her brother’s. Not only was he a hero as far as she was concerned, he was gone far too often on business for the Crown. She didn’t get to see him nearly as often as she’d like.

  Besides, Beau had written her to ask if she would do him a favor, and she would do anything for her wise, brave, older brother. His favor had nothing to do with her own courting or trying to find a husband. To be precise, the favor was more for her soon-to-be sister-in-law, Marianne. Marianne had met Beau at a house party last summer. There were quite a lot of secrets involved in precisely how they’d met, but the outcome had been that not only had Beau asked Marianne to marry him, but he’d volunteered both Annabelle and their mother to help Marianne acclimate to Society. Marianne and her brother had recently discovered that they were the grandchildren of the former Earl of Elmwood. The earl had died, and their father was dead as well, leaving Annabelle’s older brother, David, to take up the title.

  Apparently, David had been a captain in the army, and had been taken prisoner in France. Annabelle shuddered. The man must be quite brave to have survived such an ordeal. But according to Beau, David had no clue how to behave in Society, which could prove to be quite awkward if something wasn’t done about it. Beau and Marianne had agreed that Annabelle and her mother would be the perfect pair to go about teaching Lord Elmwood how t
o be a proper earl. She had so little occasion to do anything worthwhile such as teaching a former army hero how to navigate the waters of London Society. She was greatly looking forward to it.

  She glanced at the clock on the mantel across the room. Nearly four. Beau and Lord Elmwood would be here any moment. Marianne would be arriving, too. Annabelle quickly surveyed herself in the looking glass. Perfectly presentable. Of course, it didn’t matter much. Spending the afternoon teaching the son of a woodworker from Brighton how to be an earl didn’t require her to look her best, but Annabelle was committed to doing what she could for the poor man to ease his transition into Society. According to Marianne, Lord Elmwood was in dire need of help with everything from his comportment, to his speech, to his manners. It sounded like quite a challenge. Annabelle wasn’t a magician, but she would do what she could to help keep the newly minted earl from bringing shame on her brother and new sister-in-law.

  Besides, Annabelle could think of no better use of the ridiculous knowledge of all things to do with Society that was floating around in her head than to help poor Marianne and her clueless brother to fit into the Beau Monde.

  After all, Annabelle detested the endless round of social outings and silly parties like the one last night at the Harrisons’. At least today she’d be doing something worthwhile, helping two people who needed her.

  Waving off her maid’s help in assisting her with freshening her hair, Annabelle marched down the stairs to the foyer, eager to see Marianne again and meet her new charge.

  Annabelle had barely got to the first floor when the door knocker sounded. She hurried into the white salon near the front of the house to await her visitors. A few moments later, Stockton, the butler, escorted Marianne and her chaperone, Lady Courtney, into the room.

  “There you are, Annabelle,” Marianne said. “Stockton tells me that my brother and Beau have not yet arrived.”