West End Earl

by Bethany Bennett

  Absolutely gutting. She couldn’t be gone.

  Don’t believe everything you read in the papers. That was what she’d said.

  Sanity and logic rushed in, drying his tears as he narrowed his eyes at the small print. If Phee had died and been buried already in Northumberland, there was no way in hell he’d find out by reading about it in someone else’s copy of the Times. Emma would have written or sent a messenger.

  None of this made sense. Even knowing the words weren’t true, Cal couldn’t stop reading the notice over and over. He’d probably recite it in his sleep during nightmares for the rest of his life.

  “It’s only natural to be so distressed,” Miss Cuthbert said soothingly. “He was your dear friend and brother by marriage. This must have been quite a shock.”

  “Yes,” Cal parroted. “Quite a shock.” That would forever remain in his mind as the understatement of the century. Gathering his thoughts, Cal set the paper aside and covered Miss Cuthbert’s fingers where they rested on his forearm. “I don’t know when I will return to London, but I can provide written introductions to all the best hostesses. It’s not much, but I’d like to help you achieve your dream of a love match.”

  Miss Cuthbert squeezed his fingers. “Lord Carlyle, through all of this engagement nonsense, you’ve been a friend to me. I don’t look forward to dealing with my father’s disappointment, but I think this may be an opportunity for an honest discussion about the match I want.” She shrugged. “Who knows? This might be what forces my father to listen to me about my future.”

  He smiled. “I hope the baron hears you and understands. You deserve more than apathy from a spouse. I hate to leave you like this and am very sorry to go back on my word. But I hope you understand that I have to go.”

  “Your sister needs you, Lord Carlyle. Go to her.” A residual tear broke free of her bottom lashes as she nodded, sending those curls flying about again, but she wiped it away with a bright smile.

  Cal donned his hat. “Goodbye, Miss Cuthbert. I hope the next time we meet it will be during happier times.”

  Out on the street, Cal swung up onto Murphy and nudged him toward home. Phee was on the other side of the country yet had still managed to save his hide today. She’d even sent a sign with her whittled bird, whether that had been her intention or not.

  One interview done, one more to go before he would be free to fly away too. The charade of Adam’s death must be maintained during the visit with Eastly, but Cal would take that particular meeting in his own territory.

  He brought Murphy around an apple seller’s cart, then dodged a small dog yipping at a boy with a red ball. The gelding was a solid mount, capable of finding the best path through a crowded street. A lucky thing, because with a mind full of travel plans, the upcoming meeting with Eastly, and the memory of that awful moment when he’d seen the death notice, Cal’s focus wasn’t on the street.

  A groom took Murphy when Cal arrived at home. Cal glanced at his pocket watch, then climbed the steps to his door two at a time. Father would arrive in an hour. That left barely enough time to confer with Kingston regarding packing and tie up a few loose ends before they set out for the coast.

  Endless days of travel loomed ahead, but at least he’d see Phee again. He had to believe that newspaper announcement was false. Anything else would be beyond imagining.

  Perhaps by the time he reached Olread Cove, he would have some idea of what to say. Apologies seemed inadequate given the events that had taken place.

  When the appointment with Eastly rolled around, Cal was ready to have an end to this disastrous bet and all future feelings of obligation.

  Higgins announced his father’s arrival as Cal sat in the drawing room reading the death notice in the Times for the thousandth time. “Show him to the library. I’ll be there momentarily. After my father takes his leave, please tell Nelson I’d like to see him. Thank you.”

  As a child, Cal had never seen his father working in the library. That had been a place for drinking with his cronies, not going over estate business. Eastly wouldn’t make the connection, because he wasn’t what one would call a deep thinker, but Cal wanted to end this in the library. Although not a bibliophile, he appreciated the room as his place of work. And he’d sacrificed sleep over this past week doing that work, right at that desk, attempting to figure out a solution to his father’s irresponsible behavior. It seemed fitting, then, that this would be where Cal delivered his verdict.

  “Good morning, Father. Thank you for meeting me so early.” Well on noon now, but given Eastly’s puffy face and red eyes, he’d been out late. Not a surprise. Cal didn’t shake his hand or dispense niceties. With determined strides, he went to his desk and gathered the stack of ledgers. “You may take these with you when you go. I have all the information I need from them.” Cal handed off the books, then leaned against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles. “Essentially, the paths for getting out of the situation you find yourself in are limited but not impossible.”

  Eastly stared at the ledgers as if he’d never seen them before. “Where did you get these?”

  “I took them from your desk last week. Now I’m returning them. Try to keep up, as I don’t have much time to devote to this today. Let’s discuss your options. As I see it, you can renegotiate the terms of the bet with Rosehurst. Perhaps refuse the horse and he will forgive the financial debt, then you both go on your merry way. That’s the best-case scenario. If Rosehurst insists on payment, you’ll need to sell the unentailed properties. With the loss of the Wilhelmina’s cargo, there isn’t a viable option for paying this debt without heavy liquidation on your part. Living with an allowance and practicing economies will allow the coffers to heal with time. If you like, I can manage your finances and investments, and with a little luck you’ll be comfortable sooner. However, I’ll only do that if you agree to a personal budget. The first time you exceed your allowance, I’m throwing the whole thing in your lap and walking away. If at any point the tenants suffer due to your ineptitude, I’ll wrest away full control of the estate’s finances, and if you don’t like it, you can take me to court.” An empty threat when Eastly would probably win that lawsuit, but a court proceeding would be messy. Disastrously scandalous to the family, because every last one of Eastly’s secrets would be published in the gossip rags when Cal tried to establish the marquess’s incompetency.

  His father blinked, then donned his persuasion mask. “Now, Son, I don’t know why you went to all this trouble. Once you and Violet marry, this entire conversation is moot.”

  “I’m not marrying Miss Cuthbert. I said that at Lakeview. You fail to realize that my marital status is not currency for you to spend. My eligibility as a bachelor is not something you can trade on. I’ve cleaned your messes for long enough. That ends now. I’ll help manage the finances of the estate, because there are people who depend on us for their livelihood—but only if you live within an allowance.”

  “I’m a grown man, not some green lad. Allowance, indeed,” his father huffed.

  Cal shrugged, a blessed emotional disconnect he’d never had before sliding into place. He had more important priorities now. In the end, Eastly would make his own decisions, and Cal would protect their tenants. With any luck, he and his father wouldn’t be at cross-purposes. “That’s entirely your choice. I can’t force you to see reason. Just like you can’t force me to marry Miss Cuthbert. My life is my own. I won’t be stepping in to save your hide anymore.”

  His father stared at the stack of ledgers in his hands. “Sell everything?”

  “The properties, yes. You aren’t to the point where you need to strip the house of furnishings. But if you expect to weather this, you must liquidate your assets and regroup. Now—” Cal clapped his hands once and straightened. “I must be going. You might have seen in the paper that Emma is now a widow. I’ll be leaving to go to her within the hour. While a latent thread of paternal love might inspire a desire to see her, I must insi
st you let me handle this initial time of grief. She will write when she’s ready for your visit. I may not see you for a time, so be well, Father. If you want to take me up on my offer of financial management, send a note around to Higgins, and he will get word to me. Good day.” They’d never been much for familial gestures of affection, so Cal squeezed his father’s shoulder as he walked by, then left his sire standing in the middle of the library.

  “Son?” Eastly called when Cal reached the doorway.

  “Yes, Father?” He turned.

  “Are you quite serious?” Eastly appeared a bit mystified by the whole conversation, and Cal smiled with unexpected sympathy. It would be a shock to suddenly have to face consequences at such an advanced age.

  “Quite serious. Get word to Higgins if you need me. But now I must go.” Whatever Eastly did was his decision. As he’d said, he was a grown man—and no longer Cal’s problem.

  In the hall Cal met the butler. “I trust you to see him out when he’s ready. Could you send Nelson to the gold drawing room? And do you know if Kingston has finished packing?”

  “Kingston is nearly finished, milord. I’ll send in Nelson.”

  Once Cal determined that there was no news from Milton, he would be on his way. A tiny voice in his mind worried that the newspaper announcement might be true. He firmed his jaw and shook his head. Those doubts would cripple him if he considered them for too long. No, Phee would be fine. She was healthy, living in Olread Cove, and soon he’d see her and indulge them both in a thorough grovel.

  He had a lady to win—and in the process, he would find out what on earth she was up to.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  If she’d known beating the hell out of something would be this intensely satisfying, Phee would have learned to bake earlier.

  “You must be gentler with the dough, Miss Fiona,” Mrs. Shephard began, only to have her words cut off by the solid whack of the rolling pin hitting an unsuspecting lump of pastry.

  “This is why the last attempt resembled modeling clay, Phee.” Emma used less tact, but she didn’t appear as concerned as their cook.

  Phee shot Emma a grumpy look. “Do you want pie or not?”

  “A truly exceptional pie is all in the crust. One needs a soft touch to achieve that perfect flake.” Bless Mrs. Shephard—she was still trying to teach them a few kitchen basics. The woman had the patience of a saint and the tact of a diplomat.

  Emma sighed, blowing a curl out of her face. “Mrs. Shephard, let’s leave that dough to Phee’s tender ministrations, and we can roll out a fresh bit of pastry. I haven’t been able to think of anything for the last three days except pie, and I’ll go mad if I don’t have some today.” She rubbed at the curve of her belly. By their calculations, there were another four months left of her pregnancy. The cravings had hit in earnest this week, shortly after the unrelenting nausea had abated. The baby wanted pie, so the baby would get pie.

  Phee stared at the misshapen disk of pastry dough despondently. “Starting over might be for the best. This batch is a lost cause, I think.”

  Emma patted Phee’s hand that still gripped the rolling pin. “I understand. In your place, I would need to flatten something too. You go ahead and imagine that’s my brother’s face and kill the dough.”

  Mrs. Shephard rocked on her heels. “Ah, it’s a man, is it? I should have known.”

  “I received a letter from my brother. He’s getting married. And Phee—” Emma jumped when Phee hit the dough with the rolling pin again. “I mean, we are not pleased with the news.”

  “Well then, here.” Mrs. Shephard grated sugar off a cone onto the dough in front of Phee. “Knead that in, Miss Fiona. Sprinkle, fold, press, and again. Some kinds of dough take a beating, and maybe that’s what you need to do today. Let’s see if we can salvage this. Sweeten and knead, there’s a girl. Mrs. Hardwick, come over here and we will attempt a crust again.” With kind but determined tugs, the cook removed the rolling pin from Phee’s grasp and placed it by the canister of flour.

  Phee set into a rhythm, letting her hands work while her mind wandered. Grate the sugar, sprinkle it on the dough, then fold over and do it again.

  Cal was marrying Violet. That no-good son of a bitch. After all those claims that he would get out of it. He’d bent to Eastly, like always.

  And that beautiful letter he’d written and someone else had sent. Those words haunted her. She dreamed of him showing up and saying what was in that letter. He’d been her Cal in that letter, and he’d thrown it away. But then, so had she. Tossing the only love letter she’d ever received off a cliff was an impulsive move she’d almost immediately regretted.

  If Cal married, there would be no more declarations of love and longing. Not that her recent behavior encouraged such declarations, but seeing him move on so soon made her heart ache.

  She couldn’t deny now that a part of her had hoped he’d come. Hoped he’d apologize and fight for her. For them. In that fantasy, he told Eastly to hang and married Phee instead.

  A tear slipped down her cheek, then splashed on the dough.

  Phee rubbed at the ache under her breastbone, leaving a trail of flour on her apron. When she glanced up, Emma and Mrs. Shephard didn’t try to hide their concern. That pressure in her chest built until Phee confessed with a gasp, “It hurts.”

  Just that. Tears fell, whether or not she wanted them to. Her shoulders shook, and for a moment Phee feared she’d shudder into a pile of emotional, tear-soaked bits—that this would be what broke her. That fatalistic thought sparked the anger all over again, because how dare he try to break her.

  Of course, Cal didn’t know Phee lived as a woman now. That with the death notice and headstone for her brother, she’d set herself free. In fact, Cal didn’t know much of anything, and there was so much she wished she could share with him. The midwife said Emma and the baby were healthy. Their coffers were full after Emma received Adam’s life-insurance policy and inheritance. They had outmaneuvered Milton and hadn’t heard a peep from him.

  Logically, the good in this new life outweighed the bad. But nothing felt logical at the moment. All Phee had were feelings of loss, and they were big enough to crush her under their weight.

  The other two women stepped forward. Emma wrapped her in a hug while Mrs. Shephard rubbed a soothing circle on Phee’s back and murmured noises about the uselessness of men and the benefits of salt water in dough.

  “You were hoping he’d see sense and follow us, weren’t you?” Emma asked.

  Phee couldn’t muster much beyond a nod and sniffle. “I know it’s ridiculous when we never even hinted he’d be welcome here. I gave him no reason to hope. But…Violet Cuthbert.”

  “You deserve better, Miss Fiona. Especially after this hard year,” Mrs. Shephard said. For a second, Phee was confused. Ah, the story they’d told the staff. On top of the death of her “cousin” Adam, Fiona had recently recovered from a fever that had forced a physician to shave her head. Another lie.

  Phee offered a watery smile to the cook. “I’m sorry I cried all over the dough.”

  Mrs. Shepherd shrugged. “A little salt water never hurt nothing. How about you ladies take tea in the parlor, and I’ll finish this crust. Quick as a wink, it will be ready for the oven. Baking lessons can wait for another day.”

  Polly, the maid of all work, ducked her head through the kitchen doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, missus. There’s a gentleman come to call. A handsome one.” Her eyes were wide as saucers.

  A prickle began at Phee’s nape. “Does he have long blond hair?”

  Polly nodded so hard, her cap shifted on her head and she grabbed to catch it. “Looks like a storybook prince, he does.”

  Emma snorted, then covered the laugh with one floury hand. “You said you wanted him to follow us, Phee.”

  “But…now? When I’m covered in flour, and my hair is a disaster, and I’ve been crying over his sorry hide?” Phee brushed her hands on her apron, as if that would make a difference. “You
r brother is impossible.” A thought made her freeze. “Polly, is he alone? Or is there a blond woman with him?” Phee glared at Emma. “If he brought Violet, so help me God, I will bloody the parlor floor with his carcass and not regret it.”

  “Brought a valet who’s nearly as handsome as he is, but no lady,” Polly said with a grin.

  Washing her hands, Phee scrubbed at the white paste the dough left between her fingers. “Damn it, Calvin.”

  “That’s more like it.” Emma grinned, swiping her palms over Phee’s cheeks to clear stray flour and tears. “Want me to go in first? Or would you like a few minutes with him in private?”

  Phee hesitated, then looked at her apron and simple day dress. “Can you give me a bit to change and feel presentable?”

  “Of course. I suggest the copper gown. It does marvelous things to the color in your cheeks.” Emma popped a slice of spiced apple from the bowl on the counter into her mouth and waved as she left the kitchen.

  Mrs. Shephard eyed Phee with a small smile. “The copper gown looks lovely on you.”

  Well, at least her wardrobe choice was sorted. Phee skirted down the narrow servants’ hallway toward the rear of the house, where a stairwell would take her to the second-floor bedrooms.

  She’d almost made it to her chamber when she bumped into a hard chest. “Oh, pardon me! Kingston?” Phee froze at the sight of the tall valet.

  Kingston knew of her relationship with his master, but whether that meant he’d realized she was female, Phee didn’t know.

  Not until now, at any rate.

  He bowed. “I’m happy to see you are alive and well, Miss Hardwick. The servants worried when we saw the Times.”

  Inexplicably, tears rose to her eyes again. She hadn’t thought anyone would care about Adam’s death notice beyond her uncle and Calvin—who wouldn’t believe it, anyway. “Thank you, Kingston. I, ah, was in the kitchen. I’m a bit of a mess and need to change before I greet his lordship.”

  Kingston studied her for a moment until the silence made her shift from one foot to the other. “May I, miss?” He gestured toward her head.