West End Earl

by Bethany Bennett

  “I’m pleased you are satisfied with it, milord. If there won’t be anything else today, shall I wrap these and give them to your footman?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  There was a pregnant pause as Carter helped him out of the coat, then handed it off to an assistant. “As always, we are honored to receive the continued patronage of the Carlyle and Eastly houses.”

  Cal glanced over as he shrugged into his original waistcoat and fastened the buttons. “Has Eastly been in recently?”

  “Last week, milord.”

  “All right, then I’ll settle his account before I leave.” Otherwise, his father would live on credit until doors shut in his face all along Bond Street.

  Carter nodded. “Very good, milord.” He cleared his throat gently. “I believe your father also visited the glovemaker two doors down as well.”

  Of course he did. Cal smiled ruefully. “Then I shall stop by there next. Thank you, Carter.”

  As predicted, the glovemaker was relieved to have Eastly’s account settled. A pair of leather gloves for Puppy and a delicately beaded pair for Emma helped reaffirm goodwill with the shop.

  Sometimes he wondered if it would be easier if the shops simply sent the bills directly to him. Giving Father pin money made more sense from a financial perspective, except for the tantrum Father would no doubt throw.

  On the street, Cal climbed into his carriage and tossed the two slim glove boxes onto the empty seat across from him.

  He sighed and relished the quiet of the few minutes it took to get to his father’s town house. Just another day in the life of Lord Calvin Carlyle, caretaker of the Eastly family. Once he dealt with his father, he’d be free to anticipate Emma’s first trip to Vauxhall. She’d love the fireworks, and he could hardly wait to see her excitement at the acrobats.

  That was something to look forward to. The morning might have been a trial, but at least the day would end well.

  Or so he thought, until he found out why his father had asked him to drop by.

  “At any point in this horrifically misguided thought process, did it occur to you that human beings are not currency? This isn’t a tailor bill or a new pair of boots. This is too far, even for you.” Cal scrubbed his palms over his face and wished he had ignored Eastly’s summons.

  The marquess appeared discomfited for the first time in recent memory, avoiding Cal’s gaze to fiddle with a crystal paperweight on the desk in his rarely used library. “Well, you see, it’s like this, Son.”

  Cal sighed. When the marquess started calling him Son, it always spelled disaster.

  “Everything will be fine once my investment in the Wilhelmina pays out. The debt is rather sizable,” his father said.

  “Rather sizable? Or crippling?”

  “It’ll ruin us, Son.”

  “No, it will ruin you.”

  “I don’t know if the estates can recover from this,” Eastly said.

  Cal took a moment to process those words and still couldn’t quite make his brain accept them as real. The estates were healthy. Sizable. Sure, he paid Eastly’s Bond Street accounts—but because his father was irresponsible, not broke. Cal bit out words through gritted teeth. “What was it? Cards? Horses?”

  “Lady Winslow,” his father muttered.

  “I’m sorry—Lady Winslow?”

  The marquess took a deep breath as if preparing to tell a tale, and something told Cal that was exactly what this would be. A story for the record books of ridiculous wagers. Depending on how utterly preposterous it turned out to be, it might even be true. But he hoped this one time, his father would be honest and have the grace to feel ashamed of himself.

  “Lady Winslow tends to be…well, let’s say, not so loose with her favors,” his father began.

  “You mean she’s faithful to her husband.”

  “Yes. Odd duck, that. Baron Rosehurst and I bet about who could get under her skirts first.”

  “And you lost.” Did that mean the baron overcame the lady’s determination to stay faithful to her husband? Curiosity won out over the anger long enough for Cal to ask, “How did Rosehurst manage that?”

  “We set a time limit. Neither of us won the lady, so we each owe a forfeit.”

  Ah, there was the utter lack of forethought or logic he’d come to expect from his father. At some point Father’s scandals had turned from opera dancers and mistresses to blatant recklessness, and Cal had failed to notice. Or perhaps he’d become numb to it all, and the escalation of consequences had sneaked up on him. “So, you were so confident in your ability to woo a lady—who by all appearances actually loves her husband—that you put a time limit on this bet, with a default that will cripple our estate’s ability to function.”

  “Unless you marry the chit, yes. But in all fairness, the baron defaulted too.”

  “Please tell me the baron’s default is some kind of boon to this situation.”

  For the first time in the conversation his father’s face took on the animated excitement of a little boy receiving a present. “Mason’s Square. The prize stud from his stables. Gorgeous, leggy bay. His offspring will bring a tidy sum.”

  Cal’s fists clenched so tightly his fingernails cut his palms. “A horse. A woman and a horse. You thought a horse equal to a default that threatens the financial security of our entire family? You literally traded your own son’s future for a horse.”

  “He’s a beautiful horse,” his father said sheepishly.

  “Forget the fact that we don’t have a horse-breeding operation—let me get these details straight.” Cal cleared his throat, hoping in vain to extinguish the fury threatening to close his airway. “Either I have to marry his daughter, or we pay a monetary default that will drain the coffers. In exchange for my freedom, you gain one single blasted horse.”

  “A prize-winning stallion,” his father interjected.

  Cal wouldn’t honor that with an answer.

  “Very generous of Rosehurst,” his father said, bobbing his head as if he could somehow nod hard enough and with enough enthusiasm that he might sway Cal through sheer force of will. Classic Marquess of Eastly.

  “And if I don’t marry her, we’re ruined,” Cal growled.

  “Unless the Wilhelmina shows up soon, yes.”

  “Why don’t you marry her?” Cal shook his head with disgust. “A marquess is a better title than an earl. Or renege on the bet. You wouldn’t be the first gentleman to do so.”

  “I can’t go back on my word. A gentleman’s word is sacred.” Eastly placed a hand over his heart as he made that entirely hypocritical declaration. “Rosehurst thought she’d fancy you more, since you’re closer to her age. Just wants the best for his daughter, after all.”

  The first instinct battling for action demanded Cal punch his father in the nose, march out of the house, then have a stiff drink or five while repeating his determination to never speak of his sire again.

  To the marquess, the title was God-given destiny, and since he hadn’t done anything to earn it, he didn’t see any reason why he should exert effort to safeguard it. But what Eastly never seemed to grasp was that this was about more than the title. Their homes and tenants were full of people who depended on them. If Cal simply refused, the estate and those families who relied on them would feel the impact.

  Not only that, but Emma’s marriage prospects, and eventually Cal’s own, reflected Eastly’s rank in society. Containing his father’s scandals—and now paying off an inappropriate suitor of Emma’s—had always been more about protecting their futures than Eastly’s personal reputation.

  What a mess.

  “I’ll have them announce the banns.” His father rose from behind the desk and had the audacity to clap a hand on Cal’s shoulder as if they were partners in this ridiculousness.

  “Don’t you dare,” Cal said, plopping his hat on his head while his brain whirred, searching for a way out of this.

  “Sorry, what did you say, Son?”

  “Tell the baron yo
u’ll settle the debt when the Wilhelmina returns with your investment. That will buy me some time to find a way out of this coil. I’m not making a decision right now.”

  “There’s no decision. You have to do this. You can’t ruin me, Calvin.”

  “And yet you think nothing of ruining me.” With that, Cal stormed out, slamming the library door behind him. He climbed into the carriage, his chest tight with an acrid mix of worry, frustration, and red-hot fury.

  The city passed by. Buildings with dirty doors on packed streets, only blocks from gleaming townhomes with tidy gardens surrounded by ornate ironwork fences, like elaborate cages of their own making. Thousands of those people would think he lived a blessed life. Bet they didn’t have family members who traded their sons like livestock. Hell, he’d been traded for livestock. Granted, matches in the ton happened all the time for reasons that had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with finances, connections, and politics. Yet the marquess hadn’t even pretended there might be some higher noble purpose at work.

  Just a horse. What a mess, indeed.

  Chapter Five

  The evening was warm with a breeze that made her cravat flutter against her chin. Normally, she’d never venture into this part of Town in her evening wear, but Phee was due at Vauxhall in an hour. Behind her, a lantern hanging beside the door to the tavern offered enough light to see the hands on her watch. She snapped the case closed and tucked it away.

  Laughter and shouted conversations made their way through the window to the street where Phee stood. She could make out Peggy’s sharp cackle as the barmaid went about her rounds, refilling drinks and greeting customers by name. Not only did Peggy keep company with one of the sailors on the Wilhelmina, but she could read and write. A steadfast devotion to her sailor beau meant a letter waited for him in every port, and he sent a reply before returning to sea. During their interview, Peggy hadn’t voiced concerns about whether her lover was alive or dead, which spoke well to the fate of the Wilhelmina and her crew.

  Frankie, one of the street children Phee often worked with, would be back from the docks any minute. That grubby little girl saw and heard everything and could make herself invisible at the drop of a hat. As long as Frankie’s report didn’t conflict with Peggy’s, Phee would consider the information she’d gathered tonight reliable.

  “Coin first, as usual.” Frankie appeared around the corner with palm outstretched.

  “Of course.” A flash of money from pocket to tiny hand, then Phee stepped with the child beyond the circle of the lantern light.

  “Ship hit weather at the Cape and took on damages. They’ve gone to port in Africa to make repairs,” Frankie said.

  “Peggy told me something similar. Any word on the cargo?” On that topic, Peggy hadn’t been helpful. Her focus had been understandably on her man, not the contents of the hold.

  “No. I left messages asking around. It might take a bit to find someone who knows, but I’ll send word when I hear anything.”

  Phee slipped the child another coin. “Well done, Frankie. Send word when you get it.”

  Without another sound, the urchin melted into the darkness, and Phee turned toward the nearest cross street. Keeping alert for unsavory characters, she ducked around the building and jogged between the traffic toward a hack parked across the road.

  “Vauxhall, please,” she called up to the driver, then settled on the seat. Opening her pocket watch, Phee checked the time again and smiled. She might not be late after all.

  A short while later, the smells and sounds of the docks were another world away as Phee met Cal’s carriage outside the gates, then paid her admission.

  “I spoke with Frankie,” she said in a low voice, for Cal’s ears only, as they made their way toward the dining area.

  “The Wilhelmina?” he asked.

  “She hit weather and took on damages. Stopped for repairs after rounding the Cape. No word on the cargo, but Frankie is on it.”

  A groove appeared between Cal’s brows. “Keep me apprised of the situation, as usual.”

  “I always do.”

  “Carlyle!” someone cried, and the worry disappeared from Cal’s face before he returned the greeting with a cheerful one of his own.

  “What would I do without you?” Cal clapped a hand on her back.

  “Lose money and be taken in by cheats and liars.”

  He laughed. “You’re not wrong, my friend. I made do before you came along, but you make my life easier.”

  The spot on her shoulder blade where his hand had rested tingled. Phee tilted her hat at a jaunty angle with one finger and shot him a smile.

  Viscount and Lady Amesbury were already cozy at a table, sitting a few inches closer together than entirely proper. The viscountess was rosy-cheeked and laughing, resting her considerable bosom on her husband’s arm, when Phee approached with Cal and Emma. Amesbury didn’t appear to mind, as he not so subtly appreciated his wife’s cleavage.

  Phee had fought against a similar expression a few minutes ago when Cal had exited his coach and wrecked her equilibrium. The forest-green evening jacket he wore highlighted the angle of his shoulders and the lean lines of his body.

  He offered a seat to Emma, then took a place across from Ethan, gesturing with a nod to a spot for Phee.

  Emma craned her head about, trying to see everything all at once, but kept glancing toward the darker paths, as if expecting someone to appear. She might think herself subtle, but the furtive looks put Phee on alert. Thank God Emma wasn’t entirely her responsibility—although, in good conscience, she couldn’t let the girl wander off alone.

  At Vauxhall there were myriad spectacles to enjoy, and this was Emma’s first visit. Fresh-faced, eyes sparkling with excitement, Emma looked lovely tonight, as if she floated through the crowd with an enchanted glow about her.

  Phee couldn’t remember ever being that wide-eyed toward the world. Not with innocence, anyway. Trepidation, sure. But by all appearances, Emma lacked that emotion altogether.

  Cal was a watchdog of a big brother. Considering how happy-go-lucky he was in so many other areas of his life, these protective instincts and this desire for rules with Emma tickled Phee to no end. Judging by the grin on Lord Amesbury’s face, Phee wasn’t alone in her amusement. Calvin wearing his big-brother hat in the face of Emma’s enthusiasm was comedy at its best but also incredibly sweet. It made her heart go soft, so she tried to avoid looking at him.

  Across the table, Lady Amesbury laughed at something her husband whispered in her ear, then murmured a reply that made Lord Amesbury grin wickedly.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Cal said, nodding to a footman who offered a glass of wine. “I hope you two haven’t been waiting long. How much champagne has Lottie imbibed?”

  Lottie hiccuped. “Just enough to think you’re pretty.” She shot her husband an amused look. “Not as pretty as you, love. But nice all the same. All that shiny hair is like a halo. False advertising but quite attractive.”

  Everyone laughed until Cal’s amusement cut off abruptly.

  Two men approached their table. Rising with slow movements that spoke of his reluctance, Cal made a bow to the Marquess of Eastly. “Good evening, Father. I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “Calvin! We were just talking about you. Well met, Son.”

  Phee and Amesbury stood as well when a younger woman trailing behind Eastly and his companion joined the group.

  “I’d like to introduce Miss Violet Cuthbert and her father, Baron Rosehurst. Close friends of mine I mentioned earlier today. A fine young lady, as you can see.”

  The polite expression Cal wore seemed wooden to Phee, but others might be convinced. Years of training likely overrode his fairly obvious urge to flee, as he bowed over the lady’s hand as expected.

  Eastly had talked to Cal earlier today? Strange that their meeting hadn’t come up in conversation before now. But then, she and Cal hadn’t exactly been glued to each other’s side today. In fact, they’
d met only briefly before she left for home to dress.

  Phee flexed her hands and enjoyed the supple slide of the beautiful new gloves he’d presented her with. She shrugged off the question. If the interview with Eastly had been important, she was sure Cal would have mentioned it.

  Besides, this wasn’t the first time she’d witnessed Eastly throw his son into an awkward situation with bull-in-a-china-shop exuberance. It pained her to see Emma’s expression change from unrestrained enjoyment to a polite mask as she waited for her father to acknowledge his daughter’s presence at the table.

  Cal’s “Pleased to meet you” and “It’s an honor” sounded perfectly sincere, but anyone who knew him could tell his heart wasn’t in it. His interest—as far as she knew—remained unstirred, despite Eastly’s numerous matchmaking attempts. In two years of friendship, Phee hadn’t seen him do more than look at a woman, and they’d never spent their evenings at brothels or chasing actresses at the theater. A lucky thing, since that could have turned very awkward very quickly.

  Out of the corner of her eye she spied Emma rising from her seat and murmuring something about the ladies’ retiring room. Lucky girl to escape so neatly. Their footmen standing at attention beyond their box would help her find the way safely, so Phee returned her attention to the three men who still stood.

  The baron held Cal’s hand captive between the two of his, seesawing his arm up and down like the handle of a water pump. In a graceful move, Cal managed to free his hand before clapping the baron on the arm. Smoothly done—he’d extricated himself from an overly enthusiastic greeting and still looked friendly.

  “We have enough room at the table if you’d like to join us. Although some notice next time would be appreciated, Father,” Cal said, and Phee heard the reproach, even if Eastly didn’t outwardly acknowledge it.

  No one seemed inclined to address the niceties, so Phee helped Miss Cuthbert to a seat and gestured to their footman to fill her glass of champagne. Miss Cuthbert murmured her thanks before Phee took her seat as the other men finally found places at the table.