His Lordship's Secret

by Samantha SoRelle

  His Lordship's Secret

  Book One of

  His Lordship's Mysteries

  Samantha SoRelle

  Balcarres Books LLC

  Copyright © 2020 Balcarres Books LLC

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  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, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-952789-00-7

  ISBN-10:1-952789-00-1

  Cover design by: Samantha SoRelle

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my family, for always supporting me, even when they didn't know what they were supporting.

  And to Margot, whose fault this is.

  Contents

  His Lordship's Secret

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  His Lordship's Master

  Author's Note

  About The Author

  His Lordship's Mysteries

  Chapter 1

  Mayfair, London

  April 1818

  It was some time before Alfie noticed he’d been shot.

  The Right Honorable Alfred Pennington the Earl of Crawford had been wondering whether a man of his station could be known to have purchased The Swiss Family Robinson when the shop window in front of him exploded. He ducked instinctively, covering his head. A belated crack reverberated off the high walls of Curzon Street and seemed to come from everywhere at once. He recognized the sound, though not from country hunts like his peers, but from a childhood he had spent years trying to leave behind.

  A gunshot.

  A trio of ladies walking on the other side of the street screamed and fell to the ground in fear. It wasn’t until Alfie had gotten them safely into the tearoom on the corner that the blood soaking through his sleeve caught his eye.

  ✽✽✽

  Alfie pressed his cravat more tightly against the wound and swore as the coach bumped furiously over the rough cobblestones, sending fire shooting from shoulder to wrist with every jolt. A wheel hit a particularly large rut and Alfie cried out as he was thrown against the door. Darkness bubbled at the corners of his eyes. He tried to focus on his breathing.

  Slow in... Slow out... Slow in… Slow out… There you go, Alfie.

  But all that ran through his mind instead were the words, I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot, repeated endlessly until they lost all meaning.

  “I’ve been shot,” he said to the empty carriage.

  The words didn’t make any more sense aloud than they did in his head. Earls didn’t get shot. Especially not while perusing bookstores in Mayfair. If every movement didn’t cause a spike of agony, he would have kicked himself. He’d bought that blasted sword cane for self defense after the other incidents, and what had he done? Left it at home at the first opportunity.

  Not that a blade would have been much use against a firearm, but still.

  As he watched the red stain spread across the expensive silk, Alfie realised it would have perhaps made more sense to have a doctor called to the tearoom than to wait and have Doctor Barlowe called once Alfie was already home. But it was too late to worry about that now.

  He let out a sigh of relief as the coach slowed and the familiar sight of Bedford Square came into view. As the driver pulled up in front of the bicoloured arch over the door of the Crawford townhouse, Alfie stumbled out even before the horses had fully stopped, hissing in pain and clenching his hand even tighter over his injured arm.

  “Doctor Barlowe, Harley Street. There’s triple the wage in it for you if you fetch him here within thirty minutes.”

  “Right you are, milord.” The coachman touched a grimy finger to his cap, then cracked the reins, startling his horses back into the breakneck pace with which he’d brought Alfie from Mayfair.

  Alfie lurched up the few stairs to his front door and leaned his good shoulder against it. Seeing no way to keep the pressure on his wound and knock at the same time, he instead kicked the door repeatedly.

  “Oy! Whatever gotch-gutted fool be kickin’ that door will be passin’ teeth when—Oh, Master Alfred!” Alfie lost his balance as the door was flung open and his support was yanked away.

  “That is—I mean, my lord, sir. Apologies for my language, sir. I had no inkling it was you, I thought it must have been some rabble rousers and I’m not used to—Cock and pie! What happened to you?”

  “Just a small accident at the bookseller’s, Mrs. Hirkins. One must always be careful around the satirical works, you know. Very cutting.”

  As regained his footing on the polished marble, he flashed the housekeeper his most winsome smile. But as it was the same one he’d once used when she’d caught him hiding a stray puppy in his wardrobe over term break, it had probably lost some of its effect on her over the years. Old Daisy now being a beloved member of the Hirkins’ household and spending most of her hours napping in front of the hearth with Mr. Hirkins notwithstanding.

  That his arm was now in utter agony perhaps also made his smile a trifle less effective than usual. It certainly didn’t stop her from fretting as she ushered him upstairs to his study to lie down.

  “Just a minute, Mas...my lord,” she said, untying her apron and laying it down upon the settee. “Don’t need for you to be getting blood everywhere. Right difficult to get blood out of upholstery.”

  Alfie sat gingerly upon the settee where indicated, making sure to keep his arm above the apron-covered section. She couldn’t be too worried about his imminent demise if she was concerned for the furniture.

  “I’ll go send for the doctor then.”

  “No need, Mrs. Hirkins. I’ve already had a coach sent to pick him up. Some tea would be fortifying in the interim though, if you would be so kind.”

  “Hmm.” She gave Alfie a look, resting her fists on her ample waist before stalking from the room. He laid down upon the settee, careful to keep the apron underneath him. His feet hung off the far end by several inches, but he had no wish to draw her ire by avoiding staining the fabric with blood only to cover it with mud instead. Alfie found that at over six feet very little furniture in the world suited his height, especially any belonging to his parents, who themselves had barely made it past the five foot mark.

  He knew why Mrs. Hirkins was displeased with him, aside from the obvious.

  Providing tea should not technically fall under a housekeeper’s duties. Or a cook’s for that matter. But his mother had whittled the number of servants every year after her husband had died, no longer bothering to throw the great parties or soirees to try to buy their way back into respectability. Alfie had watched as one by one the servants had been let go until the household was j
ust his mother, Mrs. Hirkins, and himself.

  But now it was just the two of them.

  And really, what need was there for an army of servants for a man whose greatest social outings were the occasional trips to the booksellers or the theatre? And even then, never on opening night, so as to avoid the cream of London's aristocracy. The most he ever ventured into society were his frequent visits to Angelo’s Fencing Academy, but even there he was more interested in honing his skills than in the hobnobbing that seemed the main reason for his peers’ attendance.

  No, Mrs. Hirkins there during the day, and the occasional visits by the boy who took away the laundry and delivered groceries enough for simple meals, that was all Alfie needed.

  He frowned. That really was an awful lot of blood. Would any of his wardrobe be salvageable? When had the boy last come by for the laundry anyway? Alfie tried to think, but his thoughts were like eels, squirming and sliding out of his grip as soon as he had them. In fact, everything seemed a bit dark and slippery around the edges. He tried to stand and ring for Mrs. Hirkins to come back, but there was a reason he wasn’t supposed to move, wasn’t there? And that really was an awful lot of blood.

  Alfie took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then another. Maybe he would just lie very still until the doctor came and try not to think of anything.

  ✽✽✽

  “There you are, my lord. Well done. Most of my patients would not have borne that nearly as well.”

  Alfie looked down at the neat line of stitches now running across his upper arm. Doctor Barlowe had cleaned and tended the injury with the orderly focus and precision that had so impressed Alfie when his father had first fallen ill three years ago.

  He was an older gentleman, apparently a friend of Alfie’s mother in her youth, but had spent his years firmly establishing his practice in London while she had been off flitting around the world with her aristocrat husband. A more soothing and steady presence Alfie could not have asked for during his father’s decline, nor in the years since, including the sudden shock of losing his mother just a few months ago.

  Nearly bald, with just a small band of grey hair stretching across the back of his head, Doctor Barlowe had likely been an athletic man in his youth, and his ongoing strength remained evident in his barrel chest and heavy shoulders. But the muscle he retained was layered with decades of fine meals at the tables of his wealthy clients.

  His bulk lent him an air of pleasant wisdom, as if his natural place was to be dressed in tweed in some rural cottage, sitting in an armchair by the fire dispensing homey advice to all who came to him, rather than dashing about London making house calls. The impression was only increased by the tiny pair of glasses the doctor wore on the very end of his prodigious nose, and the grandfatherly sparkle in his eyes.

  Indeed, if by some strange circumstance Alfie were ever to find himself casting the role of a kindly gentleman physician in a play, Doctor Barlowe was such an epitome of his profession that no mere actor could possibly compete.

  The doctor took his pocket watch out of his waistcoat, the fine gold charms on the chain catching the light from a lamp that Mrs. Hirkins had placed beside the settee at his instruction. He took the wrist of Alfie's injured arm in his other hand and waited silently, counting out the heartbeats.

  “There now,” he said, releasing Alfie's wrist and stowing his watch with a genial pat over the pocket. “Everything else seems to be in working order at least.”

  He handed Alfie the clean shirt Mrs. Hirkins had brought with the tea before securing himself a cup. “His lordship’s business is his own of course, but I could not help but notice how much your ‘light scratch, hardly worth the effort’ very much resembles a gunshot wound.”

  He added two lumps of sugar and sat in the armchair across from Alfie. “I ask only as a medical professional, of course, concerned for the care of my patient. And while I must admit that I find the custom somewhat barbaric, I do understand that there are times when a young man’s honor requires a certain course of action.”

  Alfie buttoned his shirt as he attempted to parse the doctor’s words. A young man’s honor? He laughed when he realised what Doctor Barlowe had assumed. Alfie in a duel? He’d never even fired a pistol, never mind at another person. Besides, he was hardly the sort to find himself in any kind of perilous adventure, despite his secret fondness for fanciful novels. And if most duels were like the ones he read about, fought over the love of a lady? Well. Alfie was in no danger of being involved in that.

  At the doctor’s quizzical look, Alfie finished with his shirt, and reached—carefully—for his own cup of tea. “Forgive me, I only laugh because I think the only creature I’ve ever shot at was the occasional grouse, and even then, I was mostly unsuccessful.”

  A white lie, given that Alfie had never been invited to any hunting parties, but still Alfie smiled, expecting the doctor to share in the joke, and was surprised when the man frowned instead.

  “You don’t mean then,” said the doctor gravely, “that this wound was of a self-inflicted nature? I know you have been in low spirits since your mother’s passing, but you must know that such actions are against all laws of God and man.”

  “What? No, no!” Alfie was shocked at the very idea. Even during his worst moments, after his father died and he realised the lies he would have to continue for his mother’s sake, or after her death, when everything had seemed so quiet, he’d never considered taking his own life. Alfie knew better than most how lucky he was to have the life he did and would never throw away such a gift as he had been given.

  “You can tell me the truth. I have sensed a greater melancholy in you of late. Such symptoms must be addressed early lest they lead to… unbecoming actions.

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” said Alfie, setting aside his untouched tea.

  He found himself telling Doctor Barlowe the entire story, from taking his routine Tuesday stroll along Mayfair to the sudden noise, to helping the ladies, to the startling realisation that he had been shot.

  “My God,” the doctor exclaimed. “Did you see who did it?”

  Alfie shook his head. “I didn’t even realise I was injured until afterward. In all the commotion I can’t say I was in a state to notice anyone. Napoleon himself could have done it, and I doubt I would have recognized him.”

  “Shocking. Absolutely shocking. That such a thing could happen in broad daylight and in this day and age.”

  The doctor stirred his tea contemplatively, as if the answer to all of society’s ills could be read in the leaves at the bottom of his cup. “Still I suppose it must have been an accident. Surely no one would have taken a shot at you intentionally?”

  And that was what Alfie had been trying to avoid thinking about. A month or two ago, he would have laughed at such a ridiculous notion. But with the other strange incidents he’d experienced added onto today? He could not be so sure.

  The need to finally unburden his worries to someone overwhelmed Alfie. He opened his mouth, ready to spill everything—his fears, his worries, and even the great secret at the root of them all—when there was a gentle rap at the door, followed shortly by the entrance of Mrs. Hirkins.

  “My sincerest apologies for disturbing you, my lord.”

  Despite the pain he was in, Alfie found himself biting his lip to keep a straight face at Mrs. Hirkins’ suddenly impeccable demeanor, right down to enunciation of her words without a hint of the Yorkshire moors upon which she’d been raised. She never paid more than the barest lip service to the etiquette demanded of her station around Alfie, but in front of guests, she would not be caught dead without the most perfect manners and crispest vowels.

  That said, the curtsey was a bit much.

  “Your cousin, Mr. St. John, has just arrived, sir. I’ve put him in the morning salon, as you were indisposed in here. I hope that is acceptable.”

  Alfie groaned. He’d forgotten all about promising to meet Reginald for dinner. It must be late indeed if he had already come to
track Alfie down for missing their appointment.

  “That’s perfectly fine, Mrs. Hirkins, thank you. Has he been here long? I didn’t hear the door.”

  She hesitated. “I’m afraid I can’t rightly say, my lord. I came down to the kitchen to fetch more refreshments and found him helping himself to the almond cake in the pantry. He must have let himself in the servant’s door. I escorted him to the salon, then came to inform you immediately.

  Chased him out with a broom handle, more likely, Alfie thought. Outwardly though, he retained his composure. “Thank you, Mrs. Hirkins. I will see to him shortly. That will be all.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She bobbed another curtsey that had Alfie fighting back a smile and departed. Alfie rose to show the doctor out, pleased when the room only swam a little before righting itself.

  “Thank you for your assistance today, Doctor Barlowe. Believe me, if I had known I was going to need your services so suddenly, I would have warned you in advance and saved you such a harrowing coach ride!”

  “Of course, of course.” Doctor Barlowe did not rise, but adjusted his spectacles to lie even more neatly on his nose. “My lord, as sure as I am that today’s accident will not be repeated, speaking as your doctor I am concerned for your well-being in general. I assume I do not need to mention the distressing circumstances of your father’s final months. In addition, your mother’s melancholy worsened rapidly before her passing, and such traits might be inherited.”

  Not bloody likely in this case, thought Alfie, but just nodded sagely as the doctor continued.

  “While I am still troubled that I was unable to cure your mother, I promise that I will not let her memory be tainted by allowing her son to fall into any ignominy. If you’ll permit me, I’d like to start you on a treatment for low spirits. Nothing too strong mind you, just something to head off any risk of a dangerous morbidity before it has the chance to take hold.”